From the Horse's Mouth

Parasites, auto theft, and forced restraint

Posted in Dreams, scarlet woman, Visions by theskinhorse on July 7, 2011

The events I am about to recount all took place on his territory; I did not come Home the entire time. Many of my material possessions mentioned are not actually mine. People without names are fillers or symbols of some sort. The negativity is dense and unpleasant to trudge through, but these messages need a place.

A disjointed snippet manifests: I awake in Radar’s apartment next to him. Two of our friends had stayed the night: J&K. Upon waking, we all rise and begin to scratch ourselves. Each one comments on the small bites we see on our bodies. J is the first to remove his shirt, saying he thinks there are parasites in the bedding. Indeed, we see a handful of small black and red arachnids spill out of his shirt. We freak at the sight and all begin to remove our clothes. Before too long, the bugs become overwhelming underfoot. Heading to the front door, we stomp them into insect pancakes. Outside and mostly naked, we try to formulate a plan to get rid of as many inside as possible as they are multiplying.

Cut

I was at Radar’s apartment. What we were doing- I can’t remember. I was in my lounging clothes while he was fully dressed, obviously expecting company besides myself. Almost in unison, Lomax and Renee turn up at the door. Lomax quickly addresses Rada, and they start immediately going over plans. Renee is distraught. She comes to me with her typically neatly packed emotional totes, and I can see what a mess the contents have made. I tend to her needs as the men continue planning. Through her tear-streaked lament, I vaguely hear Radar in the background asking me about particular food at a particular place. He stands close, his eyes boring into me as I try to focus on Renee and deliver her the TLC she so sorely needs. Lomax becomes more impatient as the seconds tick away. Nudging his friend, again the inappropriately timed questions interrupt. Renee doesn’t pay attention to them, but my ears get twitchy and hot at their insensitivity. I give the universal “one minute” signal to Radar as we girls move to the kitchen. The conversation comes to a close with hugs and tissues  in a few minutes. Renee thanks me sincerely and then takes her leave.

The door closes on a quiet apartment. Radar and Lomax have vacated. I send a text asking why they refused to wait less than 10 minutes for the situation to be resolved. The response I get reads that they were hungry, and it seemed like I had no interest in that particular food at that particular place. Through the symbols on the glowing background I can feel Radar’s spite and acerbity. I do not respond. Instead, the anger and resentment welling up in me drives me to collect my things in preparation to GTFO. In my storm of packing, I come across several pieces of paper strewn on Radar’s bed. They obviously came from the ajar nightstand drawer. A good person may have piled them neatly together and placed them back in the drawer, ignoring the temptation to read the unguarded information. …but a smart person would never do such a thing. I studied the text carefully. Radar’s handwriting was less familiar to me than I would have wished. The first few stanzas of the poem spoke of affection for me, and my heart softened as my grip on my bags loosened. Tears were beginning to form as I almost scolded myself for being so rash as to run off in a huff. The next stanza revealed his insecurity and uncertainty. The third stanza chipped away at my character and exalted his own. In the final stanza, an accusation broke through as my image was cast as nothing more than a whore. I left the papers where I found them and exited the apartment, bags in hand, numb and crestfallen.

Dusty winds railed me outside in the heat of the evening summer sun. The parking lot resembled a desert, and the gas station may as well have been a halfway house. Approaching my car, I saw two women (one blonde biker and one black drag queen) hovering over my car and one (white and obese) already inside the driver’s seat. I caught that this was an attempted auto theft. My patience had long since checked out, only leaving disdain, attitude and a foolish absence of fear. I nonchalantly waved them off as if they were mere flies. “C’mon, ladies, piss off. This is my car, and, though you may be attempting to steal it, I’m here now. If you all clear out, we’ll forget this ever happened. If not, I will not hesitate to stab you in the eyes with this eyeliner.”

The two hovering ladies cleared out while donning matching looks of contrived contempt. Missing scenes. I am in the passenger seat of my car now. The obese woman is driving. It is now getting dark, and, apparently, we had been talking some. The general message of her story is that she has problems, mostly financial. Sob story blah blah blah. She needs to get somewhere to meet two of her friends- that’s why she needed a car. I decide that the easiest solution is for me to drop her off and have her “owe me one.” First we stop by Radar’s for some reason. He’s still out with Lomax, thankfully. The obese woman lights a cigarette indoors as she starts texting her friends. I tell her to take it outside as I wave the smoke out the door. In a few minutes, she has coordinates of their meeting place. I drive her to her destination, which is no more than 10 minutes away. On my ride home, a “good” feeling starts to settle in. I was a nice person.

Arriving back at Radar’s apartment, I see he has returned home alone. I entertain the thought of telling him how lucky he is that my mood has changed, but instead, we greet each other as if there was no unspoken tiff. Within seconds, our hands and mouths are all over each other. Missing scenes (unfortunately).

Cut.

I am in Radar’s bedroom, tied and bound in duct tape, in a nonsexual and potentially violent way. My face is wet, so I know I had been crying. Lomax (maybe? or someone that resembles him) is in view of the door frame. His face displays aggression as he pushes two people in the room with me. My brother and Launch, two very important people to me, fall into the room, also bound. Launch is cursing and fighting against his restraints. My brother is quietly plotting escape routes. We are all saddened by seeing each other in such a state. The scene ends here with no resolution.

 

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yeah, that

Posted in meditation by theskinhorse on June 9, 2011

My playlist for the last week or so, on repeat:

Enjoy the transformed angst, the cool acceptance, the unwashed candor, the raw and bittersweet reflections.

woof

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on April 24, 2010

We arrived as the dogs were feeding. They fight amongst themselves for bones and scraps; warning growls and nips turn into deep gashes in the flesh and shrieks of pain. But these dogs are great pretenders, and they have learned what to hide and when. Microexpressions may go unnoticed by untrained eyes, but I know who writhes beneath their skin. They know  I am another species, one they cannot feed on. They assume I am not their opponent or predator. However, they would never suspect I know their breed so well.

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Silence on The Journey

Posted in Mind Goo, stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on March 6, 2010

I am the Silent One. ~~~

At every Beginning stands the Possibility of Death. At every End stands the Conquering of Death… for that Time. Where are we in The Journey?

***

Footprints show Direction and Path. So many footprints for each individual nowadays; silicon prints do not wash away like muddy ones. We can follow.

<><><>

The Scanner scans in loops. Reconnaissance is cyclical.

<*><*><*>

You don’t look so much anymore at something you’ve grown to presume to know. The landscape, the climate, is forever changing.

~<*>~<*>~

No matter how much we entertain the notion or how much we meditate on the abstraction, Death is always unanticipated. We await the journey Home.

The QUEST(ion)er and The QUEST(ioned)

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on February 23, 2010

My naïve sensibilities tell me that the QUEST is inherent to a question. There are many reasons to quest: to understand, to know, to grasp, to experience. More often than not, a quest is initiated due to the desire for the something, the finding. One does not embark on a quest unless one truly and honestly is a Seeker or seeks something. Often, with many a human or otherworldly entity, the seeking is almost synonymous with the want for something; however, it is my humble opinion that the seeking can be done with little of the want for something beyond the quest, but done out of joy of seeking and not the finding.

In my simplistic vision, I think it best to not predict outcomes or presume conditions upon entering on a quest. It is my understanding that once one predicts outcomes, one is to become disheartened, disappointed, discouraged, enraged or unhappy when the quest does not lead to the predicted outcomes. It is also my understanding that once one presumes to know conditions or overconfidently presumes one can handle the perceived conditions of the quest, the conditions of or in the quest often change. Once again, one may find oneself disheartened, disappointed, discouraged, enraged or unhappy. What’s more, one may find oneself incapacitated, disabled, victimized, lost, confused, disoriented, deluded, deranged, or any other list of horrible adjectives. My understanding is that one ought not have so much invested in the finding to become crushed upon the reality of the quest, but one ought to have enough invested to see the quest through to one ‘end’ or another. Yet, we should bear in mind that every end is arbitrary and wholly based on our perspective; The Story continues long after we have played our part. The Story never ends, and so The Quest is forever ongoing.

QUESTions beg more questions. There is no ‘end’ to the inquisition, just more rounds with different players. The only ends at which we arrive are those that satisfy our wants; we choose when and where the line ends. We choose what round we pick up, and what QUESTions interest us the most. We choose whether we are to QUESTion on our own accord, to fulfill our curiosities or desires, or whether we QUESTion on behalf of another, thereby acting as a proxy. Of course, QUEST(ion)ing by proxy usually has foreseeable complications. The proxy is a Fool and the wo/man behind the curtain is another kind of fool. Experience cannot be given, delivered or passed, and QUEST(ion)s in which one is not willing to participate may as well go undone. And so it will go undone, except for the Fool acting as the proxy; s/he will certainly find something altogether different than for what s/he was sent. Hiding behind the curtain, attempting to pull strings as others QUEST(ion) only casts one out further. Treat the QUEST(ion) as a game, and the players will become a part of The Game. Playing from behind the curtain is not playing at all.

Do not harbor so much hubris to presume that The Story, The QUEST(ion)s and The Game (not completely distinct at any given time) will bow to your control, your wants, your pleas, your whims, or your agenda. One can only be a good Storyteller by being a good character. One can only be a good QUEST(ion)er by being a good responder. One can only be a good Gamer when one is a good player. And when we meet our Selves as these, maybe we learn the (inherent?) value of acting as both and neither.

Until we see where the chips land, the possibilities reign. Predict where the chips will land, and you do not allow Possibility its moment in the sun. I doubt Possibility will be pleased so don’t be so surprised if it leaves you for those that value its presence.

Terence McKenna’s Eros and the Eschaton

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on January 28, 2010

This has been posted elsewhere, but it totally deserves a re-posting here (and the other horse as well).

Youtube has all 12 parts. You know what to do.

~ ~ ~ ~

Posted in Mind Goo by theskinhorse on September 27, 2009

The primordial landscapes known to each one of our psyches:

The Beach

The Mountains

The Forest

The Desert

The Snow Dunes

The Labyrinth

The Clouds

The Underworld

The Waters

Outer Space

All of these have secrets and The Doors to The Other, The Unseen, The Hidden. Which doors we come upon may well depend on the roads we take. And what dictates which roads those are?

Look to your feet, your wheels, your horse. Symbols of these can serve as guides. Remember to be a good traveler, to observe your surroundings, to pack for yourself (+ one), to be willing to sacrifice some of your loot, to be willing to work, to recognize Opportunity and Danger,  and to listen carefully to the Land and those you may meet on the way.

pet Fun

Posted in Dreams, Mind Goo by theskinhorse on September 14, 2009

I was astounded at the fun we could have together after skins were sloughed off. I showed you around my common haunts, directing your attention to bright colors, silly costumes, magnetic people and small pleasures. We were able to know each other as people in ways that have previously been off-limits for one reason or another. There was discussion without the format or scrutinization, and what followed was laughter and light-heartedness. It was a dream, a future potential that I would like to actualize. However, so often you seem uninterested in the frivolity, the play, fun for fun’s sake. I see you looking under the microscope more than I do, and that task is part of my daily life at work.

Maybe that’s just it: you’re always with or at work. Work is work, home is work, conversation is work, meetings are work, and play is work. I don’t see it coming naturally. The theory is laid out very nicely: reasons to open up and engage in play, what it does for us on many levels, also potentially how to  initiate it and maintain a certain level of play. The thing is, the practice is nothing like theory. Those theories and well laid plans, that’s not playing, that’s not fun.

Fun is spontaneity and improvisation. Fun does not have inhibition or fear. Fun doesn’t need reasons, and it usually doesn’t care much for your schedules and previous arrangements. I see you treating it as a pet at times. You do what you feel you need to do, and when most of the work is done, you let Fun in finally, after hours of waiting. It’s been such a good and patient boy. It’s ok to play for a certain amount of time, but then it is time to put Fun back outside for the night. He doesn’t sleep in the house; Fun might get too close to you as you sleep or keep you up at night, insisting to play some more. Perhaps if you let him in more often, he wouldn’t seem like such a disruption to your life devoted to Work. Fun misses you, and is beginning to develop a grudge against Work. If you don’t spend some more time with Fun, he’ll be gone. Fun is not interested in the pictures you take of him to show your friends and brag about what a fantastic breed he is. That’s not loving Fun. The love you do give Fun is always in the presence of Work. You and Fun never seem to have any private moments. Perhaps Fun would be less reserved, more expressive without Work always hanging around.

But I think you are slightly afraid of that: afraid of how much you might actually enjoy Fun if you could let Work go for a while. You’re too obsessed with whether or not Work will be ok by himself, or if he’ll run away and not return if you start spending time with Fun. The conditions must be just right to let Fun in: you have to be in the mood, and you prefer Fun to be around when certain others are or at certain times. So you have dictated times when Fun is let in and let out, and if there is no time tonight to let him in, well, there’s always tomorrow. One day, after days of neglect perhaps, you’ll go to let Fun in, only to realize that he left for more accepting companions. Then you’ll be able to spend as much time with Work as you want. You won’t need to worry about Fun any longer.

The Story, the Universe and Us

Posted in Mind Goo, Visions by theskinhorse on August 24, 2009

Already the morning is a flurry of strange activity. I’m broken into pieces every second and reassembled before I can even realize the countless but finite possibilities of each movement. And what about the subatomic particles that get away… where do they go? There are surely no ‘extras.’

In my absence, a T-Rex has assumed its position at my desk. His name is Posie, inspired by his home planet, Neptune. He requires somewhat gentle handling since he is filled with Air – even with this overwhelming elemental component, Piscean influence cradles him still.

I honor the rich brown goddess that delivers caffeine in morning sacrament. Chatting at her temple, I realize the fondness with which her monks and priestesses receive me. They have missed me in my short time of questing from land to land to hold bonds together and create memories through city streets. These monks and priestesses, these patrons, these walls and circulating oxygen know me; they have watched me develop under their graces, through simple shared moments, and with their protection. The warmth with which they greet me blushes my cheeks and upturns my lips.

Sometimes we are staples, fixtures, touchstones for others in simple and common or odd and idiosyncratic ways, perhaps in ways we would never suspect or will never know.

Without making a soft transition, my charge this day is to pass along some words form The Story.

It will write itself. You needn’t worry your pretty head about all the loose ends and loopholes; The Story weaves through more levels than We could ever conceive to ensure its survival and our survival. For if We are of the Universe and the Universe is of The Story, and We are contained within The Story as The Story is contained within the Universe, and We are the vehicle with which The Story is told, then the survival of The Story depends on Us and the Universe, We depend on the Universe and The Story, and the Universe depends on The Story and Us.

Every piece is in place as a part of checks and balances, and as an exercise in free will. Our stages and rooms may be set either by the Universe or The Story,  sometimes the characters can be plants or a constant of The Story, but what We do in each set, how We move within and through, and who We are in the Universe and in The Story, We have the power to choose or dictate. Certain laws will be enforced and maintained as is necessary for the survival of All.

Perhaps you are as You are perfectly. Perhaps even in all your actions and choices, you are playing your character better than anyone else could; perhaps it had to be You. Predestination did not make it so; the Universe could not have predicted that the character within The Story is/was/will always be You. Neither could The Story predict. We make The Story personal, and We personalize the Universe.

Our charge, as Us, is to remember that We are of the Universe, to know The Story and to pass The Story on so that it is constantly embedded and woven into the Universe. The Universe and The Story will likewise take care of Us.

the Fight

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on August 17, 2009

I pressed “delete” on a rather personal post this morning.

I wanted to shed light on my actions for some, but I found the ramblings too much for this blog.

Here was the bottom line: I had to fight for my Self, my identity for as long as I can remember. My identity feels born out of self-motivation; however, the circumstances that surrounds its birth and rebirth always seemed to be war. Every choice, every desire, every action was a fight; even the most peaceful revelations or subdued outlets were sought out and attacked by someone close to me. My religion, my friends, my creative outlets, my preferences, I thought these all were my choices, but, growing up, adults had other ideas about who I was and who I was to become. Something as simple as poetry was unwanted by others and nearly forbidden. My art did not look creative to their eyes, but troubled and unstable. My ideas were unrealistic, and my perspectives on life were irrational.

I have immediate reactions now when I feel my identity or Self being threatened. I worked hard on my Self, and I am proud of me; I feel there is no reason I shouldn’t be. So when I feel another’s Will trying to exert itself over me, I hiss and remove myself. In adulthood, I will not subject myself to the emotional or intellectual oppression I felt I had to endure as a child. Though people may have only the best in mind for me, this is not how it is received. I need to know that I am trusted to know what is best for me or to know what I can or cannot do. People may think that I never had to fight in my past since it seems I was given many things. I worked for the position I have now. My family wasn’t “privileged,” even if certain members acted like we were. Through the act, it became apparent what issues the “privileged” are introduced to when young. No one gets anything for free. I was not about to give up the whole of my Self then, and I won’t do it now. Though others may ask for a sliver, intending no harm, a sliver is just the beginning in my mind sometimes.

We all have fights that we just can’t seem to forget or give up. Maybe one day I will be able to be more malleable, but in many ways, I hope that day never comes. The fight has many losses, but the gains are the best I’ve ever come across.