the enchantment of the amazon vagabon. | March 30, 2012

Her life story and her stature were much the same in that perspective was an illusion. Her long limbs seemed proportional at a distance once upon a time, like a mountain to its range. She appeared to have a proportional story; predictable, like her long boring brown hair and brown eyes.

In phantasmal reality though, there was a before and after, she was mostly only there during. During this time, her name was star and she had a way of disappearing and transforming if one would focus on her.

Five years and some change prior, she had birthed a whole new universe from her life of gaseous hot air. During this time, this particular during, she was on a path to offer this new universe “Grandfather Space. (The mind is his wife.)”

She set off with a wizard cloaked in black from a cottage full of elves, fairies, a lion, and a gaggle of sirens. The voyage moved out of the winter in the big rock candy mountains to the rainforest in the east in a train car shaped like a truck named Thomas. In two days they arrived in a small community named Woodfinx. The community welcomed them with a feast of raccoon stew and bear meat loaf. Star was dazzled by a wolf woman processing hide silently. The wolf worked endlessly, wringing and turning the skin of the goat, her own skin strong like crushed powder, strong like and unfolding long awaited love letter. She had a jaw line hard as a river rock. Star melted into the wolf woman’s silence and coagulated on her contradictions.

The wolf never noticed the star.

Star was on a pulse of invisibility in her exhaustion. She dazed between the fire and the wolf thinking, “It is good to know exhaustion, to push the body and soul beyond veils of perceived limits and acknowledge the extreme capability. It is good to stare into the voids. It is good to travel the same roads as different people in different phases of life.”

But before the wolf had a chance to pay respects to the star a new sun rose into a new experience with a techno, contra dancing nymph. The nymph led the star and the magician to the highest mountain with the cleanest water. In exchange the star manifested and image of a carrot and the magician engraved the image on the nymphs rib releasing caged trauma through morris code.

The pace of time accelerated exponentially.

Shrodrach, the magician, serenaded beast after beast transforming them into gold. Star witnessed dear friends morph together into a well-dressed, single headed monster purging toxicity in shakes and spasms. The watering hole was poisoned. It produced homogenized cultural hydras. Where the star expected, anticipated and longed for nostalgia, she found flickers of her friend’s spirits deep inside the fortress persona they had built around themselves for success and safety, they greased their squeaking with sedation and stimulation potions concocted by the deviant kings. Star spent days outside their castles screaming for Rapunzel to let down her hair! Anxiety like resume beefers, her friends instead ripped their hair out staring blindly. There are times when people miss the ones they love when they are standing right beside them.

Perhaps prompted or encouraged, perhaps selfish, Shrodrach and Star fled Columbia’s duress. The south appeared triumphant over the spirit of it’s gems. The road warriors could counter no counter attack and they were grimly aware that even if they could, it would be against their own friend’s castles.

They retreated to the mountain and were driven by two kin folk who proudly self proclaimed “jesus freaks”. A messiah foreign to our protagonist’s enchanted splice of space-time. Foreign… but unavoidably present and beat so deeply into the Southern Confederate’s carcass of a horse that its ghost haunts families, “moral fibers”, subconscious academic analysts and newspapers to this day. It’s dried bones rattle, it’s chimes neigh say instinctual creativity. They made it to mountain gardens by the centimeter deep hair on their teeth, shaking the evangelicals from the toes of their spirits.

The mountainside of the property was blooming medicine harvested for 40 years by the Alchemist Joe Hollis(That’s correct, I capitalized Alchemist but not jesus… you get the jist, I presume.) Joe lived with a changing cast of snails. Snails that thought out each movement and left behind infrastructure like the ooze trailing from their behinds. The snails farmed. With floppy hats and dirty clothes, the snails lived in hand made huts ranging from yurts to cob houses to gazebos, like clockwise occult conch shells. The snails emerged slowly revealing their affection and wisdom spiraling like socially awkward rip tides, a chorus from the same shell they hide in. The hard labor worked on every tenant like emergency admittance to a psych ward, but unlike most interventions the land was the opposite of a bird cage. The key was always available in the form of blistered hands and dirty finger nails. By the creek of enchanted waterfalls, Star reflected on her speed of light and reclaimed her audacity to be free, a daily task. She by-passed books on becoming a healer to, instead, gain experience from metaphor whores like Phillip Dick, Pinkola Estes and Shell Silverstein. They learned to catch wild yeast like fire flies in a frying pan. Grandfather Space copulated with his wife birthing lessons on parenting, inter generational growth.

“Underneath it all is the same hunger for numinous experience that humans have had since the beginning of time. But some of the hunger is exasperated, for many people have lost their ancestors. They often do not know those beyond their grandparents. They have lost in particular the family stories. Spiritually, this situation causes sorrow… and hunger. So many are trying to recreate something important for soul sake.”

So Star writes stories… more to come.



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1 Comment »

  1. Dear Lesley,
    I was wrong. So wrong in how I treated you. This is hardly an excuse, but I didn’t really read the stream that was going along with your Mind Zone post. I just read a tidbit, and something lit inside of me. I knew I wanted to respond to your blog post about your visit south because what you wrote had truth and insight, but it was also offensive in its assumptions. It was like you were pointing a gigantic finger only to say: you all are invalid, unworthy, a disappointment. And I’m not saying you’re wrong, but it as if the spectacular connection you have spiritually places you on a pulpit proclaiming commandments, asserting judgments, assigning responsibility because you’ve stared into the void long enough to know better than anyone else. I completely acknowledge this was probably not your intention. Yet intention has little to do with perception. (I’m not the only person you tagged who got upset).
    I know this goes farther back than that. Probably farther than either of us wants to go, but I take blame for the way I treated/acted/hosted you and Kevin. I was a complete dick utterly absorbed in my own suffering. Suffering brought on by me. I should have gone to Savannah, and I’m sorry but when you wrote “is this your way of telling me shit didn’t go well with Scott” I felt nothing but coldness from you. An irrational callousness all my own resented you for it, and made me angry enough to say never mind. I apologize for not responding to your texts and leaving you stranded with no place to stay. All I can say is I was worried I didn’t have Adam’s permission or consent. Poor reasoning, I know. But at the same time, there is only so much one can reasonably assume in expectation. I mean one may reason they deserve more than what is being received. It was bad timing. I have a substance problem. I feel high anxiety regularly, and the dynamic made it escalate to an intensity only retreating into isolation could bade off.
    Your advice/experience/knowledge/love/insight/laughter/I could go on is extremely valuable, and I appreciate—far more than you most currently believe—what you have taught me. I will never ever forget Five-Minute-Life-Story. It is more than a game to me; it is philosophical/spiritual/relational dynamite connecting me to the preciousness people have to offer. It’s framed one of my best stories. Yet the game also reveals the complexities within social interaction. It is easy to assume that everyone going to college becomes just another cog in the assembly line of homogenized gold-grubbing, soulless individuals; lost without purpose. But it is just as easy to assume pseudo-marginalized deconstructionists are on an assembly line just the same, homogenizing dissent and rejecting conformity like evangelicals reject a devil that was never really there. That’s the thing (and I still may not be expressing myself properly—I may never be able to), a life story has more complexity and depth than at least my little mind can take. There is no standard, perfect, achievable form that has the utopian power we all reach for one way or another. Some take the paved road, others the rocky trail; and both paths have incentives those with compassion can accept despite differences unfairly attributed to group membership; embellished by both dominant and dominant-fringes drawing black and white lines in our secularized morality. And anyway, paths inevitably intersect. Basically every side believes they’re right in their perceptions. You know this. So it is unfair that your glimpse of my current state gives you enough evidence to call my stares blind. And what fortress are you talking about? There is no assurance that time spent in academia will “pay” off, but it does create an environment of explosive intellectual profit. And possibly intellectual is a dirty word reserved for pompous fucks. Who knows? But it was this fortress that brought us together. It was the idealization (sorry if I’m overstepping) of this security that brought Jordan into the world. The desire to be secure is not something to ridicule or condescend. Although it is the fortress you think I’ve trapped myself in that has brought the sobering realization that security is an illusion; we are never safe. Tomorrow everything could fall to pieces. The world may explode. But more than likely it will just be parts that fall to pieces, making people believe the world is exploding when really it is only their own conceptions and beliefs which are crumbling. And that is something we all will have to face. One day I will die. We all will fucking die. Maybe it’s my immaturity or stubbornness, but I don’t want to die. Or rather I’m stuck, like you said. Except my mantra is not the shallow perception most people see when one fears the inevitable. Rather it would be more along the lines of “I don’t wanna live, but I sure don’t want to die. I’m stuttering again”. And yes, staring into the void can be good in soothing this fear, but if all I did was stare I would be paralyzed with doubt. Maybe you’re different. Maybe you really have stared longer and harder. But I need something concrete. I need solidity—not too much, but enough to balance my conflicting ideologies.
    I admire you for the courage you have to pursue what you feel deep inside the marrow of your bones. The core of your heart is good. And even if you don’t know what you’re looking for, at least you try in a way most cower in front of because they are afraid of failure, abandonment, losing bonds, the unfamiliar. Though this does not make you an idol for bravery as I’m sure you’re aware. Plenty of people are clueless, living in complete complacency (and in a way that is something to envy) whose heroes are traditional as tradition. Patriarchal bull-shit trains us well in recognizing stereotypes as success. Then there are those people (like me) who know there is something I’m meant to pursue, (a desperate desire to know purpose) but haven’t found it yet. The search isn’t just when I meditate or dream or travel or write, it is all the time every time. I wake up wondering “what the fuck are you doing? Who cares? Why care? Is there a God? Am I living how I should? Should there be a way to live? Are my desires something worth pursuing? Will this fleeting life ever fucking start?”
    I’m allowed to be confused, Lesley. I am allowed to be mean. I am allowed to love how I want. I am allowed to realize there are things to be respected even if it doesn’t fit a mold of progress, healing, faith. I am allowed to criticize. I am allowed to disagree. I’m allowed to be human. A dirty animal losing the grip suspending me in the realist fantasy everyone else seems so insistent on defining, understanding through tinted glasses; distorting truth beyond recognition even by those most familiar with the images of a fleeting life.
    I love you, Lesley. What I did and said to you was bubbling up within the dark parts of me. I neglected you instead of cherishing you. I can’t apologize enough. You have always been a friend. A friendship of clarity and spontaneity has shown me how beautiful ugly can be. I mean to be honest, the generation I come from has been primed to reject authoritative figures, but it’s you who jumpstarted the questioning of authority. Blind rejection without asking/understanding why can be dangerous. Life is more than what I’ve been living, you remind me of that every day. The shakes and spasms of toxic water are invaluable in growing into a decent person. A decent person who may find their purpose in books and lectures; a decent person who finds purpose on the road and in tea houses through one hard lesson after another.
    I don’t know if you can forgive me. But if all you have for me is hate and contempt I accept it. I deserve losing you for how I acted. The toxicity dripping from my mouth may have poisoned any chance of reconciliation. If this is the case, then please don’t start a name-calling game. Your silence will suffice. I tried my best in this letter not to offend you, just express myself. I have no intention of sending you anything hurtful (this included). And if you need to do the same I welcome it no matter if you reach for the hand of friendship I pulled from you that I am now re-extending or not. You’ve always been a friend, a friend I can never replace. With love I’m lucky to have.
    I hope the road you’re on today takes you somewhere more magical than ever before.

    Comment by gadburya — April 11, 2012 @ 3:05 am

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