Kundalini Writhing

The last 48 or so hours have been weird. I don’t know what’s going on with my body or my mind. We’re all over the place, separately. Can’t focus. Self-medicating is always risky. Exploring witchcraft: there’s kundalini energy swimming frantically around my body wondering why the train station has shut down. Can’t leave my body through closed chakras.

Nonsense.

___________Judgment.

Might I be mourning an artistic miscarriage? I started a script-writing challenge on May 1st which I went into with such optimistic enthusiasm. We were to spend 14 straight days adding words or pages to a story idea that we spent half the first week planning. I made it through some of the planning and wrote almost an entire first act. I ran out of juice when it came time to write the first plot point. I’m so conflict averse I can barely bring myself to imagine disharmony even if it’s safe, for fun.

Julia Cameron said our inner artist child resists anything that isn’t safely scary. I think what killed my momentum was the thought of someone else reading the work. It’s deeply personal – it’s the first story I’ve tried to tell that values authenticity and isn’t just a brief, wild grab-and-go through my imagination. This story has characters I care about because they’re based on real people. Thus, this story can’t be read by anyone lest I implicate the accused.

I’m ready to put my deepest shame and fears and my highest hopes into this screenplay, but in order to do that, I first need assurance that I’m its sole intended audience. This story is for me only. Maybe someday I can tweak it to where it doesn’t resemble anyone I actually know, but that day is a long way off. I have to get through this first draft. But I need complete and total privacy. I need to stop talking about it to others. I haven’t miscarried; this bun just isn’t ready to come out of the oven yet.

That said, I have to move this energy. I’m choking on it. Even upping my walks to twice a day hasn’t improved my mood the way exercise usually does. There’s clearly something else going on that needs to be addressed. This serpent must be drawn out with the utmost gentleness and care. More like guiding it out. Removing a blockage so the script’s energy can flow again. A more accurate analogy then is that I need to take a big emotional shit.

What I need to focus on is some erotic art, at my therapist’s suggestion. I had no idea where to begin, but the Universe flashed me a clue while I researched a business opportunity. Actually the sign was kind of two-fold that way; to me it meant that the business opportunity was aligned with the direction I want to take my personal growth. Might be a dead end but at this over-cautious rate I’m as good as dead myself.

What I saw that sparked some ideas was someone else’s portfolio of erotic art therapy. I think I’ll also do found poetry, and maybe more watercolors of nudes I sent someone years ago. (Yes, the same dude for whom I wrote that nihilist love poem. I need better muses.) Shit. Maybe I’ll take fresh nudes to use as references. Feeling very unsexy these days. It could help or it could make me feel worse.

Anyway, I started this piece with one intention and wound up somewhere totally different. Six hundred words is more than enough. This counts. I feel better giving even just a rude shape to the nebulous anxiety slithering around inside me.