Starting to think about the Inner Editor

comment from a facebook post of another woman writer.

This is helpful and timely. I’m having some sabbatical weeks and finally allowing myself to let my own creativity be important. Today i have been considering my distrust of the editing process to my raw/truth/heart art – whether writing or drawing. i tend to just create by pulling it out the ether and on to the page. like a child does, mixed with some sort of feral beast that demands raw truth. And that comes out good, and stirs emotions, and I like that. it also comes out in spurts that I love one day and then panic about the next, that i can only create when i feel that passion driving expression from me, that once it’s out it is done, fixed, and i may or may not be able to make more. so…yes..i noticed that i am distrustful of the word “editor” – why?! I connect it to the idea that editing will limit distort or take away from the truth. but what im working out is that my negative associations with editing come from having a pretty severe and whiney critic, i destroy and dismantle myself all the time, and the only way to keep my art safe is to create in that raw one-off way, to get a drip feed of support from others to nurture it. Because it runs as a direct line from my emotions to my words my art feels susceptible to all kinds of emotional whimsy and i feel like its not sustainable or can only come so far. But what if the inner or outer editor was something that could nuture and deepen the vision? Maybe i can foster something new in myself. Some of your writing has shocked me by being very close to my own, hidden words in secret journals, I am happy to see it and I understand where it comes from. I have a pressing sense that these are truths that need to be expressed, that our raw-art is important,  and I think developing more skills to frame and support it is good. I have the beginnings of new perspective growing in me, but its requiring me to re-think and re-imagine my whole sense of being in the world

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From Austrlian author Kate Holden…..”And, at the end of the day, I find it humbling even to witness and experience my own ability to write. Not always write very well, but – well, to be able to write at all, in a world with still high numbers of people who can’t, or poorly (somewhere between 50 and 70 per cent of Australians have sub-sufficient literacy) and to be able to write fluently and to have written adequately enough to be published. There are the operatic rapturous moments when the muse kisses you deeply and the magical words fly from the ends of your fingers, when you’re surfing towards the bottom of each page, when a day’s work is like flying… and there is the simple, much humbler appreciation of being able to communicate and express in a form which is not transient in the way conversation is, or ephemeral in the mind’s eye images, impressions and memories that we share with ourselves, or mumbled and incomplete the way speech is. Writing fixes things, it allows articulacy and elegance where we might be shy in person; it gives us the time, as we cogitate each word, sip the tea, stare out the window, pat the dog, to evolve our thinking carefully; it permits the retraction of a mis-thought and the replacement by a better one. Writing lets our thoughts – formed in the very material goo of our fleshly brains – live on for millennia (just ask Seneca, who took his own life but still scolds from two thousand years ago). And writing is an act of grace, isn’t it? I don’t mean to end on a gushy, sentimental note. I’m not talking about eye surgery on the poor. But writing is grace, and humility is the nicest way to receive it.”

Still Point, reflections on the whore

Last night, I received a cranio-sacral session in the midst of a lightning storm.. the woman worked directly on my nervous system, although I didn’t realise till later. I felt anxiety releasing and nerves down into my lower plexuses. I felt drug-like shifts in time/space (nervous system work does weird things apparently). I felt the flexion-extension of the CNS that they keep burbling on about…like a motion from fetal position to stretching out. I felt centering and what they call “Still Point”. I feel the whole theme of my life right now is trying to ‘deal/embrace’ with being in a still point. For someone who survived by learning how to react and move from stress this is unnerving. A still point feels like the ocean going flat. It feels like walking into a graveyard. As she said today when we discussed it – yes, it is a little bit like death…it is a pause between one cycle and a next. the temptation is to fill it with noise. But there is no noise I can fill it with here that would satisfy me. I have to wait for the tide to return. Or the storm to bring me a new form….

At 30 I felt full of mess and sex and power. I was creating with blood every month in honour of Lilith. I was standing on the intersection of sex-power-money and and loved the freedom of that world on the outside, the shadow realms where most people don’t look and so you can be everything.

At 32 I’ve stopped being a whore, a slut, opening up to many men and situations, transforming them with my sex, or at least that was the intention. Now I’m not so sure how far that transformation goes, or how long it stays. Maybe I just didn’t get clear enough at capturing the right people. Maybe the point with Lilith was power-sex for it’s own sake and magic that happened through you, the vessel of transformation your body and cunt, the enticement nakedness and form.  At the start of being with J I had to face down Lilith, the whore and the married man met head on and he stood up to her, that’s when I knew I’d found what I’d been looking for. I wanted to claim my body and my sex back for ME. I’d done my service.

Claiming it back meant facing all the disconnection, all the fragmentation between sex and personal heart (as opposed to the universal-anonymous love that you tap into as the sacred-whore). It meant facing the strands of sex-addiction and new-love addiction that wove through my purposeful work. Sensual massage work or any kind of attention focused work that includes giving or receiving pleasure, sex, intimacy – this is a perfect place for people with these unmet attention desires. I had men paying me, supporting me, to be there and be given attention, or to respond with the most approval a man can give to what I was doing and being.  I loved that I could see right into their most intimate soulplaces and then at the end they’d fuck off and I could go eat some cake and drink tea. There was challenge, art, and skill in the work, and value -yes I don’t deny that- but it was NOT teaching me about how to go deeply into love myself, or how to to become less selfish, or how to relate to another in a way that stitches together the sublime and the mundane. And I hit a point of anger when I realised I no longer wanted to be used as a crutch/tool/escape to keep dysfucntional marriages or relationships bearable.  I wanted to be part of deeper transformation. There were cases where  I may have been the gateway to a man’s freedom from shame, but his next steps were not to salvage or leave his relationship but to go deeper into the shadows and start calling up and going through a sequence of other women and practitioners to sample other flavours of the same.

Learning how to love on a personal level, to slowly let my body become mine again, was hard, slow, painful and involved feeling every bit of choked down anger, disgust, sadness at every time I’d let boundaries be pushed, or I’d done something just to get the money, or I’d misjudged the situation – my body remembered every one of those moments. It wasn’t all glorious magical transformation and it was hard to accept that. But I discovered how despite every initial doubt I found MORE sanctity in limitation than I did in boundless sharing.

And yet…and yet… there WAS true magic in that work, and art, and I felt powerful snakes and ancient ritual coming through me, and damnit I miss that!

I also miss knowing my sexuality is valuable because it had use and money attached to it. (infact I’m challenging my belief that I have to be “useful” to have value in all aspects of my life right now).

Ripping all the sex-money-newAttraction away revealed that a lot of my sexual confidence only went a few inches deep. Lots of masks to protect my vulnerable heart. Lots of roles to play in which may have been true aspects of me but no-one got the whole picture. Safety.

I find myself as body-conscious, sexually-insecure, ugly-feeling as I did as a teenager. It’s like eventually taking away the glossy thick pile rug and finding the stain still there, underneath, and starting to smell. Eventually my self-love growth and attention needs to happen.

I used to feel that sexual/pleasure shame was the biggest issue to resolve. It’s certainly a big fucking weight.  Now I feel – Ripping away the shame is not enough. Not if you don’t know how to value and love your sex yet, or how it integrates into the rest of your being.

I am at a Still point with all this, but starting to feel the stirrings and yearnings of dark expression, for magic, for doing something which dances with raw energies of life and affects real transformation. I’m not sure  how or what this can look like yet. But until Lilith found me one Solstice night, I didn’t feel that pull or passion either. I will lie awake in the storms or still in the silence, I will go into the words and take in Life again. I will see what comes next.

What I DO know –  I still have a wolf-heart. I now have a wolf-mate. I will not settle, can not settle, for life without magic in it now. If I can’t have at least as much, as rich magic with this one man as I could as a sacred-profane whore-witch, then the whole thing is a joke. Put the wolf pelt back on and run back into the woods..