dispatches from the wild interior: September 29, 2020

8 of Swords: Everything you feel is real. The blindfold, the ropes, the swords, the wind riling dust around you. Also you have chosen to be here. Or pretend that you are. Or decide that you are. For just a moment, act as though you asked to be bound into immobility, to be blindfolded out of sight. Call the stillness and dark long-desired gifts. Invitations to an interior journey, safeguarded by blades. That sound far off, is it a bell or a bird? What does its singing say in your inner language? What a moment to whistlestop your internal populus and landscape, all the selves in your left elbow and knobby base of the spine. The hanging lake in your gut, the jungle between your lungs. Sate your longing for travel by wandering here. The ordinary world will wait.