very contrary

I worked on a spreadsheet all day. I was a thousand ants. Meanwhile, there’s nothing to figure out.

I want the Dark Mother. The expression of negativity and destruction, the extreme expression. Why do I love her so much?

I’m not giving You up
No matter how You glare at me.

What’s all this teasing and tricks, Mother,
When I go to get what’s mine?

I pulled out Ramprasad Sen – “Grace and Mercy in Her Wild Hair.” I feel distant from the fervency, found it a little funny, outrageous, devotional, used-to-be familiar. But I was not really all that touched, not ready to go get what’s mine.

Maybe I’m due for a fast from reading. Or a fast from the many thousand things.

She was throwing her jewelry around tonight. Smile-moon and beauty-mark Venus (?) in the early night sky.

Prasad says: Your games, Mother,
Are mysteries. You make and break.
You’ve broken me in this life.