Thursday, September 6, 2007


There is some sort of incompleteness in every struggle for everything we want. Completeness is only possible when it is reversible…when one is inside out.

The wind blowing is the most acute act of freedom. One is never the same after having been blown by the wind.

Nurturing writing, the one that comes from the very guts, is breathing just like the first breath you took when your umbilical chord was slashed out of your fragile body. A mixture of overwhelming joy for being free at last…the fear of not knowing exactly how breathing in and out works, yet - even though gasping – the ever growing reassurance that if you just go on and struggle, air will always and hopefully be there for you. The air we breathe is the perfect and irreplaceable stepmother – it can never replace the concreteness of the womb. Still, it is as nurturing as it can be.

Truly surrender to true Love. Crucial experience, when you are bold enough to volunteer with your soul. There are no rewards if you consider the ones expected for normal romantic achievement – which in fact is an illusion ask Isold or Eloise – just a particular angelic kind of joy. Only half-Amazon women, without breasts, can endure. When you go further than unconditional love, there is inexplicable healing and deep love, the kind of love that grows from fountains of crystal waters.

Let me restore in weakness what has been granted for me in moments where the only task is surviving. I ask this because no one is strong under the big lenses of humankind’s microscope. This is when the body, mind and soul align in the most delicate frailty. What a consecration of the survival self it is to be in a state of ultimate survival. The longing for someone to rescue you from the greatest shame I need to survive. Why is it so embarrassing to be breastfed by the unknown?

Writing about what I believe others expect me to write has almost killed my words. As soon as I allowed them to flow freely, I found surrogate peace.


My mentors, fairies and guides are celebrating the rebirth of my fingers. I never knew they would grow back like the tails of lizards, very mysteriously, do. I learned that although my hands and fingers were cut uncountable times before, I did not know how to live with them grown anymore. I had very sadly gotten used to having my limbs taken. So for ages and ages, I repeatedly and painlessly did the job of cutting them out myself. Just to avoid the hassle of having a stranger break into my house to have the job done, the screams and the Oh please no not again, the blood… The procedure was meticulously quick. That cold-blooded self-mutilation came to an end when I realized I felt no more pain in the acts…The mechanization of the self-imposed act ceased, at last. Miracles are for those who are not afraid.

Now there is beauty because my hands can see.

Let there be light, always. But let here be shadows, from time to time, so that light can make sense.

What is the purpose of self-protection when it only prevents life from happening?
(Blue Crystal Eagle)

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