I’ve never been a very good crystal witch; I’ve been a bit of a lacking in crystals witch to be honest…that is until now. And everything has gone bonkers. A combination of back at (school) work, some shit luck fused with (subjectively speaking) some of the best poetry I have ever written, almost like a new epoch on the architectural horizon… a new level of…not understanding but way of dealing.
Life is one trillion-skillion-billion miles an hour and some things have been sent to test me.
A little over three weeks ago I invested in some new crystals…I say new, I had/have a massive piece of clear quartz which I left in a grid in a special outdoor haunt, have a small quartz finger on my indoor working space and another on a tool…all quartz.
So, I bought two amethyst fingers and a lovely piece of carnelian. The carnelian I swear I can feel in my other hand when it’s not there such is the holy-fuck-feel it gives my palm, along with perhaps an arthritic warning. Axis-mundi, corridor, shaft of light; the place where all stories meet; eternity measured in depth, not time. The carnelian – if it was a bloke, or a poet – is definitely an Aquarian.
The amethyst works beautifully with meditation; a nice energy circuit. Smash the State. Undercover amethyst.
So, what has this got to do with anything apart from this stream of emotions, images and experiences. They’ve helped sustain a routine – meditation and ritual. Also, creating other outlets are the two quartz fingers I bought this Saturday (still prefer the undercover anarchist), a piece of citrine and a chunk of smoky quartz. There are more to come I assure you, along to ‘cross my palm with silver.’
But it didn’t stop me, in the real world, getting into a confrontation with a railway ticket operator yesterday; the railway companies in Britain are like the mafia, they are happy to have people standing squashed because they won’t put on another carriage blah blah. They are the epitome of irresponsible capitalism designed to ready people for having the piss taken out of them eternally blah. Nor did it stop some children in my Year 5 class giving a bad show today AND the way I reacted to it (I swear I had some money stolen from my wallet today). Then, as we do, stumbling across a tramp passed out (probably on spice – a recently criminalised ‘legal high’) on the way home and the amount of people walking by….WTF. My day.
Like I said, a trillion miles an hour. We called an ambulance until his drongo mates picked him up and took him away, still unconscious.
And yet there is always that acknowledgement that in order for good things to happen and there have been plenty of those recently, the shit must necessarily hit the fan. The poetry Gods demand I suffer…not only do I carry the ever-spectre of a destructive personality but alongside this there just have to be random, circumstantial events of shitness too..
… and yet there is a big part of me that is trying to take the esoteric poem to a new level – out with the old and tired renditions and retelling. And thus, it is that the only good thing I can say about the aforementioned shitfuckery that is the railway company – GWR – is that this morning they were catalyst to an entire poem about a bad dream last night. And the dreams too…oh the dreams and even when I think, no, can’t remember at some weird time they come back, or have recently, every day. And they’ve also allowed me some snippets regarding poetical theory…I know, it’s really interesting.
What has tested me recently, could only be working alongside the destructive personality traits, that I own entirely (the sacrifice upon the altar of poesis) but something
has twigged and these small fixate-able things – alongside my old friend meditation, don’t move me in the way they did. I don’t fixate unless I want to learn. I have learnt not to dwell on misfortunes, allowing it to undermine me as once it did. Perhaps one day I will become immovable…there is very much a zen kind of thing happening.
And so it is that I have to leave you with the alarming truth…that I have begun also to read articles on poetical theory. This one, blew my mind…organic poetry…uuuuuhhh.
Sadly, she can’t be me reincarnated because the dates don’t work but she did a damn good job of describing the method. I’m sure you’ll all find it an invigorating, bedtime read of considerable interest…naturally.
© Sam R Geraghty