Vieni, ragazza!
I have very little but what I have, I love. I fell in love with the littleness of my life before I had the sense to feel any shame.
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Will is expressed through the body, through desire, through dreams, and through the evanescent visions we _may have throughout our life, the vision of the larger life.
— Creating a Life, James Hollis
The rest of my life begins now, in the fertile soil of my mind’s eye.
Venusian themes. Emotional-desire entities. Inside myself: vast feminine vegetation. The incubation of my wildest fantasies. I want to become a sturdy, well-rounded woman, a woman who spends her time in the world: who can be dependable: artistic: buoyant: organically expressive. I think I’ve transcended my previous apprehension towards this endless wanting. Wanting to not just be but to become. I understand the health of it now. Wanting to become—a spiritual impulse. There is a part of me that is learning how to be more strict, forbidding, about where my time goes. I am learning from my past how to read the misty cards of the future. Extrapolation/earthly intuition.
In order to create a life, I must be aware of the ideas that own me.
The ideas weave the web of my world whether I want to look at them or not.
Not obsessed with changing myself, erasing myself, or becoming more like you or him or her. Interested in creating more useful Self fictions.
What can really blossom from me if I’ve not cleaned out the complexes of my history that move through me and around me like invisible ropes of ivy? The emotionally charged materials of the past walk into my days with me, building and building, laying ornate jade bricks. Am I ready to challenge and question my unconscious readings of the world? Can I risk becoming a larger person? I’m not the only one of us consumed by questions of who to be, what to be, how to go about it—why can I not live my life in a constant line?—and the endless pursuit of untouchable clarity gives me the illusion that I’m taking part in meaningful activity. But January becomes December. The wildflowers blossom and die.
I believe that I am a new invention and again I sit down to write something like: the rest of my life begins now.
After making the decision to loyally update my Substack once a week, I fall asleep for the nap that I told myself I wouldn’t take, pulled down by the drowsy powder of an almost-wintry 4pm. I dream of mothering triplets, contracting an intelligent glowing blindness, a miraculous birth in a pool of deep black water, flashes of dangerous lucidity. I see with love instead of eyes, I cook with love instead of flames. Giovanni enters my body psychically and with his somatic amorous knowledge of everything I am and everything I need, he instructs my hands, my feet, my being, and wraps me up in a safe romantic aura that follows me into reality and purifies the air. When I wake up, unknown time has passed.
Romance and creation hang on the bare walls like portraiture.
I don’t think immediately about the fact that I’m down to my last twenty euros. I text Giovanni: You were in my dream. I couldn’t see but you were my hands and my feet for me. Your love for me took over my body and gave me the strength to move everywhere. He replies instantly with a heart emoji.
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