111809
new moon in scorpio and them crooked vultures
my astral body is bleeding from the abdomen. my etheric ears overwhelmed with the caterwaul of an army of spirits anxious to incarnate through my vessel. my tubes are tied by the illconcieved clamp and pinch of father time. my womb is not barren, but encumbered with the burn of an artists yearning. my soul cries in a rubicund flood from my sacral chakra. a crimson flow in my auric field, the trail of tears left by an aborted life force. my head teeming with projects unmanifested. tadpoles of genius. larval neuro-hodgepodge. leftovers harvested from the realms of otherworldly vision. my mind swollen, mental maggot fest, pregnant and bustling with idea zygotes eager for material substantiation. they tango with electrical currents firing wildly off the walls in my cranial carapace. I curse my criminal hands! servile accomplices, aiding and abetting the insatiable felon who burglarizes my psychic goldmine. the unkempt animal aspect, addicted and lascivious, it's fat gorilla ass brazenly encroaching on the throne of my conscious attention. oh sweet luminary brain fairies incubate in my gray matter, tackle that molester of sanity, tickle my dendrites and come in orgasmic waves of epiphany! I invoke them, and those industrious do-gooders of light, they come. they gestate in my otherwise mortal mentation, and they expect that in effect I'll bear fruit from the inspiration. I must ignite their spark and extend their elevation, I must create something... but I backslide on my end of the bargain. I hoard stockpiles of unexpressed potential. the guilt of each lapse in integrity weighs heavy. everything I write is a seed spewn forth that now has a chance to inhabit, grow, and spearhead it's idiomatic lineage in the forever burgeoning crop of consciousness. giving life to the otherwise lost thoughts I'd drown in. each time I ignore the paroxysm of insight is a slight. each act of inauthenticity a stab at the embodiment of wholeness; an insult to the wisdom of my spirit. my vitality pours from these energetic lacerations. a slow death by a thousand scratches.
I'm calling back my soul from every mission embarked upon illegitimately; from every action coerced by anothers demands. I'm giving a bullhorn to each honest impulse abandoned to appease a man. I'm reclaiming every moment of truth I've cashed in and the power sacrificed to console anothers insecurity. forgiving the lies my skin has shared with other bodies; the forced affection in fear of abandonment; each day spent in treason against my true will; every word unspoken to avoid opposition. I'm unfolding the repressed blueprint and design of my higher self. I'm gathering the dispersed fragments of my essence from every senseless egoistic exploit. clearing the haze of denial from my sight. freeing my feather light mind from the tethers of self denigration. reclaiming each piece of my heart ever compromised. apologizing to every instinct stifled to conform to the majority. I'm evoking my rights to immortality.
I usually spend the new moon evenings at an all-girls gathering where we smudge each other with sage, make prayer sticks, talk about the power the divine feminine and menstruation, and squat over a clay pot blowing smoke up our twats. these "new-edge" urban goddesses come outfitted in long flowing skirts and adorned in handmade jewelry. we indulge in home brewed kombucha and graze on a vegetarian pot-luck buffet. no boys and no alcohol allowed, but for the after hours sometimes the ladies toke it up a bit before calling it quits. this most recent new moon I opted to go to a concert at the roxy in hollywood with a friend instead. I wore furry rainbow leggings, neon yellow ruffle shorts, a glitter micro-mesh top depicting a screen printed head-shot of joseph stalin with "party animal" spelled out in rhinestones, and of course: metallic uni-lense reflector glasses. I also took my pet rock, an apophyllite cluster gifted to me by jimmy b (the "mad wizard" of downtowns visionary artist movement). I clasped the crystal securely in my fist and massaged it's most salient stone feature as I danced and drank whiskey. the music was acoustic magic, but a good rock show just isn't enough to stimulate the sensory deficit angelinos and melomaniacs. almost every event in hollywood is a covert cocaine fest. people were tooting all over the place. I don't know who it was exactly, but I do know "coke- fart" when I smell it, that unmistakable scent of warm anal eruct, the foul ass breath of diarhettic gut rot.
after the semi-exclusive "after party" in an upstairs room with a dj and bar, my friend and I sojourned back through laurel canyon to noho where we jointly revealed our scorpio new moon intentions then disrobed of our falsely assembled selves. I dared my raw eye to look squarely in the face of such gentle candor, reveling in newness and vulnerability. we melted ice sculptures impeding our heart space, then built a t.h.c. infused blanket igloo and played like pubescent seamonkeys in an erotic petting zoo.
