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March: a manifesto

March 1, 2015

Both Spouse and I woke up with splitting headaches . . . probably due to the icy snow crinkling against the windows.

(Alas, Spouse has to work, so he took Tylenol, and luckily his headache is diminishing.)

I had a dream this morning that perhaps connects to a dream a week ago. Before I can write about either dream, I need to write about the epiphany/metaphor I mentioned a few days ago.

Because of the type of Project Month this is, I can’t preface writing about the metaphor with apologizing for it (as I feel compelled to do). If I did do that, I would essentially be apologizing for existing at all, and for being what and who I am, as if I didn’t deserve to exist. I have to learn how to stop doing all of that — it’s hugely destructive, and demoralizing.

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I tend to think in images, so it came to me as an image from a disturbing and unsettling film I’ve only seen twice, but certain images from it have enormous staying power in my psyche. It’s Princess Mononoke, by Hayao Miyazaki.

The image is of the stag/goat-creature with a thicket of antlers, that lives deep in the forest. I’m guessing its archetype is analogous to the rarely-seen white stag in a forest, of Celtic mythology.

It’s a Magical Being.

It doesn’t do magic; it is magic.

I feel there’s some kind of anti-connection with a Fairy Godmother, because FGs do perform magic, by granting wishes.

A Fairy Godmother is embedded in a fixed social structure, and just … “evens out” your lack of advantages … but she doesn’t change the society itself, which is still unfair to almost everyone. She’s inherently social, in nature and in function.

I’m a human being, of course, so I’m … inherently social, I guess, but my milieu is more analogous to the forest that a Magical Being lives in, as far as other human beings are concerned.

{I’m thinking through this as I type, and my head hurts, and I don’t know if it makes any sense.}

I’ve had numinous encounters with various beings, usually organisms, sometimes the ocean or mountains, sometimes the spirits of place, once or twice … for lack of a better word, an archetype. I wouldn’t presume to ask them for anything — just being privileged enough to be able to interact with them in that moment was … amazing, astonishing, unlooked-for. Something I’ll always remember with awe and gratitude and wonder.

That’s the “magical” part of Magical Being in my metaphor.

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It seems like it’s something that’s possible (but not very probable) that someone who encountered me might recall the encounter with “awe and gratitude and wonder”. Someone like that hypothetical person, though, would be more likely to only encounter me once, not regularly.

{That’s the part where I would apologize for suggesting it, but I can’t, because that’s self-hating, and I’m not … consciously… doing that anymore.}

I’m not very good at Regular/Everyday Life, which I can’t seem to get the hang of. But I’m very good at Extraordinary Life, which (by definition) happens irregularly. Probably why I’ve (instinctively?) immersed myself in mythology … it gives me ways to talk about things that, supposedly, don’t actually happen. Except that they do, to me, with me, for me.

Probably why I’m a poet. A mystic. A dreamer.

I can’t help you get ahead at work. But when things hang in the balance between Life and Death, I know what to do. (Sometimes.) When those tricky emotions that ordinary people prefer never to feel show up, I’m not only familiar with them, they’re old friends.

When you’re lost in a (magical) forest, I’m … home.

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When I’m allowed to be the only one of my kind, then I’m at home anywhere in the world.

To feel comfortable, I need to be a stranger. I need to not belong … to your society, your friend-group, your way of life, your religion, your profession, your anything.

I deeply, profoundly need to be singular, to be one of a kind.

If you can love me for being me, I’ll always return to you, with a song in my heart. I have to roam, I have to explore and discover, but I’ll come back … as long as you recognize that I’m Wild. That I don’t secretly long to be Normal, or One of Us. If you don’t try to change me — if you can love me for me — I can bring you gifts you can’t imagine.

But I can’t stay, I can’t “settle down”, I can’t … Become Normal. And suggesting that I should want that, you’re telling me you wish I was dead, or didn’t exist. You wish the world didn’t contain magic. I can’t love you, after you say that. I can’t return anymore.

Imagine the knife in your heart of missing someone who wishes people like you didn’t exist.

I have no tribe, and I want no tribe.

I want to be me. I want to be loved for being me.

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