(no subject)
I would rather stay in my head with all of its symbolism. Blood is symbolic for life, not freshly spilled or trickling from dying lips -- and if so, how beautiful that is!
How beautiful it all is!
Last night dreams of indigenous cultures, wonderful colors. Under a canopy of trees, prayer flags leading up to a break where the sun squeezed itself in strands across the dirt floor. Children and picnic tables. A lot like Bill Schupp Park, my dream world of indigenous precolonial americans, a lot like the valley.
I remember going with my mother to the Currendero's house, that sacred and awful place of holy relics and ceramic cow decorations. The room where he performed his exorcisms was the most frightening of all. I wish I had pictures of it now. Saints and Sociopaths seem to develop the same sort of neuroses.
This room was in the middle of his farm, unairconditioned, a shack tacked with hundreds of black and white photos of Ninio Fidencio. The supposed gay saint whose sacred relic is a swing. And on the shelves, various dark skinned barbies representing the Virgen de Guadalupe.
This was frightening to my seven year old psyche. I preferred to play with the chickens, but was warned that the cock would tear me up with his mighty talons. Ha-ha!
There's no magic left to anything. Every night I eat a baked potato and peanut butter for desert.
I am depressed and have no inspiration.