kiya

“Reality is a small bubble in an ocean of imagination, and reality is slowly getting larger as little bits of imagination seep through the outer shell.”

- KJ, demonstrating a canny grasp of core ancient Egyptian theological concepts for a ten-year-old

Silence is a crocodile.

Because I mentioned it elsewhere and figured that folks who saw that comment and read me here might appreciate some more thorough commentary.

( Cut for length. )

... I'd write more but I hava to put KJ to sleep now. :}

I want to write theology. I want to have it all spilling out, all the glorious shape of it, all the things about the way I approach things, if only so there's a school of thought out there that says it so people can argue with it, something out there that has something coherent and systematic and looking at the whole thing. And I don't know how the fuck I'd get it published if I wrote it - it's not magical enough to toss at Immanion, I think - but I want it like it's spilling out my pores. Only I don't know where to start. What's the beginning? I have all these pieces, these shapes of things, the explanation behind this ritual, the exploration of this concept, nature of names, nature of souls, the three faces of chaos, the gods in the universe, people in the universe, all these things, but what's the first thread? Where do I try to tell people to start? (Zep Tepi, always Zep Tepi, but.)

I want my foot to stop hurting. Some of the swelling from the pregnancy seems to have - at our best guess - separated the callus on part of my right heel from the rest of the skin, which produces sudden-scream levels of pain when manipulated incorrectly.

I want ... food to look like food again. Everything is as appealing and foodlike as grass, which is profoundly frustrating. I snack, mostly because I know I ought to input caloric stuff, but it's ... sort of desultory.

I want to not have to be up at ungodly in the morning to go interview a pediatrician. At least I get to go back to bed afters.

Mother of the manifest
Womb of the dead
Arched starry vault of heaven
Whose water jar
Holds cleansing
And oblivion
Swallow up the sun!
In your belly
Is making and unmaking
And grandfather dawn is born
Bloody and fragrant
Between your thighs.

(Some work has an interesting effect on my Egyptiana.)