Man (AKA Michael) with a monkey - Iquitos, Peru
This last week has felt like a continuous, uber-intense acid trip – full of uncontrollable peaks and valleys, and spotted with profound realizations that roll through my brain-firings every millisecond. Now that I’m rising from the hellfires, I gotta say – it’s been awesome. In that Please Don’t Ever Make Me Do This Again kinda way.
I dreamt about fish last night. There was one fish in particular that dominated – a gigantic shiny silverfish that could live outside of water. I borrowed him from an anonymous friend for the evening, laid him on my night stand, and listened. He was supposed to tell me the secrets I needed to know – I could feel that. I’m not sure what he said, as nothing remained in the conscious thoughts, but it worked. I gave him back the next day, honored him by eating a fish dish called Barramundi (I have no idea what that is, but it seemed tasty), and considered my work completed. Then I woke up.
Fish symbolize god, spirituality, and your higher self. I looked it up this morn in dream interpretation texts, and holy christ, that couldn’t be more appropriate. I’ve been yammering on and on this week about Listening to that enlightened part of me that actually Knows shit, and this is proof that I’m on the right/write path. Goddamn it, our minds are amazing.
What’s more, I’ve identified, at least in part, the source of my broken-ness. When I ended things with the Beloved this week, I never once felt anger towards him; only to myself. I’ve been trying to figure out what is so bloody wrong with me that I would repeatedly fall in love with someone that couldn’t or wouldn’t reciprocate, and in the process, give up my identity almost entirely. Last night, when I asked the question – “Why are you such a freaking martyr?” I was reminded that I used to call my Mom the very same moniker. It’s true that we learn about love from our parents – they’re our first and most prominent examples of what a relationship should be. My parents, they’re still together, and they’re absolutely beautiful people, but Mom gave up everything to be a wife + mother. Including herself. She took care of my Grandfather for 12 years before he passed, and now does the same for my Grandma, and she conformed every part of herself to match the expectations of my passively dominant father. I don’t fault her for this, but it makes sense why I do the same, in spades. She has never, ever wanted me to be married with kids, however – it’s her way of saying – Don’t do what I did. She has always emphasized independence and free-spiritedness with me, which I am SO grateful for – but I keep doing as she does, not as she says.
Well now, sense that is making. I’m really going to try to break the proverbial mold on that one. Or die tryin’.
Right now, however, I’m going to be petting the cat. One of my dearest Amazon warrior friends gave me that phrase, also in relation to an acid trip. And no, it is not a sexual euphemism 
In essence, it means to me a letting go of the profundity for a spell, and just being. Just existing. In this case, petting a cat. Finding peace in simplicity, and taking a time out from the battles. Yes, that’s what my weekend will be. The cat in question is literal – that would be one Mr. Boo, the only relationship on this planet I haven’t ever faltered on or royally screwed-up. So after a week of self-imposed drama and an endless string of lightbulb moments, I’m sourcing some down time.
If you’re still out there after all this hullabaloo, thanks for the mojo.
