The Desert of the Self

Things, people, and ideas have the power over you that you give them. Halthaya, your parents, paternostery, etc. I had this elemental emotional realization while shaving yesterday, but it’s probably one most folks don’t have.

I’m kind of the “parent” for MW, VU, and JW as the chimerae they are, and that parenthood, in all these cases, is highly mediated, but the responsibility is still something to consider with care. Now, I’m also “parenting” myself, but I also resist the worship of fathers, at least the cult of “never disrespect, always obey, always love” for what is a choiceless relationship on the child’s part. Fatherhood becomes a crutch for men without power to exert absolute power over lives considered not economically useful as yet—a pyramid scheme for general control.

I obviously have father issues. It’s become a fundamentally damaged kind of relationship for me. But motherhood’s also screwed up for me.

When I look inside myself to invoke WtaW or to see my wyrd, I see a vast, mostly empty plain, flat as fuck from the POV I look from, a possible feature in the distance, grey skies, and my wyrd and myself there. Man, talk about a desert of the real—

I’ve seen this place in my fiction for _________, and in poetry I’ve written—why is it barren? I’m standing over a lone system of roots [a stump] in a wasteland—What do I allow inside? Who? Surely there should be something? Have I ravaged it, scoured myself?

Or am I in some kind of barren region, have isolated myself? Have I cannibalized myself?

I need to garden, I want Elethis to reach its roots into my mind and soul, forests and waters and skies.

You’ve kept everything out, even what you wanted—you starved yourself, fed yourself on—something? But you can let the Dream, Dana, others in. You can love yourself even, nurture yourself and soul.

That’s a shit realization to have, though—

–mediated TV and monitor existence doesn’t help, though.

And I’ve been desperately sustaining myself on scraps of art, lit, desire, and distraction.

But the Dream is distinct from this “inner plane”—Haisuith, Koranith, Saiyûnor—

I wonder how much of this comes from touch starvation and just being lonely, walling yourself off—. There are, perhaps, versions of myself there, wandering the wasteland.

I need a dedicated inner journey—gah, I feel so—dirty saying that.

Even before this wasteland confused me, for when I wrote it in ______, it was a strata for the Pure One Mabon, a sort of soul plane. However, I’m—not sure what to make of it now. Is it another shore? It seems barren—the barrenness of Law—but I’m not sure. Is it a place for the soul, or is it some in-between place for the soul? I was trying to make narrative sense of it for _________—

No, a stump in the wilderness that I tend? That’s not normal—

However, do not dwell only in that place or fixate on it.

Seeing into the Dream is far easier with an active Presence and after aligning—I almost feel blind otherwise—and the WtaW help otherwise. This day was trying & tiring at work, had potent emotional and spiritual realizations, and that was a hot, tiring walk. Recover and reclaim—and do your practice tonight. Tonight, I think I will channel and stride and go with Dana inside and tend to my tree.

Cloudless days are harder—wind helps, but clouds—the Dream has clouds, and difference helps me. Also, relaxation, dancing mind—

Relaxation, focus, meditation, channel & alignment—also kinesthesia.

I think I’m tired, too, which dulls and slows.

I try to let the Dream into my mind-soul, and I want Dana inside with me. Trees and sky and Elethis begin to appear, and Dana stops me from trying to Shapechange: “Wait,” she says, “not everything at once.” And I feel currents from her and the Green and Elethis in me.

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