16-2-2022: Day 251
Lying on the bed, a stone temple pilot of nearly dreams, I was listening to a moon meditation, drifting in and out of sleep. Outside the bedroom window the full moon was beaming its luminous rays across the night sky. The stars were out in full force too. It was the Leo moon, something about leading from the heart and following creative impulses, away from the wolf pack. I was tuning my ears to float on the gentle lilting waves of the guided words.
The voice was coming through clearer, on a radio frequency channel of my own design for life, feeding the brain waves through osmosis.
There was something about drawing out the yellow puss poison of the soul – the suffering, the trauma, and the warts and all reality – and how the gravitational power of the moon would absorb all the nasty shit. And I was left thinking of the strapline ‘reduce, reuse, and recycle’ as I slipped into sleep, feeling the eternal growing pains of the soul.
19-2-2022: Day 254
The giant evergreen tree that guards over the tombstones of St Mary’s church was standing strong. In the eye of the storm its lush green leaves were billowing like a natural umbrella as the powerful gusty wind drove through the deserted graveyard.
Elsewhere, the full force gale was wreaking destruction, as the so-called female storm showed the strength of her furious bidding. Shops and cafés were boarded up, wheelie bins were being blown down the high street, and the moored-up boats on the River Adur were being violently capsized in the choppy waters.
Sipping on a flat white in Tom Foolery, the only coffee shop in town open, I was tuning into the storm before the calm. As chunks of masonry fell from the building, I wondered whether a reduction in my psych meds to 5 MG would require a battening down of the hatches in the future. Swigging up and stepping outside into the blinking pupil of the storm, I left in search of home and shelter.
21-2-2022: Day 256
In the lyrics of the Manic Street Preachers, life was becoming a landslide. By 4 o’clock PM this Manic Monday was already written off, fully evacuated, and condemned for demolition. I was ready to move onto Tuesday. There were early warning signs: the house turned into Piccadilly Circus on day one of the school holidays; the dividing garden fence blown down in the storm; and my early morning sunny disposition turned dramatically to the black shadows of afternoon.
Thrown into the landslide mix, of mud slides, rock falls, and crumbling concrete debris – was the crushing sense of a world teetering on the precarious edge of its twenty-three-degree axis.
This was only confirmed and confounded on opening the socials to find a video clip from a lonely Chilean beach with two murky suns in the sky above. Solid proof the higher powers of global news fakery was rocketing to new atmospheric highs.