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ferineCogs in the brain whirring. Ghosts in the machine stirring.
So much Algernon Blackwood and Charles de Lint in these last seven months has expanded the railways of my heart and mind. New tracks laid, new paths discovered, all exposing a far more copious and complicated inner labyrinth than previously surmised.
No stranger to what some view as "complicated" thought, as I was exposed to Joseph Campbell's books before I could read, and his theories as well as a number of existentialists philosophies and various religions teachings were exposed to me verbally (and to supplement this once I had mastered reading, I poured over Dad's book on these subjects from his college days). These sent my mind reeling even at four, as I sat on an old bright yellow beanbag in the living room of our then home and flipped through the pictures in Campbell's Hero With A Thousand Faces. My mind whirred like the galaxies. I was immense and immortal and of the Earth and the Earth, and beyond it.
As I aged and met my peers and authority (authority apart from my parents, who I idolized and wanted to please of my own volition rather than viewing them as "authority figures"), my perceptions and inner growth altered; even violently when I "progressed" into my mid and late teens. My mind, spirit, and heart which had raced among the stars prior, shrunk from the alien and brutal behavior of my so-called fellows. I was singled out and torn to pieces time and time again, physically, mentally, and emotionally. The chaotic swirl of hospital visits, tests, and diagnoses ocurred simultaneously and added to the rigors of what normally is a turbulent age. My refuge, my comfort, my sanity, as it always had been, was my home: my parents, my cats, my books, my music.
After dropping out of high school and leaving home for the first time to live in a far-off state, I began to find my own reliability. To open a bank account, to apply for SSI and find a local doctor, to pay bills, to buy food, to budget, to clean my apartment (technically my and my roomie's apartment, but his idea of cleaning was to take a shower *chuckles and eyerolls*) was a new growth, a sudden initiation into reality and survival. For three years life was immediate, lived in the moment, experienced rather than dreamed of.
Upon returning home from such freedom and independence, I plunged into bleakness. Even when I did my damnedest to get my own apartment and health care help, and succeeded at it for six years, that bleakness never left. I often deluded myself into thinking the shadow had lifted, and at times it genuinely seemed to. It never did in truth. In my alone time, when not partying and dancing and roaming with the local pack, the gloom descended and gnawed at my confidence. My sense of strength, my courage, ebbed. It was a harrowing time, yet some of the brightest moments of memory were therein.
Afterward even that semblance of independence slipped through my fingertips. Forced to return home after a short-lived, so-called "normal" life. Well, not normal as most would consider the context of the word to mean (ah, my lifelong pride and joy -- abstaining from the societal norm to be true to myself!). My shell was weaker, less dependable, and I was no longer able to dance with my arms or able to withstand the smoke at clubs and bars. Non-pack friends came around less, and I lashed out angrily at the rest. Survived two murky, dramatic, traumatic intimate relationships, and then my best friend died. Despondency, like cloying tar pulling the aspects of all that encompasses my being apart, ensued.
Only in these last seven months have my wings unfurled. There have been moments of great joy not fully appreciated until now. The beauty of the Earth has returned. Somehow I've returned to the spiritual innocence of my preadolescence, though it's not an exact returning; it's as if these 33 years have been on what seemed a complex path yet was ultimately just a loop, and I've come out the back of where I started.
My eyes are open where they've been closed much too long. I am no longer trapped, caged, isolated, or lost.
Animals have always played a part in my self-identity. This took shape as serious study and obsession at the age of 12. That fervor, research, and thrill has yet to subside.
This is a deep and feral love for the Hollywood werewolf film, for the werewolf novel, for the non-fictional historical accounts and hypotheses of lycanthropy, for the historical references to shape-shifting, for the spiritual and magical context of animal totems and spirit guides, and for individuals in the modern on-line 'therianthropy' scene (particularly alt.horror.werewolves, the usenet newsgroup that started it all and, sadly, seems to be either forgotten about or disregarded as 'rubbish' by many nowadays who haven't even delved into its history [best times: '94 - '96]).
Currently my acceptance of lynx is that lynx is a metaphor for my philosophy, my vision, and simply me. Knowing lynx is knowing myself, bringing me closer to fully understanding what life is and what we're all about.
So much Algernon Blackwood and Charles de Lint in these last seven months has expanded the railways of my heart and mind. New tracks laid, new paths discovered, all exposing a far more copious and complicated inner labyrinth than previously surmised.
No stranger to what some view as "complicated" thought, as I was exposed to Joseph Campbell's books before I could read, and his theories as well as a number of existentialists philosophies and various religions teachings were exposed to me verbally (and to supplement this once I had mastered reading, I poured over Dad's book on these subjects from his college days). These sent my mind reeling even at four, as I sat on an old bright yellow beanbag in the living room of our then home and flipped through the pictures in Campbell's Hero With A Thousand Faces. My mind whirred like the galaxies. I was immense and immortal and of the Earth and the Earth, and beyond it.
As I aged and met my peers and authority (authority apart from my parents, who I idolized and wanted to please of my own volition rather than viewing them as "authority figures"), my perceptions and inner growth altered; even violently when I "progressed" into my mid and late teens. My mind, spirit, and heart which had raced among the stars prior, shrunk from the alien and brutal behavior of my so-called fellows. I was singled out and torn to pieces time and time again, physically, mentally, and emotionally. The chaotic swirl of hospital visits, tests, and diagnoses ocurred simultaneously and added to the rigors of what normally is a turbulent age. My refuge, my comfort, my sanity, as it always had been, was my home: my parents, my cats, my books, my music.
After dropping out of high school and leaving home for the first time to live in a far-off state, I began to find my own reliability. To open a bank account, to apply for SSI and find a local doctor, to pay bills, to buy food, to budget, to clean my apartment (technically my and my roomie's apartment, but his idea of cleaning was to take a shower *chuckles and eyerolls*) was a new growth, a sudden initiation into reality and survival. For three years life was immediate, lived in the moment, experienced rather than dreamed of.
Upon returning home from such freedom and independence, I plunged into bleakness. Even when I did my damnedest to get my own apartment and health care help, and succeeded at it for six years, that bleakness never left. I often deluded myself into thinking the shadow had lifted, and at times it genuinely seemed to. It never did in truth. In my alone time, when not partying and dancing and roaming with the local pack, the gloom descended and gnawed at my confidence. My sense of strength, my courage, ebbed. It was a harrowing time, yet some of the brightest moments of memory were therein.
Afterward even that semblance of independence slipped through my fingertips. Forced to return home after a short-lived, so-called "normal" life. Well, not normal as most would consider the context of the word to mean (ah, my lifelong pride and joy -- abstaining from the societal norm to be true to myself!). My shell was weaker, less dependable, and I was no longer able to dance with my arms or able to withstand the smoke at clubs and bars. Non-pack friends came around less, and I lashed out angrily at the rest. Survived two murky, dramatic, traumatic intimate relationships, and then my best friend died. Despondency, like cloying tar pulling the aspects of all that encompasses my being apart, ensued.
Only in these last seven months have my wings unfurled. There have been moments of great joy not fully appreciated until now. The beauty of the Earth has returned. Somehow I've returned to the spiritual innocence of my preadolescence, though it's not an exact returning; it's as if these 33 years have been on what seemed a complex path yet was ultimately just a loop, and I've come out the back of where I started.
My eyes are open where they've been closed much too long. I am no longer trapped, caged, isolated, or lost.
Animals have always played a part in my self-identity. This took shape as serious study and obsession at the age of 12. That fervor, research, and thrill has yet to subside.
This is a deep and feral love for the Hollywood werewolf film, for the werewolf novel, for the non-fictional historical accounts and hypotheses of lycanthropy, for the historical references to shape-shifting, for the spiritual and magical context of animal totems and spirit guides, and for individuals in the modern on-line 'therianthropy' scene (particularly alt.horror.werewolves, the usenet newsgroup that started it all and, sadly, seems to be either forgotten about or disregarded as 'rubbish' by many nowadays who haven't even delved into its history [best times: '94 - '96]).
Currently my acceptance of lynx is that lynx is a metaphor for my philosophy, my vision, and simply me. Knowing lynx is knowing myself, bringing me closer to fully understanding what life is and what we're all about.
