No word of a lie. I mean, nothing here has been a lie anyway. Everything I have ever written about has been 100% true.
Everything I have ever written about has been 100% true. Hard core factual stuff. All verifiable and shit. MUNDANE PROFANE MATERIAL PHYSICAL REAL STUFF.
I don’t lie. I hate liars. Vehemently so. I hate deceit. But I do recognise the necessity of… twisting stuff around… I understand the necessity for manipulation. When lies and deception are necessary in order to protect people from shit they’re not ready for. I do not deceive, instead I manipulate. There is a difference.
It’s part of my thing with “words.” My love of words. Of language, communication, messages, understanding, learning, sharing, everything… Everything that I am.
I don’t know how to describe myself other than what people say about me. Thus there have been a shit ton of hurtful names and stuff. But the people I love and care about? The help me feel better about existing. Because I have a ton of mental health problems. A shit ton. So much so that I struggled to contain my… all my stuff… within. I was a cutter. Pretty profuse actually. I have scars on my face, my arms, my legs. I have a lot of physical scars that represent my metaphorical wounds. All self inflicted. No one ever left a visible mark upon me, I experienced ZERO physical abuse nor violence. Honestly, I don’t even know if I received “emotional” abuse, although people say that I did. They would blame my mum for doing a shit ton of reprehensible things. But *shrugs* I dunno. I’ve learned to let that go.
I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, I am ALL HEART (Tony Single).
This blog, modernmysticmother.com was my place to be a complete whole person. To be all of me. I could be happy and just doing whatever. Blah blah blah, it was all just fun. It helped me to sort through the mess within my head. I was venting and stuff my frustrations and realisations and ideas and stuff.
I wanted to be there for the world, to use my skills and life experience to help teach others. To help them be true to themselves. To learn to love themselves. How to pick the right friends. How to… how to live a life that is worth living. Learn from my mistakes. And it doesn’t matter if you listen to me or not, the important thing is that you listen to yourself.
Names are incredibly important to me. Words are everything. And I guard those that I love fiercely. Thus why I have to put my name and my face out there. Fucking bring it, bitches. You don’t scare me, you can’t hurt me, because I suffer already by my own hands in my body, mind and spirit. I kill myself metaphysically every single day. Existence is already fucking painful.
I want to extol the people I love, the people I know. Complete and utter nepotism. But I am honest and upfront with my shit. So you better fucking believe everything I say. Because I mean what I say, and I say what I mean. I do not bullshit around.
I’m not god. I’m not airy fairy wherever whatever. I am real. I am finite. I am right here, right now. That’s all I know. That’s all I am. I exist.
I don’t cast wiccan spells or complete magic rituals. But my words are spells somehow. And what I do with my body, that’s some sort of rite..? I don’t know. I just know I do stuff, whatever I feel like doing in the right here and right now, and shit just fucking emanates from that… Magic happens around me, but it has nothing to do with me.
People are inspired by me. But.. I dunno. I just.. do whatever?
I’m everything that everyone has ever said about me. Ever. I am all of that and I am so much more. And I am also less. I’m not fancy schmancy wishy washy whatever. I’m just.. me.
I am exactly who I am. I know myself. I love myself. I just don’t like myself. Sometimes I even hate myself. I dunno. I have emotions and I can change my mind about stuff. I just keep going, keep doing, keep… trying.
My beautiful whip, she spoke of Mamma Mayhem. I am a mother. I love. And I love all my kids – biological, non-biological, spiritual, metaphorical, figurative, literal, beautiful, monstrous, formed and unformed. I love people. I like people. People are all I really care about. I notice people, and try to communicate with them in ways that they present themselves as willing to engage.
I endeavour to find the person behind their words. The artist behind the art. I only wanted to know about real people and their real stories. Because I have no imagination of my own. I can’t create images, but I can remember them. I can recreate them.
MODERNMYSTICMOTHER.COM is the public visage, the container for all of me and my shit. But me? The person who writes shit and whatever…
I am not modern mystic mother, although I am modern, I like mystics and I am a mother.
I am the mortal muse. Because I am not immortal. I am right here, right now. I also inspire other people by… existing. I muse, amuse, bemuse, confuse, and ruminate.
But behind what I do for others, I am just me.
I am me.
I chose my WordPress name for a reason. I do everything I do with intent and purpose. When I name shit, I make sure I select the right name for the job. So here? You can call me Kalliope, the muse of epic poetry.
But the name I have and go by in real life?
My name is Kim Lane.
And here is a photo I took of myself today, while waiting in the car for a friend who was grabbing stuff from in the shops. And the scenic photo in the collage, I took that from a lookout a couple of years ago. It’s only a sliver of the panorama though. Hah, kinda symbolic of everything I have been trying to convey. I wonder if that message was delievered or received..?
Oh well. Better scadaddle and scuttle off and fucking just get on with life. Can’t sit here fucking typing this shit forever. Including the photo imaging stuff it’s already been almost an hour. Fuck aye.