Jan. 23rd, 2016

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So I stumble  home in the dark and I walk in the ice-black street scorning the ice-white sidewalk, daring cars with a glare I borrowed from my father.

I burst into my house & intoxicated, stumble over a book I wrote & made that lies on the floor, it's kicked unceremonioulsy into the pile of paintings I've made. I turn on the lights & I realize, or...  Well I decide.

To say these things that i've thought, tonight.  About my shamanism.

I went dancing tonight & I come home - and it's home.  There's the weird, sort of noxious admixture of frankincense & stale cigarette smoke & burning electrons - There's the grandfather clock with the goblin mask & the robin in the snowheraldry, therobin in the snow painting on the wall and the others, half a dozen paintings on the wall that I painted, a few score on the floor, and a book I made laying there, to be tripped over on my rugs, piled on top of each other, my Uzbeki robes hanging over my wingback chairs.  I am home, where the lights shine, colored red and with all the books & articles surrounding-  all the oils of far off lands & the weird, frankly wierd array of possesssions I've decided to possess.  The coins of made up nations, the books I've written & made just for myself, the decks of unplayable cards & the vials of experimental liquids, scents of my invention.  There are the swords & staves, the stacked, strange cups, the dice of unconventional denomination, the electronis hat I've been building...

At the club tonight there's a faint rythm underlying the songs - and I recall, sitting-watchin, catching my breath, that I used to, once, feel the power, of a place, of a music & rythym - that I once practiced an ecstatic tradition - that I could by heavy dancing gather power - and you know this, when I talk about it - this strength.

It courses through you - you feel it best in your shoulders but it snakes down your arms into your hands - on the right is the negative charge on the left the positive - you can press your hands together and a heat is made & you sit, catching your breath in the corner watching them all dance - a mass, a force & it's your force, a power that builds & builds within you.  So I try and draw the force - I'm out dancing after all, catching my breath after dancing, and dancing some more.

I'm good at dancing.  Always was, always am.  It's something I love in myself - I'm good at dancing and love to do it, and I find the rythyms just fine, and I find the beats just fine - though they're thick & sloppy and the EDM of today isn't to my taste.  Music is just affect, it's a neccesarry but lamentable artifice of dancing - there's no call for music except that it moves your ass.  That's the main thing.

So I dance and dance and then sitting to catch my breath I tap out the fat, uncomfortably contrived beats.  I tap them out baniging my copper rings - one for each hand on the back of the couch.  Smelling of arabian oils & turkish tobacco & dutch lager and american sweat.  And I think & have a baleful sense of regret - that this used to be my place of strength - my shamanism.  An extatic tradition - I mean - I came up in an ecstatic tradition - dance & sweat & darkness & rythyms.

But I come home to a house full of the things I've made - I've moved on & I realize it, to a fetishistic tradition, my shamanism is changed, I am changed.  I don't know.  I can't say for the better-  I've learned some tricks, I've gone from the actual & intensive to the imaginary - deep into that, into dreams & falsehoods, I've gone into the world.

I walk, you understand, with a deliberate strength - something they don't teach you but that they recognize at Tango lessons, intention - force - there's me and a me that's a foot ahead of where I'm standing - there's Intention.  This is a kind of power - but it's not the main power in me.  At the club there is music and I try and gather the strength of all the motion in my hands but they feel - my hands - not like my own hands.  The feel like a stranger's hands - older than they aught to be and rougher-  they've made a lot of things and these things...

I've put my strength in things and that's my shamanism now, possessions, or well - Works.  I can make something...  And so much force is in it.  I've given away a lot of them,  That's in my character, to give away things, but I've put myself in them.

I can feel myself.  Stretched thin, I'm stronger than anything.  I'm sure of it, Stronger, but not as strong as I was, or am, I am still.  Time...

There's a lot of consideration - it's shamanism after all, the varried uncanny motions - I have strength.  More than most, I have inention.  But These parts - I've made and given - and once they didn't matter and now they do.

This is my tradition.  There is no soul but the soul I decided to make.  I remember now, vain ambitions - I'vedissassociated my Self from myself.

Anyhow there's dancing and I'm great at dancing.  I dance all night & stop to catch my breath in the dark under strobing lights & I'm magic as ever, but not like before.  I have to consider things.  I have to think of them.  In a different way.  Now.


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