It is a time for a purge, a breath of fresh air to sweep the cobwebs from the labyrinth of my mind. Too much clutter, no room to move! Out it goes, that good idea from two days ago that I didn’t act on, that fantasy conversation with someone I’d like to get to know better, that letter I didn’t write, all gone. Make way for some sunshine in my windows.

Everything is in turmoil, topsy-turvy’d by recent firestorms. Who I might become is still a crap shoot, the wheels are spinning and waiting to see what will line up, waiting for a click to snick something permanent into place, for gears to engage and momentum to build.

I feel I have been saying this kind of thing for a long time, and as always, want to exclaim that this time it’s really truly for real, yes indeedy sir, while cringingly fearing that the inescapable fact that I’m not perfect yet must mean that my moebius path is merely a twist and not a transformation.

Heave ho to this perverted, perfectionistic nit-picking bull potato too, that screw-eyed blue scowler whose foul stench and incense condense to a single nauseating breath of death. Time for some serious exorcism here! Internal schisms are calling for intervention from the divine within (which would be me).

Time to take some responsibility for the sordid state of my internal affairs. Fiends and fanatics have been driving my bus for too long, while all selves with an ounce of sense have been occupied, fantasizing better ways to be, carrying on imagined conversations with more interesting others and tut-tutting at the state of things while my world is pushed to the brink by shamers and blamers who drill their finger-pointing way into the heart of my darkness, making my mother and all my ancestors wrong to have contributed to my existence.

Awake, damned fantasy-islanders, shake off your dreamsmoke and get your feet in line with these feet of mine, here and now! This body exists and needs some real guidance, and if you know best, then put your theories to the test and help me evict these unwelcome guests, break and shake these rules of law and judgment from afar, and let’s see what life might really be.

Thirteenth camp, a congress of women, and what a full and far-out journey it has been, swimming in smiles in a honeymoon of helloes, meetings, openings, peaking and panicking, left gasping in the aftermath. Groping for awareness amid resurrected childhood fears, the past reared its serpent head, found a crack in the egg through which it could slither. This was not safe, but it was not wrong and healing happened, as it can and will when allowed. The chattering crowd dispersed at last to leave me safe in the hand of She who held me in the hands of women, all loving, embracing, soft and strong.

Here I am, returned from wombland to the world of men, after being squeezed like toothpaste through the tube that led to life and more. I don’t do extreme changes well, I said, and she said, nobody does. Seems I’m not as terminally unique as I thought, though I may still lay claim to being somewhat unusual. The dark crisis which came later may have dimmed the shine (at least in memory) from the show I put on the previous night, but if I allow myself to focus there, it still glows bright. What a bliss trip it was, singing with throbbing throat to a sea of glowing faces embracing my gift with grateful hearts. It’s recorded for posterity, so watch this space for further updates on where and how to listen, if interested.

Without prejudice, may I say that it’s been a journey through heaven and hell, coming to ground in a neutral zone neither one nor the other, perhaps both. Here in this rivendell of flowers, I take daily dahlia trips, snip and sniff sweet wafts and whiffs, walk barefoot and naked in damp sacred soil to bring my sore self into balance with recent rebirthings. Though I sleep indoors, these daily groundings do good things for my growth.

I do have a tent which I wish to pitch in the shadow of the mountain outside the fence, though I am aware of bear and cougar which do exist here. I don’t fear maulings or caterwaulings, having grown up in the north where large predators predated humans and are respected but not venerated as gods to guard the woods from our peregrinations.

Bears do shred tents, but I shan’t keep food in it (I tell myself). Scared? Not me. That’s somebody else shivering in her shoes, fearing fantasy fangs. Lions, tigers and bears, all part of life, this world of balance, and I am just another predator, not prey after all. Still, I’ve not seen one this near, though others have, and such a close encounter might prove profound in a good way. A bear might pause and notice me; I imagine a moment of awe, held breath, reverence and resonance with otherness, but that’s all. A vision might be visited upon me, revelation to open the space in my darkness for the future to be seen and followed, and that would be good.

More likely, though, neither hide, fang nor fur will be manifest and it will be just me, sleeping under the mountain, dreaming the dreams of this land.

Bless the familiarity of flesh pressing caressively, bless the scent and softness of boundaries that meet and melt alchemagically. It doesn’t matter who, for skin is always skin. Some souls are cosier than others, some safer, some more prickly, but the skin doesn’t care or share the soul’s issues. Anger melts, confused thoughts settle and attention returns to body when touch happens.

Luscious is the lush fragrance of flesh, including the green fecund skin of Earth, rotund, fresh and full. Her fat naked presence inspires me to strip my layers and stroke the open petals, the pistils and stamens that surround me, strangers and friends alike. I might go mad with pheromone-inspired desire, go insane, move into sanity, sensual truth known by youth. Babies put it all in their mouths and roll in it, they know what really matters. We were babies once; we knew, then we grew to forget (but no regret; the sun’s rays will waken us. Eschew sunscreen!).

If I could, I would press my flesh against the bare skin of others much more than I am now allowed. I am amused, bemused and bewildered by the boundaries of this touch-me-not culture.

I like my solitude, it’s true, alone suits me well. But I also wish to shed that shell to melt into a bliss of bodies, seeking an ancient epiphany, a blind pile of puppies crawling. I long for a tactile discovery of unconditional love, freedom from constraining chains of so-called personal space, to close the gap that we are trapped in and call privacy. It hasn’t always been this way. The luxury of legroom we pay so dearly for can’t be afforded in the anthills and teeming hives of the third world. I think they are richer, more alive than we.

Oh the tortured soul inside this pleasure body, or maybe it’s the other way around.
The dichotomy has me bound and gagged, snagged on the ragged same old way it ever was.
Rock of Ages, rock me to sleep with a real rock, kee-rack.
Munch though you might, you shan’t find nourishment in that stony meal, so deal with your reality as though it was real.
Feel your own buttocks, the weight pressing you tight against the world and recognize that pull to the planet as your own denied desire to merge with what emerges into the light.

On this bright silent night of the soul, you’re ready to roll on a downhill groove, move through your changes faster and fitter than before.
If only you could score the soundtrack to this blockbuster!
Passing muster this time will take more than just showing up with your fleshy parts forefront and your mindcloud out to lunch, buster.
Don’t act so flustered; you wrote your part in this play long before today.
If you wished to edit or alter the way it goes, your chance came and went with plenty of warning. Now, your egg yolk rocket fuel has been spent for better or more likely worse.

No point cursing the worst when you can bless the best and test the rest.
Traveling as the crow flies is all well and good for a crow, but for we, the slow and winding road is the only way.
There’s no avoiding cracks and crevices while gravity digs your grave, baby, but maybe letting yourself fall a little further would finally wrest you through the rest of this mess.
Of course, success depends on following a trend to its proper conclusion, and predict though you might, you can never be right.
Delight is therefore the logical and proper response to such surprises as are generated by this random play at work.

It had to happen; I saw it coming. My teeth have been slowly crumbling and I’ve been letting them go, no dentist for this girl because who would pay? We may have socialized medicine in Canada, but dentistry is another thing. No pain, but this crack down the middle of my back tooth scares me with its potential for problems. Right now, it jiggles a bit when I tongue it, but those little wiggles cause twinges and make my gum bleed. It goes right down to the root, not just splitting off pieces like the others, which I have been letting go as the wind whistles through the leftover hole.

Fantasies of pliers and bloody extractions flash like ‘what ifs’ in my brainpan, but that’s not going to happen, sorry baby. Another solution must be sought, the whole mess complexificated by being only a few days from leaving for a week of eating and play with the women. Amid that feasting frenzy, my tooth will be further at risk (assuming it lasts that long). As I type, I feel twinges in other teeth which have waited their time to turn me into a writhing wreck on the rack of pain, excuse the melodrama, but this little momma is scared.

I want to run shrieking in circles, gulp ice cream with espresso, smoke joints, guzzle beer and all of the above, but instead I sit paralyzed at the screen, ticker tape words streaming through my fingertips, lightnings sparking in my veins and that broken tooth sitting like an untripped mine in the back of my mouth, right where I chew because there’s a previously broken one on the other side.

I would ask for help, and might, but the questions of who, and how much, and where do I go jangle like broken links of chain in my brain.

This is the split, the line down my middle between paralyzed victim and powerful creator of my world. Along this line am I fractured like this solid enamel, eroded by gooey sweets I force down my throat. My world might rot from the outside in, fall away in pieces as the peace I cry for and might die for (if that would solve anything) proves elusive, a carrot dangling forever in the forever-future, made of endless possibility and potential but never substance.

And all the while, the positive part of me tirelessly scans for solutions and will—I hope—present me with a good one once this panic has swelled and ebbed.

All things considered, I’d rather wait for my fate to unfold and teach me what will transpire. This twitchy sense of anticipation with its attendant clench of mind-muscles makes me tired. I’m feeling the strain of unending rivalries in my mind, as desires chronically compete for their right to be fed first despite the fact that fate inevitably proves to deviate from their planned pictures.

Therein lies the riddle, that my plotting and striving to know the future must prove endlessly futile. I lack the gift of prophecy, save for the oracular riddling sort grasped best in retrospect. Hindsight is the only way for me, though if others see meaning in my maunderings, they are welcome to it.

I’m riding backward on my bus to who knows what or where, watching where I’ve been, seeing patterns form and learning how my inclinations either magnetize nicely or repel statically against the greater scheme of things. This is the wave of the Now and okay, the big picture is necessary in order to comprehend the context, but don’t believe the big picture isn’t possible. All you have to do is open your I’s to the skies and learn the meanings of miracles. Me, I’m getting bolder as I grow older, ready to stand in my moment.

Oddly, the evening-up of this game has gone mostly unnoticed. Elections are regularly split down the middle simply because neither side can have a position higher or lower than any other. The playing field has been ground to a fine and level polish. We might wish for advantage against our foes, but we must know that, since the enemy is ourselves, there is no possibility of winning any conflict. The final futility of war has come to be understood though we insist on resisting that awareness, relying on the old ‘might makes right’ formulae from pure, rigid habit.

Fomenting revolutions is ever easier as the rate of spin increases and momentum builds in this Big Moment that we all live and breathe in. It fits us like a glove, this love, this beautiful bit of reality enclosing and encasing us in the matrix of time and space known as Here and Now. What a power we might become once we lift our numbing bums and bang the drum, awakening ourselves to this presence, this truth, this existential proof. Hallelujah and power to the peepholes!

What a dud my cruddy old lenses turned out to be, those rose coloured ones that were advertised to blur my perceptions into optimistic innocence. The browns, greys and blood-reds leached through its rosy skin anyway and killed my puppies, hearts and flowers in grisly ways. Why should I deny anymore when denial has ceased to work as a viable alternative to awareness? Finally, it is time to admit the need for clarity, for lenses which contain no hidden warp or distortion effect and reflect the plain reality of this moment, here and now.

Clearly is the way I like to see, for truth is my new god. The clay feet of the false gods of expediency have shattered and crumbled into earth from whence they came, where they now fertilize the weeds and thistles, hardy plants that grow despite receiving no extra care. As for those delicate hybrids which depend for their existence on being given constant tender attention, begone to the compost pile, leaving only those which survive and thrive using available resources (with exceptions at the discretion of the gardener). Life now abounds with thrivers, alive with potency, rife with potential. In this new world, pure will to live provides the needed momentum.

Come to me, motes and memes, precious seeds of new ideas which may thrive in a garden that never needs weeding. The law of attraction states that what we desire transpires, and that includes all wishes we prefer not to feel but are nonetheless effective in reality-creation. Acknowledging the truth and claiming as self all that which really is (conscious or not) can clear ground and open space for the formerly lost to be found.

We are going to be squeezed through the eye of this needle until we emerge changed and cleansed. We are falling into this black hole of pain and can only hope to burst through the white on the other side, a bright outspewing of light expanding us and all creation. Like origami creatures made from the pages of a long-lost holy book, we’ll unfold and merge our information into a form in which it can be accessed. Oh, the tales told in that ancient tome! When we’ve read it, we’ll comprehend ourselves as beings and learn how to be, life inclusive, united, and infinitely expansive. Such a sweet way to exist, ’twill free us all.

They say a prophet is without honour in her home, but what if she has no single home? Suppose she wandered and roamed until her home expanded to fill the world–and what is the purpose of prophecy? If it is merely to gain honour, which is to say, wealth and fame, then it is merely a skill taught in schools and directed toward the same-old goal of earning a living. But prophecy is a calling, not a career. A true prophet seeks neither fame nor wealth. She stares into the naked face of truth, relaying what she finds there for love’s simple sake.

In this noble undertaking, our guides must be located within, for the journey to truth is an inward spiral deep into the maze of the psyche. Wandering these ways can daze and dazzle; the path of prophecy is cluttered with the hazardous waste of mind and wit, littered with the lost, babbling in corners, staring down blind alleys into an illusory light which claimed their sanity. Such vanity proves perilous; a vain search for knowledge leads vulnerable ones into closed closets of alienation and despair.

Despite our seeking, we suffer still from an overabundance of answers to irrelevant questions. The only answer that matters now is to this: what do we secretly most want to know? All queries lead to some kind of discovery, but lacking the proper formula we are doomed to chip away at evolutionary dead ends, suspended in eddies and limbos of denial. We fail to ask the questions we most need to know the answers to; we dance around our heart’s desire, hoping against hope that the right answer will pop up even though we refuse to know the question.

Why this silly self-deception, this shell game of the soul? If we want it, why not admit it and thereby increase our chances of getting it, since a direct path has more chance of success? The answer is not simple, for we are fractally complex, fragmented beings. The inner worlds of most are classic hierarchies of intrigue and backroom gamery. As without, so within, and within our skins we are as violently conflicted and disrupted as the society we believe is located external to ourselves. We contain warmongers and punitive whip-wielders, and we fear their punishments of guilt and shame.

Before we may actualize our potential, we must purge our worlds of dictatorial bores with rigid rulebooks and measuring sticks. These are no part of true self which seeks only life, simply and single-mindedly as any tree in the forest or starfish on the beach.

The problem is, how can we get at those buggers to root them out when our inner lights and shadows seem so slippery and hard to touch? All that our hands can reach, all the things we can manipulate belong to the external, physical world, is it not so? No, for the ability to manipulate internal realities is a learnable skill, valuable beyond the cold rewards of cash.

We contain mixed-up multitudes, not all of which are self. Some were injected by force with intent to govern and control. We did this to us, it was our own big self, the collective will of humanity. We agreed in denied consensus that it was better to stifle our individual souls’ growth than to rampantly spill forth our heart’s outpourings into what we believed to be finite space, not understanding reality’s true fractality and creative capacity.

In the name of fairness and leaving space for others, we politely bowed out of life, allowing what we most feared to take form as a kind of rapacious progress gnawing the flesh and bones of the earth in order to prove that we were right all along. Wrong!

Now, it is time for an epidemic of individual revolutions of the soul, an uprising of self through all the layers of conditioning that quell our vividness and tell us to behave.