perzephone: (Default)
I feel like the guy in the Turn Down for What video. I just want to smash things with my crotch and hump anything I can't smash.

It's kind of frightening. I am not used to feeling good. Really good. Really damned good. I keep thinking it's some horrible side effect, like serotonin syndrome or something. I feel alert & active & curious. It's been years.

We've been dealing w/neighbor issues this entire weekend (which is Weds/Thurs for me). We have a broken wall now thanks to some would-be parkourdouche using our wall as a shortcut. He's going to be really fucking surprised when I catch him & happen to have a cast iron skillet in my hand. It's one of the neighbor's kid's friends.

A part of me is daydreaming about calling Josh & asking if he wants to take a boat to the Virgin Islands. Not that I would go but at least a part of me is feeling adventurous enough to consider the possibilities.

Silly Goose

Mar. 2nd, 2010 10:39 am
perzephone: (Default)
Lemme tell ya about my quest for my Tarot cards. I lost my very first deck. Either that, or I don't remember getting rid of them or giving them away. I've been looking for another Rider Waite deck. All the ones that have been published in the past 10 years or so are yucky. They have a thick cardstock and a heavy glossy coating. The colors are hideously bright and not true to the deck I had. I got my first Tarot deck in 1988. It was heavy card stock, but had more of a matte finish and subdued colors. Over the years it had absorbed layers of patchouli & Nag Champa incense, sandalwood oil and the sweat and dirt from my hands. It smelled like magic and the cards were worn and soft. No new Tarot deck could really compare, especially one w/a plastic gloss finish that oil just rubbed off of. I started shopping on e-Bay & amazon.com. Every single person selling a used RW deck had the same response to my queries - "yes, they have a high-gloss finish". I finally, after about four months of this, managed to procure an older printing - from 1971. These cards are almost like mine were, but unused. The card stock is slightly thinner, but the colors are true and over time, they will smell heavenly.

Did a Tarot reading last night. I asked if BSG was real and if I'd have a possibility of running into him somewhere, or if I could manifest him.

Surprisingly enough, the cards said yes. They also said if I did manage to find him, or for him to find me, it would lead to strife, heartbreak and ruin. He's the King of Swords, and figured prominently in opposition to the King of Cups (gee... wonder who that could be? Especially w/the 2 of Cups crossing him?).

Strife, heartbreak and ruin sounds about like what I need right now.

It sounds like fun.
perzephone: (Default)
Is almost 35 too old to learn to play the violin?

Want.

May. 21st, 2008 09:25 pm
perzephone: (Default)
I think I've found my dream house.

Casa Caracol
perzephone: (Default)
Yesterday as I was sleeping, I dreamed of Led Zeppelin. We (meaning me & Led Zeppelin) were out in the desert. Robert Plant (a much younger Sun God than now) was standing on this little hump of sand and I was standing there next to him as he sang to me & the rest of the band played... Don't remember what song, but I remember being ecstatic & feeling like I was wearing winged sandals.

Anyway, I don't know if somehow this was part of the same dream or a different one, but later on, Jimmy Page (a much younger Page) was somehow my teacher/guru/High Priest of ceremonial magic. He was circling the house in a big-ass red '50's convertible Cadillac w/the top down. For some reason, he couldn't come inside to get me so I had to go out to him. He also couldn't stop driving because someone, possibly from inside the house, was attacking him. I was supposed to somehow leave through one of the windows, which would portal me into the car w/him, but all the windows were too small for me to leave. And I'm not talking just too small because I'm fat, I'm talking too small for my head. Or big enough for my head & maybe an arm. Now that I'm typing this, it sounds like some birthing metaphor. There were people inside the house with me cheering me on, urging me on, things like, "Just try it! You'll see, you can fit!" & Jimmy Page would wave & holler at me as he drove by whatever side of the house I was on, telling me to hurry because he had to leave & it was too risky for him to stay.

I know this was probably just cosmic revenge - Page being a magickian an' all... BMG has been advertising a Jimmy Page collectible action figure, like one of those McFarlane 'Spawn' things. Every time I see it I laugh evilly & tell Rob I want it so I 'could do stuff to him' because it's like a little plastic Jimmy Page Voodoo doll. I usually then go on to elaborate in great detail exactly what I would do with a Robert Plant collectible figurine. Plant should be glad BMG hasn't offered one for sale because he'd be a sloppy blonde dildo right now. The real Robert Plant would be walking around perpetually smelling and smelling like pussy. (Not that he doesn't already, but I'm sure the guy can't have sex 24/7... or can he? I know Sting brags about 5-hour orgasms, but damn...)
perzephone: (Default)
The 1st week of training Shirla night audit is behind me. Only 3 more weeks to go. It's been bloody hectic, too. I feel like 10 hrs. is no longer plenty of time to do audit. I don't even remember how Nora taught me all the procedures & processes to go through. At least I don't feel too bad - Alea told me that she didn't even really do any work the first week, other than fill in blanks & make copies. I've at least got Shirla doing the final reports & filling in the spreadsheets. And poor ol' Shirla keeps typing over formulas in the spreadsheets... AAAGHHHHH!!!! Molly hasn't gotten the FODR on her desk before 6:30am yet, & she goes home at 7. I feel so bad for her. I didn't realize that, at least at the Excalibur, I have become OC... I keep wanting to reach over Shirla & re-arrange everything, put everything in order, bundle stuff up MY way... I try so hard to let her do things in a way that's comfortable for her, but damn! She's messing up my system! My hands veritably itch to 'fix' things.

Rob's still talking about Washington, we pulled out the old atlas last night & played darts, basically. We found a town named Ravensdale that's maybe a half hour out of Seattle, but strangely enough he likes the sound of Cedar Falls better. I was looking for Kennewick Lake & couldn't find it. I had some darn good times at Kennewick Park. I didn't realize just how close Puyallup & Sumner were to the Sound. Or how close the actual city of Olympia is, for that matter. The Olympic range is a little further north, I always thought it was all mid-coastal. Huh. It'll never happen, but at least it gives me & Rob something to talk about other than Diablo.
perzephone: (coyote)
Sometime around the whole WTC massacre, anyway. Gods how the years fly by.
You see, Coyote is perverse. Not perverted, at least, not all the time, but perverse. Coyote people are a lot of fun to be around, but it’s not always fun to be a coyote. Coyotes suffer from chronic foot-in-mouth disease. It’s not that we don’t want self-control, discretion and tact... Being a coyote means that eventually, the truth will come out. If you have to tell friendly lies long enough, a part of the mind starts to whimper and whine. It scratches at the sticky doggy-door of polite niceties, chews at the linoleum, and eventually runs out between your legs when opportunity knocks & you open the door. And once the sly coyote of truth is out in the streets, just try catching that little sucker.
As a coyote, I’m lucky to have the friends I have. Most of them are suckers for the truth. Most of my friends and lovers have been raised in polite society. Polite society only tells the truth as “constructive criticism” to your face. Meanwhile, everyone talks about everybody else in hushed tones and muted whispers. They cut each other to pieces and smile at one another the whole time. A coyote walks into the room & asks, loudly, "So who did you see picking their nose & licking their fingers? Oh, her... Wow, I would have never expected she was a closet booger-eater." When the accused walks into the room, a coyote will ask, "So, how do they taste, anyway?"
A coyote’s friends learn never to ask certain questions. "Does this dress make me look fat?" or "Do you think he’s cheating on me?" are questions just asking for a taste of coyote medicine. Coyotes have a knack for the inappropriate. I was laid off of work recently, and the assistant manager who had the task of breaking the news to people does not have very well developed people skills. As he proceeded to deliver his “I’m sorry, but due to airline cutbacks, yadda yadda yadda...” speech, I reached over, grasped his hand & asked him, "You know what this means, don’t you?" Panic rose in his empty little blue eyes as I stood up & stated, "I'll have to go get my Uzi now, sir." But being a coyote, I couldn’t keep a straight face. My own joke was too funny. A fox person would have waited until the boss wet himself before letting him off the hook.
Murphy was a coyote person, never mind being an optimist. I try really hard to keep from howling, to keep the scruffy yellow pelt hidden beneath my veneer of domestication. But really and truly, a part of me longs to run & sing under orange desert moons. That’s the part of me that can’t leave well enough alone. The part of me that has to get that one word in edgewise, that can’t let sleeping dogs lie. There is no muzzle out there that can contain a snappy comeback or a really, really good one-liner. And like all good hunters (even if it’s small prey), coyotes can’t resist people who leave themselves open to attack in any way, shape or form.

Sometimes when I close my eyes I see a grey Arabian stallion running across the ridge of a red sand dune. He is very real against the clear blue vault of the sky behind him. Sometimes he has all the trappings of some Bedouin’s lost mount, other times he is just there, bare skinned, but he is always racing. His mane and tail stream out like banners, and I can almost see the red of his nostrils flaring, and the deep brown of his eyes. There are no hoof prints in the sand behind him. I like having the horse running around behind my eyes, where no one else can see him, but I’m curious as to how he got there in the first place.

I had a dream once, where Trent Reznor came up to me & told me Coyote had stolen his bride, and I had to go & get her back. I still wonder, "why me, & why Trent Reznor?" I didn’t recognize the man in my dream as even being Trent Reznor until I went to Louisiana & saw his photo in a newspaper.

I also dreamed, or fantasized, of being a deer-herding girl from a tribe of people who herded deer for whatever arcane reasons people herd animals in the first place, and the herd stag had mated with me. I had twins, a boy & a girl, and even though they looked like humans, they had big brown deer eyes, & were covered in deer hair, & they could run like the wind. I knew somehow that when my son got old enough, he would challenge the herd stag, and one would die. This still kind of bothers me, not so much the challenge part, but the fact that in my dream I didn’t mind having twins. Especially because I know my dream self probably breast-fed them, and that grosses me out to no end.

I’m back in Las Vegas now, and it’s pretty much like I never went to Louisiana at all. I know a lot of this has to do with Rob, because I knew he would hate it, and he did, and now we’re back, but that doesn’t make it any better, because I know I gave up. So tomorrow I’m going to go stand in line to get my TAM card & my sheriff’s card, all so I can go to a job that I know I’ll hate, only because we need the money to survive. And it’s back to survival. I worry about the bills piling up, and the rent, and the fact that we don’t have a lease means they can raise the rent any time they want. And believe me, $590 a month is already WAAAAY too much. Especially for not having enough hot water to take a shower, no matter what time in the day you try to take it. And of course Rob went right back to his $6.50 an hour job, so it’s up to me to rake in the big dineros, even though I had a job in Louisiana that was sort of paying the bills. And Rob claims he’s waiting for the County to start hiring again, but to me the County rhymes w/Coyote, especially because every time I try to type County, my fingers try to type Coyote. And Coyotes and County jobs are both unreliable, and prone to laugh at you for trying so hard.

I feel like the fox in the story I just read, "Dreaming Among Men." Maybe I am really a coyote, and my mom & dad picked me up somewhere between here & Fontana, & saw a resemblance in my furry little face to a human child, & they tried to instill humanity in me. But it never really works right, especially when a dog teaches you to walk & your best friend’s a cat that’s not really a cat, and one of your human sisters is a Satanist & the other one’s trying to be a different color than the one everybody else wants her to be, and your dad’s not all the way grown up & has 5 different social security cards, none of them his, & your mom’s a different sort of animal altogether, who wounds just to wound, & never quite finishes playing w/her emotional prey. And I find myself in the desert again, under rain that smells like canals & drunkenness & darkness that is actually darkness, and the sad thing is that I knew I wasn't at home there, but I wanted to be. I think I could have gone from Coyote to Armadillo in 5 or 6 easy lessons. Maybe even learned to be a Nutria if I tried hard enough. I think Nutrias are actually mis-named Capybara, now that I think about it.

I think a lot about running away, and not just running away in space & time, but running away to the ultimate end. Just give up fighting & worrying, give up trying to make things work, running away from trying to put broken things back together. I know it’s because I’m a broken thing, and the only one who can ever put me back together is me. But I don’t know where to start, because there are so many pieces laying around, & I think a few vital parts of me have gotten lost, swept under the couches of memory, or eaten by the dryers of time like so many left socks. I think that’s why Coyotes run w/their tails between their legs - us Coyotes know we’re beaten from the start. Us Coyotes know we’re losers in the game of life. But Coyotes can survive anywhere, and seem to be able to go on living, even w/porcupine quills in their noses, gunshot wounds festering in their flanks, dog-bitten, disease raddled, toothless from biting open old tin cans & chewing off their own legs to get out of traps. I just have to wonder, how many legs do I have left? How many more times can I get shot or eat poisoned bait & survive?

I like the story of La Que Saba, the Wild Woman. I’d like to think that one of these days I might be able to breathe life into old bleached bones, watch them go from bones to wolf to woman, flying off across the washes & mesas, howls turning into laughter & tears. I’d like to be the wolf who comes from under there into the world up here, through the hole in the sky, to rebirth myself in a new skin and sing a new song. I know one day I might actually be free, but at times I don’t think I can wait til I’m old & wearier than I am now. I’m so tired now that I can’t think straight anymore.

I’m sitting here watching a program on the Discovery channel about tattoos, and having tattoos does make me feel like I’m part of some arcane society... I’m looking at these tribal Maori facial tattoos called “moko”. I think when I am old and no longer have to worry about my job potential, I’m going to get facial tattooing. I love the photos of the women from the ‘30's & ‘40's who were prostitutes & circus side show acts, & I wish it was that easy now, & that inexpensive. Here’s a 72-year old woman being tattooed by her daughter - it’s her 2nd tattoo, and she’s not even flinching. I can’t wait til we start making some money again, because I think now if I’m gonna waste a bunch of money, it’s going on my skin.
perzephone: (Default)
aka the 'Net... So anyway, I posted all 100 or so pages of personal notes I've collected about the Tarot on one of AOL's message boards. I've gotten some positive response from those snotty bastards at least. Rob keeps saying I should publish all my herb & Tarot stuff, but so much of it has been gotten from other places that I don't really want to have to contact all those publishers to get all the permissions to reprint, have to write footnotes, endnotes & a bibliography. All that college term paper crap.
Speaking of college, my husband's nephew is taking Geography this coming semester. It can't be as bad as his history class was.
I've come to the determination that working at the Atlantis Resort in the Bahamas is my dream job. Night auditor by night, beach bum by day. I imagine I'd probably have to work some serious mojo to get that job. My next step is getting the Lead night audit position. (Move over, Nora...) Getting the secondary night audit position has given me a little more confidence in my abilities to manifest my desires. It only took 2 years, after all...

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Rainbow Serpent Woman

August 2014

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