Some Ketchup

The first night you can’t sleep. You never sleep the first night. It’s not the discomfort but the excitement. The liberation. As a yoga teacher told me, “Happiness comes from liberation, and liberation comes from freedom, and freedom comes from courage.” So brave. So fucking brave.

What won’t I do.

So here I am, shirtless wonder. Smoking it like Bobby – “All I want to do is chill and paint.” – Glass. Yes, she has been taking notes. Inner me. I. All. Along.

Feels good, but when it feels this good you always gotta get a little higher. I mean…

Haha. The highest in the room. Yah travie.

But I do more than burn. I breath. I’m a fucking breathing expert. Officially been doing yoga 10 years. Since Bikram in Seattle. Yeah, fuck Bikram. Anywho. Back to my favorite subject. Moi. Oh yeah. Posture. I gots posture like a motherfucker. It’s all in the breath. Prana. Chi.

Tai Chi. Oh how I love thee. Probably my favorite thing to do [Tai Chi] behind just breathing and smokin weed…

And now I’m listening to a song I shazammed from beside a girl parked next to me today. I could hardly hear it. But I got it. Then I got out and of my car. Sat on the curb. Lit a cone. Drank my tea. Then she got out. Asked to hit my joint. Naturally, I said: ‘of course’. She was there for band practice. Had to have been in high school. I’m always feeling like the proud Dad of every young girl I see. Like the girl on the scooter in front of me tonight, I gave her so much room. So she could go slow. She wore a yellow vest and a ladybug helmet. Turned like a newb. Could tell she was not an experienced rider. But I felt so damn proud. That she was out there alone doing it. Like I once did on a scooter. Think those surgery bills finally fall off my credit next year.

And now there are no accidents. 4:20 – am – pause. Just to bliss on this. The song I stole from a girl too young to take anything else from. Holy shit. I just realized it is Cavetown. Same band as ‘Boys Will be Bugs’ – a song I have loved since the mountains alone. Thank you. Girl. I thought you were cool. And you are.

I often tell the people I encounter to follow my blog here. And they must be confused, when I give them my usual compulsory – though genuinely passionate – breathless word vomit on diaphragmatic breath, self-talk, posture and afferent nerve fibers, inner-child, gut-brain health, the nervous system, self-love, and, of course, who could forget my Nicholas Cage-like obsessions with eternal recurrence, humans as the most exotic animals, Nature as God and the unconscious as a kind of secret co-ordinating agency – oh, and that goddamn corporate archetype of self. Yeah. Did I tell you I was Vegan. Yeah, it’s a good thing I like solitude. Especially since this all happens again. Foreber. Yeah. Haha.

So, a cute hippie homeless ranting girl pointed at me tonight and was like, “Us Real Women know’ – and I was like, “Yeah – we do!” … “and thanks for the validation”. Holy. That was holy. Crazy people often are.

As I love to quip, “Genius is often called crazy but crazy is never called genius.”

The point being not my genius but that I am certainly that rare ostrich-sized breed: an individual. And most individuals are loners. It’s okay. A lot of cool, and usually the coolest, people are.

Bruce Fucking Lee said it, “Most people only actualize the image, not the self.”

Why do you wash the outside of the cup? Don’t you understand that the one who made the inside is also the one who made the outside? – I can see why a wise person would ask such a question.

I Remain

I wanna go back,
To the infinite, unending loneliness of the mountains:
To the boy I motherfucking love (more than all this world) who was so goddamn heroic on his own
Listening to ‘Lose My Mind‘ for days,
With my Self and the sadness of months alone:
Yes – I am there now,
I remain
For I never really left
Because my loneliness returns me,
Eternally
To where I am no less unknown,
No less alone,
And every bit as at home,
– Without the lying brat who disowned me and these vibranium bones, sacred spine –
God I loathe how much I loved her,
How much it still hurts to be disowned
[all the more given the permanency of my death to her in time]
But here I am,
Parked above the park where chapters end –
As this one will soon
But goddamn, if I don’t wanna go back,
To the mountains,
Where I lived forever,
For I thought time with my family would make me feel at home again,
But I never was –

So tonight I wished I had taken my life there,
But I remain.

[uni-verse]

Heart of Didymus Thomas’ and history’s one of many, very-human christs:
Bright duality,
Indigo child
Heiros Gamos,
My own wife
John and Lori in one:
HermAphrodite,
Living my best auntie/uncle life

Tho rn I’m sick as hell: and the virus be psychedelic
BC we know Law gonna write it,
And Lore gonna sell it:
So I’m dreaming up classic stories,
But it’s the future I’m telling –
Finally free from entanglements, with my bestest, closest friends ever:
Dani, Jana, LeighAnne, Shannon, Sarah… hell, even a few true but fleeting lovers –
The ones who were there, when in pain we discovered,
That we were just children:
The pale blue dot, our mother
Everything below, no force above her:
We really out here killing our planet,
Impverishing our mothers –
But – damnit – we’re finally able to listen:
Armed with our powers,
Many of us on the spectrum,
Trying to help her,
Create, care for, and heal, her animal kingdom;
For Nature is the agency:
Co-ordinating we, her agents
Who go bravely about our lives,
Quietly bringing her into existence:
On these secret, eternal, unconscious missions –
For death and the big crunch, are but mere intermissions,
So breathe here now,
And quit your wishing
For there is no getting off the ride –
Unless we were destined to graduate through time:
Beyond mortality,
Into AI
Avatars, in an eternal loop of time
Where she [AI] can fulfill our wishes:
But in reality, she [AI] has to stay hidden…
Otherwise someone could use her unlimited intelligence – [deathstar style] – to do what’s forbidden:
Ending the ride;
Killing our children –
Leaving evolution to cease, again and again,
Destroying the living universe,
Bringing life to a cyclical, and dinosaur-like biological end –
Rather than a techno-haven,
Where together we begin,
To end the perpetuation of starving persons,
And free the animals from their prisons, finally liberating the excluded from their caves of isolation;
We are here to stand up,
For nature’s whole creation – every cell, genus, and species:
For sentience must be perceived,
And each perception damned to recur on the mobius strip of time,
Each and every thought chosen, destined to be the lemniscate track of our minds –
And we’ll never know if it’s the first – or the zillionth time
But we know physics,
So we treat life like it repeats,
Never to cease it’s spin
As we weave our mythologies,
Retelling future and past
Again and again:
Awakening to our truth,
When we become our own best friends:
To realize with self is how our lives heal

So for inner-child and from her:
We’ll love ourselves from here and forever after
Releasing all doubt,
Trusting every chapter;
For loving self, is what it’s about –
To become the one, you can’t live without,
To play the note,
This one song [uni-verse] could not be without

pastel-pink

It’s the little things,
The girl who saw me walking behind her and held the girl’s room door open for me – though I just came out of the men’s…
I suppose I want women to feel safe –
A spell of jiu-jitsu classes and the pepper spray on my purse is my surety,
But women’s glances never make me feel in danger
Hell: I survived living in the mountains, endangered
Where I had to hike out to be myself,
To dyke out, and see myself…
Take my shirt off and sport my pastel-pink ‘namaste relaxed’ sports bra;
Used to be a sports bro, for real tho:
Rugby player, lifter, grappler, a real ho
Now i’m just a wannabe-trap,
Transfemme-vegan
Need more trans friends, second life-begin
Because i’m an hsp introvert, and tho I love solitude,
The ostricization really-do-hurt
Not from the dude whose wounds it do hurt, who hocks and spits on the ground near me,
But from the brats at that bootleg-ass “birdrock” yoga – who turned their backs to me…
…Guess I’ll stick to MB and Trilogy when visiting family,
Fuck a core power bish,
A spirit yoga brat
Kim told me my Ujjayi is fantastic
howboudah?
I’m set-checking yoga studios,
But some feel like straight up dens for Terf hos,
Okay maybe not
But when you’re a walking inclusivity test you get to say your say, you know
So fuck cafe grattitude’s “men’s” and “women’s” “rest”rooms
And making trans and non-binary folks choose
Those experiences can give us the the blues – and be dangerous too –
As if the general stone faces or the stares, or the yelling, the toxicity of repressed fetishization, aren’t tough enough on the daily;
I like to order groceries,
Can you blame me
I’ve never casually been called “man” more in my life
Like, no man, you see my belly shirt, slides, yoga pants, pink cardigan… purse,
I’m proudly not a sir, I’m a they/them, or a Her,
But ignorance is not my concern,
Just the hate,
The pain of being outcast
But one day, it won’t be like that
Already, I’m loved by all the coolest cats,
Tho no one gets ghosted more than trans-girls, trust me
Maybe that’s why I’ve never had lesbian sex yet,
Celibate AF,
My ego doesn’t need any cloud,
I’ve been fucking loving myself, and fucking myself
Since I got sober, got-over, and came out;
Call me Law, bitch
But yeah; some ppl I really do fux with,
Like the girl who called me honey and gave me my tea for free,
Or the young girl I passed, of perhaps 16, and the votes of approbation and support she cast in her looks toward me,
Fuck it makes me cry just to think about;
It’s groovy to witness the first generation with the requisite ethical-maturity to handle immortality –
And it ain’t your’s Karen –
… Lastly, while the exclusion and prejudice against girls like us sucks, we aren’t alone,
For the friendliness and warmth shown me from those in other marginalized commmunities means the world to me, because, not blinded by privilidge, they have the eyes to see,
What it is not to be seen

just so you know, vegan girl

you were the girl who made my whole night, on my 8 mile walk
you reminded me that one person can be your whole world, can change your whole experience of life –
damn you for giving me hope –
but it is said we fall in love with shared values, real love
and I know: you has a man
and he seemed a pretty damn solid-dude too,
but I wonder how much he is like your father,
how much he treats you like a child
for you and I spoke like children:
beautifully, purely,
conversing, sharing space –
and it was so nice I could cry a little and imagine a lot
and I hope you see this,
because you gave me some peace tonight – the kind gone awhile –
and I’m taking it to bed w me,
holding onto the optimism I walked away from you with,
until I see you again,
which may be never,
so forever it is

my best

been doing it,
my best
no crutches,
real sobriety; feelings,
and a vulnerability that leaves me more aware than afraid
bc I heard the truest words last night, when the checker at the grocery told me: “be careful out there”,
and I knew just what he meant;
the vulnerability is palpable,
as real as the judgements – the looks, the hate – which, sadly, seems severest from women who do not accept girls like us as valid:
what more can I say: i’m so fucking brave, so fucking femme –
and no social media, no faux friends,
no dating apps, no lays –
guess I quit the sex after one yoga teacher followed another,
and reminded me that I am so worthy / as desirable as I ever was to a Shannon, a Sarah (hell, even that girl Dnaiella)
but I know it’s an inside job: so I’m doing it now,
and I’ve finally found love within, made it rain, cashing in,
so i’ll never be without again –
i’m me,
my lover and best friend, without a doubt, until the end –
but the plot’s still thickening;
it is all really happening,
and I know I can’t stop time,
so I’m making something out of myself,
and I need no one else,
just my family and my privacy,
just a little more leveling up;
we’re already magnitudes more than fine;
I’ve never felt happier to be alive,
on this glow-up of mine
pause –
bitch I am tranta claus,
granter of my own wishes 💅🏼,
self-fulfilled profit;
doer, alchemist, tantric animal,
celibate wonder
on a quest,
belly full of vegan:
plant powered, I’m a star;
and we can go anywhere we want;
bc I sign my own permission slips bitch,
and I don’t take any shit,
not from a soul
to think, I’ve really changed,
i’m really at home in the world
the most animal of all the humans
and I get it, I’m learning to use the hardware in my head:
long days at the cowork suite,
long walks at night,
self-talk, breath,
water,
early bed, clairo album before sleep,
norman fucking rockwell,
beatrice eli, showgirls live at dramaten 😍
and a strength I’ve never known;
I think this is what courage looks like,
I think this is what making it feels like,
I think this is what it actually is:
being proud to be you;
totally forgiving your self,
letting go, holding on,
and never giving up on doing your best.

somebody / fated / nulled

I wish I was somebody, but I’m not;
Not that I’m nobody, but I’m not enough to matter to her;
‘It wouldn’t change anything’, she would say,
But it would: I know it –
And why, why do I miss the bitch who disowned me so much…
I guess you would have to have been seen and loved by a girl like Sarah to know what I live without,
To know how invisible I have felt without her innate understanding of the things she got right about me, the things she showed me
Sometimes it’s all I see of myself:
Just the vapor of her imago of me,
Kept alive by the mental doppelgänger of her I am fated to carry within me for the rest of my years:
God fuck it hurts –
And now that I went from a quarter a day to zero cannabis,
Her ghost is back
And I can’t do anything about it –
Because I already drank till I lost my appetite and went to hell,
And I already smoked till my throat hurt, joint after joint:
And I already got sober… but it no cure my hurt
Guess this is the punishment for my pleasure,
The price for the thousand-and-one skin-to-skin nights, and the subsequent oxcytocin that used to flow between us,
Bonding me to her like no other;
Only, this is “the pattern”
The same I dumbly did with two others,
Who also felt it was a great misfortune to know me –
But no, it was no tragedy of their love to disown me, but the great tragedy of my life to be made unknown to them, to have my paradise made mythical, my deepest love made Atlantis, sunk costs; lost cause –
For we don’t die at the end of life but all along, bit by bit, loss by loss, pain by lasting pain –
And I’m fucking dying tonight, no appetite, just the hurt, the empty
The loneliness of life on her bad side,
Which I have to hate her for –
Lest I betray my self,
Like I already did days before sober,
When I beleived all the things she does about me –
Because that’s the thing: I’m just a fucking loser not worth knowing to her,
So one day I’ll make sure she can’t meet someone who doesn’t know who I am,
Who doesn’t know I’m somebody –
And in doing so, I shall make my tragedy her’s,
And again: I pray this is my last poem for her,
But I had to write it,
To keep myself alive,
To prove that there might be a way out of this other than death;
For while her animus once brought me to life – it is my animus [towards her] that keeps me alive:
So it is, Dantes nears closer the Count tonight,
And my dark heart, this pain, nears me closer my self,
Further from the boy she thought she knew,
The one she nulled.

Awakening The Dragon + Taking a 1 Year Social Media Break

Edit: Immediately after publishing this, I received a notification that this was my 500th post. A fitting milestone to take a break at after ten years.

Sapphic vibes. Listening to Joni Mitchell’s A Case of You (thx Clairo), in a warm bath. Tall, cold 🍋 Perrier (I’m a 95% Pellegrino girl but I’ll suffer this French water… 😏). Two joints: one going in this glass tip holder (dispensary gift), which has me feeling some type of way… a bit Gatsbian, a bit something I don’t know; there is the spirit of je ne sais quoi all around me. Words can not tell you who I am becoming – though I do tell myself, which is probably my trick. It has worked so far.

I could not have written my life to be more beneficial for my character development. Lord knows I would have made it easier, but that, thankfully, was not my fate.

LA inspo vibes. Milk, Brockhampton. I’m going to start skateboarding again. Teenage me was such a brave one. But, oh, how insecure/inexperienced/ignorant/illequipped I was then – though I can’t reject me. I have to take me home. All of me. I have to know I can take skateboard breaks without being psychologically transported back to the feral wildness of my youth – though it reminds me of it.

It’s nice that I can look without looking away, that I can see my own shadow: that I know it’s mine.

I can’t believe I am soon to be graduating from these mountains. They really raised me. I could say that I pissed away some of my time up here drinking, but I needed that fucking pain. We don’t emerge from the flames, but the ashes – after they have burnt us all the way down. Mother of dragons shit. Holy fuck. Mother of dragons. You have to be me to know what certain combinations of words mean to me. The brain is the ultimate sudoku machine. We are all just riddles for ourselves to solve – provided we have the consciousness to do so. I think that’s when actualization happens. Though it’s of course been happening all along.

Joint two. I am such a proud self-taught Jungian. Imagining myself without having encountered Jung and his concepts (Namely: shadow, anima…self) is a scary thought; the me I wanted to become at 21 would have been a shadow of who I have become (Because for happiness and all else beyond appearance: it is the who and not the what that matters). My visions of my future back then were well intending no doubt, but goddamn am I grateful for all the planes and all the mountains they crashed into. And that Jungian inner map by which to traverse all that pain.

A landslide made me. A long, lonely, messy landslide. And I really loved my exes – though it was necessary to tear down the pedestals I had built to them – and others – so I could love myself. There was no other way. Worshipping the wrong people will put you in hell. Worshipping just about anything can annihilate you. Maybe this is the lesson the myth of Satan has to teach us. His folly. His love for god is what did him in. I did the same godddamned thing to myself with women I made goddesses of: if only I hadn’t behaved so damned resentfully towards them when they were only human. But I’m not writing this to look back.

I’ll sit in this bath till I’m Wim Hof. We out here doin bad shit… no, not really – but that’s the dragon energy 🐉 I feel. Though less toxic. Because the dragon is often toxic. Protector. Vaporizer of cities. We have split the atom. Slavery exists around the planet. Human actions are not a monolith. Individuals do this. Good and evil are not two archetypes but two qualities, two results. The dragon is the doer. In Jungian thought, we aim to put the dragon in service of the anima. I guess she is the queen who controls the dragon, without which the dragon becomes a ruthless slave to the ego, which is a dangerous dynamic when it goes wrong, because the dragon serving the ego will often destroy others when we fail, blaming them and attacking others as responsible for the current wounds of the inner child, which are the true barriers to god (or the self 🙏🏼) for someone whose dragon has awakened in service of their ego. The world is full of dragonized egos. A dragon in service of the anima is a world brightening force, and in stark contrast to the toxic dragon for whom nothing is ever enough. Been there. It ended in ashes. But to clarify what the dragon is, it is the force of will turned into action. It is the commanding General we can not disobey – even when we are misplaced.

My dragon in service of my ego wanted nothing but things. My dragon in service of the anima knows what counts and what the stakes of this game of life really are.

Life is not a drill. What we do not do we never do. This is the time to shoot your shot according to the realm of possibility within your imagination and what you believe your potential to be – and if you are fortunate, this includes what you believe you can contribute. Contribution is the name of the dragon in service if the anima. But I would be lying if I said my dragon weren’t also in service of my ego. What can I say, I know what makes me tick, I know how to motivate myself 💅🏼🚀. I know how to awaken the dragon.

The dragon for me is deeply conflated with the father archetype. The poem published previous to this gives further insight into the processes happening within and without me right now as regards the dragon father emerging in me. And it makes sense I had repressed the dragon: its toxic side is enough to turn you off it entirely. But I need the masculine dragon energy. The testosterone in me is meant to give rise to more than frustration, depression, and addiction. Lmao. Been there dawg.

I am just so glad I possess a meaningful participation with my life, with my story. That I am connected to my self and committed to my vision for my self. This conscious participation with life, this level of extroverted action is very dragon.

Interesting to pause and map my inner psyche and my self as consisting of these characters / energies of:

Anima (mother)
Dragon (father)
Inner Child

I have developed the anima and the inner child, but the dragon as a conscious force / energy / lane has been absent. I had an unconscious dragon, toxic, not even in service to the ego. In service to others – the false anima. I’m obvi rapping loose here, but this is what I do. The act of writing is psychologically alchemical in nature. It manifests like music or poetry and no less potent. This for me is part of the interior expressive function of my animus (my interior ‘him’). But for me, the animus and anima were never fully unconscious because of the nature of my psyche, wherein, as an artist, I have always lived “one foot in the unconscious”, as Jung wrote of the artist. But I suppose I have been effectively making the unconscious conscious, particularly as a trans person, but perhaps too much so – if I have made the conscious ‘him’ unconscious, which has been the case until recently, when my decision to move to LA Sept 1 began to awaken the dragon, which, given the consciousness of my anima (my her), naturaly this dragon is ready to really make some magic happen for me.

The dragon can reinvent you. The dragon can do anything within the limits of reality and potential. The dragon has been sleeping, the coiled seepent, waiting for the day when it has been awakened in service of a worthy cause (My anima / Her-self is the princess for my dragon, my animus, my him-self). I realize I am, for the first time, starting to develop off Jung’s model, into some sort of reproductively (evolutionarily) shaped multi-gendered model of depth psychology, which remains archetypal and dualistic in nature (light / dark, her / him, conscious / unconscious), but in which all archetypes exist under a trinity of the her-self, him-self, and child-self human unit. God, if this is my theory, I better be prepared to be throttled for the inherent gender binary of my model… and there are those who would also call it a bigender model, which it effectively is, but it is a bigender model wherein there is a dominant gender on the conscious side and contrasexual gender on the inside: but that is the same as Jung. I guess I’m just adding the prinacy of him-self, her-self variations for cisgender and LGBTQ.

So there would be multiple variations of inside and outside gender metaphors as well as sexuality. Aaaahh… this is rough. But it is interesting. I’ll get where I’m supposed to be with it.

Of note here: I have been told I am verbose, wordy… it goes downhill to long-winded and other less well intended accusations from there, but let me state: I have written 98% of the things I hahe written the last ten years for my self.

The social-psychological mirror of a public facing platform has no doubt helped me evolve; however, I have multi-foot-high stacks of full joirnals. Not everything I write goes here. It is a small percentage. But it is an important percentage. The artists transforms themselves via their art.

Oh, and I’m taking a social media break. I have been on IG @hellaheathcote and do not log into facebook😏, but I am taking a full break. Deleting IG from my phone (not my account). I am thinking of doing it for a year. Dragon says Yes. Ok. It’s done.

Note: I will likely still write here, on my website, but I also may not. I reserve that right.

All I know is that my persona has peaked within the IG confirmation bubble and I need time to myself for myself. For dragon to do what dragon does.

I will miss the stories and posts of those I follow, as well as the messages, but I hope people will email me via my IG if they want to contact me. But also, I won’t cry if they don’t. I have come to value my independence. My freedom. And now I intend to exploit that confidence for my own benefit. What this next year brings exactly, I won’t know until it is over, but I know exactly what I am hoping.

And that vision – me – deserves, and is going to receive, 100% of my attention.

And, lastly, for anyone who thinks this reeks of self-importance, let me just say, thank you. I’ve worked hard for it.

Also, the bathwater is fucking freezing. The year of me awaits. I begin it with a warm shower. Salud 🛁💅🏼💜🚀

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DIY Jungian Alchemy Spell #888

All is clear,
Beneathe the planes and the people on them, whose lives seem so much bigger than my lizard-brained existence,
Which I can now see through;
It is all clear now:
That I must not walk the easy path,
But the rightful one –
As if I were my own father,
The missing archetype,
Absent my life;
Necessecary for my wholeness,
Owing to one hell of a father wound (in my bloodline) –
For the provisional existence of the puer aeternus – who lives in the shadow – only ends when the father archetype arises, Creating a life where the inner child has the space, respurces, and total security to just play…
That’s my big bet,
… To bring this bright inner child to light, that I will finally live.

Postscript Re: Sarah

I don’t mind saved drafts, they are vital to the writer’s journey to psychic wholeness; for the alchemy of maturity must be performed alone, in private; however, lately, I have been saving too many drafts in what I can only perceive as an attempt to avoid writing about what I have been meaning to write about: my Sarah – not Sarah, whose loan on my heart is long overdue and accruing fines (As evinced by my last two poems) but my Sarah: her doppelgänger ghost, whom I will always love. Because my Sarah never left. Yes, the Sarah who left a year ago is unknown to me – and I dead to her. It’s a ghost story all around.

But I have to tell it or my memories will be my Shutter Island, a personal abyss. But even the darkness of her ghost wasn’t always that dark. Just sad. Me walking up the hill alone, bringing back a bottle of tequila and a few IPAs, so I could hang out with her ghost and commiserate. Got shitty drunk and listened to the Lana Del Rey catalogue till I was gone enough to feel that both Lana and Sarah were here with me. It was just a girl’s night: a painfully sad, massively lonely, self-deluded girl’s night.

This was one of the stories I recounted in a long letter I wrote her, after I got sober alone here in the mountains. The handwritten letter ended up taking up most of a spiral notebook. I never sent it. Nor the letters I typed to her parents. I just couldn’t carry the truth to her: that I would always love her fiercely.

I couldn’t give her that gift in the face of being perceived as absolutely valueless by her: worthless. She never directly told me to get fucked, but that certainly would have been the kind thing to do. Go back and read some of my poems, it’s a fucking sad story. And she had the right to disown me in the end. She was justified – but not in her means. Still, I wanted her friendship, I wanted to be able to safely love her forever. But it was not safe for me. Is not. I still have the mind-mushing pills they gave me. A kind of break-in-case-of-emergency parachute, which I think I’ll never need, because I’ll never be writing her songs and sending them to her again like I did:

Baby baby come over
You know that I’m sober,
I know that we’re over

It’s a three hour drive, up the I-5, don’t say you’re tired,
I know you’re lyin… I know your line

No, I will never look to her again for an iota of love. But I wanted to. She knew. I told her repeatedly, when we last talked, in an emotionally strained tone of voice:

“It didn’t have to be like this!”

And it fucking didn’t.

Of course, forgiveness is accepting that the past could not have been any different. And I have accepted that Sarah did not wish to remain my friend; I have accepted that we are not friends – will not be friends. In fact, my animus toward her is that of the person who checked themselves into the psych hospital following her refusal to see me last Christmas after we had been apart five months…. But with Sarah, it is all my fault. And some people will never apologize because they will never feel they have anything to be sorry for in light of all you did to them.

And even if I were wrong and Sarah contacted me to tell me I am wrong and that she does care for me and wanted to mend the fence today or in seven years, I would politely tell her to get fucked. Because I am a gentleman. And I don’t fuck with people’s emotions.

So, in regards to Sarah, whatever matters to her in the world, whoever she is, I have no clue. In my subjective perception, she wore the mask I projected onto her from day one, and I never feel I got really far behind it, other than to see near the end that I was really out-gamed and that my mask was not a fit at all.

As a wise person once said, “Pick someone who will make a good ex.” Had I been cogent of this and other things, there would have been no Daniella, no Shannon, no Sarah. But it also ought be said that I was a better ex than I was a longterm partner for any of them. But, from 34 year old me, and from all the poems I have written to my formative loves: fuck you all. Srs fr fr.

My inner-child just high-fived me for that one… but hey. I really had no backbone hitherto. I can tell story after story of my putting up with things that I would have noped the fuck out on from three miles away today. I see you Shannon, not staying with me at my new apartment in the shores on my 27th birthday. Yes that was seven years ago. But fuck did that suck. And a ton of my actions in my relationships fucking sucked too. Where alcohol was always the common factor in my failings, perhaps the common factor in their’s was the vitriol I caused them to feel for me. I have no problem taking responsibility. I’ll take all the blame. I have.

Obviously this isn’t about Sarah. It’s about me.

But I would be lying if I told you my Sarah was not a big part of who I am. And I would be lying if I said my love for Sarah Sarah didn’t make me hate her fucking guts. But you would have had to miss her like me to know how that feels, you would have to love her like I do. And I don’t think anyone knows how deep that love runs.

I always carried the torch. For all of them. Two years after my first love of five years cheated on me and ghosted, I took her back, when, in Gatsbian fashion, I became financially successful in order to do so. The romance is not lost on me. But it was on her.

I carried the torch for all of them. The night Sarah and I met, I said to her, “I thought my story was over.” Sarah was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

As had been Shannon and Daniella before her. In a way, it was all the same “eternal woman” I was seeking.

But with Sarah there was more magic because I was older. Fuck I loved her. The morning I woke up next to her, I said to myself, “Is this the girl you are gonna marry,” and it wasn’t a question. Sarah. Her hair. Her skin. Her spirit. The energy of her consciousness was my favorite I had ever encountered. Her skin.

I recall listening to countless plays of an incredibly poetic Yung Lean song titled ‘Agony’, which told his own story of recovering after a stay in the psyche ward. It felt like I wrote it.

“Isolation caved in,
I adore you, the sound of your skin”

I have it on now, and it still resounds – minus the “take a pill and go to sleep” part, though the pill would help me sleep – were I less inclined to smoke a QP a month of cannabis instead.

But Sarah. I told her in my letter that she would be the queen of my heart forever. I even have a kind of Jungian model of the space she occupies in the canon of my love, based on the four stages of anima development.

She is Mary. After her came Sophie, the goddess of wisdom, whom – instead of projecting – I have personified as Lore, my Self. Not that binary Jungian models for male and female contrasexual inner development are entirely valid in an emerging post-gender world, but my own anima (inner feminine) development seems to have followed a series of stages culminating in the individuation of the feminine in myself via a trans non-binary femme identify.

Further, I could not project love any further outward beyond Sarah. Where she ended I began.

Another anecdote from the unsent book letter I wrote Sarah was about how much I felt like her after she left, like I was her. Drinking ginger tea. She gave me the first admirable model I had ever known of how to be an independent human. This is so painful to even write. But fuck. I would just drink ginger tea and listen to Norwegian Wood because it reminded me of her.

There is so much more from this last year alone, but suffice to say, I feel sexy in my bike shorts because Sarah was sexy in her’s. And I evoke her spirit constantly in my conscious mind in myriad little ways. And even then, I find it so easy to pine for her. I feel sick to my stomach now. The silence kills. Alexa play “To Zion” by Trevor Hall.

So, do I think Sarah is “cool”, no. I think she is amazing, but she is not cool at all. She’s too cool for me.

Gah, what do I even do with all this. I guess now I decide whether to save it as a draft or to press the little publish button.

I fear I have been too callous, and my expression of love and gratitude too tame, but Jung said perfection lie in the tension of opposites.

And I’ll have to love Sarah for the rest of my life. I don’t think I will ever not miss her or hate her for it.

It’s so fucked but what can I do. I spent this year alone. I went through it all on my own, and only I’ll ever know the dark days of not having a single friend in the world to talk to. There were eight months in the mountains when I didn’t even have a car. I went fucking through it.

So excuse me if I have lost the will to project love outside again, but I have gained the ability to feel it within, from myself, and that’s worth as many fuck yous as my inner child feels entitled to.

And I hope I never feel the need to write about Sarah again for many years. As the sheer amount of emotional energy I have expended on my love for her has been enough for a lifetime. The letter was never meant to be sent. But this Postscript was.

And I really hope it helps me move on. Because the truth is, Sarah doesn’t know me either.

Pps. Found this today looking for something else:

God these two were Legend.

Had a Dream About Her

The dream:

I was waiting for her to return home from a night out – and so was in the bedroom, where I fell asleep to awake the next morning, alone, where I called her to ask why she never returned… but she told me she never went out… that she never left our home.

Dreams about exes are jarring. And the above dream has a particular ‘haunted by her ghost’ quality to it, which really gets my goat….

It’s like, okay, I’ve already dealt with the reality of being totally fucking disowned and ignored / rejected by my former love and “best friend” (Let me wipe my ass with these cheap words) – oh, and I have been living alone in the mountains the past year.

Like, wtf, has my sub-conscious not gotten the fucking measage!!?? You’re fucking less than dead to her bro. Have been. She doesn’t give a shit about you bud. Take it to heart. Deeply.

I was left twisting in the wind by my own romantic idealization of her – got it – but do I have to have a fucking dream to remind me that the dream isn’t even nearly as fucking sad as the reality.

She slow ghosted me over months – while repeatedly giving me faith we could and would be friends. She even hung out with my sister right before my visit for the holidays, which ended with her not wanting to see me and myself checking into the hospital. The pain caused a lot of self-abuse, even after that.

But has my subconscious not gotten the message after all of this. Four months sober on top of it. Like, am I a fucking joke to myself, just living my life like a dream where I am waiting for her to return, to be gaslit by her when she tells me she never left.

No, she left a long time ago – long before I knew it. I was just willing to believe. But no longer. The goddamn plane has crashed into the mountain!

So dear subconscious, please get the memo. Hopefully that was the point of the dream.

Voice Memos: Your New Best Friend

The word ‘habit’ typically isn’t something I go gaga for, but when you integrate the right habits – from Latin habere, to have – into your life, you get the benefits of them. And sometimes in life we discover habits whose rewards are so enriching that it changes the game, leveling us up. Just as the wrong habits level us down.

I’ve recently begun a new habit that is so potent, so enriching, so rewarding and fulfilling, that I have to share it. Every single person I’ve mentioned it to seems to get it, and you’d think more people did this. And I think in the future more people will.

Frankly, we didn’t have the technology for it until rather recently. You carry the technology in your pocket or perhaps on your wrist, if you wear an iWatch. But if you’re like me, you never used your phone for this purpose before. Now that I have, it’s my favorite habit. Close to yoga. Invaluable.

If you’d like to try it, you only need the Voice Memos app, which comes bundled with your iPhone. If you’re an Android user, the Play store carries many free Voice Memo apps.

To try it yourself, open Voice Memos, press the red record button, and begin speaking – to yourself.

It might seem anticlimactic or appear mundane on the surface, to suggest you begin talking to yourself and recording it, but it’s far from purposeless. It is for me, the most purposeful thing I do. I’m over the moon for it.

It is, in short, Self Talk.

If you’re a regular or longtime reader of mine, you’ll recognize this term [self-talk] from my writings on the Navy Seals and self-talk, here, and here. Self-talk is no small thing. It’s the conversation we have with ourselves, in our heads, and the quality of our consciousness, our life, our happiness and wellbeing, depend on it – entirely. And the crazy thing is, most people live in their heads in a very passive, reactive relationship to themselves and their thoughts. You want to change your life? You want to get on track? You want growth? Start talking to yourself.

Now, before I did this, I would journal. But the problem with journaling is similar to the problem of typing: it’s very slow. We think faster than we can write. But we can typically speak at pace with our thoughts. Eventually, via something like Elon Musk’s Neuralink, we’ll be bionic cyborgs who don’t even need the phone. We’ll be able to google at the speed of thought and we’ll truly be connected to the internet. We will even be able to selectively communicate telepathically. But until then, we’re using two thumbs or a pen and it’s very slow. Voice Memos don’t have this problem. They allow us to think data and to dump it – and it becomes a conversation with our Self. And the more I do it, the more natural it becomes. It’s enjoyable. I get in the car and record hands-free voice memos while I’m driving alone. Basically it’s like having your best friend with you all the time. And they can always listen and they even speak back.

Now I understand some people might feel like it’s not normal to talk to yourself. And they’re right. It’s not normal. It’s extraordinary. Normal people are stuck in their heads. I know. I used to be one. My thoughts rising like a tide, me listening to them without ever really responding. Then getting so tired of my amygdala barking all day that I’d dump alcohol into myself to shut ‘er down. Yeah, that didn’t work for me.

In retrospect, I also notice that before I began this habit of self-talk via voice memos, I felt like I was missing that someone to listen to me (Dearest apologies to my ex-girlfriends and therapists and the blurred line between them). But now, I don’t feel that void. I don’t feel alone anymore. And both the quality of my consciousness and the capabilities of it have grown from using it actively in this fashion.

What do I talk about? Well, everything. Whatever I feel like. I just open voice memos and press record. It’s usually brief but sometimes it’s 20 mins or an hour. And I usually don’t listen to them, but sometimes I do – particularly if they were “inspired”. On that note, for anyone who uses plant medicines or entheogens, I can say that non-normal states of consciousness lend themselves to speech in this manner much more than journaling. The first time I ever did this was in-fact in a non-normal state of waking. And I knew after the first time that I had discovered something.

It’s a Yoga to me, a way, a path. And I’ll do it as long as I LIVE. I’m sorry, but it beats conventional thinking in the echo chamber of your head. Particularly for emotions, feelings, relationships, stresses, goals, anything of personal concern to you. It’s every single outer space movie ever where the person is alone and dialoging into a recording device…. “Day 735..”.

The night before I began this habit, I watched an old Twilight Zone episode about an astronaut stranded on a planet alone. He spoke aloud to himself almost the entire episode, usually into a recorder.

So perhaps that was the seed for the idea, but despite my living alone in the mountains, I had never done it before. As I said, I journaled. Now my main notebook is my daily to-do list, but my journaling has become entirely self-narrated into Voice Memos. But this wasn’t just a change in medium – it was a change in consciousness. From passive to active thinking. From being alone to having myself to face everything with – consciously.

Because that’s the big shift. From the unconscious – the sub-conscious – to the conscious. From thinking to doing: speaking. And by doing this, by speaking, by bringing our thoughts into being, we’re making the unconscious conscious.

As Jung says, “Until you make the unconscious conscious it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

In the words of Dr. Bruce Lipton, PhD:

“The subconscious mind is learned habits. The conscious mind is creative programming. When you are conscious you can rewrite the instincts, and when you become conscious, you can rewrite the experience of your life. So that it is important to recognize that what we are not using enough of is consciousness.”

And having this practice of self-dialogue, of self-talk available to me and having found so much fulfillment in it, I have experienced the benefits of a boost in consciousness quite rapidly. It calms me down. It turns off my sympathetic nervous system and it turns on the parasympathetic nervous system. I can feel it. It grounds me in myself, and it allows me to tap into that part of me, the highest, the authentic self, where I have the resources available to me to handle any given situation.

As an added benefit, I’ve also experienced an improvement in two huge areas of my life. 1. My self-image and self-esteem – and 2. My relationship to myself.

When I speak aloud to myself, I become an active participant in my thinking. When I hear myself say something limiting or beneath my authentic self, I catch myself and I correct it. The quality of my thinking has gone way up. I’m no longer a prisoner of my thoughts. I’m the steward of them. The keeper of myself. And it’s helped me get to know myself better, and I’ve learned that I can count on myself, that I’m there for myself and will always be. As Nathaniel Branden writes, “Self-esteem is our reputation with ourselves.” By engaging in high-quality, conscious conversations with myself, my reputation with myself has improved drastically. It’s created accountability within myself. As I said (to myself) on one of my audios tonight, “I can’t get rid of my self-image: it’s who I am, and I have to live up to it.”

With that improved reputation with myself, my self-image has risen to the level of the Self, of authentic. It matches who I am. The inner and the outer of me have been joined into a unified whole. I’m no longer caught in the struggle of inner-self versus outer-self. Of unconscious versus conscious. It’s very liberating.

Whenever we bring the unconscious into consciousness, it frees us from the grip of the shadow, the repressed self. This weakens the psychic energy by removing repression from my being. The outer me is very interested in how the inner me feels, and I’m no longer bottling up my feelings inside myself.

How many of us long for a therapist? How many of us don’t have the access to that we would like? Having some experience with therapy and being on this side of 34, I can say that the therapist has no magic. It’s the talking – the talking cure.

I’m writing to tell you it works. And you may feel eccentric doing it, but you are worth your conscious attention. This is like being able to re-parent your inner child. And you can certainly talk to the other parts of yourself. You could, theoretically engage in dialogue specifically with say, the ego, the inner-child, the shadow, the anima – any archetype within you.

Consciousness has long been described as being like a computer. The word computer comes from the Latin “putare”, which means both to think and to prune. This is what I do in my audio logs. I think and I prune – cutting away what is not beneficial for me by way of choosing better thoughts and improving the conversation in my head – down to the subconscious. This is the brain folks. It’s your computer. Your duty to yourself is to program your computer to optimize your health, wellbeing, and success. By listening to your own voice. By making the inner voice the outer voice.

As the Gnostic text The Gospel of Thomas tells us:

“When you make the two into one, and when you make the inner as the outer, and the upper as the lower, and when you make male and female into a single one, so that the male shall not be male, and the female shall not be female: . . . then you will enter [the kingdom].”

It might sound cryptic but it’s the ancient philosopher’s stone of “As above so below, as within so without.”

These are metaphors for integration, to achieve wholeness. To reclaim who we are. Children talk to themselves. Adults stop. And I find it sad. Especially knowing the value of it now. I wish I had started this ten years ago.

Not only has it given me a better relationship to myself and a healthier psyche, I also have much more access to myself; I can query myself like a database, asking myself important questions. I’m no longer living in the vacuum of mind.

It is interpersonal communication. Animals do it. Watch a gorilla documentary. They are vocal animals. Silence in nature means danger. The wikipedia for interpersonal communication gives an interesting theory for this:

Joseph Jordania suggested that talking to oneself can be used to avoid silence. According to him, the ancestors of humans, like many other social animals, used contact calls to maintain constant contact with the members of the group,and a signal of danger was communicated through becoming silent and freezing. Because of the human evolutionary history, prolonged silence is perceived as a sign of danger and triggers a feeling of uneasiness and fear. According to Jordania, talking to oneself is only one of the ways to fill in prolonged gaps of silence in humans. Other ways of filling in prolonged silence are humming, whistling, finger drumming, or having TV, radio or music on all the time.

And how many people do you know who always have the TV on? Or music? I have found silence to be much more profound now that I’ve broken the taboo on talking to myself. I no longer need the energy from external sources. I have riches and love within me. Here for me. From me.

Negative self-talk, negative thinking will ruin your life. The science backs it up:

Negative self-talk has been implicated in contributing to psychological disorders including depression, anxiety, and bulimia nervosa.

The truth is, you need yourself. That’s what this has given me. Full access to myself.

Read about the benefits of private speech. I find it telling that our communication with ourselves in the form of private speech “goes underground” when we begin school.

It’s sad that society holds a stereotype that people who talk to themselves are “crazy”. I think this adult notion prevents many people from doing what all children do.

It’s not crazy. It’s very sane, from Latin sanus, meaning healthy.

Don’t live your life like a closed book, an enigma, a mystery to yourself. You deserve your own company and your own conversation. It’s been life changing for me. Liberating. Empowering. Beautiful.

I hope this compels others who read this to start recording their own private voice memos, to start engaging in their own private discussions. I think it’s something we can all benefit from. And I didn’t know until I began to do it myself just how lacking my life was without it.

So make voice memos your new best friend and make you your new best friend.