tinyPterodactyl

I realized something important: For a long time now, I've been really focused on how to best deploy my gifts. Tied with this was an expectation - unspoken, maybe even disallowed at the conscious level - that, if I were appropriately doing this, the impact would be great.  That is, somehow I figured myself destined for great things, and somehow failing if I'm only attaining run-of-the-mill decent-human things. I've also held back from some things that I've wanted to explore because of this (the ADHD prolly doesn't help this).  Jessa Crispin's Tarot Tuesdays often provide fodder for my own reflection, and last night's was no exception. In talking about the First House, and responding specifically to my question (Neptune conjunct ascendant, both in Sag), she mentioned that Neptune in the first can make a person not really be able to see themselves; they'll possibly think that they're truly great, or the absolute worst. (No delusions of mediocrity, appar...

This pain that I'm feeling in my chest Isn't an indication of something that needs to be healed And instead of something that needs to break out...       ... to be accepted?       ... to be born?

In a fit of nostalgia, I went past-blog diving; in an abandoned Livejournal, I found a past-year wrapup that mentioned favorite movies watched that year. One of them that was mentioned, I have absolutely no  recall of ever watching. There's just a ... blank spot, not even marginal awareness of what the film might be about. Of course I'm about to look this up, but for the moment, I remain ignorant, and both bewildered and unsurprised that something I apparently found so impactful apparently evaporated in the neural ether. Things I listened to today: Maren Morris, Girl  and Hero  alike Ingrid Andress, Lady Like Luke Dick, Red Dog  first 2 songs ("Polyester" and "Blazer") - finally might get to watch the documentary tonight too! Things I keep re-reading:    Rachel Blau DuPlessis,  "Draft 72: Nanifesto" Today, what strikes me is: "Meditate air threads in angles of light. / Consider the mite, the mote, the mute."

Steven Universe provides a necessary model of revolutionary thought right now. It's love, but not in that passive or accepting or even unifying state - it is powerful and sometimes violent because it knows there is a better way, and it also shuns, if necessary. Not because shunning feels nice, but because sometimes you have to throw out that which makes the future you want possible. And sometimes that future may mean that there's an actual way back to re-incorporating that which has been excommunicated - but it's not a given, and it requires actual, painful, long-term work to learn to re-love. Things I read today:    George Saunders, "Ghoul" Amber Tamblyn, "The Undying Voice of Diane di Prima" Things I keep re-reading:    Rachel Blau DuPlessis, "Draft 72: Nanifesto" I keep coming back, this is a bit of a prayer. Each line has at least some kernel to ponder or muse upon. Today, what strikes me is: "Do not fail sadness."  Things I liste...

There is a person in my department who cares not one whit whether anyone else thinks he's nice. This isn't deployed as an excuse to behave assholeishly - rather, it seems like an effort of economization, one where likeability lost out to whatever other three hundred things are more important. I know his partner rather better, and she's a delightful person, so I'm betting that he's got some specifically likeable qualities (I suppose that's a rather generous conjecture - again anecdotally, I know loads of lovely people with awful taste in partners, so... grain of salt, applied!) that don't come across in his quotidian interactions. If there is indeed something different about general likeability versus specific likeability... I think I probably waste too much time on behaviors designed to perpetuate an impression of niceness. I hope that I'm likeable in specific ways, or at least that those people who matter to me also find my continued presence in their...

I've kept many diaries; some of them were gorgeously wrapped things, all of them were purchased or procured in a near-fevered fashion, for I was certain that having the right tool would naturally lead to getting the right words down. The impulse was there, always. But it was clouded, because any words I wrote down were always with some unknown reader in mind, some fantasy other who marveled at my wit, or creativity, or candor. None of these books were filled, to my memory. Quarter-filled notebooks full of overmediated yuck. I remember a self who used to love to write, but I can't actually seem to access that self - so I wonder if that was a bit of a fiction, too. Or perhaps the retelling has muddied things. Anyway. I'm going to try to write to write, not write to be read. I mean, the ultimate goal is to be read, of course, but I think I need to practice the messaging-as-such. The writerly is one of the ways that I need to connect, so feeling so very disconnected from th...

... of that fake German that sits as the subtitle for this whatever-this-is, I've been working on divestment. On lightening up. (I have to remind myself to do things like this fairly often; it's apparently my lifelong lesson, which means I have to learn it over and over again. Or practice the realizations that I had at some point prior.) So, this means looking at many different aspects of my life and asking simple/hard questions. What have I been saving that has outlived any potential for its use? What have I been holding on to "just in case..."?  Do I have expectations (of myself, of life, of whatever) that I have outgrown? That are holding me back? That are no longer relevant? What habits need to be broken? Begun?  Where do I waste? Where could I save? Where should I expend or give more? This process is physical and psychical in perhaps equal measure. I've thus far been bravest in the realm of stuff - much has been donated, some has been tossed, so...