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queen of cups

she walked out of the room, calmly this time. As my chest rise and fall. this morning, i realized i was at zero. even in the sunshine, carrying strawberries and greens, there are multiple truths. at first I took money as my value. then I remind myself, I just bought part of a rug. but i should be older, i should know what im doing, and, even though those things are not so I should be able to swing this. For love. it should protect me. for love; these are my secrets.
so, there was no fight tonight. she calmly walked out. maybe it was a coincidence and cold was just byproduct, but it happened in a moment when I couldn't give her what she needed. so, The Hermit: I restore myself to the narrator. The Right to orate my own life. my observer: 2 muse.

My client was standing and I talked about daemons. about healing crisis and watching them come out and just saying "hi". I had a shitty meditation last night with a lot of unclarity, clarity of unclarity, and anger. Afterwards, there were conversations in a tone that was foreign and my dissonance amplified until it became so clear that it was just one of my same old trips again. ..."Hi."

When the client was sitting, watching what came up around the breath. hunger. feeling that there might not be enough. I gave the example that the daemons may be with you. he may sit in the passenger seat and taunt you. he may demand you buy him ice cream. And you can buy him ice cream. so long as you are driving. the deep knowing, the place beyond hunger and fear must hold the wheel.

for the first time, she breathed calmly though her nose, the most amazing thing. I remember this as my chest rise and fall. calm but aching with a pain that has no location. he strangest kind. alone. I feel my pulse also--through my throat to my forehead and feel the edge of each beat when the heart empties. the terror-wonder of existence: that it must empty, you imagine it
squeezed in a spiral; wrung. are its edges faintly tacky-sticky?
might it get stuck closed or will the next vaccum come?
the first time I had anxiety was when I was twelve. the red line just opened and we were gonna ride it to olvera street. in the morning, I was simply aware that I was different. A understanding of mortality that you can never get back. the first time you are aware that your heart empties....I remember many years when I had to remember each breath. I wondered, was it the butter on my toast? it did taste saltier than usual, or maybe I was poisoned. those things did not sound reasonable, but then again, no explaination did.

I first got interested in blood about ten years ago, when I did live blood analysis. and am endlessly intrigued by blue blood bled red. one of the few things Im sure of right now, is that I want to learn how to stick a vein. how to see through the flesh and pass through the eye of the needle.

On new years eve, we were building a lodge for a sweat. Camilla helped take to old lodge down and I went to cut willow from the river. I was to take off the excess branches and follow the line of the bough, for 8 boughs. I got to my 8th and was stuck: I didnt know what branch to follow---which was the main line? I asked, and andrew said--its not the straightest, its the strongest.

This is true for veins as well. this same thing was told to me again. "its not the straightest, its the strongest"

I teach this in focus--refining the literal flow of energy. cutting ties, repairing leaks, refining, down to a laser point, and making the pathways efficient.

for a few months, "its not the straightest but the strongest", I went along looking to be pruned, until I had another question. both forks of the vein were strong, but there were valves near by... the answer, you dont have to choose. go in, at the "v", right at the fork. self imposed limitations, there was another answer.

I have this deep sense that its all gonna be okay. I wonder if Im being a romantic and shouldnt be more pragmatic. I dont understand why she is so far away right now. I dont know if there is not another option that I just havent seen. Looking for balance in the mean time. it the inbetween, the balance of two. the endless xeno between where you each come from and where you together are going. in the mean. Is it because she didnt like her dinner? or because I worked all day? again. belief--without proof. without proof to contradict. belief--hope--beyond understanding that. its
be alright.

1. Its okay if you flinch, you don't need to apologize
2. the memory you dont have
3. the canary flies into the cave
4. the emptiness that contains everything
5. breathe in an iceblue sunrise sky
6. fall back to move forward
7. light snake spirals up my spine
8. red blood in my heart.
9. her ocean
10. her fire
11. keep reaching keep reaching
12. a battle cry.
13. endless chances

I still dont understand this body. I keep finding different ways to look. how do I heal each organ, each story. I hold a toe and see a blonde girl with pony tails. what does it mean that I can look? details to wind through, for what? some times my view narrows and I think its a closed system--un inter ested and tired. But then each time I put one hand on someones chest and the other on their back. I freak out with the knowledge that I dont get it. how could someone's heart be between my hands?

How could that be?



Queen of...

you gave him the wrong name dammit.

it's catherine joan, channeling myrtle. tell him to calculate those numbers, jerk.

(anyway, he played his role.)

whose fault was it? on that day papa was gone as always. a finger blown off, a car rolling down a hill. a dead girl with blonde hair. who are you?

who writes a story like that? only in the south...

how many times did i watch you die and come back to life?

how many times did i watch your chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and rise again...

11 days of nosebleeds. it's time to heal. it always comes to this moment, when you stand alone and have to heal. it helps when people guide you, but in the end, no one can do it for you...

i stood in a long luxurious hot shower tonight, the dayafterfullmoon shining down on me, washing the blood away...

how long will i bleed before this too heals?

the first test of all healers: to heal yourself.

the second test: to heal your lover.

i didn't die. she says i did, but i didn't. i stayed on, disappointed, broken necked, betrayed. sullen. complaining about my soiled dress and broken bones.


demanding love, wanting to live, wanting to grow up...wanting to control something...wanting to be the one next time to drive the car.

Queen of swords.

I know we're not looking for the beauty in this art. But at least finally some fiction truth. Catherine Joan, Myrtle...the masks melt away to the original pain. Something
so many names and generations removed that it's almost not familiar--how could I heal someone who died before I was born?--yet deeply, deeply,

the dualistic world where the daemon is in the passenger seat. is only a step. you see, you are driving. "Daemon" in original meaning is neutral. It simply refers to phenomena, energy, constellation. Each piece and the whole,
each daemon seeks
its original wound
so that it might have one more chance to draw it back to its source.
thats the question, the sword or the cup? Slice through, piercing,
somehow, finaly
hold it all.


holding it all...

that day everything was off balance. and every time i hear the story i can tell you that you can feel the off balance, bec it never really makes sense...

the father was off galavanting. the son was in the woods with a shotgun, and no one really knows what happened exactly, but he knew he had asked for the car for his date that night, and to drive his sisters to a birthday party in the afternoon. and he knew that dapper man who was his father was not going to show up again with the car...

and then something happened that launched a catapulting sequence of irrevocable events.

he pulled the trigger

why did he do that?

was he trying to kill himself?

but the odd thing is, he didn't die. instead, his baby sister died.

how could that happen?

he shot off his index finger on his left hand, and his sister died. was it his fault? did he kill his baby sister?

i remember reading a story about a young !Kung warrior who goes out hunting and kills a deer. he drags the carcass for miles back to the village, proud. when he arrives he is shunned, and to his horror, realizes the carcass he has dragged is that of his grandfather.

the lesson? don't drag carcasses around from the past? give the dead a proper burial? don't kill your grandfather? don't kill a deer? have no pride?

why were things so off balance that day? why were they going to a birthday party when her brother was in the hospital? what was that?

what's going on here?

and so she rolls around a curve and over an embankment, and the jeep rolls and rolls.

and breaks her neck. whose fault is that? was it her fault? was it her brother's fault? was it her father's? was it God's?

as part of this legacy, my father taught both me and my brother how to drive a car at a very early age. later, we flew planes. and later still, sprouted wings and flew away...

queen of wands

oops! duh...i guess that story has a repetition compulsion built into it! :)

just noticed that that was by the queen of wank. Awesome.

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