Monday, August 21, 2023

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent

 As part of this process, I journal every day. Even if it's just a few lines beyond my 3/6/9 of "Sheila comes back to me" (trying to be clear with the universe about what I want and not just "Sheila" which the universe might interpret as a desire to be a cross dresser), I try to at least put some thoughts down, explain my day of depression, the reason for my listlessness, the creeping apathy and doubt that invades my space for manifesting you.

Readers were warned in my first manifesting post that this would be mostly refined portions of a journal somewhat influenced by Natalie Goldberg. Writing down the bones as it were, this post a perfect example of where dem bones will take me. That's what I thought it would be, at the start. What's resulted is some of that raw writing from my marble composition book ending up getting posted here but many times, this becomes a second type of journal, one where my id-driven superego takes control and steers these posts into places I hadn't considered. 

Who knows what this will be?

Today's journal entry was devoted to a rule of manifesting someone (or something), that I shouldn't focus on the "how" and "when" but on the end result, the "us" that I know we'll have one day. How we are in the spacetime that we've created for each other, how our passion guides us to the end of our lives. So, where I left off from the Natalie Goldberg exercise, I pick up on this in my so-called secondary journal. 

The Strangeloves I Want Candy just came up on my Spotify, chef's kiss.

Your kiss, our embrace, our vibrations moving back and forth and sharing energy, holding each other's face and locking a gaze that shares a joyful disbelief that what we are once is again ours. Floating to the couch, still kissing and face holding and vibrating with increasing intensity, breathing in the moment and settling those breaths into memories being birthed. Then another breath, a release and then a mighty inhalation, fingers intertwined, still bathed in the light between fortune and disbelief.

We will make love several times before we sink into slumber, embraced and sighing through our dreams, but we simply have to catch up, at least somewhat. I crave knowing where you've been this last decade and I'm sure you want to hear about the dismal years since I royally fucked up and pushed you out. Our extremely condensed accounts will last until the wee hours, a bottle of wine or two to loosen our tongues in preparation for some serious entanglement. 

Let the Good Times Roll, Jimi Hendrix version, just came up. More convergence for this post (just like Radiohead's Nude a few minutes ago). It's those kinds of synchronicities that boost my faith in this entire manifesting enterprise. An atheist almost my entire life, I'm invested in the world I suspected existed but poo-poohed as metaphysical nonsense, putting all my chips on numbers and the things that got us to the  apparent end of humanity.  

Fuck Sam Harris and Richard Dawkins and the rest of those blinkered philistines. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

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