Tag Archives: consciousness

Awake

Week 2; consciousness: The very notion to me seems a little vague….often in conversation, when this word is brought up, it’s sails take wind in the direction of the meta-physical, spirituality, imagination, and perceptions on how they apply to the real world…..my perceptions are often askew, and when pondering the subject, the lines between sub-, and consciousness become blurred even further…..so here is a piece I wrote on my perception of the subject, when battling a severe “Manic Attack”.

Awake:
———————————————————————–
Awake…….am i awake?

is this actually happening, or did I make it up?
is my mind the cause of such morbid fixations?
is the world a bad place because I believe it to be so?

awake…..I am awake.
this is actually happening, I did not make it up.
my mind finds fixation upon the morbid.
the world is a bad place, and I accept that fact.

awake,,,,,,asleep…..is there a difference?
subconscious working just as hard as reality
lines begin to blur, words being to slur,
how can it be so dark in the middle of the day?

awake…….a state of mind…..
consciousness fighting the dreams that cloud my world
lines drawn stiff and straight, words emerge, but too late
the dark is somehow bright and blinding…….

awake…….am I too late?

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week 2: consciousness

“Blue Light” mixed media: paper, oil pastel, watercolorweek 2: consciousness

Light bursts
into blossom
a Mischief
of possibility

…indigos
shot thru w/ light, magenta
behind closed eyelids

–Diane di Prima, Loba

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by | January 15, 2013 · 4:16 am

**||~|| museum ||~||**

photo
there is no
c o n s c i o u s n e s
in a still life

no explosions of sensations
cascading through neurons

no love
no self

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Fragments

fragments of things I started to write with the theme consciousness in mind

Lana ate because first she was self conscious of the way her skin looked when she was a teenager. The kids called her names, so she went home and stole doughnuts from the breakfast pantry. Then she started to bake to make her feel better when she pants didn’t fit. She baked cupcakes and ate t hem after dinner

***

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
The repetition is familiar, a down beat like a clever song. The heart strings are so sore, tightly wound around words and thoughts and pure existing. I can’t. I can’t. There’s no sun anymore, it’s gone too soon. There’s no warmth, either. There’s just the death that surrounds us, brown leaves decaying in the ground. I can’t. What can’t I do? Nothing. Everything. Something. There’s no art anymore because it’s forgotten, buried in a junk drawer that hasn’t been used in months.

***

Meditation isn’t a creative act it’s a way to reason some sort of consciousness within yourself so how do you express the words the words the thoughts the jumble of everything scattered everywhere inside your mind when you sit with yourself and stare at the worn down furniture

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I am on a hillside.

My, but I have struggled with this theme.  Then again, I’ve been struggling with this idea for a while.  So often one is told to “be here now,” but there was a time when I needed help leaving “here” for someplace better, calmer, in my mind.

I was afraid, terrified, of the dentist.  With children, dentists often try to hide what’s really happening in children’s mouths with the hope of getting the job done before the kid even knows what’s happening, and as a kid I knew that.  As a result I was painfully anxious at the dentist’s, constantly asking questions that were taken for distractions and delays.  In fact, I just liked to know exactly what I was getting myself into before surrendering to the picks, the needles, the dental dams they called “raincoats”.  Pediatric dentists aren’t really into that.

One time I gripped the arms of the chair so hard my hands began to sweat, and gradually they slid down until I almost lost my grip altogether.  I jerked my hands back, the rest of my body stiff as a board, trying to catch my grip.  What my dentist said was partly true: I did hit him.  He could have hurt me with whatever instrument of torture he held in my mouth.  He yelled at me.  He lost it.  I really must have been a trial.

On another day, after I spent some twenty minutes writhing in the chair, crying, calling to my father as he sat in the room, helpless, twisting his magazine into a tight roll, my dentist asked my father to leave.  Naturally this made things worse for me – who would protect me from the anguish of getting a cavity filled?  My dad tapped my knee with the magazine and said, “Be good, kiddo,” before I let out another wail.

A few weeks later it was decided I needed to go to therapy for my dentist anxiety.  I had gone to play therapy when I was very little, while my parents were going through marriage counseling.  I didn’t like it.  They would tell my mother I drew a witch and said it was her.  They would tell me that I couldn’t see white crayon on white paper.  What was the point?

Still I went to see Dr. Noonan, who I know I would recognize if I saw her.  I cannot for the life of me describe anything about her.  For the most part we played Battleship and chess, trying to unearth some reason for me to react to the dentist as I do while part of my mind was occupied with strategy.  It didn’t help.

Later she recommended I listen to music – the Beatles, of course – but when I tried to bring my discman into the dentist’s office they were not pleased.

Back in Dr. Noonan’s office the following week, she asked me if there was anywhere I liked to go for fun.  At nine years old, there was nowhere I went alone.  “Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”

“Ireland,” I said, without hesitation.  I had never left the country.  I was obsessed with my Irish heritage.  To me it had everything I thought I could want: horses, rolling hills, Sinead O’Connor, an ancient language that you could still hear sometimes, age.  Dr. Noonan asked me to lie down on the couch.

She told me to close my eyes, and I did.  I did everything she said.  I concentrated on my breathing, which made me feel short of breath.  I felt the weight of my arms and my legs grow heavier, but as she spoke I could almost feel myself lifting off the couch.  She told me to imagine Ireland, what I saw, what I smelled.  She told me to put myself in that place.

And at first what I saw was a vast green hill.  I saw myself lying with the grass growing up around me, all different shades of bright spring green. I saw another hill rising up beyond.  And as I let myself go I could see nothing, but I knew what was there, as I felt the grass tickle my neck.  I was present in this vision, the sun was warm on my face, and I could feel every freckle get darker on my nose.  The grass felt cool, it smelled cool, and sweet.  I heard birds and I saw things fly over my closed eyes as the light changed – perhaps they were birds, or butterflies.  A light breeze blew my bangs to one side, then the other.  My arms were outstretched in Ireland, as if to welcome it all in, to fill myself with this image, this feeling, this crisp taste in my mouth.

Three

Two

One

“Now open your eyes, Jessica,” she said, and I awoke to find the dingy ceiling tiles.  I rolled over a bit and saw the grey carpet, my sunken battleships, some dismantled Cooties, and Dr. Noonan.

She suggested I try this at the dentist.

When I was old enough to make my own dental appointments I took a long time to get back in the chair, and even then it was because I was looking for a dentist who sedated their patients.  With the laughing gas I can deal with the whole experience much better.

Around that time I learned that my childhood dentist had suggested that my father abused me.  He had seen the rolled-up magazine and the warning to be good and thought that I was beaten at home.  That was why I was in therapy.  Self-hypnosis or whatever you might call my mini-vacations to that Kerry hillside were a last resort because Dr. Noonan was supposed to unearth some confession of abuse.  But there was no abuse to confess.

It boggles the mind that a person whose job it is to stick sharp metal objects and vacuums and mirrors into people’s mouths can’t imagine that they are capable of frightening a small child who  is holding onto the last shred of control she has.  Doubtless I was the worst patient he had ever seen, but I couldn’t have been the only bad one, could I?

At least there’s that.

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Week 02, Consciousness: The Black Rock

Image

Brian Froud’s The Pook

“You can almost always find chains of coincidence to disprove magic. That’s because it doesn’t happen the way it does in books. It makes those chains of coincidence. That’s what it is. It’s like if you snapped your fingers and produced a rose but it was because someone on an aeroplane had dropped a rose at just the right time for it to land in your hand. There was a real person and a real aeroplane and a real rose, but that doesn’t mean the reason you have the rose in your hand isn’t because you did the magic…. …It’s harder to get a grip on than if it did work the way it does in stories. And it’s much easier to dismiss, you can dismiss all of it if you have a skeptical turn of mind because there always is a sensible explanation. It always works through things in the real world, and it’s always deniable. — Jo Walton, Among Others

So last Tuesday, I totally saw a faery sitting on my nightstand. And I’m not even joking. You might be thinking I’m joking because you don’t know me very well. In fact, there are only three people in the world who I could say this to and they would not only know I am not joking, but they would also know I am not making this shit up. And none of them include my blood relatives. Although I bet my almost 2 year old son would believe me, because I’m pretty sure he sees them, too.

And the cats. Well that part’s a lie. I have two cats, but only one of them ever seems to see the same things that I see and responds to them. Which brings out a whole new questions about psychic functioning in the animal kingdom.

But I digress.

It was around midnight. I went upstairs. And when I turned on the light, there he was (not all faeries are gendered, but I got a distinct vibe from this one). I thought about drawing him because he looked similar to Brian Froud’s pook, but he was in a sitting pose, with his arms folded around his knees, and his head was slung over his knee-tops in what I can only describe as faery way (because it seems impossible to accomplish, even if you were in Cirque de Soleil). He was large for a faery. Sitting the way he was, he as long as my cat sitting up properly in a normal cat-like way. But skinny. Spindly, really. He stayed the longest of almost any faery I have seen. Which means close to 30 seconds. Maybe even a full minute. As I changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed, he did straighten up somewhat and watched me more intently than I was watching him. At this point, he was an arm’s reach away. I could have reached out and touched him. I turned my head to reach for the blankets and when I turned back, he was gone.

And there was a black rock, which he had been sitting on, left on my nightstand.

I told my husband about what happened. We’ve lived in this house for two and a half years and I haven’t seen a faery yet. When I showed him the rock, I asked him if he recognized it and he said he didn’t. I said it seemed familiar for some reason, but I couldn’t quite remember. Like, the memory of this particular black rock was on the top of my brain, but was just out of reach. Brad said he felt similarly. Like he should know this rock, but didn’t.

My husband is a chemist, by the way, and he’s married to someone who sees faeries. And he believes me because he knows I’m not joking about this. And every once in a while, I’ll have these pieces of tangible evidence that are otherwise inexplicable: a black rock appears as if from nowhere on my nightstand; the dagger that I had carefully, and fully intentionally packed in my checked luggage, mysteriously appears in my carry-on at the airport instead. Yeah, that situation was not fun to explain. It’s one of the two times I felt as though I might faint, the other time was when my mom told me she had cancer and three months to live.  “I’m a pagan. That’s an athame. It’s part of my religion. I thought I packed it in my checked luggage.” I don’t say that I know packed it there.

It ended up costing me $125. But at least I’m not on a Do Not Fly or a watch list. (At least that I know of.)

There are always ways to “explain” situations like the black rock. You could say my toddler found it and put it there. I would say no, because there was a foot of snow outside, we hadn’t gone outside in days because it was too cold (not to mention, he couldn’t even play in the backyard, and if he could, we don’t have rocks like this here), and there are no other rocks that he can get to, ya know, inside the house.

You could say I’m lying. And that’s your choice. I’m not expecting anyone to believe me. But this is my reality.

You could say it’s a particular cocktail of chemicals or hormones in my brain that create hallucinations, and I couldn’t disprove that. In fact, maybe my brain isn’t like everyone else.

But I know these aren’t hallucinations, or dissociative identity disorder (which I was really afraid of for a while, but a psychiatrist assured me that this was not the case); maybe it’s precisely the weird wiring or cocktail of hormones in my brain that allow me to see these things.

How do I know?

Because after five months of hospital stays and treatment, my mom was suddenly “misdiagnosed.”

She had never had cancer.

Even though a year earlier, she had pre-cancer stage cervival cells. Even though when she was in her 20s, she had melanoma.

I asked my concept of God and the faeries to heal her. I then had hundreds of people pray for her.

I also know because I met my husband. My grandmother, who had been a witch in her youth, after the prison stint of course, predicted that I would meet my husband by writing letters without knowing each other. She told me this years before either of us knew about the Internet. And I asked the faeries to help me recognize my soul mate and to prepare my heart to be open to him (or her) then one of my best friends, with whom I chatted online, told me he loved me a month later.

And I know this because of my son. Because I saw him and been expecting him for almost ten years before he arrived.

There are perfectly acceptable, logical ways to explain all of this.

But it doesn’t mean the reason I have the black rock in my hand isn’t because I did the magic, or saw the faeries.

In fact, I am looking for my camera to take a picture of the black rock and can’t find my camera. Maybe I shouldn’t be posting this.

But I’m going to anyway.

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Be Aware

Tap into your consciousness
Become aware

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Find the beauty

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