dandelions dancing in the wind or was it daisies?
Kill Your Guru
A patamystic blog by Eric Jennings. Creative non-fiction, poetry, art, and noise, from the perspective of a male survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
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from the sacrilege series
to be alone with myself
FUCK ART MAKE NOISE
paranoia is terrifying, petrifying, but also seductive. it's an attempt to make sense of a world in which almost everything is illusory
I make photos and other visual art. Mostly digital. Some analog. Some both.
He steps off the path and into the trees, carefully stepping around briars and broken branches. He continues until he finds a small clearing. He looks back to be sure it’s far enough from the trail to be safe – to be unseen.
The high priestess is the Gateway, she offers you the key to your subconscious, your dreams, your intuition. Listen to your subconscious, the wisdom you have deep within. You need to blend your intellect with your intuition as you embark on the spiritual journey.
another little piece of the story... (this is an addendum to this) i had intended to bring a tarot deck to use in my personal part of this weekend's ritual, but i absent-mindedly left it home last night, while pondering what i'm going to say/do
Pagan Influences on the Psyche of People Living With CPTSD, or Blowing My Own Mind, in Which I'm the Hero
we may have been victimized while young and powerless, but we are today survivors who carry within us the seeds of power and liberation from the pain of suffering
FUCK ART MAKE NOISE
He was never really lost.
he never spoke to me again. without explanation, i knew how to say the word. pumiquat. it's not what you think. nor what you expect. it's a secret. i've only told you the part that you're allowed to know
i'm not always sure if a story in the archive is a memory or a dream
One of the key symptoms of paranoia is the belief that one is the literal center of the universe. What I mean by that is that the entire world, as far as human perception allows, exists solely for the purpose of tormenting, and ultimately, murdering me.
Could those human bones we dug up that time have been cursed? Could I have been cursed? Could we have been cursed? We put them back, but maybe that didn’t help. I did everything I could to avoid digging up the bones of my assault.
i was touched by you i was torched by you you put your boot on my face
As we wept—my father and I—I wondered if it was for his friend, after all. I wondered if it was for him. I wonder if it was for me.
The original trauma was birth and everthying that follows is but preparation for the trauma of death. Of letting go of all that we have learned. It is only through remembering that we can die because remembering is to forget.
The thing I remember most about being young is the longing I felt, though I knew not for what.
