I will be the first to admit that I am a spiritual dead nerve.
Not really in the way that I, say, spend my time muttering about “shitty Christians” under my breath nor in the way that I never felt the need to write “God is dead” on a high school bathroom stall. Moreso, I see it in the way that I am oblivious to that which cannot be directly observed. My intuition is shitty. I’ve never seen a ghost or felt a presence. Night time is the right time for fireworks and rapists- scourges of this realm but not really the great beyond. I will sleep soundly in your ancient indian burial ground and hide under your portal grave to escape the noon-day sun. It’s just how I roll. Once, I tried to have my palm read, but the palmist said that she had never seen a hand like mine and gave me my money back.
It’s not that I am an asshole. I’m just insensitive to that sort of thing.
On the other hand, I’ve gone through my fair share of superstitious behavior. I’ve tapped the ceiling of the car as I sail through yet another yellow light. I have a “lucky shirt”. I very carefully choose the first song that I listen to in any new place that I live or work- don’t want to start off my life in these walls with a bad tune, do I? Might as well just burn the place down. In fact, someone once asked me if I knew where they could purchase any white sage and then stated that I seemed like the kind of folk who would know that thing. Maybe same does recognize same? Am I that person? Am I trying to smudge away past bad vibes by playing “a solid album. One of their earlier ones.”?
I’m not sure what it is that I am trying to access with these actions. Maybe I am trying to enact some sort of control over the spinning universe. Or, maybe I am trying to call it out; to tell it that I have learned to recognize its pattern. My astral body might be sluggish, fat, and unkempt, but it knows that the universe can be trusted. It can be trusted to catch me just it trusts me to know what is right for me when it crosses my path. I can’t find you an evil presence but I can throw desires into the cosmos and watch them return, fulfilled, with an almost amazing rate of accuracy.
It is then unsurprising that I don’t jive with the idea of “past lives”. But last week, I was cleaning through all of my studio stuff, gathering up a few This and Thats to make into Whatevers (outcome as shown by the photos in this post) and I started to think about bower birds. I thought about how they sift through trash and lay it about themselves in an effort to articulate their virility to their potential mate. And, gee, isn’t that what I have done? With my fancy glasses and dresses and foot trunks? From Wikipedia:
In and around the bower the male places a variety of brightly colored objects he has collected. These objects — usually different among each species — may include hundreds of shells, leaves, flowers, feathers, stones, berries, and even discarded plastic items, coins, nails, rifle shells, or pieces of glass. The males spend hours arranging this collection.
Is it possible that I was a bowerbird in a past life? And, if so, which gender? I feel like I am both the impressor and the impressed.For real. Dave and I have a lot of stuff between us.
There was this one summer, summer of 2005, that I call, “The Summer that Boys Liked Me” and during it, two different boys asked me out by saying, “I’d really like to take you to the flea market.” I was never really sure what that meant, as far as how they viewed me, but now I think I understand just what it was they were vibing on. My past life as a busy bower bird was showing through. Well, that and my sexual dimorphism, I guess.