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June 23, 2007



I've identified the magical force in my life. I call him my beastie (I think he is a mustelid). When I'm congruent with him there is no impediment. When there is confusion of any sort or shape, I'm left alone wondering about the nuanced gate by which he left, considering the wrought iron shape and gloss instead of more wisely deducing the force that ejected from my garden. By allowing his exit so seamlessly, so unquestioningly, I permit him to leave me naked and stacked 10 high with jagged barriers to the flow that I adore.

These things make me think that I must cling with a greater force to my beastie to make him take me to the place where he goes. How can one staple himself to his beastie or tie one's spirit to his totem so completely as to have an absolute trust in the chaotic wild-weasel dance that might, God willing, bring one through the membrane of the dead into the living bloodstream?

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