early retirement 2.11.22 Mercury/Pluto conjunction
I’ve been cracking jokes lately, when in the company of others. When there was an opening in the conversation I would insert a comment; I would joke about my life in early retirement. I would joke and say that I am retired. It's obviously funny because I’m only 35; fairly early in my second Saturn returns.
Over the last 18 months I’ve made modest acquisitions fit for a retiree; house slippers, a few extra lines in my face and even a piccolo pipe with dark cherry Cavendish tobacco. They all fit rather nicely, (according to my eyes) when worn with my gray cardigan with the red whip stitch suring up the right pocket; the same cardigan I wore the night of the accident and the morning of the ward. That was an equinox to remember.
Maybe it's in poor taste to joke about early retirement. Perhaps that it isn’t very funny to go on about, or maybe it was only funny to me. It hadn’t quite occurred to me until now that it may be kind of awkward for a grown man to crack funnies about his lack of income or industriousness. I suppose I just gave myself a pass. Because I figured everyone already knows I’m a little unhinged- a little ungrounded- certainly a bit touched… and that “he just needs time to heal because he is an activated Light Worker and the benefits reaped by his inner struggle to anchor the Light upon the Earth plane is in everyone’s best interest, and that it takes an untold exertion of Will to exact such an incarnation, and that it takes more than a few several months for the risen Kundalini to come to maturation. Quick, can someone please get me a tourmaline.
Well, here I am in southern Jersey Manchester Township Ocean County Riverside retirement community side of the pond (man made) composite bench under a gazebo erected on a concrete pad. Sitting inside my cardigan next to my piccolo pipe and a pen in my hand, wondering how I could feel so lost and so found at the same time.
I’ve been a stubborn *******. Afraid to bear my Light within my hands and expose it to my kin in a meaningful way. But here I am, early retirement on an early afternoon in a retirement community full of elders slinkin through the early dusk of the twilight of their lives. And I don't like it. I am not equanimous with what is. I’ve excreted so many toxins that the re-uptake is nearly too much to bear. I’ve carried empty green notepads in my back pocket for years. Pen and pad with scotch tape holding down the binding; worth about three or four poems max. “Yea I fancy myself a writer, just not very prolific.” You can only speak something into being so many times before the universe starts agreeing with you. Old man Saturn couldn’t give a **** about little fears and excuses. The limits of necessity were only bad wiring rendered by my own hand. And that goes down smooth like a fish-bone in the throat.
I own enough scarves and robes to circumambulate the globe a few times. If only I could fly it would be in such style because on the outside I look how I want to feel on the inside. Before my heart center I hold the dharmachakra mudra and I stare into a candle flame. I could of sworn they prescribed this treatment early in the Rig Veda for guys with ailments like mine; running mad like beside his shadow and fleeing all the house flies; sliding down the side of a waxing crescent moon.
only the moon it is a scythe; a crescent knife. Waning in early retirement, old man Saturn coming for his life.
death and the sickle hebrew rope and a buffalo nickle
The day on a high reaches the peak over the pyramid. Shrouded in twilight now tucked in light pushes the envelope. The whole panache of stars came out in the pitch dark. The North Star is on the way oh do me a favour I will tell you why.
Veil the angle of dawn in the black shades of the night. There are dark caves even inside the pyramid scientists, trained eyes yet to tread on that way.
Put on it only an instance of your kohl the daylight is already a burnt mole. Light in the wrap in the night your muslin veiled silken moonlight is enough to find the tuberose’s earth.
If the tucked away sun crops up once again over the morning’s rose petals. Again it will dive deep into the angle after an angle in the black hole of the night. A far cry from the glowing firefly eyeing blindfolded behind the moon perfectly beyond every looking star. Until the master arts in silk black finds the true pencil not in visualising but catching the views of the sunrise through the lens of the rose pollens’ kohl-eyes.