Every so often I enter a period of spiritual-emotional hibernation. It interestingly coincides with a woman’s period, as James noted, which begs all sorts of personal questions.
I do not perceive myself as a feminine entity, nor drawn to masculinity in an erotic or receptive sense. Though, conversely, I do not see myself as a mighty mover, as the vessel of powerful outwards-directed intensity. I see myself as far too young to be guiding myself, not only in age, but in ability; there is thus a lack of confidence, which leads me to searching for guidance myself, which, despite my nature, places me into a receptive space. Right now I’m listening to Opeth’s “Blackwater Park” (the song, not the album) at a high volume. The reason I have to do this is to focus on writing, to control myself, to focus my attention, my senses, at the task at hand; the outside world goes dark and all that exists is my mind, my hands and this intense rhythm which allows me to hone-in on exploring the machinations of my mind unperturbed and consistently. I cannot of course capture this process through words, but the concept is there: the requiring of this external force to subdue my wandering mind. It’s a form of meditation, though the stimuli comes not from an inner source but an outer. In rare moments I can capture an inner serenity, but even then it requires the right external space — a forest, or field, or quiet hamlet in the countryside, for example. There has to be a clean white slate, or, conversely — as it is now with this flurry of sound — the slate must be so unclean as to be totally black, eliminating differentiation from this point or that.
There, as has been mentioned, come points in time where the slate is consistently grey every few weeks or so. One theory is that this coincides with my mother’s period, hence my emotional withdrawal from not only external efforts such as work but also social efforts such as communicating with people. Right now I’ve just exited this grey period, and the slate is mostly white, though specks remain just now — but over time these specks will build-up again in their mass and I’ll descend into another grey period where I have to keep the slate still as to let them be washed away with the wind. There, again, is no internal force which cleans the slate, however — and this I could attribute to never being taught how to do such a thing by a father-figure. I resist advances by the elder of my friends for him to play this role to a degree because it would totally change the relationship between us, and also is the fact that there is the total lack of physicality to the scenario, something inhibiting the organic nature of the process which is required. To have such a thing, such a teaching, filtered through a standardising lens such as the internet, would be improper.
This whole fatherlessness thing is much cause for upset and confusion — or maybe it’s become a scapegoat? I wonder that sometimes I just attribute every failing of myself to this externality — and for what? A strawman is thus created which would render a genuine father-figure — the antithesis of this construct — invisible, as I lack the vocabulary with which to detect such a force. I mistake guidance with the sexual, power with the attractive, and so on in a whirlwind of confused nonsense which makes me absolutely enraged to admit the existence of it. I want to be totally honest, but if honesty brings forth not God but darkness, I shy away from the light even if its heat has to burn away something corrupt. I hide from it and go again to lurk beneath the willow and sulk to myself at this evil — and all the while the specks on the slate increase in their number. What a terrible affair.
The image of the mirror is also present, both from my head to toes in the middle of my body, reflecting each side and their deformities, and also infront of me with a boy — not a man — staring back. He is slender and blonde as I once was, not broken as I am, pixie-like and welcoming; this Antinous is not me, yet he exists as a culmination of something. I fret to wonder what, but I approach him with broken language anyways as I stumble into the dark and onto the floor. “What madness is this?” I think to myself, but I remain silent. There is no sense, only the grey stone of the floor, cold to my naked back.
What I’m currently listening to:
The song now is “In My Time of Need”; a song which reminds me of adolescence. Good grief. Again. The strings in the background of choruses sing of fields and open skies. Today has been rather cloudy, though the clouds have been white. I watch them through the window float eastwards through the sea of the firmament. This one disappears out of sight and another takes its place.