For my 33rd birthday I want to give myself the permission to do what I always have known I am born to do which is write and make art—forever clarifying my own communication, art and writing the products—so I have to really practice bravery now. Its not all self promotion and I must really learn to take chances and wear my heart on my sleeve.
I was dead in the back of my tuck with old clothes piled on top of me, I saw from above, and then heard a voice telling me to look around the corner—there was a raging storm; I went into an adobe building. A table like an altar was in a dark room, there was a cereal box packaging with a human heart in it. I pulled the heart out, which was in a flesh sack, and there was a straw in it. I drank it, and my arms felt as if they were being shocked in an electric outlet just from touching the heart. Another box appeared, it was an M shaped candelabra that seemed to move on its own evil vibration. Suddenly the rest of the room lit up and spirits with Hispanic or Indian faces and clothing rose like steam, soundlessly, and at first diaphanous, but they were very serious and all pointed behind me. I turned around to find a shelving in the pinkish adobe wall, with a different M shaped candelabra that felt to vibrate of a sort of holiness. I was relieved that those anonymous spirits helped out, I took the new candelabra and went back out into the storm. Eventually I found a cozy sunlit room with beautiful windows looking out onto a lovely scene, and Jewel was out there looking for me.
This was a life changing dream I had about three years ago, in a different life. It was when I felt more connected to my dream wisdom and was experiencing wild de ja us and seeing interactions every single day that I had dreamed. I had this dream before I was divorced and before I chose to shed a terrible skin. I had that dream before I admitted to myself I am in love with Jewel and before I knew myself sober, before my Catholic conversion and before the acceptance of my insufficiencies and also my gifts, honestly.
Images I do accept within my days do stimulate my stories open, but I often get stuck in the doorway attempting to carry them out. It has bothered me to depend too much on visual images (the practice of vagueness is too related to passive aggressiveness), on using body as expression (damned if you do damned if you don’t/’male gaze’ & overdone feminisms etc), on writing privately (I cannot stand the thought of dying before connecting and being in the world); when the wholeness of my being requires my accurate translation of myself to the world and in relationships; the desire to write and speak well drive my inner explorations. Even though I have neglected writing (does previous decades of avid journaling count?..) except for gratitude or dreams (because I want to focus on what I want to create). Therefore I have been embarking on rousing parts of myself I had abandoned in order to build my new life almost three years ago because they are the parts that have the right words; they are the parts that must be named and given something to do in writing and speaking or else hold me back into a kind of sleep forever.