I'm leaving for New Orleans in a few days, tomarrow being the most likely candidate. I've lost most of the wind out of my sails over the past couple of days. I'm going alright, but the liquidy conciousness that had catalysed my initial visions has shifted to a more secondary position. I feel massively calm and sort of bored.

Time has become an even more intriguing factor in my life. An interesting scenerio manifested itself a few days ago while Norm and I were staying in a cabin during a large rainstorm. It occurred to me that words were like products, produced in a single moment yet were not connected to that moment, and were without source. I've been having a great number of dreams with vastly differing content but the same interesting feel to them.

Also, I am finally completed in my initiation, although one more circumstance is yet to be. I could write about these parts, of which there are 3: CRISIS - COMPLETION - aNGel (x). A primer for the beginning Shamanic practicioner. Maybe .in. the. future.

I am in a back room of a warehouse. An older janitor is chatting with me. I am a girl. I can tell by the situational dynamics, the words he uses, etc., that he is going to rape me. I recognize that the situation is a mere story, and I feel no aversion to being raped. The idea of preventing the rape appears to be just that, an idea, with no values attached to it. I decide to play out my part in the story and make no attempt to prevent the rape.

Something that I note about these dreams is clarity. They are not dreams, but are not awake-states. I am a being of perception, and know that dreams I percieve are other worlds, simply scenerios to which I am witness.

skeleton

What day is it? Where am I? I swear I just spent a week in bed with you, I swear we just slept for two days on and off while people banged on the door. Last night (was it last night?) I poked my head out, I ventured out into the living room still mostly asleep and stupid with the comfort of being with your body, and this woman descended upon me.

Me: (Poking my head into the dining room)
Cori, at this point a complete stranger to me: OH my GOD, look at YOU!
Me: Huh?
Cori: Look at you, how cute are you! How ooold are you?!
Me: 20?
Cori: YOU LOOK SO YOUNG!
Me: It's part of my appeal
Cori: And you're so cute! (Hugging me and squeezing me, seemingly from all directions at once)
Me: Mff, grrff, schmff!
(At this point Cori actually lifts me off the ground and swings me around a little bit)
Me: Schmuff! Puttmedown

I've been wearing these black jeans and white dress shirt for ages and I smell like hell and my lips are red as fever. I am a giant succulent rose that has begun to decompose and has sticky, dense spots, the colors and smells of disease, cum, flowers on a compost heap. I have the brief urge to have a zipper tattooed down my front. I want to show that flesh is temporary, that wanting is a knife that separates the flesh from the skeleton, and leaves me naked as bones on your bed, after we have consumed all the parts.

digression

Accepted norms and gender roles in dating

Popular culture sets up a game in which there are rewards and punishments (mostly, the illusion of them, though with younger teens, the punishments and rewards often become very real.)The game also contains the illusion of winning, but in truth, the game can't be won, and for good reason. To have it all (to be perfect) would mean the end of consuming. Thus, the game requires a constant stream of products to simply maintain one's position; in addition, there is the looming specter of age.

"A Slightly Chubby Woman on a Diet"

In certain pop culture contexts, thinness just looks like a lack of something--a cutting away, a type of violence. There isn't anything wrong with being skinny, but it is much more beautiful to just Be.