Yes! This wicked phobia about touching my own personal power is as real as a fit of paralysis. Beneath dem indigo waves of consciousness it floats, detritus-like with all of my other useless things- regrets, grudges, obsessions.
Lifting this enormous power to the surface means that I'll be responsible for its ravages and its failures. Mommy's always responsible for her child's wrongdoing...
So I keep my little visions hidden away inside of cruddy ol' mason jars. Just let them sit there festering in the hot sun all the day long, like my dead granddaddy's pickled onions, okra, tomatoes. Sometimes I might pour off the pot liquor straight into my mouth, and let a volcanic river drip down my neck.
Now my creative impulses they shake me, violently, out of a good night's sleep. Rage and envy, yearning freezing rotten desire, none of it will leave me alone. So I go, there I go. Grief throws me against the river rocks, and my momma's face is reflected in wet sunlight above my head.
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