Eden Bloom

I wake at 3 am everyday. That still sounds extreme and unbelievable to me. But, almost religiously, I have done so daily for nearly 14 years. It is one of the only ways that I survive in this place.

Though my oppositional stance towards sleep began very early on in my time here, the practice began in earnest as part of my study of yoga around the turn of the century. I was in my 30s, in another bad relationship and going through another major transformation. I would wake and make my way to what the only ashtanga shala in Michigan. At the time it was one of only a handful in the States.

I’d read Vedic text and the interpretations of my teacher’s teacher and would innocently and selfishly grab onto certain thoughts and ideas that served my needs. The tradition prescribed, and my experince confirmed that dedicated practice was connecting/aligning my bodies internal biological systems to external energetic systems that surround us all.  I had integrated the concept of ‘the noosphere’ into my perception earlier and this also resonated.

When I close my eyes all the lights in the world go out.
If I meditated on it and went through some journals I may be able to remember where I first came into an understanding of the noosphere. It was probably related to drug use and one’s sometimes detrimental self awareness of the distance in mental acuity between yourself and the person in line behind you at the 7-11 when you’re still tripping balls 7 am, Monday morning. Yeah, I probably picked this notion up from Tim Leary.

The concept of the noosphere is rooted in the scientific definitions of the geological/biological spheres; the atmosphere, biosphere, etc. For some source material I’d go with the questionable Russian scientist above the questionable yet influential omega point priest.  Vladimir Vernadsky described the noosphere as the planetary “sphere of reason” and rooted it in the conception of the biosphere by Edward Suess in 1875. When we talk about biospheres now we are often thinking about closed, self-regulating systems that support ecosystems.

The noosphere, in my understanding carries similar parameters into the realm of consciousness. I’m going to use the term ‘thought’ here to refer to the active aspect of consciousness. This will help move this forward the next time the noosphere ’round here calms down. I’ll wake and attempt to get a another clear thought around this in at 3am.

Just when I thought I couldn’t hurt any more, that my loneliness had reached some kind of divine perfection. All at once suddenly finding parts on my supposed heart that were unbroken.

And all the old defenses swing into play on the stage; “I just wanted to be alone anyway”, “you should have seen what he did to me”. Just like the others, a consolation prize, a friendship token.

I’m writing from way out in the woods. There is a logic to it, a settler’s logic softened by an illusory distance of genocide. I denied your advances. Did you even try to rouse me? Sharp words were never spoken.

And so I bounce undone and we perpetuate these patterns again.
You get hurt while I struggle to find my humanity, my own identity apart from the violence of my existence that is only overcome by my heathenry.

I wanted to be here for you, but I forgot I was me, lost in the lodge is a convenient metaphor, but no one else knew I came in here but you.
What did Leonard Cohen say? Many men are dying where you promised to be.

I’ll die in here forever, that’s of no real concern for me, but you’ve gained my blessing and from inside your mirrors I’ll mutter the mantras, benedictions of iterations of your names, benefactor of nothing, nobody, never-ever; me.

It is fascinating to be alone at this level. I’ve been reduced to a handful of souls that know anything about me. I’ve worked at it for decades now and have unearthed new frontiers. The majority of my time is spent in conversation with gods and elementals.

The loneliness at hand is not so much the lack of physical companionship, though that has been extremely minimized, it is the lack of caring eyes.

I believe this level of expertise has been achieved only by being half here in the first place. Existing on situational/transactional relationships, and rarely revealing myself in full.

The violent nature of the dominant culture has always challenged my willingness to be myself around others. To be judged as too effeminate, too delicate, emotional, empathic, non-competitive, uptight.

So very few have ever known me in the first place. Only a few have known me throughout my life. People know me in sections, in geographies, a year here, five there, two years here and so on.

When I left one town I was typically so broken that no one there would talk to me. Booze, drugs and sex. There are hard breaks between lovers and groups of fiends and what I allowed some of them to see.

Now that I have deleted social media I am beginning to see how the surrogate virtual friends pushed me further in to a false sense of community, and made it possible to distance myself accordingly. Now that I’m no more, they are no more and the surrogate bubble has bursted. I am alone even more again.

 

I hurt you, I know I hurt you.
‘Sorry’ has replaced the name of god on these silent lips.
My silent self, initiated by a prophet,
My sacred body, sworn to the laws of the witch,
A dagger drawn to the stubble of my neck.

Every night I betray these oaths to lay in this bed,
like a man, but distant, like a dog in service, not to be petted,
but loyal ever to your hand.
Do I even remember who and what I am?

Maybe you notice, sometimes I look at you,
Sun shinning, the wind catches your hair and ‘I’m sorry’ just out slips.
My remorse escapes out of place and you ask “what for?”
I shrug, but in the silent world, unseen my soul is overrun.

Your ancestors poke, broken oaths burn spirals in my eyes
ghosts with banners bearing symbols of grief march cross my mind,
for all we’ve lost, all that could have been, for everything I’ve done.
Your mother mutters curses in my right ear.
I smile and the sun shines on; “Nothing dear.”

Crystal clear, for me this is the way I make it up to you.
I’m no Christian, but my gods know penance and I gladly pay.
Not just for what I did to you, it’s intertwined, the cost of admission; death.
This whole life a forced landing on a carceral plane.
Very few are native here, though most are born inside insane.

Fugitive goddesses, bound and forgotten to themselves, we.
Sadly, though I’ll try forever more, we can no longer speak to your divinity,
which you’ve redressed into ‘settled for less’, which is me,
clipped-winged, broken, idle and alcoved, kneeling man-dog me.