I dreamt last night I went to [my parents’] house, had made some food for myself and for dad, and then wandered through a door into [a previous house we lived in]—finding a crowded landscape: my “room” there with furniture, stereo equipment, and toys and books, much of it junk, but just so cluttered that I didn’t want to deal with it. I turned away in frustrated disgust & disdain, wondering why it was still there. I went back and started looking at what I might take with me, what was salvageable, serviceable, that I might still care about—the light went out in the room, so I started to unscrew it to replace it, but it broke and left the socket in place, but dad managed to get it changed and working again—
—so much emotional and memory baggage, not even very accurate baggage. I didn’t want to deal with it—keep it a cluttered mess, dark and hidden away, but—
—I feel this dream reflects memory, disassociation, feelings about childhood, [my parents], our general mortality, and cluttered headspace that I want to reclaim and move on from (but reintegrate).
Another [work] week has gone by, and I begin the processes of recovering and expanding myself. I’m outside, breathing in the fall air, thinking about art, magic, belief, the Otherworlds; I’ve aligned, had coffee, am looking up at Elethis and thinking about the paths we wear into reality, our lives, and the Otherworlds. I think about trying to write comics, fiction, poetry. I’ve felt my wings want to unfurl—
—how do I live confidently and boldly, relaxedly and with sprezzatura? Know, will, dare, reflect.
I do not breathe often or deeply enough. I hold my breath, breathe shallowly, lack energy, elthil, will, and the capacity to care enough about myself. To move from private things, spaces, and selves to public, social spaces—to move to the space of action. Money is there as a consideration. Commodification of self and my role or place in society, in my head. Now, none of this is to say I should want to be an asshole or to act as one, but I still shrink in public. I fret and worry about my public life and self-presentation, and that unwillingness for action and attention keeps me constraining myself.
We want, should have, fictions that spur us to imagine ourselves acting in the world, acting in the Worlds, not just off into our heads and private realities.
K and MW asked me if I’m alright often lately, and I wonder if I’m not. I feel a little sad at times, and I think I do not want to cry, but I also want to get out and do things. I want to do magic, make art, make love—
—when I look into and remember the Otherworlds, though, I feel better—I feel more whole. Otherwise, I feel lonely, sad, distracted—broken.
“I’m changing, aren’t I?” I ask him. “Yes,” he says. “You’re riding the edge, and likely will be for a while.”
I want to reclaim myself. I want to reclaim myself from myself—my mind tries to find new ways to get at me, but if I slide into the right frame then I can write my way forward, at least. It’s like I’m sliding around back someplace to get around security or a big dog that’s chained but loud and distracting. The [lightest dosage anti-anxiety med] does, has helped me notice that part of me—not a “beast,” but a part of me—and I want to confront and reclaim that part. I can identify the external forces, the social and other influences that have shaped me, but after a point, I want to confront that which I’ve internalized, made a part of myself and reclaim those pieces and threads.
Samhain is coming.
I was trying to make my way past the detritus of my childhood, past the junk blocking my path. Past the broken toys and cloying nostalgia.
Image: Flur2.UG, by Enno Lenze