Deconstruction of Persona

A Story of the Deconstructed Persona We will, in this life, be presented with the precise experiences we require for our own transformation, a destruction of the persona, and will be led into these experiences with blurred vision because creation will present what is necessary and it is often the most trying events of our earthly life. Should we learn from and overcome these experiences, we will be transformed into a new creature.  If we fail, we fall into a psychosis from which we may or may not return. I tell you this for having lived through the walk into Dante’s inferno when I blindly stepped into a relationship with a psychotic narcissist. This chapter of my life deconstructed everything I knew about the world and humanity. His talons shredded my being, ripped through my bowels, drained me of blood and left me to the elements in a dark cavern. Each time I would reach

Common Sense

Common Sense: Is what we refer to as ‘common sense’ those things we deem natural, logical or obvious? How often have any one of us said “what ever happened to common sense?” “Have they no common sense?” “Just use common sense,” and any such phrases? The Oxford Concise Dictionary defines common sense as: “sound, practical sense, esp. in everyday matters.” And how do we determine what is sound or practical except via our own life experience. Does it then come to reason common sense is much varied according to each individual? What is obvious to one person is obscured or contrary to another. Many years ago I would lament with an exceptionally skilled therapist about the lack of common sense in the world. She would laugh and remind me again and again that what common sense was to me was different than it was for others. I had endured endless abuse throughout my life,


Are we living in a time of regression or progression? Perhaps both at once? On the surface it appears a time of regression as we witness grandiose exhibitionism from those elected to lead. A concerted effort at creating greater chasms between class, gender, religion, wealth and power is the screaming agenda on the world plate. And how do patriarchal dogmatic ideals create such chasms? Through discriminatory policy, verbal ejaculation of nonsense, redefining truth, fuelling embers of discontent, threats, abuse of that which is the warrior, the server of mankind and corruption possible through the power of wealth. This sounds indisputably like regression. The fire is refuelled, hot, the flames licking at everyone. The fire contains both destruction and utility. What if, perhaps this is progression? Anyone with a keen sense of the human psyche is aware of peril of madness. Yes, the psyche’s thin thread is frayed and by all appearances is breaking at this

Cyclops: Return to Community

CYCLOPS The one-eyed giant keeps rearing his head, well really, his eye, and peering at me through blazing fire as he is anticipating winning the gold medal in the Olympics of world domination. The eye speaks to ego, ego centrism, societal/cultural centrism, through ethnic centrism but not soul centrism, not to community. I hear the people scream “Me, Me” amid sadness, madness, all the while subscribing to the latest youthful skin cream, diet, clothing and exercise fad. Narcissism has reached exponential proportions in contemporary society. Along with narcissism, rates of mental illness and drug use are out of control. How shall we blind the one eyed cyclops? He has reached volcanic eruption as he spews out molten lava causing others to flee in fear, laughing cynically at the sight. Not all are so bold in yelling “Me” as is the cyclops however, many yell “Me” in the misery of darkness while swallowing hands full of

Be Not Afraid: Social Work Conference

Be Not Afraid: Social Work Conference Summary Orlando Pulse and the LGBTQ community weighs heavy on hearts on minds and opens the platform for a 2 days of discussion on the major atrocities of our time. Tensions and anguish of hiding behind a false mask knowing those one loves deepest may cast one asea. Lurking all about are those afraid of their own shadow so much so they scout for an innocent victim upon which to cast the monster. Do they even consider love as an option? Human trafficking, destroyed lives by opportunists with unresolved trauma. An act of deceit, abuse, manipulation, calculated manoeuvers to fill their bank accounts with the anticipation of a better life while destroying the lives of many fellow persons. Where is love? Missing women and children whose souls are remembered by loved ones always in a precarious state of the unknown. Why are they not worth an investigation? Are persons


Choices Choice is a choice and every choice lends to outcomes of that choice. Sometimes these choices lead to success, our aims are achieved. Sometimes the choice leads to little of anything. Other times a choice lends to chaos and disasters which threaten our very existence by destroying everything which has held us safe slicing through the essence of our being. When the choice leads to desired outcomes, success, we are surrounded by admiration, accolades and befriended by those who hope to vicariously achieve the same success. They find what you say wise, funny, knowledgeable, and important. They wine and dine you and organise rounds of golf. When the choice leads to nothing much, no one notices. When the choice has devastating results the same, once-fan-club, will turn a blind eye and pretend not to see for this too may lend to vicarious results. In secret they ridicule and point fingers and curse the decision

Twisted Grief

When parents die it is natural for the offspring to experience loss; loss of those who have been pillars in their life, loss of the parents who loved and nurtured the children to adulthood. They serve as the foundation, the rock upon which the child stands for the duration of childhood into adulthood giving them the springs underneath their feet to leap into the adventures of the world. They serve as a place to express love, joy, frustration, pain, excitement, ideas, accomplishments and failures. From the parents the children gather up the fortitude to grow into self, each their unique individuality celebrated and cheered onward. Suppose your parents were incapable of providing any of the above. They were more like sinking sand than a rock, more chaotic and dangerous than a safe place to grow; more soul killing than supportive and encouraging; more abusive than nurturing; a place from which the children look for escape


Germination Dream analysis: “Out of the lowest depths there is a path to the loftiest heights”. –Thomas Carlyle The pods are perfectly preserved said a sky voice. Behold a boulder in the field with top half folded back like a lid. Nestled inside are three pods of glossy, brilliant colours. They find unity in the rock which has protected them. One of yellow, one of red and one of blue. The shapes of the pods are curious trapeziums. Red, to give life and fire, yellow for illumination, blue for serenity of the sky. I crack the red one open to peer inside. Putrid material, a stench so overpowering I step back. Dead components of self, the shadow death, the 5th dimension of alchemy opening a new way. I set the pod back onto the rock and crack the others in the same fashion and return them to the rock. Here they will be realized, perhaps

Who Am I

I am the water, wind, earth, fire and the ashes from the fire. I am joy, love, wonder as well as grief and suffering. I am spirit, the spirit of nature sublime, beautiful and mysterious. I am the ferociousness of storms, volcanoes and earthquakes. I am the cosmos, solar, lunar, all the galaxies and the black holes. I am the dancer, the vocalist, the beggar and mourner. I am the lone wolf howling into dreams the underworld. I am the elixir of life as well as the poison; the serpent and the apple, the fig and the tree. I am the eagle and the humming bird, the butterfly and the wasp. I am mother, sister, daughter and the old crone. I am the warrior and the healer, the anima and the animus. I am the water carrier of cleansing and the contagion of ancestral agony. I am the sifter of sand, the giver and the

She Roars

With disdainful flame in her eyes She descends the stairs to search me Meeting my ascension of morn’s rise. Aghast, I look upon her An emaciated woman, Her hair limp and wounded face Lend to her forlorn existence. A patchwork shift hangs loose, Not closing in on her bare feet. I feel the blast of inner power, Fierce as mother lion about to pounce. The living and the dead emanate forth. I recognize her and yet I know her not. Do not disrupt my slumber, For I will be crushed by truth. Betraying her in selfishness, As I retreat back into sleep. Her name is Sophia, Mary, Eve and Every women