shit just got real

 

it's another hell day.

 

The war dogs.

The war had come, it's devastation now written in blood, a scene squalid with all that had been torn into. She felt her side again, the blood, warm on her hands, breath limited, as she fought to stay quiet. She could not move, and yet the pain soared anyway, like a puncture that had gone all the way in. She knew it was bad, something had  now shredded,and was silently opening; quickly filling and becoming a mass of matted and coagulating tissue inside. It would not be long now she thought, as She pushed her self into the wall, checking for sound, wedging into the relative cover of the corner; straining for any movement, or hint of the marauders return.. All around on the outside, the night dogs growled rooting through the out posts of the settlement sending fiery sounds of terror into the night. Each howl a terror, that sank and rose with blood. They were already in, and her smell would be unstoppable. Soon they would scent her.and lock in on the trails of blood.  She tried to think of Ewan, gone now, how brave he had been. By tomorrow, save a rag, or cloth, or fragment of bone; she knew there would be nothing left. The mass of his body, by now, already torn up and carried away to be prepared for the mounds. This was how the wardogs violated. Even now she found it hard to believe that they had ever been human. They were fools, to have ever come this far, she knew that now. To think that they, a small party of five, could ever have stood against this kind of savagery. A flimsy light from the citadel against this incontrovertible dark.?.. The war dogs were horror it's self, beyond civilising. But like fools they had come with their ideas of noble conquests to the darker regions- adepts with salvation in their throats. Bringers of the gospel of the mother, to men, who lived in the rotting belly of heathen souls. And now here she was, bleeding through a wound she could not survive. No, they should never have come. The mission had been fool hardy. The Committee of the nine should have known. She tried to move, but the pain was rising, shifting on a body of its own; and with it came the slow creep of weakness, which she knew would soon turn into shock. She leaned back, against the wall, the heavy of the gun with it's last shot, a hanging  weight in her hand. “ one bullet” she thought . One bullet to take her life. The other option she couldn't even dare think about, entombed in a war dog burial mound - the endless half death that came with  half life. No, the tclosing of her light  would be the lesser sacrilege. But she needed these last moments, these fading thoughts, these memories, this last Remembrance of the rites. There had to be a transfer, if there was to be  even any chance, however small, that some detail, of the lineage would survive. Even now she could feel her heart starting to fail, erratically pushing the thinning, dying blood, through smaller and smaller passages, away from life. Instinctively She fought it. willing her self to stay above the tide. But damn she felt so weak,  even as the scuttling,sniffing heavy animal noises, told her with repugnant horror that the terror had moved beyond the secondary wall, and was now inside. In moments, the unvocalised savagery would find her, separating her etheric from the last of it's draining life. She could not risk it, not even for a moment, not even for Elycion.If they took her with the portal stll open,? she shuddered  with the cold.Looking into the void around her, she knew She had to time it right. And so with her finger poised on the curve of the trigger, even as the power of the darkness seemed to deepen and open in it's rush towards her; with the last of her strength  and a prayer to the mother to forgive her; she closed her eyes and  put the gun in her mouth. MB

Heart sore, portal hurtings.

 The take down was smooth, like a missed and easy line; or embers that burn and drift in a slippage of soul. The dark coverngs of face and shine; where each foot shuffles and feeds it's own with long regret. Places, where she dreamed and left, hostages of crime. Un-soothing sores that fight their own and then leave the heart to die MB

22.02.22 Marin, dog walk fuckup.

 The Oracle’s message: The appearance of this card is a reminder that although it may appear that you’ve gone backward, the truth is that you are standing at a higher level, looking down into your circumstances. You will learn something, do something better, and break a cycle set up in the past. You actually have a bird’s-eye view of your initial footprints and can access the wisdom and lessons learned.

Relationship message: Are you wondering, How did I get here again? Does something feel familiar right now in your dynamics with others? Maybe a little too familiar? Don’t be surprised that you’ve found yourself repeating an old story with the same sort of person, who may not look similar but who attracted you because of your easy acquaintance with his or her qualities. Your relationship is a mix of what is good and what is potentially challenging. You have been drawn to this person through the perfection of Spirit’s plan for your evolution. You may have circled back to an accustomed spot—a familiar place— but that’s fine, as you get to do things again, only differently this time, for you learned something of great value since the last time around. How will you choose to behave now that you’re aware? Remain curious and stay out of the blame game.

Last day of the portal/ country walks with dogs/ playing hide and seek with Doyin

 I don’t remember most of Autumn, because I lost my mind late in the summer and for a long time after that, I wasn’t in my body. I was a lightbulb buzzing somewhere far.

After the doctor told me I was dying, and after the man I married said he didn’t love me anymore, I chased a miracle in California and sixteen weeks later, I got it. The cancer was gone. But when my brain caught up with it all, something broke. I later found out that all the tragedy at once had caused a physical head trauma, and my brain was sending false signals of excruciating pain and panic.

I spent three months propped against the wall. On nights that I could not sleep, I laid in the tub like an insect, staring at my reflection in the shower knob. I vomited until I was hollow. I rolled up under my robe on the tile. The bathroom floor became my place to hide, where I could scream and be ugly; where I could sob and spit and eventually doze off, happy to be asleep, even with my head on the toilet.

I have had cancer three times now, and I have barely passed thirty. There are times when I wonder what I must have done to deserve such a story. I fear sometimes that when I die and meet with God, that He will say I disappointed Him, or offended Him, or failed Him. Maybe He’ll say I just never learned the lesson, or that I wasn’t grateful enough. But one thing I know for sure is this: He can never say that He did not know me. 

I am God’s downstairs neighbor, banging on the ceiling with a broomstick. I show up at His door every day. Sometimes with songs, sometimes with curses. Sometimes apologies, gifts, questions, demands. Sometimes I use my key under the mat to let myself in. Other times, I sulk outside until He opens the door to me Himself. 

I have called Him a cheat and a liar, and I meant it. I have told Him I wanted to die, and I meant it. Tears have become the only prayer I know. Prayers roll over my nostrils and drip down my forearms. They fall to the ground as I reach for Him. These are the prayers I repeat night and day; sunrise, sunset.

Call me bitter if you want to—that’s fair. Count me among the angry, the cynical, the offended, the hardened. But count me also among the friends of God. For I have seen Him in rare form. I have felt His exhale, laid in His shadow, squinted to read the message He wrote for me in the grout: “I’m sad too.” 

If an explanation would help, He would write me one—I know it. But maybe an explanation would only start an argument between us—and I don’t want to argue with God. I want to lay in a hammock with Him and trace the veins in His arms.

I remind myself that I’m praying to the God who let the Israelites stay lost for decades. They begged to arrive in the Promised Land, but instead He let them wander, answering prayers they didn’t pray. For forty years, their shoes didn’t wear out. Fire lit their path each night. Every morning, He sent them mercy-bread from heaven. 

I look hard for the answers to the prayers that I didn’t pray. I look for the mercy-bread that He promised to bake fresh for me each morning. The Israelites called it manna, which means “what is it?” 

That’s the same question I’m asking—again, and again. There’s mercy here somewhere—but what is it? What is it? What is it?

I see mercy in the dusty sunlight that outlines the trees, in my mother’s crooked hands, in the blanket my friend left for me, in the harmony of the wind chimes. It’s not the mercy that I asked for, but it is mercy nonetheless. And I learn a new prayer: thank you. It’s a prayer I don’t mean yet, but will repeat until I do.

Call me cursed, call me lost, call me scorned. But that’s not all. Call me chosen, blessed, sought-after. Call me the one who God whispers his secrets to. I am the one whose belly is filled with loaves of mercy that were hidden for me.

Even on days when I’m not so sick, sometimes I go lay on the mat in the afternoon light to listen for Him. I know it sounds crazy, and I can’t really explain it, but God is in there—even now. I have heard it said that some people can’t see God because they won’t look low enough, and it’s true.

If you can’t see him, look lower. God is on the bathroom floor.

https://www.nightbirde.co/blog/2021/9/27/god-is-on-the-bathroom-floor?fbclid=IwAR2pTEZcvJElE-7t9J0gCLDqYmmjloHgS_7_6cXVPTMhu3sKU6Mz0tspXxc

 

Portals lost

 

Kent negative pickup

 

Go, sister, burn, sister! Only way they'll learn, sister!🎵

" Daughter of Fortis and Ceto , being the most famous and terrible Gorgon , Medusa , she was one of the most feared figures in classical mythology . The hissing snakes in her hair, the sharp boar teeth, her roars and her blood-soaked gaze that turned anyone who looked at her to stone, made this woman one of the most terrible and famous mortal personalities. mythological .But the story that lies behind its furious aesthetic hides behind it a plot that is broadly related to a large part of the current events that concern society . Because the truth is that this horrible appearance of Medusa has its origin in the punishment that Athena , daughter of Zeus , gave her for having been sexually abused by Poseidon , the god of the sea. Blamed for his own rape of her and turned into a horrifying being, Medusa also ends up being decapitated by Perseus while she sleeps.A fantasy story whose significance could explain part of current thinking. Blaming the victim continues to be one of the great claims that the ' Me Too ' movement, which began against Harvey Weinstein and expanded globally to denounce sexual assault and harassment , seeks to change by demanding voice and belief people who have suffered any signs of abuse.Now, years after this movement came to light, a sculpture has been unveiled in New York 's Collect Pond Park to honor this movement. The statue is about the figure of ' Medusa with the head of Perseus' , by the Italian-Argentine artist Luciano Garbati . Not without criticism for its male authorship and for holding the head of the murderer Perseus instead of that of Poseidon , the statue, according to its author, tries to be a symbol of emotional catharsis in which many women have found identity Garbati has been inspired for her creation by a bronze figure dating from the 16th century by Benvenuto Cellini through which , in addition to the injustice of the punishment meted out to Medusa , she has also sought to express in her figure the number of female mythological personalities that They were turned into monsters.

https://www.harpersbazaar.com/es/cultura/ocio/a34402326/medusa-estatua-me-too-nueva-york/

It's bad/getting read by the universe.

 

Accidental valentines

 Love is not a relationship with someone.

Love is a field of energy.

A self-generating force.

A relationship with everything.

Living in the field of love.

Loving but not trying to get anything in return.

Loving —just for the sake of love.

Loving —just for the experience of love.

In love with everything.

Innocently Venusian.

And an abundance of love naturally returns unto her.

—India Ame‘ye, Author

*artwork by Em Niwa

Hating God again. Crawling on the floor/Reality breaks. #showupformeorshipout

 

Fighting the speakers. Day II

 

The hard neighbourhood choices. Juan strikes again.

 

Abstract art magnet coinkydink

 We're in an infinite game, playing a finite moment.

As eternal souls, we exist in singularity with the universe.

When you’re in singularity, temporal relationships do not exist. Everything is connected, everything is infinite, nothing is destroyed. Everything is cycling. Everything is yin and yang, everything is light and dark, everything is always balanced.

So why would our species pick this dark human experience that has forgotten its connection to everything?

I believe we’ve signed up for this journey so we could sit in the sunshine with our feet outstretched while watching the sun set below the horizon...

So we could wonder about the steam rising from a cup of tea...

So we could ponder the seconds as they go by and feel the energy between the moments...

So we could experience the temporal reality that we humans, with our limited minds, remain in — something you can't get in singularity is the experience of time, so we choose this temporal biology of human life to see beauty through the finite lens of time. In this way we get to see the arc of life, the beauty of each moment between life and death.

As particle beings and expressions of light energy, we are witnessing the dawn of a new era of human thriving never before seen on this planet. In these temporal bodies, if we choose to stay and play, we could witness something more beautiful than our human minds can ever imagine.

What does that look like? Don’t miss this newly released appearance on the @aubreymarcus podcast to find out: https://zachbushmd.com/podcast-aubrey-marcus-ep-2/

The magnificent Val.

 

Bakewell tart, laundry and a there and back ride to baza

 

Rebirth of Medusa by Sabile Hope

Recent gurus

 

Valiant Lady

The air has changed but Isa remains the same. Pensionista stories.