Power from the Greenwitch

I was at my friend Rowan's friend Lyra's house last night with them, watching The Forbidden Zone on VHS. I had been feeling powerless and anxious for a few hours beforehand, and the movie was helpful on that regard in the way that monsters and indignity and ugliness are liberating. I have thought a lot on the subject of monsters. As a child, I believed that naughty but basically good monsters inhabited the space under my bed. The children wanted to eat me, but the adults would reign them in. I dreamed, like most little children, of many sorts of stunningly beautiful, horribly evil monsters.

I was feeling odder and odder at Lyra's and let myself outside into the cool, starry night. I have mentioned in past entries that I am in the weird position of viewing my own internal geometry in all of its complete disarray. It is like a horribly messy room, rife with broken furniture and picture-frames and dusty, crawling with the occasional roach or mouse.

I'm not quite sure what it was like before the past year and a half, but something tells me it was not this way. I'm quite sure that there were "whole" geometries in me, intact furniture, structures which although contiguous were mostly mysterious to me. My life was deeply unknown to me. And now?

What of now? I have no idea. I cannot imagine that I am going anywhere good. Most bizarrely, in many ways I don't care. Sometimes I feel like I am asleep while I am awake; ei., like my brain is in a REM state while I am 'awake.' This is deep, drowsy, sensual, dim, and pleasurable. It seems like the deepest illusion and yet is crystalline in clarity. It is temptation in a high form; my soul wants to... just... nibble it.

So my aim is not to become a dreamer non-stop; as I know the dream of the culture contains ten times more nightmares than fantasies. I am not going to be a monster or an angel. Schizophrenia does not interest me completely; it seems to contain a vicious softness, like a feather bed that smothers you slowly, gaspingly, lovingly.

Hope is a bird whose feathers I've teased out with my teeth. If I chase my ego through forests, I must be cautious not to cut down all the trees in my destructiveness. I wonder if, if the ego is not understood as distinct from the environment, if this is what we call dreaming, both the asleep and awake kind? What a worthy enemy--what will we see?