To keep the evil away

Apollo, great God of the sun, the heavens and healing. Of music and poetry and light. He cowers over Voodoo, earth magic, roots up kinda soul, as he eats his food. Apollo crouches down, to reach the level of this short legged beast, the sweetest animal in all the land, angel voo, to try and get a bite of what he chows down upon. But the feeder will not open for him, it will never open for him at this place, for he does not carry the name, the magic, the special key of what Voodoo carries with him in order to access his great feast. Apollo must find his own dinner elsewhere in the place that his own key unlocks. Just a feet over, also plugged into the wall, the magic that runs through the currents to power our machines, our sacred electricity.

Apollo yearns to eat what voodoo eats. The stuff of the earth, untreated by modern science like what he solely and slowly digests. What he’s digested for years now. Perfectly balanced and right for Apollos body, to keep him healthy and free, yet he doesn’t like it. He finds no enjoyment in eating. It simply happens because he must to sustain himself. He is healthy, he is exactly as he needs to be but his pleasure has to be found in other routes. Other avenues, like standing over Voodoo as he eats. Laying in the sun, wrestling and then licking. I wonder, is he happy?

I wonder, am I happy?

I know I am in moments, I find them all throughout the day. Like listening to a song that really feeds me, that tickles that one part in my mind that opens me up like an egg over a sizzling pan. A momentary glimmer of fuel. I lean in so it sustains me for longer.

I fantasized for hours, for days, years. I created stories and constructs and ideas. Things that I thought would come true, could come true. Routes and passageways that maybe one day would open me up to that long lasting kinda fuel. Secret tunnels, golden bricked roads, locked doors that only my heart could open. I believed them too, for I felt that to be true. The kinda stories that turn me around in my seat and make me face the back of the room. “What is guiding me?” I ask.

The compost of the past. Of stories and moments where I lived all too unfondly. I look back, a cringe creeps its way in, and I say “help me to forgive myself”.

I get messages to trust my voice. Will the flow ever really come? Or is this how they all feel, those who have been trudging, paving this path for centuries, eons, lifetimes. This stop, go, find the flow, one moment to the next jumping along rocks up the stream. Traveling where no other has gone before. I know I am light yet too I feel tired, awoken from a dream I burnt myself out in the first few moments of the day. And fruit flies feast upon my half eaten apple. Is there God within everything? Or am I simply repeating the voice of another, some sort of blanket of comfort to fold over my lap and bring solace to the aching. The emptiness of nights spent with the abyss Poe knows all too well. A reflection came and I dove straight in, saying “hey, I know it there too!” That endless void. That hollow pit where things go to die, where dreams fail and no one seems to ever return from. Except for those who are of the living. Those who take the ladder that has been thrown down and choose to climb their way out. Hope for a brighter day that the sun at the top of the hole has something more for them. Even if they’ve never known the sun, there’s a trusting, for a ladder is something new, a ladder has never been extended down this far before. “Here, take my hand” I proclaim, I smoke a cigarette and it’s divine.

Here, take my hand. The pillow on my lap is now soft. My feet remind me of my grandfathers, how I once would turn away in disgust, yet now I see through. I see feet that have carried me, and the pushing, against the order that has been established. I could amp up my exercise so that the flow is sustained for longer bursts. Pushing, fighting, resisting, there is resilience born within my blood. Each time my head wishes to sink, I pull it back up.

I notice the moments, how they have occurred. One here, two there, of my head dipping, falling into my chest. I shared your story, the part that I held a part of. Going to the lake to regain myself. Some resemblance of control. Some sort of breath that could sustain me, a clear portal through, I wished to heal you.

The cats rest. Laying in liminal zones, a doorway between worlds they let their body’s be absorbed by gravity as their spirits fly far and wide. I can hear them if I open those doors within myself too. So trusting, they relax. They know a world of true care, though they also can feel the world beyond, for I carry it in with me each time I return home, to my sanctuary. Dripping in experience, in felt senses of a world on fire. I carry it through me when I awake from sleep. Dreams of disease, the evils of the mind that consumed so many. I travel in these dreams, I walk with those who suffer. I open my heart and hold their hands, I too am trusting. The cats know, Voodoo of the earth, Apollo of the sky, they live their lives of peace within this beautiful brightly lit home yet they know. For they heal me upon my return. A cat on my shoulders as I eat a cold quesadilla for breakfast, one at my back, another in my lap as I read about the pains of innocence siphoned for political gain, for ‘worldly’ control. Real worldly power is not within living above but within. Around, living of the earth, knowing her as our own bodies. Our great mother.

I feel the womb, the waters of the sea, the Great Lake that I have returned to over and over again to heal me. and I know that I am worthy. I venture out into this world every day, into the worlds of my mind, my heart this great and powerful guide. Out into the unknown with bravery. We explore, we expand, we bring the light of our compassion, awareness, love across through and within this land. You are free. Dear love, sacred one.