🌅🦁 Feast of the Black Lion 🥶 Cold Moon 🌔 21 Pentember 2024 ♒ Aquarius🏺 122 Pluviôse CCXXXII 🌧️ Day 10,081 ⛩️
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| Feast of Circe | Feast of the Black Lion | Feast of the Solar Opposition | Witches’ Sabbath |
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Sundays are hard. library is closed, public transportation stops at noon, its the eve of my Rest Day (having Mondays as my rest day is OP).
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i think I'll go out to the car.
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Laundry
Litter
Shower
Make Bed
Dishes
Outlines
Bleed Out
I have a Mind Virus
🌅🦁 Feast of Witches and Lions 🥶 Cold Moon 🌔 21 Pentember 2024 ♒ Aquarius🏺 121 Pluviôse CCXXXII 🌧️ Day 10,082 ⛩️
I have a Mind Virus.
I feel guilt when I refrain from working, when I take a day off or can't get myself to work and just stare at a screen. procrastination hurts me. I try to do stuff, I punish myself into doing stuff, and I just shut down even more.
I have a Mind Virus. I am possessed by a demon with a protestant work ethic. I believe that if I just will myself hard enough to do something, I will do it. but the body is a labyrinth and the soul is a panoptic state. and I, like an exiled God trapped on some fleshy Elba, equiped with imperfect and endlessly medicated prostheses, have yet to make progress on already always being perfect.
I remember hearing about Jesus' track record of not sinning at like 3 years old (through an American Protestant gloss) and, while I allowed that I'd already sinned a couple times, I felt sure someone would have beaten that record by now
The Mind Virus called positivism. it's called The Best Attitude is Gratitude. (Im writing an essay called The Fascistic Uses of Gratitude. Its on my blog and I'm updating it as I go.)
the Mind Virus is called the way my birthing father
(Harry August was not just great man history, it was misogynistic and had just about the bleakest view of fatherhood I've ever seen)
my father was bleak. that's a good word for it. constantly coercive, impious and authoritarian, openly resentful of our insolence of being at all.
so it was bleak, and like Harry August's portrayal of fatherhood, fundamentally optimistic. for my father, he truly believed that he would be happy under other conditions, a possible world (where he never married or at least didn't have children till he actually felt ready and willing, so approximately 11 years later) and also that he could be happy if he were rich, so he always made our birthing person buy the cheapest, plainest , grossest food and yelled at us and starved us for our insolence of having food sensitivities, of displaying any affect at all and my birthing would cry that I, her flesh and blood, wouldn't like, no love, no adore the gross mush she made me gag down. with the money thus saved on ritualistic deprivations like these, he invested in the stock market obsessively for seven years and then came into some million dollars through his wife's inheritance and invested that too and around this time he told me, asif it were this supprising bit if wisdom, that it is the first million dollars that's hardest to make
no shit Sherlock.
our birthing person on the other hand viewed as as an extension of her own flesh, her greatest and ongoing accomplishment, the proud and perfectionist and pessimist author of all our choices
(theology but of the soul? metaphysics? phenomenology?)