Image: Annie Konst
Reports of Underworld omnipresence pop up across the web. Those with access to free psychic drift clock the Underworld’s current, two worlds blooming in opposite directions. It feels like it’s everywhere lately. As though a window was left open 3,000 miles away but somehow we’re all feeling the draft.
I’ve been baking my own little treats in order to be “economical” but I got a craving for coconut macaroons. I picked some up fresh and gleaming in their box. Usually I store them in the fridge so I can eat them cold, but I was so tired from my workout I forgot and left them on the counter.
Less than seven hours later, long socked, hoodied, hair braided back, I start to make my morning coffee and decide I’ll have one now as a pre-coffee snack. Imagine my surprise (!) when the macaroons have grown mold.
A thick layer of green-blue fuzz microbial fur purring. I stare at it for a long time. The clock in my kitchen ticks.
In the boon, there is no doubt my name has been called. There is no more transcending, going beyond, controlling. This is Christianized, sky-daddy language and anyway, mostly, it’s unhelpful.
Shame spirals are for traveling. Literal points of destination. Go there and experience it. See you on the other side (fingers crossed).
I’ve been dancing. Heels classes. If we want to put our finger on the source of bodily shame, try to dance to choreo that’s dripping of sex & femininity. Color me triggered. Now you see their arms - now you don’t. I have no idea how to make that shape, and I’ve already forgotten it as soon as it stops.
When someone in class asks, "What if I can’t physically do that”
that was btw floor to knees to straight squat with an active three step body roll the instructor said: go to the gym.
I love this one