Welcome to the poopship.
::ALL ABOARD::
My name is ben. I've been here on the plant for about 28 years. Right now, there's not a lot of defined intent as to why I'm here writing this. I used to write, a lot. Recently, I've found a lot of other activities to do besides writing. I'm a ceramic artist, so I find myself in the studio most of the time, and when I'm not there I feel as though I might be wasting time, I get guilty and start beating myself up over not taking life as an artist as seriously as I should.
This past fall, I went to a shaman in the Black Hills of South Dakota.
You see, MY FRIEND, the spirit, the big empty unknown, god, or any other SOUND or WORD you choose to address that field of being in which we all seem to exist IS THE MYSTERY which pushes me along and gives me the energy to get out of bed. I'm not interested in accumulating money, pretty things, or talking about either of the two. I would rather sit and stare at the back of my eyelids or a blank wall than do anything of the sort.
This takes us back to the Shaman:
I went to a woman Shaman in the Black Hills. She sent waves of energy through my body and read me in ways I've never been read. She fed my mind with beautiful metaphors, personal folklore. Distant elves from far-off planets, shaven-headed telepathic mystics made of time and space, nothing but space, and mountains, just mountains.
::::::::your spirit is like this, and it flies and flows like this, and when you feel like that, it flows like this, and that's why... ::::::::::::::::
She had power and when she spoke, I listened. I listened to every word, because she sang a song that I had heard hundreds of times, but this time different, in this body different, seen through these eyes different.
yoroshiku. mata kite ne.
