Hefegeist

@nurgeist.bsky.social

308 Followers 170 Following

Hope everyone is well.

A raceme of small white flowers in front of a background of green leaves. I hope that you are having a good day today.
Yellow touch-me-nots in the foreground, green leaves behind. I want you to be what you really are, I certainly don't have to understand you, but trying to understand is just part of who I am.
Vivid red flowers in front of green plants. Skipping in and out of quiet.
A cone of tiny white flowers hanging down. When the beauty catches me unexpectedly.
Photo of hoary skullcap. Green leaves with purple flowers. A bumble bee is visiting one of the flowers. A siesta, perhaps.
A photograph of green moss speckled with elder stars. I shouldn't, perhaps And yet I do.
A picture of flowering raspberry. There are two blooming, the petals have pink edges fading to a lighter pink center. Hi.
A picture of the same gazebo on a sunny day. The sky has given the mountains back. When she was dark the light inside shining out of her looked like stars.
Sunlight shines through a dark purple flower. The way I hold myself back and how it makes me ghost shaped
A large bumble bee perched on my finger.
The moon in a blue sky with wisps of clouds. awoo
Two cats snuggled in a chair. They are in front of an otter pillow.
A variety of books on a bookshelf. A lot of them are more practical in nature. Several fantasy novels. Not recent journals on the right.
Ink on paper. Two figures the one on the left is slim. The one on the right appears to be some kind of squiggly black structure. Phobias Fear of the marketplace. Could I do this? I put on my headphones. I put on my music. I put up the hood on my sweatshirt. I waited for my moment in the car. In the grocery store I feel a little panic creep in. Like everyone is looking at me. Uneasy. I see a semi-familiar face. I take my headphones down and say hi. We talk about our kids for a minute and then go our own ways. I get my bagged salad. I check out. I walk to the car. I get in and start the car. I cry for ten minutes. I’m not sure what I am crying about. I drive home. I unload the groceries and talk to my family. No one knows. I guess I’m not afraid of the marketplace I’m afraid that I won’t make it back to the car before I fall apart. I remember I remember being afraid I remember being afraid of being crazy It's not a fear I have anymore Personality Disorders One disorder bleeds into another leading to discord. The names bleed. Is this blue grey, is this grey blue? all spectrums bleed a lot of them are always and never. few of them are sometimes. sometimes is a door to open. sometimes may be a way out of the Underworld. through gray lands. never clever hands. Are you my neighbor? If houses in our dreams represent ourselves, what does it mean that your house is next door? Or that our houses were connected by hidden passageways, hidden stairs, the backs of closets. I climb a stair to the attic cross over to your house, then down to the basement and back across an empty cobwebbed place. The separateness of our houses was negotiated and only in the areas that everyone sees. In private In dreams they bleed into one another. Is this another path to disorder and discord?
Another collage that was done a while ago. The pictures were photocopied from a book of Victorian inventions. Mental health awareness month vs people struggle with inadequate maps of the world month? people don't have a rich enough store of shared stories they can use to understand their world month? people have forgotten that shared rituals can create shared meaning month? people crumbled under the onslaught of unbridled capitalism month? people aren't machines who produce labor month? people need care and nurturing for their whole lifespan month? people are all on their own journey month? people flourish in a loving and understanding atmosphere month? people need wisdom traditions in their society month? people create meaning in the world by creating art, poetry, music and dance month? people have a unique intrinsic worth month? The borderline between what? How do you talk using words about the personal internal intimate? Our experience of the world comes before anything else. If we open this up to ourselves, we get a tremendous gift. If we open it up to others, what then? Can we do it with words? Only if the person talking and the person listening understand that the words refer to something else. Recognize the rhythm Contagion - infohazard or cognitohazard I am full of bees maybe i need abracadabra or a long vacation or avidoltryptarisperhalocyclicide If I let my thoughts dwell on my scars on the cracks and deaths in me I feel them all again. I struggle to release myths mysteries make new maps If you're going to go crazy you might as well make art about it Trauma and Medusa power and cost let down your hair forever is a long time
A photograph of a natural scene. There is a grey and rust colored rock in the foreground. Peeking out from behind the rock is a garter snake, species unknown. Behind the snake there are some white flowers, woodland stonecrop in bloom. I like to see you free.
White flowers from an American Plum tree.
A snowdrop coming out of the spruce litter. Little green noses peek out and one white flower is emerging.
A full moon through trees. The moonlight falls on snow. Awooo.
A picture of the snowy table taken later. The snow is deeper. Two birds eat seed under the table, sheltered from the snow.
A snowy table. Birdseed is scattered on the ground underneath the table, where a number of birds are eating. I wrote a poem relating some things to allegories of Plato that I deleted. I'm editing it because it was rough and I'll put it back up sometime, maybe.
The silhouette of a cat looking out of a window. The window is framed by colorful lights. The view is a winter scene, with snowy trees and a misty mountain in the background. The sun is rising and the sky is a pinkish and orange with clouds.
The same mental structures which render identity, definition, the outlines of the body, a relationship with a large social order and even the very meaning of existence are also meant to provide protection from anarchy, chaos, and an inhospitable wilderness. Susan Griffin
A drawing of a figure, possibly female. The figure is made of a blank white space in a gray and black background. The background is made of writing traced on the page from a facing page. This isn't done, but what ever is? Schizophrenia Spectrum and Other Psychotic Disorders I have made of me A labyrinth Spun from connective issues And cohered mind My mental hell themed bemusement park Haunted house with me the ghost I met a four of me talk to your parts they said (They have a manual for that.) Self so disorganized. Split mind, I thought how many parts divided threads loosely tied may bind in time precorvid prodromes prognosticate proetic amanuensis They have a manual for that You know. Stone tablets from on high Holy book written by mythomiticians and sighcologists full of tales of you’re Skits o’ Friendia and a spectrum of skis so effective moos in congruent cycloptic disorders but…. The thing that gets you every time ineffective semantic time binding every time. that gets you the thing. Locked into the effective now everything is self-evident. All is synchronicity synaptic connections they sizzle My experiences bound loosely across temporal loci Parastimulus in time responses provoke I There is no manual for that. Delusion defined using cultural knowledge Jesus can save us Bigfoot cannot. So I trade an ability to determine what may be real for an ability to determine what a statistically average person will say is real and hope for the best. They have a manual for that.
Picture of three books on a desk. One is a book by Mary Oliver about writing and reading poetry, which I occasionally try to do. The middle one is Living at the Edge of Chaos by Helene Schulman. This book I can only read a few paragraphs at a time before I stop to digest. It talks about things that are very central to my own path and way of thinking. The last is Hush Don't Say Anything to God, book of poems by Rumi. I listen to a lot of YouTube videos of readings of Rumi and other ecstatic poets when I feel really stressed out. I sold all my books during a time when I was really poor and I miss a lot of them.
A fluffy white cloud
A picture done with ink and watercolors in a sketch book. The picture is labeled "The Key Scale" and depicts the Tree of Life with some interpretation that is probably incorrect, but nonetheless.
A page from a handwritten journal. There is indistinct watercolor painting leaking through the page. The text says something like: A Multiguide to mondibular Tarot Magician 1 Antlers, infinity, black and white candles good omens, beware guys in pointy hats become guy in pointy hat, manipulate universe for neither good nor evil Strength 8 pretty girl, big cat be on lookout for hot chicks, warning may kick ass or get ass kicked, may go to Alps, feel like fish out of water The Hanged Man 12 pasty fellow hung upside down obviously double jointed, interesting dealings with guys (girls?) in blousy shirts, good day to climb trees, look ma no hands Judgement 20 nudie card, good card - blond may come way in need of fiery loving to warm cold cold feet watch out for big bird, don't smoke pot around chickens – may cause armageddon Inverted If one is here you can’t get more here, it is only possible to go there. This is spacetime. Some redacted.
The full moon in a clear sky. In the foreground is a window with colorful lights. awooo.
An image of a fox wearing glasses reading a book called "BOOK". The fox is actually a statue, not a real fox. Echoes seem to come from the other side of a line I would draw to separate my inside from my outside A question but unsure if it is a question answering feeds it and so I sit with the question and not the answers i contemplate turning over in the mirror sometimes ego sometimes fear turns me it used to echo genius which I found kind of embarrassing but also gratifying of course Then I think genius may mean a unique spirit inside each person their own thing that they must live or express it faded away Am I an engine that turns self-doubt into ?
A picture of a window that I can't look out anymore. The view through the window is washed out by bright light. There is a blind in front that is open and white light shines through slats. The window is pale yellow and the window frame is light green. There is an air conditioner in the window at the bottom. I have been writing a lot about mental health, for reasons. Di-gnosis and St. Istical Mythology Diastolic Systemic Mythology Diabolic Status Tickle Manual Dungeon Snacktistical Manual Diagnosis Significantly Magical Dissociative Surreal Mythology Distinctive Statuary Metaphorical Before names there was a single great disorder But now we have A compendium of quiet catastrophes With names we can share With friends and other prosocials I feel clinically insignificant the egregore gives me side eye gods hide in metaphors Sufficiently advanced mental illness is indistinguishable from magic. Presenting with one of more of the following: Descent and bubbling the poles Quietly negotiating with yourself to release the self you are holding hostage. Going to the underworld Wanders into metaphors without supervision What if I just go batshit crazy, what then? The spiral curriculum visit the same state with different eyes see it all again seems like loops with different eyes you are not the same sometimes a fall sometimes a climb Therapy why? Men will literally go to therapy to avoid going to therapy It makes no sense I told my therapist I never talked about it because I thought maybe it was contagious. I didn’t want anyone else to have to be like me. Entrained madness all a bored It's kind of neat when I go crazy I can lock me in the basement so I can go to work. If you read this far, thanks for reading this far. I may repost these some other time and in some other form. I don't think they are done, but I have trouble letting go, this I know.
The moon through trees. And a few moon related words. Sent and resent through starmail or moonlight my soul gives a soft howl and listens Oh tyger my tyger our fearful symmetry is done the night is wracked Alchemy of caring I breathe your light in. revel in intimate ecstasy. This tender fondness that changes something in me. Uncertain kind of love so delicate slips from fingers that grasp Grateful for every moment I felt someone’s warm regard.
I was a best friend I was a bitter enemy I was a secret lover I was a silent emptiness I was vast and voidless I was crying on the floor I was an angel spreading wings I was shattered mirror fragments I was a ferryman to a foreign shore I was an ancient thing uncoiling in the dark I was yarn coming undone from your favorite sweater I was a mask of myself held over a boiling cauldron of selves I was a hive of bees buzzing pulling apart and drifting back together I was a light blinking a cry for help in morse code into an uncaring night I was a single point of everything compressed together I was the fading of hope and its sudden rebirth I was a calm shore to you after a storm I was a pill you take when all else fails I was a stranger running to help I was a gentle constant lullaby I was holding you in the dark I was the stone that sings I was alone and unmade
White text on black The old wolf watches out of my eyes And knows many things. Things that have been bred into us over many lives. Things about a growl that forms where my voice meets my heart Things about the use of tooth and claw cunning and running Things I prefer to not know that run underneath on an uncivilized substrate. The old wolf smells through my nose and knows many things.
A bee asleep on wild sunflowers
A chalk drawing on asphalt, mostly yellow. A picture of a bee with the word kind.
A dragon made of metal and painted in different colors in front of wild sunflowers and milkweed. I started dreaming again and remembering be well.
A blue and purple kite flying in a blue sky with white clouds.
It's a possum.
A picture that I made over twenty years ago that is made up of a few different parts. It is black marker, watercolors, and pastels. The largest part on the left is brain shaped and looks like field lines. There are various colored lines inside the shape some are faded watercolors and some are very vivid colors. There is an ear on the top right that is full of vivid colors. The third part is a skull with an eye on top of it. The eye is black and white and has some sort of circuitry in it. I am hiding a poem here, because I don't like dealing with the character limits and it's my page and I can hide things if I want to =P Sometimes I look at it and I think it is really good and sometimes I think it looks like something a crazy person would write. I still haven't made up my mind about it. Amanouns I I am? I ama I I am not you? I am you to you? I do things Things happen to me. Who are you? You could be anyone You are not your I To you, I is yourself You can be a mirror Where I see yourself I desire to understand you I find you confusing Profoundly so We are in the middle Not a conversation but a happening? Not a cause or an effect but a mutual arising? Not separate from you or I but somehow greater? What do we do? What happens to us? We make sense to me even if I don’t have words for what we are
A rainbow arching across a gray sky. There is a street in the foreground.
A blue bowl of peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream.
A wooden railing with "the world needs kindness" written in chalk.
A sunset looking over a valley. Dark trees in the foreground. There are a series of blue hazy ridges disappearing into the distance.
A photo of a mountain mint. The leaves are a light green fading to near white as they approach the flowers. The flowers are in a dense cluster, they are very small white flowers. The leaves in the background are some sort of North American native sunflower.
There was a boy who spent so much time aching in the dark he was nothing but longing and limerence. He built a wonder and lived inside and made music with the moon and drifted in the music He walked at night and felt the pull of the tide He learned to walk softly on the earth in his silence O Selene, O Endymion come and dance with me In a pond ringed with oak and white rock call down the moon. Not the light or the dark a whisper thin line between possible and real a new thing named A quiet thing, a wild thing a thing of the edges And she came with it a creature of change
A book with writing in it, a very small plastic duck that was given to me by my daughter, and a rock with Pac-Man painted on it. The rock is one of those ones that you pick up and leave somewhere. "Another person only has the power over you that you grant them and to assume otherwise is a grave error but we are all connected."
A collage made of cut out photos. A man in a suite and hat in black in white who looks like he is from the 1950s stands in the middle distance. He is standing in what might be a warehouse that is also black and white. In the windows of the warehouse, we see flames of orange and yellow. There is a partially obscured sign that says Escape that points to the right where we see what looks like a hallway with a woman waving at the far end. In the foreground there is another black and white picture of an angry old man yelling. There are two pieces of text, one reads "Tripped Up, But Not Out" and the other reads "Holy Mackerel, even my hair hurts." There is an electric fire inside keeping me awake so I spent the night staring into it quietly I wasn't sure what else to do “Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss” ― John Milton, Paradise Lost
Black raspberries ripen in the sun. I wrote a poem about it with a constraint that was interesting to me, but doesn’t fit in the character limits so I will just hide it here. Tongue Wicked With Luscious Juice Sticky dusky sweet passion runs Savor liquid desire flowing down Heavenly nectar tasted from lips Wine tasted pleasures flesh bared It started out as a poem about eating berries that were warmed from the sun in the summer. I wrote the first three lines and I realized that each line had five words and they kind of lined up so that they also almost made sense when read vertically. I decided to make it five lines of five words each and make it read both horizontally and vertically. I wrote the five lines and I needed to change some words to make it work and replace some words that were repeated. Changing those words meant that I had to change other words. As words got replaced to fit the constraints the poem became a spicy poem about vampires. The vampirism got toned down a bit before it took its current form. I probably could rework it forever, because each change reverberates around the whole.
A picture of a flower in front of green foliage. Petals that are light purple fading to pink at the edges radiating from the center of the flower. The center is a rusty orange at the edges fading to a very light green color at the center. What I write seems wrong by the time the words appear on the screen. Sending this uncertainly.
The cover of a book called "This is How You Lose the Time War" by Max Gladstone. There is a writing prompt about posting a letter to blue that startled me, as I was just finishing reading this.
A sunset over a clay road that runs at the edge of a forest. Ahead lies a green field with mountains in the distance. Some came and went, known mostly by the traces of their passing. Threads pulled, fires lit.