PICS
From Dark Night of the Soul, St. John of the Cross:
CHAPTER V
Sets down the first line and begins to explain how this dark contemplation is not only night for the soul but is also grief and torment.
THIS dark night is an inflowing of God into the soul, which purges it from its ignorances and imperfections, habitual natural and spiritual, and which is called by contemplatives infused contemplation, or mystical theology. Herein God secretly teaches the soul and instructs it in perfection of love without its doing anything, or understanding of what manner is this infused contemplation. Inasmuch as it is the loving wisdom of God, God produces striking effects in the soul for, by purging and illumining it, He prepares it for the union of love with God. Wherefore the same loving wisdom that purges the blessed spirits and enlightens them is that which here purges the soul and illumines it.
Though I am not a Catholic nor even a Christian in any sense other than cultural, the Carmelite classic is desperately appropriate right now. Yes, there is still plenty more of this razor's edge for me to traverse on pointe. Forgive me my reticence to discuss the intricacies of my emotional and spiritual unrest, but I'm not really the type.
So, because I can't offer you more insight than 16th-century religious writing, here is a rather precious picture from TheFox's girlie night birthday shindig.
I expect to be spending less time around these parts for a while.
As always, the man said it best:
As always, the man said it best:
ADDENDUM: Gawd, you guys, I'm not leaving. I just have a bunch of shit to get done.
Tarnation! pygmy wasn't able to make it out Carolina ways this weekend after all; I wonder if the illness that struck me down on Thursday traveled via the intertubz to afflict her sweetness. Some other day, then.
I am sitting nude upon my knockoff Eames chair (formerly the possession of this great man) that so many of y'all have commented upon with a nice big beautiful cup of this. I am not particularly Anglophiliac, but I run on good strong black tea the way most of my acquaintances run on coffee. I take it with milk and sugar. The milk is more crucial than the sugar, and it must be whole. I do not believe in 2% milk or low-fat milk or (gods save me!) skim milk. My whole milk comes from a local dairy in pretty glass bottles, which I save and put flowers in or use to hold spare change.
While enjoying this tea in the buff, I have my hair piled atop my head and under a shower cap. It has been slathered with Nice & Easy 103B, Natural Medium Champagne Blonde. I discovered this color a few years ago, back when every hair-coloring adventure involved trying something new, and it has become my standard. My hair is naturally that sort of dirty dishwater blonde (which is really light brown, though we all try to pretend it isn't and that our hair, deep down, really is the same color as when we were five), and 103B lightens and brightens it up to a perfect Valkyrie sparkle.
When I was younger and more traditionally "alterna" in the way that so many 15 year old American girls are, I used to darken or redden or pinken my hair, but now I feel a sense of commitment to Blondeness that is more powerful than my commitment was to most of my past relationships. I am not just blonde, I am A Blonde, and I like what that entails.
This is all sort of crystallizing due to finishing up this book a few hours ago, which was so generously given me by the very dear Fluxaholic. Ilyin is really terribly hilarious in her analyses of the various blonde archetypes and the varied meanings of blondeness, more especially blonde-femaleness, in our culture. It's interesting company I keep: Marilyn Monroe, of course, but also Martha Stewart and Barbara Walters. Dolly Parton, of course, but also Tina Turner, as Blonde is made, not born. It's a good book.
So here I am, smelling of ammonia and banishing my roots, in order to emerge brilliant and golden and perfectly Blonde. Ironically, I feel more myself freshly lightened. What that says about my personality, I leave to the psychologists.
Time to rinse and be Reborn.
I am sitting nude upon my knockoff Eames chair (formerly the possession of this great man) that so many of y'all have commented upon with a nice big beautiful cup of this. I am not particularly Anglophiliac, but I run on good strong black tea the way most of my acquaintances run on coffee. I take it with milk and sugar. The milk is more crucial than the sugar, and it must be whole. I do not believe in 2% milk or low-fat milk or (gods save me!) skim milk. My whole milk comes from a local dairy in pretty glass bottles, which I save and put flowers in or use to hold spare change.
While enjoying this tea in the buff, I have my hair piled atop my head and under a shower cap. It has been slathered with Nice & Easy 103B, Natural Medium Champagne Blonde. I discovered this color a few years ago, back when every hair-coloring adventure involved trying something new, and it has become my standard. My hair is naturally that sort of dirty dishwater blonde (which is really light brown, though we all try to pretend it isn't and that our hair, deep down, really is the same color as when we were five), and 103B lightens and brightens it up to a perfect Valkyrie sparkle.
When I was younger and more traditionally "alterna" in the way that so many 15 year old American girls are, I used to darken or redden or pinken my hair, but now I feel a sense of commitment to Blondeness that is more powerful than my commitment was to most of my past relationships. I am not just blonde, I am A Blonde, and I like what that entails.
This is all sort of crystallizing due to finishing up this book a few hours ago, which was so generously given me by the very dear Fluxaholic. Ilyin is really terribly hilarious in her analyses of the various blonde archetypes and the varied meanings of blondeness, more especially blonde-femaleness, in our culture. It's interesting company I keep: Marilyn Monroe, of course, but also Martha Stewart and Barbara Walters. Dolly Parton, of course, but also Tina Turner, as Blonde is made, not born. It's a good book.
So here I am, smelling of ammonia and banishing my roots, in order to emerge brilliant and golden and perfectly Blonde. Ironically, I feel more myself freshly lightened. What that says about my personality, I leave to the psychologists.
Time to rinse and be Reborn.
I know this isn't as eloquent as my last entry, but thanks the gods for noodlies!
Phở is the best when you're ill and woozy.
I'm already feeling better, which is great, because pygmy is coming to visit. I'm so excited.
Phở is the best when you're ill and woozy.
I'm already feeling better, which is great, because pygmy is coming to visit. I'm so excited.
On the Ouroboros (part esoteric)
Why is the Tail-Devourer on my back?
I spent too much of my youth enraptured by alchemical texts and hermetic literature. The snake which eats itself is Totality: the unconscious and conscious joined. It is the unity of the cosmos before it was born, and the unity to which it will someday (some-eon?) return. It is purity and liberation from the world. No cruel Jörmungandr or self-destroyer, nor the snake of Kekulé's reverie, but what remains when the Demiurge has fallen.
Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away.
Why is the Tail-Devourer on my back?
I spent too much of my youth enraptured by alchemical texts and hermetic literature. The snake which eats itself is Totality: the unconscious and conscious joined. It is the unity of the cosmos before it was born, and the unity to which it will someday (some-eon?) return. It is purity and liberation from the world. No cruel Jörmungandr or self-destroyer, nor the snake of Kekulé's reverie, but what remains when the Demiurge has fallen.
Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away.
I keep trying to write a journal entry detailing what my first week back in school was like, but it feels so uninspired. So, instead, here is a rambling collection of thoughts I have had during the past week.
1. My 19th-century Russian literature course is making me absolutely ache to take Russian language courses back up (yes, I took a year of Russian at My Previous Institution). I don't know if I can find the time at the moment, though, because...
2. My transcript is so terribly, deeply fucked. Without lube. In the bootyhole. As it were. So, you know, the next year or so will be really interesting. I will beg for the mercy of the Spanish department so that all of the classes I took for my major at My Previous Institution will not be in vain. Please, Sir, may I have some credit?
3. And, fuck, I never expected to miss the Previous Institution and its socially-inept devotion to academia. At the risk of sounding like a completely egomaniacal cunt (FTR, I am not completely so; I have some small measure of humility), I am way smarter than most of the people in my classes. Maybe it's that I'm probably at least three or four years their elder, but good Lord, I never heard so many people moan about Foucault. Man up, you lazy fuckers.
And, unrelated to school, I have been having some personal problems that keep getting more and more complex, but ever since a dude I broke up with in high school kicked a dog to death in anger afterward (true story), I have pretty much given up on the fantasy of ever having anything remotely resembling a normal relationship with the opposite sex. What can I say? Crazy sets my loins aflutter. (Please don't PM me asking about this. It's not really interesting. I have much better stories. Not all of them involve the death of poor, defenseless dachshunds ("Dachshund" is hard to spell.))
I am in the very beginning stages of planning a set that will be Epic and glorious. It'll have to wait until winter to be shot, which means I have months to accrue props. If you've felt like another Fluxatronix Production in the vein of Dune is long overdue, this will be a treat for you. In the meantime, enjoy my next set, which I hope will go up soon. It is very different. Classy, even. It features scotch and fancy underbritches. Coming soon to a monitor near you.
Anyway, all in all, even though school is good but lacking in some satisfaction and I am all discombobulated, I'm good. I love the struggle. But until the morn comes and brings me more delicious strife, I'm going to crawl into bed with a glass of wine (red, always) and watch an episode of Rome or two before I go to sleep (I'll get up and brush my teeth first, because I am Way Responsible, Especially About Things Like Dental Hygiene (I've never had a cavity, did you guys know that?)).
Night, kids.
1. My 19th-century Russian literature course is making me absolutely ache to take Russian language courses back up (yes, I took a year of Russian at My Previous Institution). I don't know if I can find the time at the moment, though, because...
2. My transcript is so terribly, deeply fucked. Without lube. In the bootyhole. As it were. So, you know, the next year or so will be really interesting. I will beg for the mercy of the Spanish department so that all of the classes I took for my major at My Previous Institution will not be in vain. Please, Sir, may I have some credit?
3. And, fuck, I never expected to miss the Previous Institution and its socially-inept devotion to academia. At the risk of sounding like a completely egomaniacal cunt (FTR, I am not completely so; I have some small measure of humility), I am way smarter than most of the people in my classes. Maybe it's that I'm probably at least three or four years their elder, but good Lord, I never heard so many people moan about Foucault. Man up, you lazy fuckers.
And, unrelated to school, I have been having some personal problems that keep getting more and more complex, but ever since a dude I broke up with in high school kicked a dog to death in anger afterward (true story), I have pretty much given up on the fantasy of ever having anything remotely resembling a normal relationship with the opposite sex. What can I say? Crazy sets my loins aflutter. (Please don't PM me asking about this. It's not really interesting. I have much better stories. Not all of them involve the death of poor, defenseless dachshunds ("Dachshund" is hard to spell.))
I am in the very beginning stages of planning a set that will be Epic and glorious. It'll have to wait until winter to be shot, which means I have months to accrue props. If you've felt like another Fluxatronix Production in the vein of Dune is long overdue, this will be a treat for you. In the meantime, enjoy my next set, which I hope will go up soon. It is very different. Classy, even. It features scotch and fancy underbritches. Coming soon to a monitor near you.
Anyway, all in all, even though school is good but lacking in some satisfaction and I am all discombobulated, I'm good. I love the struggle. But until the morn comes and brings me more delicious strife, I'm going to crawl into bed with a glass of wine (red, always) and watch an episode of Rome or two before I go to sleep (I'll get up and brush my teeth first, because I am Way Responsible, Especially About Things Like Dental Hygiene (I've never had a cavity, did you guys know that?)).
Night, kids.
