Fragmented Soul

What am I supposed to make of these omens?

Frog sighting, frog sighting, frog sighting, frog sighting – then, a frog impaled on the corroded rust of the bottom of my car.

A new cat comes to possess me.  Then, I receive a dead cat in the ditch in the front of my habitat.  I have a new cat alive inside and a dead one to bury in the back yard.

A friend and I had a HUGE dragonfly join our conversation.  Then, one visits in the front of the threshold of my home.  Then, I find a dead one laying in the front of the driver side door of my car.

Frogs symbolize shamanism.  Dragonflies signify spiritualism – the veils between the worlds thinning.  Cats used to be distrusted.  They can stand for cleverness or curiosity.  Death signifies change.

I will start by telling of something that has passed, that doesn’t matter anymore. It happened at the end of September and, still processing, I had not had the dream until recently.

In a perfect world, names don’t need to be changed for the sake of anonymity. Energy and information is free-flowing and ever-evolving.

There is a large mattress on the middle of the floor in this room I am calling mine, though it speaks nothing of my personality. There are folded clothes in stacks and piles everywhere in this big room with big windows in this old house that is not my own. The floors are wooden and scratched, but hardly visible.

The man, a one-night-romantic-encounter, has come to see me. He has come to talk. He lays on the mattress, but he is laying on the blanket and using the only large shirt to cover himself. I am cold and I feel like there is no place for me. I immediately accuse him of inconsideration and he gets up to leave. It has already turned ugly. He was going to give me a chance – a chance to explain myself. He is done with me.

I am livid, firing at full barrel. Following him closely and relentlessly firing. A young mute child with blond hair appears, apparently living in this giant house and subject to witness my uncontrollable outburst. I feel trivial, a trifling immature woman disregarded, that lives in a world of scarcity. The blond child is a testament that there is not enough room. The space is shared and I not granted the dignity of having my fit in privacy.

There is a woman calling up the stairs to the man I am arguing with. She teases him about me. He is annoyed. She is ignoring me, making fun of me and he is clearly not on my side. He is done with this and scoffing.

I catch up with him to say, “What? Now you are making fun of me?”

He says something to the effect, “This always happens to me. Women, even meaningless women, they start to like me because I treat them like treasure.”

And I wake but my mind is still in the fight.

“Treat me like treasure? I didn’t cum. I stood there with my pants off, desire laughably obvious. While you smoked and talked about how I should get dressed so someone wouldn’t walk downstairs and catch me. You sat there in the recliner, satisfied and disaffected, ready to fall asleep. That is why I left! I’m glad we had this talk. Go fuck yourself. Go to hell. Go back to thinking you are God’s gift to women.”

The accusations are only somewhat fair. In real time, he did say he wanted to please me. He asked me what I wanted to do. We were screwing. I was clenching my vaginal muscles because I was disassociating myself and trying to see from his perspective. I was focused on being the object of his desire, on consuming him like some femme fatale.

I was so horny that I needed a whole night afforded. I needed a bedroom. We had consummated on a friend’s couch.

Though I left without a word, I looked forward to a friend request on facebook. It never came. What did I expect? The man literally just got divorced for the second time. He has four kids. The stories from friends are sorted… Their break-up was over her cheating, or questionable finances or drinking problems.

Some people are better off single.  Some people are better off without you… if you lose your clarity, a precious lucidity, an ability to meditate.

Maybe I was wise to walk away and not to try to attempt to contact him for a month and why did I finally surrender my quiet dignity and reach out only to be ignored? I don’t need to be this guy’s rebound.

Expectation breeds disappointment.

I know better. When the horrible feelings of disregard rear, don’t engage. But in this dream… I did.

Sex and emotions don’t mix. Good God.

It’s no one’s fault. We are just dumb animals.

As I analyze the situation, I wonder why it made me upset. I somehow knew it was DOA but did I really believe it? There were suggestions of a compatibility that I’ve yet to experience until now. The hint of a sexual sadist in a swarthy complexion. The suggestion of a family man and his interest in the spiritual things I said, but not the boxes I fit.

I don’t like being with people that make me crazy. I like to maintain my individuality. I don’t like to lose it and I have before. I have lost my precious objectivity.

Let’s hope I’ve evolved past that. Or I can protect myself against it. More that I am willing to protect myself from it.

Maybe I’m just pissed because I did not win. Things did not bend to my will.  I have an occasional willingness to play with fire. Maybe it’s been too long and I’ve forgotten what a burn feels like.  Don’t play with fire when you become upset you can’t control the variables.  Thanks for the damaged pride.

I have been defeated. It’s the Sagittarius Sun and the Leo Moon working against the Scorpio Venus and Rising. I think I can be cavalier or I starve myself like a monk until I find myself at the precipice. I tell myself I can deal with the aftermath.

The truth is that no one else can love you if you aren’t loving yourself.

It isn’t that I don’t love myself.  It is that I moved away from my center.

All things fade with time.

Nick Polizzi from The Sacred Science sent this mantra to my inbox.

Just like me, you are seeking some happiness in your life.
Just like me, you are trying to avoid suffering in your life.
Just like me, you have known sadness.
Just like me, you want to be loved.
Just like me, you were once an innocent child.
Just like me, you are a spirit on a journey.

It’s not all bad. Just a week later I had a pretty great love fest with an ex – the kind you can only have with an ex.  The familiarity, the old ground in a new scenario and being alright with just being able to make one another laugh and being desired but wanting no more. We’ve been through the trainings. We’ve put our time in. You can do these things when you are both transient single and you already know your moon signs are not compatible. It feels good to remember a relationship that liberated us both, to an extent.

Grand halls of the dream world – municipalities this time. On yellow walls with repetitive white crests and windows that are much larger than this lifetime.  The functional metal staircase employs the corner. I get the feeling of library; artifacts, huge metal card catalogs that seem ancient now, islands of computers to mill about in search of data.  I’m telling you.  The light here is different.  It contains more white.  There is the flavor of a natural history museum; ethereal dust through sunbeams and wood baseboards and trim. The juiciest though is the expanse of it all, this sense of compelling discovery.

Now, it is November.  I start dreaming about skiing – or rather, the skiing metaphor.   Last November, I hiked up through one mountain dreamscape with a caravan of skiers. To the left was a narrow strip of treacherous terrain. Only an expert could handle the precipitous jumps, the jagged slabs, dirt sleeves, shattered levels.  In the beginning of the season it seems common knowledge that this is the task I am up against. I will tackle this course.  Because no one else seems to think anything of it, the suggestion is exhilarating.

The mountains were so preposterously monsterous but my vehicle would wind through, up and down, always alone, back from those slopes.  The land would be opulent – Aspen and desert at once.

At the end of the season another dream occurs. Skiers are dwindling back down the mountain carrying their gliders. The trek to the right that we ascended in the beginning of the season is acknowledged as downright extreme, suicidal even. Hardly anyone is expected to conquer it. What a let down! The fresh inhale, the wide open expanse of a new season is gone and in it’s spot… disappointment. Not devastating failure but the commonplace type.

This year I dreamed of being on a new mountain. I’m hiking up with this young and refreshing cool group. They are accepting me. They are advanced and the terrain feels wide open – a liberating type of fear. Then, a woman pulls me onto a thin path arched by pines on either side. I walk with the woman, a man, and some little kids. They seem nice enough, but I’ve been taken from the excitement and put in a meeker processional. I learn just before waking that we are all headed to the same place.

Riding the ferry back to New York.  Coming back from a friends’ performance art piece.  The waters below and ahead – luring like the dark of onyx and obsidian. The skies above are the same. A womb of expansive black with a thread of luminescent purple that vagues where the distant mountains breach the lake. It wouldn’t be noticed excepting for the contrast of the sacred backdrop of the void. The Asian tourists chatter excitedly in a different language at the bow as if on a party boat. They don’t brood the black. I stare into it like a soul that has been apart from it’s omnipresent night for lifetimes.  I know that not all can make a life underneath the surface.

My friend is brave and liberated.  She is encouraging and friendly.  She is a beacon in the circles of insecure sarcastic repressed creative hiders.  (Myself included.)  I have a friend I can trust with what is askew. A friend I can hash it out with, lay it out before, collage it so it makes sense.  A friend I can talk to.  A friend I can reconvene with. A friend. Things are not bad at all. Things are true.

More on water – this from Poe in A Descent into the Maelstrom. “I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer’s account of the Mare Tenebrarum. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking for ever.”

Mesmerizing, until the whole head churns with the words, the whole story catapults one to a space -seeing a gray sea-wind against the wet of an eye and hearing it chime like bells or screech like birds. How is that achieved? I’ve come to believe the vocabulary of the 19th century writer to be far superior to the words used now. Their command of language is intimidating.

Reading Poe and Hawthorne and Sylvan Muldoon. Life’s jewels are too sparse and rich to be denied.

When hexed with the Evil Eye, periods of stagnation and infertility occur. Take the water from “over which both the dead and living pass.” Anoint the ears with the black flowing liquid to rid yourself of the Evil Eye.

I have my river. I have my bridge by the cemetery on which the dead and living pass. My own. No one else’s. I have performed the Egyptian Eye of Horus spell here for direction and abundance. And the same water, I use for another Eye spell.

Have I been hexed? It is possible. For good measure I have anointed my ears.

Does information flow and arrive at the destined time?

I went to the heart of the lake to submerge.
I watched a white finger with a beacon of curl
a life underneath.
Transfix my eyes to this shimmer.
A visible rhythm of a dispersing truth
Echoing outward from a central drop
All I am can be underneath and
The lady of the lake placed her hand on my heart and told me to breath.
She promises water will blow the eyes out and burst my lungs, my ears, my head
and my mind will fill with space.

For another time I will save the story of a certain drug that makes you aware you walk an alien planet.  The street lamps are alien against the black sky.  The clean lines here, the way the curvature of the Earth can be seen; this is alien.  The acquaintance beside me says he never felt like he belonged to the family he was born into.  He confesses Gabriel’s Solsbury Hill affected him.

When two outsiders confess themselves to one another on an alien planet when the black stretches infinitely underneath the pillars erected to hold the glowing balls that light our way to nowhere, we must remember these brief pockets of time when we connect.

No division. We all belong somewhere… maybe not on this planet, but somewhere. Grab these moments of rare connection.

And I need to look up the use of colons and semi-colons again.  I am abusing comas.  I am resisting an urge to fragment my sentences –  denying Kerouacian music.

All the stuff about the night jogging under the florescent lights, for another time.

D.J. Conway says in “Advanced Celtic Shamanism”, “… Celtic healers were aware of the possibility of soul-displacement or soul-fragmentation. The Brehon Laws acknowledged this and laid down a penalty for this loss, which can be caused by jealousy, great emotional stress or trauma, mental anguish, and even deep hatred. Although some of the symptoms are similar to those found in complete soul-loss, in this case only pieces of the fragmented soul are missing. To correct this problem, the healer-shaman is required to journey into the Otherworld and retrieve the soul fragments, returning them to the affected person.
There are certain characteristics that indicate possible partial soul-loss to the healer. These are: chronic depression; apathy that remains for any length of time; difficulty in resisting illnesses; memory gaps; mental disorientation; uncontrollable emotions; difficulty in reestablishing a normal life after a crisis, such as a death in the family or divorce; severe illness as a child; addictions in a person who wants to be free of them; constantly being discontented with one’s lot.”

Tailored just so.  I don’t think so.  My mind and emotions cycle at unrelenting speeds.  The input is ceaseless.  And it is only expressed through the trickle of a faucet.


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