Balls to the wall.

It is not a time to be mince mouthing around, clutching status dead animal purses to the chest and bobbing and weaving to the rhythms of whatever the hypno masters want us to dance formation into.

Now is not the time to believe believe like I would set myself or Savonorola on fire for some chimera cause. The javelin throws of warring media accounts, embattled interpretations of every aspect of reality go whirling by our heads. We duck down covering our brains. It is all too much.

The bad acid presidency we cannot seem to come down off of, the global snarling of indiscernible seasons has sent us into dark movie theatres to watch dystopian cinema as an escape into a ending that is at least more controlled and predictable.

At a time like these days of the upside down, it is difficult to find one’s footing. At a time like these days of hurling down the rabbit hole, it is difficult to look for clues in the outside world for a surety of structure.

The missiles flying into an already dying Syria sent the profits of the manufacturing company up a soaring additional 5 billion dollars overnight. And we are reminded that genocide is a spectator sport.

What can “I ” do I ask? There is little other than to understand that my values, my internalized compass, my decades of experience in the zoetrope projections are where I put my feet. My head is in the clouds and I am keeping it there.

I used to clean my oven to Accept’s Balls to the Wall and the lyrics are cleaning out my thoughts.

too many slaves in this world
Die by torture and pain
Too many people do not see
They’re killing themselves, going insane
Too many people do not know
Bondage is over the human race
They believe slaves always lose
And this fear keeps them down
Watch the damned (God bless ya)
They’re gonna break their chains (Hey)
No, you can’t stop them (God bless ya)
They’re coming to get you
And then you’ll get your
Balls to the wall, man
Balls to the wall
You’ll get your balls to the wall, man
Balls to the wall, balls to the wall
A day of reckoning comes only if we witness, have compassion and refuse to stay silent. It is time. It is time to vote, to advocate and to trust that we have a hand in shaping the outcome. We can help others to “break their chains,” if we are in our power of advocacy. Speak out. Vote. Stand up.

So There is this Character in a Movie.

What character would inhabit my life movie? No. I am not asking what actor would play me, I am thinking more of the scripted, literary aspect of it. How would the rhythms of the life be constructed? What would be the signature dialogue tics? What would be the arc of lessons and recovery? Who is she?

It is not so much like I feel I am ghosting my life but more like I am floating on it. I watch. I learn. I stay loose. I keep finding sanctuary in not knowing. Such a warm, cozy bathrobe of “I haven’t got a fucking clue” presents itself when I am rigidly sore from resistance.

Yesterday on my way to work background for a movie something remarkable happened. I entered my recurrent nightmare.

Since I was in high school my haunting dream has been that I was late and panic walking in an architectural structure for which I had no map, no reckoning, no tiny clue about the way. I would grow increasingly anxious until I awoke panting, sweating and crying out deep grief.

They would find out. They would discover that I could not discover my path, my assignment, my destiny, the destination.

As I set out yesterday, I carefully set up my phone for the address I was to arrive at to report to work. I left early. And then my google maps went beserk and was crisply delivering words that were lunatic. No. That is NOT the correct direction.

I was talking very loudly to myself and to the chiding hyper female voice coming out of my phone. I could not look at the phone because I would be twice felonious. I could not be late because I would be guilty. I could not get lost because I would be guilty. I could not be distracted at the wheel.

Stopping at a gas station, I was short of breath when I asked for the X on my map. I was going the correct way. I would get there. But I might be late. They would find out I was not orientated to serve, to be blameless.

At an inter section I frightened the driver of a gigantic red pick up by making a suicide turn in front of it to cut down on time. I was not totally sane at this point. I heard the screaming of the truck’s breaks.

Then I asked my guides and angels to take over. Then I breathed deeply and I said outloud to my neurotic self living the worst nightmare recurrence but this time in real life to just trust. “You are okay.” I told myself. “You will get there.”

And I did. I got there early. I got there with sweat pouring out of my arm pits and covering my palms. As I parked the car, I was shaking.

I got there by driving through the manifestation of my recurrent nightmare and reliving it with a successful ending.

The character who would play my life is neither a hero nor a villan. She is just someone who is changing, shifting, growing, failing, succeeding, learning, being stupid, being stubborn, being open, embracing every single thing. Life is dynamic. Life is a vortex of energies. There is no map and no deadline. I just make my way. And silently apologize to some terrified person driving a red pick up. I could still hear the brakes.

“I was a crazy woman. Forgive me.”


Change Is Constant

The energy is shifting. Most people I know are wading into the river of change. There is frequently fear and reluctance to let go of the rotten log they have been clinging so ferociously in their clasping arms.

But inevitably, the job ends, the relationship shifts, the children that were the total focus of their lives are growing and will be gone. It is a time when resistance is less than futile, it is actually destructive.

What will happen next? We don’t know. The movies keep presenting dystopian images of techno slums with people trapped in overly stimulated darkness and projections of neon lights. Our sense of direction politically is being challenged. Those things we thought we had grown beyond are back to challenge us. Right wing fear of others spins out into anti-immigration legislation. Women rising up..(again) is causing lobbying for control of the reproduction of women and fear of their voices being heard.

People can no longer tell what is true or not true. In days past we all stood in line and drank from the same cup at the village well. It was a local newspaper. It was a national television show. But now there is a shattering of that singularity of delusion and conditioning. We see it as an attack. What do we believe if the tablets of wisdom are now mere screens of propaganda?

There is no centralized system to rebel against. And so we are confused and lost.

In this state, we react by grabbing harder onto the conditioning and group think safety of our tribe.

Last night on the Knowledge network I heard sociologists express that cultures under severe pressure turn to cannibalism. It is always a sign that the culture, or the tribe is about to cease to exist.

Is not the turning on others what is happening more and more violently on social media? We fear the change when we have no assurances.

Letting go of the old inscribed tablets is the answer. Letting go of the shared knowledge is the way to move into new systems of knowing. Each of us needs to take a deep breath and just allow ourselves to let go of being correct. We will float. We will see new systems arise. We will survive. And that which was rotten and decaying will no longer hold us.

Do those things that are before us one step at a time. Take care of the body, the spirit, the family and simply hang loose. We can surf this wave.

Restless Mind Syndrome

Last night was an usual twisting of thoughts, legs, pillows, memories, plans, analysis, grief, excitement all intertwined. I was tossing here and there and wrapping myself up in a cocoon of threads of themes.

I reset myself. I lay one hand over my heart and another on my abdomen and I slowly breathed to bring me back home.

It is my ritual. The body is home, this breath is where I rest. As I breathe out I feel along my spine for the grasping mind tension of yearning. These are obstructions, I tell myself.

Then I replay Rag and Bone man’s music in my head.¬†

“Maybe I’m foolish, maybe I’m blind.” I sing to myself. And I forgive myself for not being able to drop the drama. “I’m only human after all.”

The voice/ego searches the flat plane of the past day from my high night time perch. My eyes sweep from morning to night to see what assaults/insults have activated old wounds. I know it is not now. My mind understands that it is old scripts that are ruling me now. My terror for survival as a child resurfaces. The yawning black fear of abandonment has me pinned down and will not allow me to escape into sleep.

So much went on last night. Surfacing of grief. And the agitation dances in me as I stand on the threshold of taking bigger chances in my life.

I want to scream out, “Leave me the fuck alone! Stop pressuring me to grow. Stop tricking me into being more open and speaking out the truth that causes other’s eyes to sting.”

The distractions of smallness. The withdrawal into normal, compliant hiding in plain sight is just not available any more. I cannot stand myself. I cannot go back to what was and stay quiet. I cannot step forward into the exploding risk that calls me of being full on power. So I cling to the threshold between levels just vibrating with memories, shadow entities and the unseen bridge of stone I am called to jump blindly onto.

Most of my life has been about closing my coat so no one can see the war wounds. Most of my speech has been a guarding of the story. No one must know. And now the sense of what was, how it was, the old reliable no decision patterns is falling away. It is stale, unsatisfying.

A guest said there was “scum” under some bottles of shampoo in the shower and I was devastated. I made excuses… people have been in the house steadily for two months and trying to get into any one space is like waiting for the jump rope to turn exactly to the right moment. I missed my pain clinic injection appointment that takes two months to set up because I was talking about the stress of dealing with criticism. So I did not get there on time.

Then I went to a writer’s group and I was already fermenting with two “failures” in my vat body persona. The moderator talked about how important it is to attend conferences. That very morning I had signed up for the Penticton Conference much like you would drag a four year old to a play date who doesn’t like noisy places. I have forced myself to pay and sign up. But HE is urging me to do more of it.

So my sleep was slow in coming and I was at work releasing the octopus arms of fear and tension that would wake me up during the night. Breathe. Chant. Recognize. Allow.

I am on the verge again. And like all other times I have been on the edge of something bigger, I absolutely hate it. But what was, the old small metal toy windup movements no longer satisfy me. It is the way I move in the world. Boredom, safety, predictability become intolerable strait jackets. And what I am yearning for is causing agitating and upsetting.

Last night, I was wrestling with the grief of the transition and the excitement of knowing there is nothing I can do. I am on the move.