Titles of Mystical Import

Look at your hands.

I have my mother’s hands. Same fingers. Same nails. Same habit of rubbing pointer across thumb.

Mother is a sacred name. Someday I hope it’s one of mine. Right now, though, I’m just starting to figure out what love is.

(Lover is another----Mother Lover Significant Other)

Three times nine girls, but one girl rides ahead. I am Svava turned Sigrun turned Kara. A reincarnated Valkyrie. A chooser of the slain. But I choose love over death. But Sparrow said that they’re the same.

Maybe choosing love means that I can choose the one it slays.

Svava chose love too. And named him to boot, because his parents couldn’t think of the right one. Helgi, she called him. And through all of their reincarnations together he got to keep the name. (Even though hers changed every time.) I like to think it’s because she gave it to him. A gift that cannot be returned.

I am Nordic through my mother’s side. Danish to be precise. Lineage is an interesting thing. An ancient naming that we are simply born into.

I have my mother’s hands.

Whose hands do you have?

Invocation For Fall

Yesterday was the Fall Equinox, so today marks the first day of the year when the daylight hours are shorter than the darkness. I celebrated with a delicious meal of corn fritters covered in maple syrup, spice muffins with butter/cream cheese frosting, a bowl of pomegranate seeds, and a glass of wine. I threw out a general “help me” plea and set a place for whoever wanted to show up and answer. I gave thanks for all the things the past year has brought me. I read a few pages in my new book on trance work and recorded myself saying a shielding invocation so I could listen to it while I fell asleep and possibly remember it this morning.

I don’t remember it.

But I had a very restful night of sleep. I don’t really remember my dreams either, but I have this vague recollection that they were not dark this time. They did not involve vehicles in transit. There was less confusion than normal. Maybe it will come back to me today. Probably not, but that’s okay. What I carry with me right now is the sense of calm I had as I was falling asleep listening to my own voice on repeat. It helped my mind slow down. It provided a focus so I couldn’t distract myself from falling asleep.

And my voice sounds different from the last time I heard a recording of it.

This is possibly just the effect of growing older. But the inflections were different. I’m sure no one else would notice this change, but as a writer I read out loud a lot, and particular habits have formed. I pause in certain places. I raise my voice just so in others. Little things cultivated over many years. But last night I kept tripping over my tongue and had to record myself four or five times before what I was listening to made sense.

It was like I was learning to speak all over again.

I made a list of goals last night. Most notably, to let go of my preconceived ideas about love and open myself up to learning what it really is. I want to figure out why I seem to be attracted to unavailable people. And I want to find a way to stop giving so much of myself to those who don’t give me anything in return. There are so many awesome, nurturing people in my life who I have neglected, and I want to focus more on acknowledging their awesomeness.

Last night was also a Full Moon.

Living so near the ocean has made the cycle of the moon more apparent to me. Full moons are solid now. Not so abstract. Even when it’s hiding behind the cover of near constant clouds, I can feel the weight of the moon outside. I feel more settled. I feel more concrete. I feel more real.

I remember part of my dream now.

Not really part of the dream, but an image that popped into my head when I was in the in between. That place where you’re not asleep yet, but you’re not quite awake either. It was just a flash, but it made my breath catch when it appeared. A giant white bird that turned so one wing pointed toward the sky and one pointed toward the ground. It flew straight at me for a second, larger than life.

Then it morphed into a glowing white sparrow sitting in the middle of darkness.

Sacred Bricoleur

I crossed paths with Trickster Coyote the other night. Literally. I was walking the dogs up 9^th Street towards Jerome, about a block from my house, when I looked up and there, where the two roads meet, trotted out Coyote. His head popped up, a mirror of my own. Then we had a staring contest that lasted all of three seconds, but felt like three hours.

And everything was snapshot still.

I've been thinking a lot about Trickster lately and trying to reevaluate my definition of him. I have also been trying to disassociate from the asshole tricksters that have plagued my life and clouded the way I see. Trickster isn’t bad. He’s just—tricky. A situation inverter and a shape shifter, he alters our perceptions of the world around us. And it’s good to get shocked out of our ruts sometimes. It is in these moments that we are able to focus enough to see that something needs to change.

Or see that it already has.

I’m not the same girl I was a year ago. A year ago I thought I had my shit together. But now I’m seeing that I don’t. Have my shit together. At all. But I’m also seeing that this is okay. I have shed some preconceptions about myself and my place in this world. And even though starting from scratch is mildly terrifying, I’m excited about all the opportunities that have opened up for me. I am excited about the person I have the potential to become now that I’m not clinging to the person I used to be.

But am I ready to meet the Trickster within me?

Everything

You came in looking for shoes and we ended up talking about the existence of the color council and the necessity of focused art making time. You commented that no matter what you are doing, you are doing it creatively because you are a creative being. Creativity infuses everything you do.

I think, “Everything is art.”

I hear people talk about “creative sustainability” and how we need to think of new ways to use the resources we have on hand as a means to survival. But what about “sustainable creativity”? What would your day look like if you made as much of your life as possible not merely a product of your creativity, but fuel for your creativity? What would happen if your daily tasks were not just a means to an end?

I think, “Everything is poetry.”

Everything dances and sings, if you’re willing to see it in that light. Everything is connected somehow. I know I’m not the first person to think this, and I certainly won’t be the last to have such an epiphany. But right now the thoughts have lined up in my brain, like planets in alignment to the sun. Things make sense right now, and I don’t feel so lost and alone.

I think, “Everything is sacred.”

As you walked out the door you said “I think we’re from the same tribe.”

I think, "You might be right."

Sparrow

Sparrow carries away the souls of the dead.

Sparrow brings the souls of the soon to be born.

Sparrow circled three times as I walked.

I stopped walking and Sparrow flew away.

Sparrow circled three times at chest level.

I stopped breathing and Sparrow flew away.

Sparrow circled three times slowly, wrapping me with invisible string.

I stopped unraveling and asked Sparrow if she’d stay.

Sparrow is Aphrodite’s bird.

True love and spiritual connection.

I spin myself tighter inside Sparrow’s string cocoon.

Sparrow says keep walking.

Sparrow says keep breathing.

Life and death and love.

Sparrow says they’re all the same.

Compartmentalizing

In an effort to keep my blog space neat and tidy, I have created two additional blogs so I can somewhat separate the things I am writing about. One for dreams. One for art. One for all my other ramblings. (that's this one btw)

Dreams go here:

http://haikukatshaikulikedreams.blogspot.com/

Art goes here:

http://haikukatsartadventure.blogspot.com/

And if I haven't told you about it yet, here is the website my brother Carl is making for me!!!

http://haikukat.com/

(It's a work in progress as I get more info to him and he learns how to do this whole web design thing!)

As long as your hair is.

That’s how long I’ve known you. (a coworker said this to me the other day)

I can measure my life by the length and/or color of my hair. White-blond and uncut until 2^nd grade when I bravely sat in the beautician’s chair and had at least 12 inches chopped off by my own design. Bowl cut in 3^rd grade. First perm in 4^th. In 6^th grade I cut my own bangs about 2 inches too short, just in time for winning the science fair and the cheerleading/basketball awards banquet.

I started seriously cutting my own hair in 8^th grade when I was 14. I had a spiral perm and didn’t have to worry about cutting evenly because it was so curly. In 12^th grade I chopped my hair so short I looked more like my brother than I had in years.

Right after graduating from high school I bought my first box of hair dye. Auburn. My mother helped me pick it out. It was 13 years before I saw my natural hair color again. I went through various shades of red and purple and pink before I got sick of it and felt the need for a do over. So in February of 2008, in the middle of a pretty brutal north Idaho winter, I stood in my bathroom and shaved my head. Shiny bald. With a razor. And I told myself I was not allowed to cut or dye it for one year.

I made it a year and a half before losing it and chopping my hair and dying it Ronald McDonald red.

And then I moved to Oregon and decided I’d probably have better luck finding a job with no hair rather than hair that was a strange faded orange-ish red-ish color.

So I shaved my head again. Flawed logic I’m sure, but I did find a job with my shaved head. And I’m pretty sure they would not have hired me with the orange hair. I think I’m pushing things there with my visible tattoos. God forbid I ever pierce my nose again.

But back to my hair. It’s growing. Half an inch a month. Which most people tell me is really fast, but I find the whole process painfully slow. I have trimmed the back a few times, but only to avoid having a mullet. All in all I’ve left it alone. And it’s driving me nuts. It’s in that strange in between stage where it’s not short enough to be a cute Mia Farrow pixie cut, and not quite long enough to do anything with.

But I’m not going to cut it again for awhile. I’m tired of starting over.

(and I will add more pictures to this as I find them.)

Drawing On the Past and Dreams and Such

Diving into deep dark water. That was last night's dream. Searching for something. Like an archeological excavation. Searching for some piece of history. My history? Perhaps. Or maybe some history beyond myself. I don’t know yet. Before anything is found I’m standing at another excavation site. Or soon to be excavation site, because I’m pretty sure I’m the first person to see it.

It is huge and looks like it used to be a tunnel of some sort. White brick and cylindrical. It was built in a ditch at the base of a mountain in a desert. I tried to draw it. I didn’t get the scale quite right. Or the perspective. It’s been a long time since I’ve drawn something from memory rather than by sight.

I used to draw all the time.

At the end of the dream one of my fellow explorers gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl. The person I was with when I was told decided she could give them up and let the mother have them. I’m not sure what that means.

But I think I should try to draw some part of my dreams from now on.

Pigtails

Today, while I was minding my own business in the Safeway and trying hard to think of things I needed that weren’t too heavy or too big to carry back on foot along the river walk, a man walked past me pushing his cart and said, “I like your mini pigtails.” This prompted me to look up in surprise and accidentally make eye contact, which I usually try to avoid while in the Safeway. He was creepy. And I’m sure I did a stellar job of hiding the panic from my eyes while saying a quick thank you. But then it was over and I remembered that I wanted to get won ton wrappers.

And just like that my mind switched gears.

I am constantly amazed at my capacity to instantly forget some things. I am equally amazed at my capacity to retain other things in agonizing detail. I won’t go into these agonizing details. Some of them are horrific and some of them are just stupid and some of them hold the cryptic key to my sanity.

Now if I could just decipher them.

Change of Scenery

My roommate Cawby-Ku and I have recently begun rearranging our house. We realized that we were not making art like we had planned and blamed this partly on the fact that all our art-making stuff was in our basement “studio”. It’s easy to ignore things in the basement. So we are going to experiment with a new, hopefully better, use of our space.

Today I moved my bed down into what once was the dining room. And after some clever maneuvering, and with the help of my friend Tobias, I have begun to create a studio space out of the old living room. Essentially I have a mini two-room apartment that is connected to the kitchen. And I still have access to the awesome claw foot tub upstairs. And our new television room is stupidly cute and cozy. Cawby-Ku is keeping her bedroom where it is and will be turning my old room into her studio. Hurrah! She’s close to her artwork and I’m close to mine!

And my aging dogs won’t have to climb the stairs a bazillion times a day. I think it’s going to work out well for all of us. Even the cat seems to be okay, although with him I’m always on the look out for signs of emotional trauma.

So here I am about to begin my first night in my new room. One dog is already asleep on my legs. The other keeps looking at me with confusion in his eyes, because he clearly doesn’t remember anything that’s happened today. And the cat has already succeeded in tearing down the curtains I so carefully push-pinned over the archway between my bedroom and the studio.

The space feels good and I’m hoping that somehow I can absorb some of this good feeling through my pores while I sleep. I feel like I’ve been making some progress towards recognizing my own unique idiosyncrasies and I can’t help but think of this space as both a reward and a catalyst.

I still feel crazy though.

And I can’t quite shake the old feeling that I’m being a bother to some people.

Collaborative Art at its Finest

This is what I drew on my snazzy new phone yesterday.

This is what my roommate did with the picture on her even snazzier phone.

I foresee great artistic advancements in our future.

I almost made it a week....

....so much for my vow of internet silence.....I am, however, going to resist reposting things in other places (i.e. facecrack).....for the 4 of you who follow this blog, I will probably keep posting things here despite my best efforts to avoid such things this month....

Catastrophe Theory

sudden shifts in behavior arising from small changes in circumstances

Seven months ago I was broke and desperate for some sort of change....six months ago I started a 2^nd job that didn’t last very long....five months ago I was introduced to someone I had previously developed a crush on from afar....four months ago we stopped hanging out because he is dealing with a divorce and my emotions were too strong to handle that properly....three months ago is a little fuzzy....two months ago my newfound best friend dropped out of my life with barely any explanation....last month my parents came to visit.....and right now I’m still broke.

But a week ago I officially began my 2^nd year in this city by the sea. Well, this city by the river that collides with the sea not far from my house. And on my one year anniversary here he asked me to drinks after months of not really talking to me. And now I’m all confuzzled. (please watch the movie ‘Mary and Max’ for that reference) I feel less prepared than ever for the task of negotiating the minefield that is new friendships.

I still like him, but I am not quite sure what that means. I am drawn to him, but the context of this attraction is a bit uncertain. Is he a kindred spirit or a soul mate? Either one would be an extraordinary find. My anxiety comes from trying to figure out which one it is—and which one I want. The pessimist in me keeps saying that he probably doesn’t even want to be my friend anymore. Or is it the insomnia monsters that whisper that in my ear?

I have been trying lately to take a more scientific approach to my self-observations. It does me no good to get lost in the emotions that are tangled up inside of me, so I’ve opted instead to see if I can decipher how I process things. And maybe then I can figure out a way to deal with whatever’s clogging the pathway between my brain and my heart.

So far, I’ve noticed that I am easily confused when talking to people. For various reasons, I tend to miss bits of conversation, which leads to mental backtracking and an attempt to figure out what is going on, which causes me to miss more, which causes the confusion to build exponentially, which eventually spirals out of control and causes my anxiety to spike unnaturally. And all the while I’m trying to maintain a calm exterior so no one can see the chaos ripping through my mind.

I attribute most of this confusion to the distraction caused by what I have described before as a news ticker speeding around my brain. As an artist and a writer I have trained myself to observe as much as possible. To be a professional voyeur almost. But when I am left without a clear role to play, as in the one I play at work, I have no focus and get lost in all the things I observe. I am hopeless. And I’m not very good at being just me.

I have trust issues. Or maybe I have manipulation issues. Or maybe it’s both. Too many people have twisted my friendship for their own purposes. And now I have a hard time believing that the person I’m talking to really wants to be there talking to me. And battling with that thought mid-conversation is yet another distraction. I also have abandonment issues. I don’t deal well with people disappearing from my life. But at the same time, I expect it to happen. I am constantly waiting for good-bye. And that’s no way to have a conversation. It's certainly no way to begin a friendship.

In all fairness, I must also come clean and admit that I am, in fact, not an angel. I have done bad things that have hurt people. Things that would have destroyed me had they been done to me instead of the other way around. I can’t undo them, just as the people who have hurt me can’t undo what they did. But I do find myself occasionally wallowing in the idea that I’m a bad person and no one would want to be friends with if they really really knew me. And then I start feeling like a fraud. Which I am.

I’m bad at being me and am only remotely comfortable when I’m playing a role. But I’m trying to learn how to be me around other people. I’m trying to believe that people do want to get to know me. I’m trying.

But I don’t know what I’m doing.