I hope that our few remaining friends
give up on trying to save us.
I hope we come up with a fail-safe plot
to piss off the dumb few that forgave us.
I hope the fences we mended
fall down beneath their own weight.
And I hope we hold on past the last exit.
I hope it’s already too late.
So, I finally did it.
Finally managed to get in contact with someone who doesn’t suck in order to deal with my anxiety. It’s become overwhelming given my spiritual/”woo” breakdown, work concerns, family concerns, and health concerns.
But I won’t rant about health problems and what not. This blog has been, more or less, a chronicle of my failure as a spiritual human being so I see no reason to expand the misery and talk about my other failures. I mean, I’m not a failure; however, my inability to do anything right has been well documented at this point.
I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow.
I hope it bleeds all day long.
Our friends say it’s darkest before the sun rises.
We’re pretty sure they’re all wrong.
I hope it stays dark forever.
I hope the worst isn’t over.
And I hope you blink before I do,
and I hope I never get sober.
What I’ve been pondering on and off for the past couple of weeks is what I’m going to do once I get a grip on anxiety and work on myself a bit more. I’ve come to the conclusion that, in dealing with the exhausting reality that is anxiety, I’m left with no more emotional or mental spoons to deal with anything but myself. Even now I’m sort of toeing the edge.
Maybe I’ll just go the atheistic route, like Buddhism. As sure as shit stinks I haven’t done well in the theistic arena. Oh, let me count my fucks up. . . but don’t make me account for them again. The flogging concluded ages ago, thank you.
It would be great to find some sort of elder or at least someone who isn’t a complete dumb fuck to help me along. Why anyone would mentor me, of all people, is the question.
I wish I didn’t have some sort of inner drive to do this sort of thing to myself. But I’ve always been interested in “woo”. There’s no denying it. There have been years when I haven’t touched it at all only to find a latent interest reactivated at random. So might as well see this trainwreck through once and for all. At least now I have the benefit of emotional and financial stability, along with some experience and a big helping of wisdom that I could have used like two years ago.
I miss being Kemetic.
I miss that wildly optimistic time where I thought I’d found somewhere I belong.
There’s the matter of the extended psychotic breakdown. Didn’t help with working with people, definitely didn’t help with Bast and the rest. Not to mention my dumbassery. Honestly, I’m surprised I even got a chance at all beyond the first few months.
And then, as I emerged from my psychotic breakdown, I realized that modern Kemeticism is largely like every other movement: massive amounts of fart-huffing and ass-kissing. Disagree with a BNP? Not part of the clique? To the gallows with you! Also, massive hypocrisy involving Ptahhotep. And let’s dress the gods like Barbie dolls. ‘Cause Kemeticism is soooooo zany.
Ecks. Fucking. Dee.
I mean, obviously there’s a load of humor (ranging from quite intelligent to pretty bawdy) in Kemeticism, it’s just . . . there’s a limit in my opinion. Don’t agree with me? Go fuck yourself back to your Tumblr hugbox. Or wherever you’re all congregating these days.
If I could go back in time to give myself some instructions–a sort of modern-day Wisdom Text situation–I would tell myself to stick with Kemeticism. I would tell myself to be an ardent Bubastite, to the exclusion of other Netjeru. I would tell myself to not associate too much with other Kemetics. Read what they have to say, absorb the information that seems relevant, ask questions related directly to academic/Kemetic texts, etc., but do not interact with them beyond that. Do not try to join the community.
They are not your people.
And I hope when you think of me years down the line,
you can’t find one good thing to say.
And I’d hope that if I found the strength to walk out,
you’d stay the hell out of my way.
I am drowning; there is no sign of land.
You are coming down with me,
hand in unlovable hand.
And I hope you die. I hope we both die.
March 3 is my local date for the Festival of Chewing Onions for Bast.
Doesn’t that seem fitting? I can’t, for the life of me, remember what, if anything, the chewing onions is for, or if there’s even onion-chewing involved. Doesn’t really matter, does it?
Onions have what’s known as astringency–basically a sharp, spiciness of flavor that most palates can’t handle (thus most people cook onions at least a little bit).
An onion describes close to perfectly how I’m feeling about life, the universe, and everything. Throw in some goba for the bitter disappointment and we’ve got a party going on here.
And oh, let’s peel through these years of layers of fucked up shit.
I miss Bast.
Or maybe I just miss the certainty. I really don’t know anymore.
A couple months ago, I had a dream where she told me to kiss her. Thanks, brain. That is exactly what I needed in order to pick up the pieces. You are a prize among gray matter.