Friday, 17 December 2010


Feeling sick, all the way through - want to write and write until everything's said - Scared of exposing my heart to the public - scared of ridicule for the risible efforts...
Words my soul whispers, sobs, screams, mutters and laughs into and out of being - some eternal, some fleeting... Never sure if anyone will even take them... my thoughts... me - seriously.
I thought amongst those who work with words, they might have some weight or hold some water, but the wineskin split open and my gizzards were spilt - someone has my guts for their garter, and there's always a market for satin and silk...
I don't care what The Public makes of me now - I've been through my own personal Hell and survived it, facing my guilt, claiming my power, and by all that's Holy, I hope to bring good by my art. That is what I have truly wanted, all my life, that whether I work in the Art and Craft of the Healer, or as a Healing Artist and Crafter, that someone, somewhere, benefits by the things I do. I acknowledge that that may only be one person, and that may be myself, but it matters not - I MUST work my art, it is my only true passion.
I followed the path of delusion, yet again... So many times in my life, I have strayed into a parallel world, set up home there, and then been shattered by the pressure of reality. But I now know what things can never be taken from me, unless I am destroyed - no-one can erase that which has been, though they may change the information surrounding it, the interpretation given it, whatever anyone says, no matter how false something may turn out to be, in the end, no-one can steal my experiencing of what has been.
Laughter in gentle sorrow is far sweeter than agony and ecstacy as one... I don't know where to begin telling the tale of how things are now, inside my mind. Silent friendship is Sacred - elevating what was torrid, sordid, and a fountain of shame... I do write nonsense, because my head is full of constant nonsense - typing lets me 'speak' it quicker than with my mouth - I am completely different when writing freely, compared to how I plan a careful speech, or revise every sentence of some monumental missive.
Yes, yes, vain pretty words, shiny intricate patterns of nothingness ~ Rhythm and sensual enjoyment of the way a word feels in my head - be it the sounding, the meaning, or the odd little squiggly sigils that dance when I think. It's like some kind of synaethesia, I can watch a poem forming, see it demanding me to free it, bring it forward from that internal canvas.
When I was a child, I explored the internal canvas, its properties... I met there at the edge of childmind Lord Bes.
See, I get into the moment, I just write - I don't think about it, I just write as I think, and this is my free-est communication with the world. Where I am Dumb in person, or talking utter gobshite, I hear myself and cringe at the effete drivel that comes out of me... Typing, writing this quickly, is very good for me to actually get it out of myself without it rotting during transit.
So - I will begin to write without much checking, post to my blog without major editing, give it to you raw and bleeding!

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