Fear is a mountain, is a redwood forrest, is a cauldron boiling over crackling sticks. Is the story I hold myself captive to. Is not the ocean, is not the fire that I made whose sound is now steady and rhythmic at my back. Fear is not the song I sung across the waves to myself. Is not the waning moon overhead - dipping into the waking day. My fear is not my life. Is but a helpful member that in times gone by protected me and kept me alive. Now I face my fears, one by one, day by day. I will meet my mother on neutral ground this Friday. I have a kete of words to give her - and a stone from a mountain I fucked on in Ireland. These little remembrances are totems of my new life. A life that is waking up even as I am weeping. Weeping the grief that has only just itself woken up. I don’t know myself or my life these days. From time to time something urgent comes into my inbox and quite quickly that too disappears and I am left wondering in the days of these days - what is happening? Are we all in a dream? Is the waking more mad than the sleeping? It cannot be plumbed, but the deep is calling out - the dark has to have her time once more. I am willing to be taken down there - Persephone the goddess of the dark - and above ground, Demeter teaching the son - the Eleusinian mysteries of how to make seed crop harvest - my Virgoan self happy to both tend and become the harvest. Eaten in one whole gulp. I wonder at the state of you. Where you are and how the weather is inside you. That face - can hold its own at Vagas. Your eyes came into my sit and brought tears.