#marriage is NOT a prerequisite to divorce btw

[vorbisx]

getting divorced in every timeline. every lifetime, every version of ourselves, again and again. we will always find each other. and we will always get a divorce. no matter what.

#marriage is NOT a prerequisite to divorce btw #it's a state of mind

[libramoon2]

dark musings

Twilight at the Dark of the Moon Moving inward. Spiraling into deepest silence. Feel me here, oh my most darling. Here is the free-est flow, river of bliss. Bounty of years of grey resistance, incrementally awakened to swirling shades -- mystic purples, mad magentas, sky-eyed blues. There is ancient music, crescendos to peals. Layered millennial ears, creatures of seas to trees murmur through. Ripples of soundwaves, broker wisdom not yet condensed into words. Romances spun of clay and sand, woven into fashion’s fabrics. Hearty voices join, create regaled mythology. Star-shaped world story reverberates with chill and heat. Nascent strive for enriched clarity that must open ever more widely, a luminous spiral up, out, in, around. Come, brave as you imagine. In that brief eternal interval all of energy coalesces. Dark Magick In the still of the dark of the moon, after the revelry has passed, deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep, we, walking, silently, along the riverbed, breathe in ancient ash of woodsmoke, breathe out long-growing tears to weave ghostly tentacles along our path, take each other's hand up to our heart to pray, to kiss, to whisper, thus casting an eternal spell. Brave New Age I have traveled beyond the waters, acrid, poisoned water, bound and bleeding daughters, wail of senseless slaughter, blinded by the rain. I have walked sands of endless hatred, crumbled stone as hate did, explaining "It was fated." relinquishing the blame. Dark of the night, quiet, unable to lie, I search for the truth of my age in unfathomed sky. Not Heaven, not Home to a rescuing I -- the Mystic's mystery. Hugely greater than a Creator of history. Stars, Galaxies without end Liminal Spaces Twilight, the wee hours, the dark of the moon, liminal spaces, places where magic dwells, crossroads, crises, cusps. There is static on the radio. A song my voice was singing, rhythm of sound takes flight to surround me, a comforter of down to ease my soul. I've been trying to define a taste, a sense of bittersweet and salt. I've been trying to find a trace a footprint in the desert, a sight, a scent, a memory. I've been trying to discern a trace of me, a piece to fit the puzzle, my contribution to the grand design. Seeking in shadows, the space between myth and matter, those places words cannot define. On those insubstantial plains of myst and awe, the stuff of dreams, threshold of wonder, creation is spawned. dark of the Moon, dark of the Sun liminality, intense opening of magical portals -- where do you see your being on the other side? Perhaps what I am finding so profound is indeed simple elementary knowledge to others here. That take on the human narrative is: our entire "reality" is an abstract construct based on what we perceive as the general social narrative into which we are born. Much as some religions refer to a "maya" an illusory story we blend our self-narrative from, or as visionaries, madfolk, psychonauts perceive a vaster reality beyond the veil, we all have the capacity to see through the story and recreate it in an image more suited to our individual pursuits and pleasure. In fact, religion (yoke) is a social construct to better control the flock by self-appointed shepherds who may have a greater picture than apprehended by the masses, or at least a greater instinct for the prerequisites of power over. Ultimately, the more profound power is not power over, but power within, the power to move beyond the socially accepted narrative and write one's own. This is the essence of Magic. We who are part of an ancient tradition of art are always taking up the helm, seeing what was and making our own comments based on our own experiences. However, as to the whining and wallowing, people throughout time have had serious issues to deal with, some similar to what we are going through now, some perhaps less relevant at this time. We had "the bomb" Vietnam, the draft, Agent Orange, CIA, Hoover's FBI, all manner of incredible social changes to acclimate to. You know, I've been marvelling during this just recent "Black History Month" that when I was a teen I was marching for civil rights so that my black friends could live in the kinds of neighborhoods that my white friends took for granted, could get real jobs, could not be lynched with impunity. My gay friends were jailed or worse, incarcerated in mental institutions and given shock treatments, even lobotomies, because they had a mental illness, not a different orientation. My woman friends (I included) were also kept off the job market, or given low-paid service work which included a heavy amount of sexual harassment that had to be endured. We were not allowed often to rent spaces because we didn't have a man, or have our own bank accounts, or heaven forbid we had children due to divorce or out-of-wedlock, we were pariahs and so were our kids. I could go on forever, but hopefully you get the point. We all have our crosses to bear, each individual and each generation. As artists it is our job to take it all in and use these adversities to make our art more relevant, more real, more true to who we are. And, btw, check out some of the earlier psychedelic movement art -- it's certainly not all sweetness and light! The so-called flower-power hippies were more a media artifact than the real thrust of what people were doing and believed. Sodomy, defined by celibate priests who I guess thought we were too good for sex, includes all sexual acts outside of the sacrament of marriage, other than the missionary position, and for any purpose other than procreation. Sodomy is condemned as serious sin in Christian theology of the middle ages and on to well into the 20th century, even into the 21st. Apparently God gave us these intense urges just to test us. I have been experiencing complicated thoughts about the meaning of art, its purpose culturally and personally. For the most part, I've not liked poetry, though often I have found poems that did deeply move me or give me a radically new perspective in a way that other writing forms rarely can equal. I had very recently been going through an internal conflict about writing style. People have criticized my writing for being too difficult to understand when I thought I was being crystal clear. I started working toward using simpler language, but that doesn't seem to be the cure. Now, I am leaning more toward the idea that my job is to express in my own way my own realizations, since that is what I can do that is original and meaningful, to me at least. You can never please or even necessarily communicate with all of the people all of the time. If I am true to my own vision, at least that will be out there for those who do wish to see it. It is important, though, I think, to be clear in the manifestation of that vision rather than obscurant, to give full attention and intention to every word. It cracks me up that the Republicans are touted as pro-free-market conservatives. Real conservatives are conservationists. They understand that there is no free ride from planet Earth, or anyone else. They believe in the creative entrepreneur who has a stake in finding useful and profitable solutions so the buying public will beat a path to that door. Real Republicans, however, seem to be about preserving the territory of sacred special interests. As was suggested on a conservative think tank panel broadcast on C-Span about other issues, probably the best way to come up with real world solutions is to offer a high cash prize to whoever comes up with the best ideas, or at least to offer low-interest financing to get such projects going. I drink them in, your words of lithe and light and falling into meaning. Hot, parched soul that I bring to party through the changing moods and captured essence enrapturing liquid emotion. Capturing brief moments dripping down my throat like song. Blowing through life, into a magical canyon Stygian rain ignites wandering visions Madness unbound by resplendent derision rocks into devastation of lullabies expressed through Lilithian eyes way past the limits of light and reason In a gentle corner, made of more glorious dreams love's candle burns warming celestial clay New worlds orgasmic in grace explore passion.