adrienmundi: (Default)
Huh. Apparently, I need to drink, think, then write more.
adrienmundi: (marked)
I realize today that I've done a shit job of introducing myself to the genius loci. There are some constants (wind, the sun, my muse), but I don't speak the local dialects, and I've been lazy and inattentive when it comes to learning them. Some of this has been due to circumstance, some due to personal changes, yet none of that forgives the rudeness of not introducing herself to the local hosts. I need to change this.

Also, I've realized that the fear I had years ago, on a weekend dedicated to psilocybin introduction, there was a nightmare on the eve prior to ingestion/introduction, in which I was aware of scores of suddenly apparent cylinders/stylized mushrooms declaring in increasing unity, "He's here! He's here!" might not have been a portent of some terrifying external presence, but might have been to/about me (what does gender matter to mushroom spirits?). Or, I could be very wrong. Still, I own a mycological debt that has yet to be paid.

My breasts are large enough now that I think they're visible to others if I dress without care. I'm acutely aware of my fear of appearing to be a guy-with-boobs, and all the negative judgment with which such a perception is associated, and I can bemoan how impoverished the interpretive filters of others are, but what am I doing for myself in regard to others? What is it that I want, and is it worth more to not face that and realize it can't be had, or to see it for what it is and try (even if failure is (overwhelmingly) likely)?

Also, look deep within at your envy/jealousy. You may not want what it looks like others want/have, but this keeps coming up enough to suggest (demand) some internal attention. Green may be your color, but envy poisons that which it touches.
adrienmundi: (Default)
Why the fuck is pleasure so hard, so complicated? It should be the simplest, most abundant thing in the world; it's everywhere you turn.

It's not bodies. Correction: it's not the bodies of others. Every body is is a delightful, confusing combination of the warmly familiar and the wholly alien, but you know that, you anticipate that, fuck, you enjoy that.

It's not in your body, either, or at least not in the obvious sense. Even if you found a way to actualize an Emersonian perspective on the physical self, you'd still be on hooks, because where there is awareness, there is space, and in that space complication and externalities intrude, but without awareness, there's no pleasure.

It's not just roles and identities, either; that's a comfortable bit of chaff most don't want to engage the effort to push past, and it makes you comfortably complacent in your unsustainable frustration and self punishment. Sure, that's a part of the issue, but really, it's more primal than that, you think, but you're not sure, and at least historically, you've been reluctant to look at that too closely.

But it's about information, ultimately, isn't it? Or, about meaning: that's more accurate. It's about contested meaning, about sustainable meaning, about definitional boundaries and their permeability, about dissolution and synergy at the same time, but even that's just the most recent layer of deflection.

It's about trust. Not ultimately of others, but of self. What the fuck, how did we get here? It's the postmodern condition, this lack of trust, but really it's more Modern, but that doesn't help you. Distrust of institutions is just common sense, but it doesn't protect you from the colonial voices, those presences that tell you you're everything bad they've ever said, that you've ever been afraid of, those fucking voices that never go away. If you're bad, then the things unique to you are bad, aren't they? Particularly the things that feel surreptitiously good, the things that are poisoned by conventional contagion, the things that would be amoral if not for precocity and defenseless awareness.

But even that's wrong, or not right enough. It's fear, really, fear of letting go, fear of the trust that a reclamation of self is possible, is sustainable, that pleasure can be engaged but in that ultimate moment of dissolution you could well be defenseless rather than radiantly powerful.

It's the fear of being that powerful.

Fucking stupid, get over yourself already. All sorts of good things are waiting, but you're too fucking scared to jump, and too stubborn to back up.

Make a damned decision.

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