Tag: exposition

dream: morning of 9.2.2023

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Alchemy, Death, dream analysis, dream interpretation, dreaming, dreams, Jung, Jungian, Mother, postpartum, Rebirth, Reincarnation, vivid dreams, WomenfolkLeave a comment

i had a baby —
i kept forgetting to completely nurse him
he would latch and suckle, but because i was distracted, i would never fully feed him, and he was malnourished, but this sweet baby never cried / nor complained
he was happy and content with what i gave him, smiling always at me
but then
i lost/misplaced him somewhere
they/all assumed he had been taken/abducted
but i felt sure i had just misplaced him /
it seemed we looked everywhere in and around our home
and the second time searching the house,
i found him in the refrigerator on the top shelf
in the back
his white skin and pastel clothing blending in with the milk and pale juice jugs
he was there on that shelf all along

i had apparently placed him in there with the milk — perhaps so he could eat/

he had died in there
from asphyxiation
it was an accident,
and i understood that
i was unwell, forgetful, incompetent and losing my mind [although in my dream i don’t know the exact concepts of postpartum or postpartum psychosis]

everyone else does not understand that it was absolutely an innocent act, a tragic accident
they are disgusted with me, violently angry with me and
want me to be punished, arrested, sentenced to prison or maybe put to death
for accidentally forgetting my baby, for misplacing and inadvertently killing my baby — in the refrigerator

Continue reading “dream: morning of 9.2.2023” →

stop praying for what you want

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Death, exposition, Life, Life and Death, limineen, Poem, poetryLeave a comment

the birds’ choir
is a mockery outside my window, eight different species on the sill — eight — for gods’ sake!


these days when the
Sun’s arc is long
and the soil is warming for the season — and permanently

i am in my bed with lead bones
annoyed that i woke up again, and guilty with an ungratefulness about it


my steady lament is sung out loud — but still unheard
i counted my mistakes like sheep, to sleep again
they didn’t wander away though
they stay close to their shepherd, always


they say Death comes in threes and that’s true
but it still hasn’t chosen me
instead, conscripting two complacent men, known to me, thirty-six, fifty three, in one week’s time — why?
while i’m out here volunteering for the cause
it cruelly searches elsewhere to complete their trio


of course i’m still fucking here!
the gods won’t give you what you pray for!

courage, love, fidelity, life, death

they’re full of motherfuckery
they know exactly what i — and what you, want most — of all

so they sent these birds here to taunt me


so they keep me here to taunt you

Continue reading “stop praying for what you want” →

Dream Gerund: being

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Derivate Works, exposition, Poem, Poem for Poet, poemo, poet, poetryLeave a comment

Arte Digitora derived from the poems: “On Doing” & “Dream Gerund”

On Doing

I have a compulsion to do.

But sometimes/often just want recline.

And the softness [and] of being. Pulled tight into a cocoon & the doing hushed out of me and filled with prairie definitions.

My untold untyped Great/lake fantasies.

Fallen grass tufts and waterproof boot slosh and plant names and hours of dendrochronology with fantas/tical idealized notions of rubbing and human collision, of being.

July nothingness would be a dream come true I close my eyes to it and do and do and do.  

~ juggernaut

On July 19, 2022, upon noting the correspondence between the words “doing”, “being” and “dream” in the above poem and the published poem “Dream Gerund” both written by the same poet — I created a digital derivative work – works which I now refer to by the neologism that I conceived:

Arte Digitora.

a digital derivative work (Arte Digitora) created on July 19, 2022 from shared media of the poem “On Doing” and photoshopped with digital photos of printed text from two poems by the same author published in memotoallemployees, 1995)
Continue reading “Dream Gerund: being” →

Cronehood: the imperative, work, province and privilege of becoming truth and living truthfully in the depths

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Aging, Alchemy, Archetype, Crone, Crone Consciousness, Cronehood, exposition, Feminine, Fruition, grandmother, maiden, Mother, Sacred Feminine, witch, witchery, women, WomenfolkLeave a comment 
Ageing is no accident. It is necessary to the human condition, intended by the soul. We become more characteristic of who we are simply by lasting into later years; the older we become, the more our true natures emerge. Thus the final years have a very important purpose:

the fulfilment and confirmation of one’s character.

- James Hillman
“Life is a farce if a person does not serve truth.”

- Hilma af Klint
“A crone is a woman who has found her voice. She knows that silence is consent. This is a quality that makes older women feared. It is not the innocent voice of a child who says, “the emperor has no clothes,” but the fierce truthfulness of the crone that is the voice of reality. Both the innocent child and the crone are seeing through the illusions, denials, or “spin” to the truth. But the crone knows about the deception and its consequences, and it angers her. Her fierceness springs from the heart, gives her courage, makes her a force to be reckoned with."

— Jean Shinoda Bolen
portrait of a crone
by a queen crone,
Lajuana Lampkins
"Women's most feared power over men is the power to say no. To refuse to take care of men. To refuse to service them sexually. To refuse to buy their products. To refuse to worship their God. To refuse to love them. Every therapist knows that sex can be forced, but no power in the world can force love from any woman who wishes to withhold it."

- Barbara Walker
“The Crone has been missing from our culture for so long that many women, particularly young girls, know nothing of her tutelage. Young girls in our society are not initiated by older women into womanhood with its accompanying dignity and power. 

Without the Crone, the task of belonging to oneself, of being a whole person, is virtually impossible.” 

- Marion Woodman
Continue reading “Cronehood: the imperative, work, province and privilege of becoming truth and living truthfully in the depths” →

Carl Jung: if you become radically vulnerable and true to yourself — through your life’s expression, you will attract your people

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Alchemy, C.G. Jung, Crone, Crone Consciousness, exposition, Jung, Jungian, thresholdLeave a comment

“Neither propaganda nor exhibitionist confessions are needed.

If the archetype, which is universal, i.e., identical with itself always and anywhere, is properly dealt with in one place only, it is influenced as a whole, i.e. simultaneously and everywhere.

Thus an old alchemist gave the following consolation to one of his disciples:

“No matter how isolated you are and how lonely you feel, if you do your work truly and conscientiously, unknown friends will come and seek you.”

It seems to me that nothing essential has ever been lost, because the matrix is ever present within us and from this it can and will be reproduced if needed.

But only those can recover it who have learned the art of averting their eyes from the blinding light of current opinion, and close their ears to the noise of ephemeral slogans.”

– Carl Gustav Jung: Letters, Volume II, p. 595

Continue reading “Carl Jung: if you become radically vulnerable and true to yourself — through your life’s expression, you will attract your people” →

james, thank you.

On By ©️K.T. 2025In Poem, poetryLeave a comment

a man who knew my father befriended me
and caused me to question the nature of my reality,
my history, its validity,
my possibly-false memories
— all, viewed through the lens
of the person
who had a vested interest in
indoctrinating me
who preferred my naïveté
under the guise of protectivity

my last photo with my father,
Christmas break, age 6, Waukegan, Illinois

parents can write stories on the folds of a child’s cerebrum,
their pens go unchallenged
until they’re challenged /
their ink is like cord blood,
except it can re/generate — or damage

but it only takes one person
to crack their sky,
then, we astronomers spend
our lives asking these zealots
the non-answerable “why?”

holy ghost: a statement

On By ©️K.T. 2025In art, exposition, memo, Narrative, poemo, Spiritive, Spirrative, velveteenLeave a comment

“The most important thing for everyone in Gringolandia is to have ambition and become ‘somebody,’ and frankly, I don’t have the least ambition to become anybody.”

Frida Kahlo

in the end, we are all just holy ghosts,

ghosts who sometimes want to feel, or be seen, or be felt by others who are also seeking, whether they know it or not — whether they become known forever after or become, forever unknown — to us.

if anyone were to speculate — or attempt to draw definitions or executive summaries about me — as one particular, ambitionless, ghostly being 






as a mother, poet, crone and Earthling — about my collection of words, opinions, ideas, poems, photos, ephemera, art, beliefs or altars — now, or when i’m dead and gone,





— in the end, and at the beginning,
this is and was, always a place for me to fundamentally 
better understand





my Self — for my self & by my self.





for me,





to try to understand my relationship to Others, to the World, to the Earth;





and also,





for me,





to try to understand my relationship to my creativity – the conception, process and act of creating 





and finally,





to try to understand this strange existence, in and of itself.










no one else has ever been essential to experience, interact with, interpret, interrogate or validate any of it — of mine, ever — yet, they are welcomed to do so — if they happen upon me





yet, my nearest and dearests don’t even know this collection exists




 Continue reading “holy ghost: a statement” →
			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Wolf Lake

						

				On  By ©️K.T. 2025In childhood, Death, exposition, Father, Funerary, Poem, poetryLeave a comment			

					


		

			

for





 +Willie Mack Riche+










a prologue included for father’s day:





the man who bought my kindergarten clothes when i was four years old and paid my Lutheran school monthly tuition for eight years; the man who had the rusty 1972 VW Bug, gifted to me by my boyfriend for high school graduation restored over the summer before my freshman year of college; the man who adored both my son aka “monster” and “bam-bam”, and my first dog, Digby aka “hound”; the man who endured both the devastating loss of custody of and subsequent parental abduction of — and then, the tragic death of his only biological child, a son.





the man who never got the chance to properly retire and healthfully and happily collect his 30-year, hard-earned Teamster’s union pension — and just go fishing all day because he became acutely ill with undiagnosed kidney failure, and spent the last years of his life on thrice-weekly, hours-long dialysis treatment — and his last six months on Earth dying from a rare, aggressive and metastatic cancer.





may his spirit know peace eternally.










Willie Mack 
gingerly cradling his namesake Mack 
on the first full day of the baby’s life, 
and who we brought home on 
Father’s Day, 1994











“This used to be my playground.”






and, our proxy for church on spring, summer and fall sabbaths.











These were the halcyon days.






Load up the International Harvester TravelAll with wooden doors and quarter panels – it has two gas tanks, you know.
Bought it used, but pristine
on payments – from the showroom on Logan Boulevard and Elston Avenue with zero credit history and all the usury






Have mercy.






Follow me, and I will make you fishers of fish.






He will bait your hook on the bamboo pole he bought you.
Later, you will insist on the “Pocket Fisherman” – as seen on TV.




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‘this’

						

				On  By ©️K.T. 2025In Poem, poetryLeave a comment			

					


		

			

we were not that singular, after all
in spite of all evidence and words
to the contrary





we began and ended





like everyone, everything, anything else





sure.





but 





‘this’, i know





we never grew boring
we never stopped loving
we never stopped wanting





then





still





you vanished





so





what does ‘this’ all mean now





what does anything mean now





what can anything mean now





what is the meaning of meaning now





this, i do not know