bloodteethandflame

A life in threes

Tag: memory

Song for Tuesday: Can’t Find My Way Home

 

This song has always given me a weird feeling.
I can’t exactly explain it – except to admit that the lyrics used to give me a strange tight discomfort in my chest, even though I’ve always found its melody hauntingly beautiful.

Was it a song about magic?
Or perhaps… a song about death?

When I was young, I did not know.

But I can’t help but recall that my older sister would often sing the lyrics – making sure to mimic the young Steve Winwood’s high pitched plaintive voice and making a mockery of the British way he pronounced can’t (like caunt) –  and I would nervously laugh and laugh, and beg her to stop.

Oh, the nervous laughter we shared over that song!

Back then, I didn’t know what it was about…

or what made me so uncomfortable about that song.

And I definitely did not know what it was about this song that invited so much ridicule from my older sister…. and yet…

And yet…

Some thirty-odd years later, we got to talking about the song recently…and we admitted to one another that we’d always liked that song.

Funny that, eh?

Perhaps we are getting old.

~~~

Nowadays, I have begun to speculate what the song is about.

Or rather, I have become certain of what that song means to me.

It is a song about surrender.

Perhaps what had made me uncomfortable about the song was its tone – which now strikes me as a tone of surrender:

“Come down off your throne and leave your body alone. Somebody must change
You are the reason I’ve been waiting so long – somebody holds the key
Well, I’m near the end and I just ain’t got the time
And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home

Come down on your own and leave your body at home – somebody must change
You are the reason I’ve been waiting all these years – somebody holds the key
Well, I’m near the end and I just ain’t got the time
And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home…”

-lyrics written and sung by Steve Winwood/Blind Faith

 

As a matter of fact, while it is still true that it might be a song about fear of death or old age, that plaintive chorus of I can’t find my way home never fails to fill me with this unshakeable sense of loneliness and loss.

Perhaps the song is an extended and powerful metaphor of loss.

Or

Is it about someone who is spiritually seeking?

As it was with the mystic poet Rabindranath Tagore who wrote:

Where roads are made I lose my way.

In the wide water, in the blue sky there is no line of a track.

The pathway is hidden by the birds’ wings, by the star-fires, by the flowers of the wayfaring seasons.

And I ask my heart if its blood carries the wisdom of the unseen way….

                                                                                  (Fruit Gathering, verse 6)

 

In that regard, this song makes me think of madness, perhaps even seidhr.

 

Rumi drunk insane

 

You are the reason I’ve been waiting all these years…
Somebody holds the key…

thekeythatopens

On needs, noise…and silence.

From 8 August 2014:

I am surrounded by so much goddamned noise.

I get distracted by everything.

Sometimes, I just want silence.

I have always lived in a home wherein others have wanted noise around them to feel comfortable.  Whether it’s the constant drone of the television, or talking, or even music, sometimes I feel that I cannot focus on anything for all the effing noise.

(Though I will admit that music is the least annoying of these, as I’ve always felt that there is so much comfort and connection that can be found in music.)

But sometimes, I just need silence…

and so, through some meditative visualization, I built a cabin in the woods, at the base of a mountain, surrounded by trees.

cabin

(thoreau.away)

Whenever I go there in meditation, there aren’t so many distractions to focus upon – and that blessed silence brings me peace.

(And even if Loki is ‘there’ – as He sometimes is – there is very little conversation between us, thankfully.)

This might seem odd to others — as I am usually such a chatterbox — but I guarantee that silence is necessary.

~~~

It’s odd to think that I wasn’t always this way.

The sound of the television, the radio, the endless chatter and near-constant buzz of activity that surrounded me as a child (being a member of a family of seven) — all of that noise and activity used to be a source of comfort for me.

And today, it suddenly occurred to me as to the reason why I no longer find comfort in being surrounded in a cocoon of background noise.

It’s strange to admit this now, but I think that I was always an empath well before I knew what that word meant.

As my long-term readers may recall, as a child I was accused of being overly sensitive and easily spooked by damned near everything around me.

To give you an example, my childhood home was in a rather rural area, and I can remember feeling startled and uncomfortable – and sometimes even crying – whenever large trucks would pass by on the road, or planes would fly overhead while I played in the yard.  And yet, surprisingly…I could not sleep without some sort of background noise.  Whether it be the buzz of a fan, the hum of cars passing on the road, or later, my baby sister’s music box playing in her crib, I could not sleep in a silent room.

Rhythmic, ambient sounds made me irritable by day, but I was anxious and wakeful by the lack of sound at night?

This definitely struck everyone as being a rather strange dichotomy.

But I know the reason why now.

And yes it is related to this (which in turn, is related to this.)

Sound can mask energetic activity, and as an empath, the strongest levels of energetic activity (including but not limited to spiritual activity) often occurred at night.

But this is not to say that I didn’t experience strange things in the daytime, it just that the strength and frequency of occurrences increased exponentially at night.

So.

That is my epiphany for the day: it is quite possible that when I stopped trying to ignore Them, I didn’t need to mask my perceptions of Their presence.

 

Month for Loki, Day 17: Distraction.

So.  I am still sick with the flu that I’d caught from V the week before last.

And I was talking to a friend – who is spirit-touched and a Reiki practitioner – about my symptoms the other day.

You see, I have been suffering a great deal of sinus congestion, a headache, and most concerning of all, I have had a near-constant nosebleed for the past week.

My friend was pointing out that the combination of sinus congestion followed by nosebleeds could indicate the opening of my third eye.

And I was surprised to hear that, as I have always felt that I am almost completely headblind, but since my return from Arizona (following the ritual that occurred there), I have felt more ‘open,’ and as a result, I have had several rather vivid experiences.

Though I hadn’t thought to connect the increase in my experiences with the frequency of my nosebleeds.

~~~

(8:30 AM)

I have been stressing about what I should be writing again.

I woke  up about 30 minutes ago.

I hadn’t intended on getting out of bed.  I was still in that hypnogagic state, when I rolled toward the edge of the bed, and ‘sensed’ Loki there.   He was standing there by the bed, and I distinctly remember muttering, ‘Let’s go.’

I had just awakened from a vivid dream concerning a small body of water, because I could recall seeing Him standing in the water, naked to the waist, waiting for me to join Him.  And how, upon wading in, I received a clear visual of a short poem.

It looked like an Internet meme tile.

It was a poem about an experience – a magical experience – written by someone named Walter.

Unlike other times when I have dreamt of written words, the visual image of these words appeared surprisingly clear and easy to read, in black ink on a yellow lined paper.**

I think that I had been reading this paper.

But something had distracted me.

(Oddly enough, I could still hear the TV in the bedroom in the background — and it was distracting me.  I could distinctly hear some news channel commentary concerning Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton, and all of that.)

I recall that I had been reading this poem to myself, as if I had been trying to memorize it, as I may have been intending to make a post of it today.

But then, I’d begun to wake up.

I am trying to think of what this poem had made me think and feel – as I’d felt that I’d almost had it memorized – but then I’d let the TV distract me.

All I can remember was the first line:

Let us go to the well, and you will chart your first experience here…

I recall that the poem had a lilting sort of subtle rhythm as I whispered the words to myself – possibly an ABBA or even an ABCD-ABCD rhyme scheme.  I was amazed that I’d been able to see the words so clearly as I’d spoken them aloud, and I remember thinking that I wasn’t that deeply asleep and yet, so deep and so clear were the words that I was speaking.  I repeated them to myself several times – but somehow – how? why? – had I allowed the TV to intrude, rather than to ignore it and focus on what I had been saying?

Maybe this is not about my memory of the poem at all.

Perhaps this is the lesson:

The words, the experiences would all be clear to me if I allowed them to be.

And yet I jump away from away from these experiences and cast about for a distraction to take my focus away from them, from the possibility of recalling them.

(Perhaps this is what He means when He insists that I am still running; I am still afraid.)

We are standing at the Well of Memory and I am fussing over poetry?

Relax. 

Relax.  Let yourself be like water. The words were flowing over you, were they not?

You asked for a session.  This was your session. 

You heard [the television], yes, but you still had access to your vision of Me, and what We were doing…

These things can and do co-exist.

These ‘realities’ are nothing more than undercurrents of each other and you can tap into these multiple streams at any time that you wish.

(Am I so skilled as all that…or is it simply that easy?)

Yes…and no.  It is that simple, but, as you might guess, it is not EASY.

Do you see the way you struggle with relaxing, with remembering? Let go of your need to describe every detail and just allow the flow.

That is the lesson.  Stop putting these rules and  all these parameters on it.  Stop trying to document the experience as you are experiencing it and just let yourself see, let yourself feel, and you will remember it.

Stop thinking of these experiences as something unusual that is only given to you in pieces with all those attendant fears that suddenly you will forget.  

Let yourself remember. Let yourself relax.  

The fear drives it away from you, pushes it away from your understanding.  

You will forget if you are always afraid to forget.

~~~

When I realized that I’d fully awakened, I blew my nose.  There was blood coming out of my left nostril again.

(Clear out this logic…trust this process rang in my head.)

Perhaps this is what was meant when another Lokean friend and I were discussing this project at the beginning of the month.

I’d asked Him for a clue, a means to begin the project, and He’d said (through her, through some automatic writing):

Be fluid.  Be more fluid.

~~~

And related to these hypnagogic conversations, here’s bit of pandoramancy:

 

 

~~~

 

 

 

Month for Loki, Day 13: More pieces that fell into place.

I was sketching Loki the other day, and it got me to thinking about how other aspects of Him were showing up in my life back when I was a kid, and yet how a lot of the pieces didn’t fall into place until 2012-2013 or so.

And I got to thinking about what I did after the SitD left (around age 9), and I was thinking about how I used to draw…a lot.  I briefly touched upon the subject of those drawings in a post on this blog back in early 2013, but I never wrote out my thoughts as I intended.

Here are those thoughts from my notebook…

(From 27 February 2013)

Something occurred to me this morning that I wanted to write about.

I had a brief visual/sensory upload – an unbidden visual/sensory upload while I was awake – of a man standing in front of me, holding my face in his hands. He is holding my face in his hands as if to make sure that I am making eye contact with him, and he is leaning forward, preparing to whisper into my left ear.

And this visual that I had made me wish that I could sketch out what I saw.  I mean, I can draw, but I am not so skilled that I can sketch things out as quickly or as deftly as I would like.  Rather I am more likely to get hung up on agonizing over every detail in my sketch so much so that I often lose the flow of the imagery and it fades quickly away before I’ve finished sketching it out.

So I was wishing that I could convey the shifting color of his eyes and the unshaven whiskers on his chin.  I wish that I could convey that I had looked down at his feet, and he was wearing dirty black canvas Chuck Taylors, with laces untied and loose.  He was wearing faded jeans, a t-shirt, and a shabby cotton overshirt.  I remember seeing the silver glint of an earring in his ear, and I noticed the way that his russet hair curled over the collar of his shirt, and how his hair turned a darker auburn toward the ends.  I remember noticing the smattering of freckles on the backs of his hands and along his fingers, and how his hands felt slightly calloused but pleasantly warm, holding my face.  I remember the trace of his grin, and the way that he slowly blinked and tilted his head, as those light-colored and impossibly bright eyes of his flickered with…satisfaction?  Relief? I’m not certain what word I am looking for but when I looked into his eyes, all I could think of was laughter and warmth and…home.

And I wish that I could have drawn that – the image of both my standing there with him and somehow standing outside of myself watching the exchange and the slow dawning of my recognition of who he was.

But I don’t have the skills.  I cannot sketch  this fast enough or well enough for you to see the vision as I saw it.

And I remembered.  I realize it now.  I am seeing a face that I have tried to draw before, and my heart skips a beat to think of it.  Can it be?

When I was younger — younger like 11 or 12 years old – I used to draw the face of a man that I did not know.  Or rather, he wasn’t anyone that solidly existed, that could easily be pinned down.  Sometimes I thought that I’d made him up, that he was simply an amalgam of pretty facial features — a young man with long, light-colored hair, with larger than average, strikingly bright-colored eyes, an aquiline nose, finely arched eyebrows, and a smile that I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a flirtatious grin or a sarcastic smirk.   Most of the time I would draw him clean-shaven, but sometimes I would practice drawing facial hair  – usually a well-groomed goatee or a Van Dyke beard.  I’d always envisioned his ears being pierced (even though in the late 70’s/early 80’s, it was still considered rather bold and overly flamboyant for a man to have pierced ears, especially in the right ear…)

But nonetheless, this man had jewelry and his face was a mixture of traditionally masculine features (angular jaw, an Adam’s apple, whiskers/facial hair) and feminine features (long eyelashes, high cheekbones, thinly arched eyebrows).  He was, to put it mildly, a very pretty man, and I often drew him in either medieval clothing or casual, almost hippie style clothing.  I would always draw him into background settings, surrounded by woodlands, mountains or snow.

Over and over, I drew this man, thinking that someday I would fall in love with a man that had this face, or something close to it.  Sometimes I would find myself comparing someone’s chin or someone’s eyes or the color of their hair to this man’s face, this man’s features.  And I can tell you right now, that face, those features never changed.  No, this man had a particular face that I loved, but never could quite find in reality.   So I just kept drawing him, perfecting that face as it could be seen from a variety of angles, expressing a variety of moods.

My siblings used to tease me, that I was drawing my invisible friend.

Sometimes I would imagine him saying all sorts of clever, wonderful things to me, all the words that I’d hoped someday that somebody might say: what a friend, a lover, a confidante would say.  Sometimes I would write him into stories, and they were often stories about learning and doing various activities – things I hadn’t yet learned how to do, such as how to ride a horse, or swim, or climb a tree.  Sometimes I would walk in the woods, and I would imagine delightful, fantastic possibilities, almost visualizing that I might find him further along the path, sitting on a tree stump, or fishing in the river, or laying in the grass, watching the clouds.

I remember when I first experimented with smoking, oddly enough, it was easy to imagine that he smoked too.  He did seem to have this smoky, fragrant scent about him that was entirely his — though I could never draw his hands holding a cigarette very well (aside of the fact that hands are notoriously difficult to draw, especially hands holding things that cast light and shadow.)

I cannot deny that I drew him so often that it seemed as if I drew him into existence somehow.

He was not simply a masculine version of myself, unless he was perhaps a part of me that I wish that I could have been.

And for many years, I drew him just so I could see his face.

It hits me like a ton of bricks today to realize that whenever I draw Loki’s face, I am drawing him; I am drawing an old friend.

And whenever I visualize Loki, I realize that I am seeing him, the handsome face of my old friend.

And I never made that connection until today.

~~~

Hail to Loki, my sweetest friend ❤

 

~~~

A year or so after I wrote this notebook entry, I received a message from Him, that I suspect may have been intended to make me smile:

You didn’t make Me up; rather it is that I made *you* up.