This new medicine I was prescribed makes me emotionally sensitive. Practically all of the events I normally get worked up about get more heightened responses. I stopped smoking in October of 2007, and after the initial withdrawals calmed down I was able to cope with my urge for a cigarette pretty good most of the time. Now, this methotrexate seems to amplify the nicotine urges I'm usually able to toss off with aplomb, and are once again a conscious struggle.
Much of what happened to me in my life happened spontaneously, randomly, and serendipitously because I threw my body away for the good of the game. What happened to my body when I was young wasn't even considered a threat unless I found myself in actual dire straits. I finally figured out that a situation some called "dire straits" didn't mean that situation was "dire straits" to me.
Chronic fatigue and debilitating hunger were the real catalysts for my odd esoteric experiences when I was out in some wild place alone. Hardly ever did power express itself to me with other people around, until the true sacraments trickled down to the little people. No blame. f
It almost had the feeling that the participates had to recognize themselves as the only key needed to go through the invisible gate. The most intriguing out of body experiences for me were the spontaneous ones that came outta nowhere and swooped me off to a place I wouldn't have known how to pray for.
I've grown fond of using the pray/prey conundrum. Occasionally, just changing either word to the other puts an odd or unusual slant of the topic I'm writing about as if I've entered some eerie dimension so far out of my normal range and scope, that I wouldn't have known how or what to pray for by meager description. I like to use "prey" and "pray" interchangeably just to grok the possibles. It helps me with stalking wild mushrooms.
Stalking is like seeking prey as if you're fervently praying not to make a mistake and missing the kill. Being extra quiet and diligent because you're hungry, and a missed kill will sap up even more of your waning energy. Using an attitude of devout prayer to stalk your prey so intensely and pointedly that the prey itself dictates your entire behavior, and once done, the notion that you're both the hunter and the hunted is foregone.
As a homeless wanderer I lived in a constant state of shock, for the most part, and even if I always had some sort of home I could possibly go to as refuge, I wouldn't let myself do that for the unmitigated sha-me of it. I needed the shame. I sought it out among strangers who would never know my nayme or kith or kin. I was the only one like me they would ever gnow.
Being a prodigal son is the spirit quest of a shaman. Shamed shamen are people who move through the roar of the misery of people who have behaved shamelessly, and woefully regret it. Some people can't live with the shame of some act or deed they have knowingly done, and their miserable relatives will jump through hoops to pay you to get them to stop doing that for as long as it takes to keep their stopping still.
Living as a bum serves as the ultimate education for understanding the deepest depths of despair. Nobody nose yo' nayme. "Hey... you... come over here! Now!" Being nosed out when you're trying to be invisible is humiliating. There is no where to go your detractors don't know more about than you ever will. A hell-bent mob or gang learns to smell out what's wot about a homeless bum. Bums are usually smelly because it reinforces the fact that they're not acting poor for the sake of unearned alms. It is the odor that makes a man a real bum, and authenticates them as okay to patronize with a pittance of trickle down.
A blood sacrifice can be necessary for especially shameless people of the icky sort. Hot blood from a recently hand-wrung, decapitated chicken dripping all over the naked body of the miscreant, while laying on the cold bare ground. It has to happen while the dying chicken is still flopping wildly in it's death throes. This must take place at dawn in some trumped-up holy place in freezing temperatures. It has helped many a soul return from the fiery depths of hell, and to wear their previous lack of dignity proudly as if a crown.
You know how it is with mojos, ya pick the one you hope will represent the bottom of the barrel to the perspective client and take your best shot. One of the worst things a practitioner can do is underestimate the competition. After all, licensed medicos get to legally use radiation, chemotherapy, SHOCK TREATMENT, huge scary hypodermic needles, etc, and all you got is wit and grit. The AMA don't take kindly to any sort of competition for THEIR money.
Since I think Eden is a place inside our hollow Sun where the corona dances wild with angels and flaming swords (solar eruptions) to keep out impure thoughts, my sopho-moronic thoughts about the Genesis myth probably wouldn't be that useful to you.
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
