Author: 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.

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.

There isn’t a morning where I don’t wake and think of you, what you are doing, if you are even still alive. It’s a little ritual I do as I remember my place in this space upon waking, like making coffee. I’ve had to learn to live with this. I assume it is the same for you. Grief resembles death, a half-death; life in grief.

My father passed a few years back, is it already 5 years? I hadn’t seen him in 20. I received a letter threatening my children years before he died. I assumed it was from him as to bore all his markings. I thought maybe you’d get over yourself and send, not condolences, but some recognition that the man who tortured us and set all this in motion was dead.

I expected to hear from you years ago when tragedy hit. But after all we’ve been through, even a pandemic, and silence still; yeah. I’ve allowed myself, not to think that you’re dead, but that somehow you’re no longer here or there, maybe half and half? In-between? How many birthdays have you missed and how does your heart carry that weight?

I’m not that strong. We recognize your birthday every year, even though it hurts.  Even though it would be much easier to tell the kids you’re all the way dead, I can’t lie. They know you live only a half an hour away. I explain you’ve been twisted up, lost your way, but that it is there you want to stay, in another world, overlaid, untouchable.

Last night, our middle kid (you wouldn’t know his name, though it is highly regarded in some circles of your faith), he was explaining to me how much it hurt him every time he heard other kids talk about their grandparents. Really, that is the loss that gets me more than anything, that they won’t know their grandmother’s embrace.

What a loss of love and all over the fact that I will not bend a knee before a faith that is not for me or mine. Respectfully, with my birth, your church and our family’s blood have parted ways. You could have ushered us forward in love, but you refused to grant blessings or clear passage. You wouldn’t give, so we took. We had to slip away in the night, to find our own way.

And we have, half-dead, nonetheless passed our days. I hope your god embraces you for your blind dedication to his law, above your maternal instincts, above your humanity. Will your reward justify my and our children’s loss and tears? Its utterly sickening that these are my thoughts on the daily, as the coffee drips, as I peel off another round of dried tears.

There is no such thing as a victory
that does not end up making
us them and them we.

There is something in the air, a shift, a turn, an opening.
We no longer have expectations
but welcome change for opportunity
to interrupt and intercept.

WE have inspired an illusion to become more real.
Anyone versed in these arts knows exactly what we’re experiencing.
It is mass possession by forces opposed to the chaos of life,
the autonomy of the offspring of that chaos.

We believe representation matters
because we know the power that has come
with seeing ourselves, our beliefs, writ large.
More please.

More magic, more vision,
greater depth so that more may see.
The insanity that makes us sane
or quiet evermore.

We always admired and appreciated
those of like mind and spirit who labored
to influence these ‘modern’ stories,
telling them with glimpses of the world as we walk it.

Dominance dominates by design.
Resistance bakes a knife in the cake.
Neither wins the day; repeat.

Always wondering what the world would look like
if we had won, were winning, will win.
And by winning I mean,
witches everywhere, bottom middle and top.

But there is no such thing as a victory
that does not end up making
us them and them we.