Spiritual Ass Kickings

Spiritual Ass Kickings

Two things…

Rob Brezsny’s Freewill Astrology kicks ass. My horoscope for last week is eerily spot on.

“You’ve been pretty smart lately, but I think you could get even smarter. You have spied secrets in the dark, and teased out answers from unlikely sources, and untangled knots that no one else has had the patience to mess with — and yet I suspect there are even greater glories possible for you. For inspiration, Leo, memorize this haiku-like poem by Geraldine C. Little: “The white spider / whiter still / in the lightning’s flash.”

I got a spiritual ass kicking yesterday.

I get one of those every spring… Something BIG. CRAZY. NEW. A game-changer slathered in hollandaise.

I’m not into Benedict or his eggs, but I dig me a spot of hollandaise on occasion.

I, Madame Eris Quincunx Hilton III, esq. am the proud owner of a fucked-uppity galbladder. That’s why I’ve been sick lately. Hollandaise? I can’t touch it with a ten inch pole because it would rip my guts asunder and send me plunging headlong down the FUBAR Rabbit Hole. I’ve actually had to go semi-vegan, which pisses me off because I am craving In-N-Out Burger like a mofo!

Hollandaise is a bit too rich for me under most circumstances. A bit is fine, but too much is just a spoonful or two away.

That’s sort of how I feel about things right now. I’m overwhelmed by my life, when only a month ago I floated around in my happy shiny rosy-tinted-pearly-swirly-lovely-Kwan-to-tha-Yin soap bubble.

I got that bitch a pink bubble. Bitchez love bubbles.

With changes in my job (good mostly, but in a time of stressful transition), home (freaking incredibly fucking kickassawesome mostly, but in a stressful transition), health (annoying mostly, and in a time of… You get it)… The bubble is popped. My physical condition is kind of annoyingly bad, but I’m on the mend. I think…

Kali has cut a deep channel through my entire existence, and rivers of blood and ick just keep flowing out. I feel like she is purging all of this bad dead weight, and that I just need to hang on through the process.

On the other note, I’ve had some amazing developments happen with my spiritual and magickal practices. This is my BIG CRAZY NEW. I can’t handle it. It’s a lot to swallow with everything that’s going on. I can’t even process it, really. If I had anything I’d even remotely call a “psychic switch”… That bitch has been flipped, full-melt bubble.

This full-melt bubble has doubled my trouble. I get HUGE MOTHERFUCKING flashes of insight and keep picking up very weird and personal stuff about other people that I’d rather not know. It’s like all of the stuff I’ve been working for is sort of happening, but it’s coming so fast and furious that I don’t have much context for it.

With the Full-Melt Bubble vs. the Pink Bubble, it’s a really different place. Nothing is obscured in the Full-Melt Bubble.

Before I only had a dirty smudgy window to look through, and I had to scale the side of the house just to look through it. In heels.

In about six weeks I’ve gone from that to entire house made of clear glass walls that are cleaned daily with sparkling clarity. You can see damn near everything. I’m seeing things going on in other peoples lives that I don’t want or need to see.

Crazy, jah?

I’ve tried to be skeptical. I wanted this, and now I am afraid to believe it. The Magician is my sounding board. He says “Why do you keep asking me if I think you’re crazy? I don’t because a lot of it makes sense.” Still, that little skeptical Atheist goth girl I used to be is skeptical. Still. I’ve gone down the rabbit hole. I skimmed the edge of the Underworld. I’ve seen Persephone’s Death Face. I’ve taken a beating from Kali Ma many times, and risen to the occasion. Why is it so hard to embrace it?

Because it’s a lot more than what I’m used to dealing with, and it’s happening at the worst possible time.

The ass-kicking had a lot of parts… Uncanny. Too many. Too, too, too many. Every time I get skeptical, something that just can’t be a coincidence happens, and I had two yesterday.

Yep, Horoscope… I could be a little bit smarter. I feel like the gods are considering this my mid-term. But, my horoscope does have a solution.

Time to re-read Pronoia, which is also by Rob Brezsny. If you haven’t checked it out, I would. It’s fantastic. References to it have been popping up all over the place for me within the last few weeks. The Divine has been hint dropping, and I’ve been more or less ignoring it.

Bad idea, Holmes? No shit, Sherlock.

Message received.

If the Universe or The Gods or The Great Big WTF wanted me to re-read Pronoia, they could have just put it on a post-it.

This week my horoscope suggests:

“Picture a very complicated combination lock, one that requires dialing up eight different numbers to open,” writes Arianna Huffington. “You have seven of the numbers, but the lock still won’t open until you hit upon that final number. One-eighth may not seem as ‘big’ as seven-eighths, but without the final click of the combination, the tumblers won’t fall into place.” Sound familiar, Leo? In my astrological opinion, you have dialed up the first seven numbers but you don’t know what the eighth is yet; until you discover it, the lock will stay closed. Where should you look for the missing info? It’s now within your reach, and it wasn’t before.”

Yes. Exactly. So… I’ll re-read Pronoia.


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