Lizard's Rules For (mostly) Safe And (relatively) Sane Mysticism, part one

#1 anticipate insanity
The line between Mystic and Total Fucking Nutball is very very thin. Instead of fearing and avoiding insanity, accept it, prepare for it, and plan ways to mitigate or compensate for it. Cultivate non mystic friends and partners who are willing and able to tell you that you are getting too wierd. Listen to them.
#2 Don't drink the cool-aid
ALWAYS maintain, in the front of your mind, the idea that you could be COMPLETELY wrong about all this mysticism shit. It might well be self-deception, wish-fulfillment, insanity or fraud.
#3 Don't prepare Cool-Aid for the consumption of others
When you talk about mysticism, to believers and skeptics alike, understate everything. Cultivate doubt in both yourself and in others, and do it openly and in stark terms. Whenever possible, avoid passionate implorement. Don't try to convert people, don't try to convince them, don't try to make them admire you, don't try to impress them.

Bletherous Redultatude.

Blitherous redultatude.


I defrobulized her,
but it was too late, the damage had been done,
and nothing I could do whould make the priloprop stop klelunkling.
We wept as she frobbed, gilwhackily.

the elpler-splogue bespracheted the morgravinder
but to no avail, because her melenphytoc brusbander odburrulled,
and none of the frabjons were trained in the ways of norplicks.

The defrobulizing was eccemidic, but softly so,
and her brouebabs rose and fell and rose and fell,
and became hicklinjipy with the strain
but the bribs of her impinder did not return,
and we mourned and freeflined,
while the sprival light sank slowly from our sight.

The defrobulizing continued, much to her extreme norbutrer.
She bagan to thrash violently, then she smarmled on the cruiplod
and begged forgiveness for her brimundling.

we glivened her, as she had asked us to,
but she then refused to plorn,
so we glivened her again.
On the third, she wraksplinted, and knew no more.

The frobinjay and the norplicks formed a line about us,
gleegily replerting the entire, vast ungulanimy.

"It Falls To US!" he shouted,
and the pleeving of the groschnacks
became even more groobed.

I defrobulized her, tho she wanted it not,
but the brusbanders,
the small brusbanders,
must spilf all the rells.

So we sat, forlorn and blugaggled.
I splonted her, and she splonted me.
but the megleg was too palfruous
and our passion, mingled and thrensed together
bleered us both through the glupless night.

Sklergs quefrelled through the dark trull
leaving bits of it smooming on the carpets
so that all who schinted there felt the creplerous waufgham.

Now, in this place, glivening us together under blufrand,
the creplerousness is bethriven. And had bethrived.
in the end, her plabulousness churminked.
Finally, and we all agreed.

our salten tears befriddled the path,
and we norblered it no more.
Norblered no more.

It was the bleen, it was always just the bleen

Cathartic Whine?

Probably aught to change the name of the blog from "half a bag of mojo" to "Cathartic Whine"

Ramble

an 8 on the pain scale tonight, so pardon partial incoherence.


Pain is almost impossible to write around.
I can absorb anger, I can redirect misery, I can channel love and passion.
Physical pain is just something I am not good at. It grabs my attention away from everything else and what makes it to the keyboard is usually a simple rant, pointless, meandering and unfocused. Opoid analgesics take a bunch of the pain away, but the result is no writing at all, and for me that is tantamount to clinical depression, I tailspin quickly. So, half and half, I suck it up, write, feel good about myself until the next day when the pain is worse, I medicate, and get nothing done, feel like crap about it and endure the next day, and on and on and on.
Whine bitch moan complain.

Untitled. (grief?)

I stood aside and watched her cry
a deep, wracking cry
a lament that seemed to include
the whole of creation in mourning

"I wasn't nothing before him
and now I'm nothing again"
she moaned, swaying softly
over and over
until all the black-suited mourners had gone
and it was just she and I
and a coffin-sized patch of dirt
in the stone-pocked irregular meadow

"wasn't nothing, nothing, nothing"
she said, gaining ferocity
the moan changing to a grunt
then to a yell
and finally to a scream

and I watched her hands clench to fists
and her knees buckle, as she sank
and hit the ground in time with her shouted fury
on her knees
she genuflected anger and hate
her arms, and her tears, hitting the fresh grave
until she had nothing left.

She melted down
and stretched herself across the grave
and tried, vainly, to die with him.

And I had to turn away and hate myself
because I could do nothing.
nothing.