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Storm Trekker August 30, 2011

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Uncategorized.
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Ay-ay-ay… Starting with Mercury going direct and a little strange eruption of anger regarding the student loan appley-crapple-crap (can we say “Projection?”, dracula baby?), and going through a rather slow and steady descent into financial insecurity and dismal prognostications that were no way real, with a soupcon on difficult feelings relative to events of the past 14 months and a deep pang of loneliness that overtook me in an unguarded moment driving on Route 32 to volunteer help in groundskeeping up in Saratoga, I found myself in a rather desolate and despairing space during Hurricane Peace. (Peace in Greek is Irene, don’tchaknow.)

I feel raw from it all, having realized yesterday afternoon that very little of what I was feeling was mine. Still, I am sad I missed the opportunity to seed an exceptionally powerful new moon, which sits opposite my own Sun-Mars conjunction. I will have to go back and retroactively do a rite therefor.

There’s lots of power about right now, and it belongs to all of us. And the best part? TPTB can’t possibly touch a lot of it, because it comes from love.


Writing and Gifts August 4, 2011

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Uncategorized.
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Some days I wake up and start my day, and then an idea comes into my head and I need to pursue it.  This is one of those days.  Over the past few months, I’ve become more and more solid in my un derstanding of the AA Twelfth Step:  “Having had a spiritual awakening, we tried to carry the message to others and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”  And I had a searing understanding of gratitude emerge in a different way today.

Currently, I am reading Sacred Economics by Charles Eisenstein, and he observed that in indigenous tribes, gratitude and obligation are the same thing.   He also pointed out that our very lives are a gift, and when we show up to the gifts we have to offer and give them with gratitude, we are involved in the fabric of life in a fulfilling way.  I have gratitude for my writing, and I am eager to give it as a gift to the world.

That being said, I see that I have a distribution problem.  I don’t know how to get my gifts to people who could use them, and it’s difficult because I really do have to rely on others to transmit them, unless I convert all of what I’ve written in play form to narrative.  That is not an easy thing to do, and some ideas are only going to be expressed in the form of a play or a screenplay.  They won’t be as satisfying if I convert them to novels and stories.

Still, I see that I am writing, and I am introducing a different concept into my life, that of having the courage to rest, and I see that by doing so I have more energy for the remainder of my day.  If I get the appropriate amount of rest and meditation and spiritual practice, the quality of my energy toward the remainder of my tasks is prodigious indeed.

Over the past few years, I have felt pain about that aspect of my writing which is about recognition.  I have long understood that recognition and fame are basically mood-altering experiences that trigger me.  I want more of that great feeling, just like it’s sugar or what I imagine heroin must feel like.  A day at a time I stay away from all Evil White Powders, as well as John Barleycorn and other various addictions as I go along.  (I’m now almost 3 weeks clean of sugarfree gum, which unfortunately I can go to town on!)  It has become dangerous for me to go into bookstores and look at the Drama section because my envy gets triggered.

In the 4th Step of the 12/12, it talks about worry, anger, depression and self-pity (WADSP) as being cause to do an inventory, and I feel envy is a WADSP cocktail.  I don’t need a huge exposure to it–all it takes is a mere second and I’m off to the races.  It takes some time before I can rein in my crazy-ass head about it.

I see that part of the issue for me lies in the faulty conception of self that is slowly leaving me.  It certainly as left me where some of my compulsions are concerned, and now I must turn my attention to the desire for fame in writing.  I must remember I write to be of service, that it is the Work of This God.  When I’m in the flow of the work, I’m not thinking of awards and acclaim, I’m immersed in the world of the characters and the actions they undertake.  I’m doing the Work because I’m called to it, and because it’s fun, and it’s up to my Godself and my Fetch and my Talker in allignment, and a crisp and sharp Iron Pentacle working in combination with the triple soul, that will summon those for whom the writing is a balm.

If I write the healing work, those most receptive to the call will hear it.  That is part of the sacred contract I set up before I was born.

The self that was–separate, distinct, egomaniacal–is dying into the self that is becoming, which is distributed and connected to others and because of that, is in right-sized pride some of the time.  When the pride point dips into shame or rises into arrogance, then some shifting around needs to take place to bring that bubble back into the acceptable level.  The soul lives outside of myself, I must remember.  There is both individual and collective here, and it works in some mysterious ways.

I’ve been aware that I need to take care of some things in the past.  I have a couple of amends I really need to make, and interestingly one of those amends is to someone in Boston, who I need to visit, and while I’m there, I also need to visit Harvard since it’s been appearing majestically in my dreams of late.

I had a dream that I was in the doctoral program in playwriting at Harvard, and that I was searching out a place to write at Samhain.  There were all these people dressed up in Halloween costumes and they were headed to various parties, and much of the interior locations of the dream were decked out in orange and black, lots of spider and jack-o-lantern motifs.  (One room was decked out in mylar, however, and made me wonder who the Pisces was that put that one together.)

I found myself in this comfortable room.  I could see the brilliant October afternoon sun blazing and the trees with their autumnal leaves, and then I heard someone playing a CD of classical brass music (Purcell or Handel or Bach).  Said “this is the place,” and found a wingback chair.  Then the real world intruded with a phone call.

I know I’m in the right place with all of this, though it’s quite contingent and to my ego feels precarious.  Still, isn’t that true of most people these days?  I sense that more and more people are waking up to the gifts of desperation that are everywhere abundant.  Perhaps we will start to act upon this new sense of self that Mr. Eisenstein has suggested is as much impelling us to return to gift-economy ways as anything else.

I’m eager to discover just how this will work where playwrights and theater is concerned.  How can P2P playwriting work?  Ideas?