"propaganda, my dear. vicious propaganda."

thus were the words of my last misadventures with magpie, but perhaps i should back up and explain.

i was sitting in the exam room at the dr's office waiting for the doctor lady to peer at my finger, poke it a little, and tell me what i already knew. there was a book sitting there next to the obligatory box of kleenex and fake plant in the stereotypical wicker basket, and i already had a book in my hands i was loath to put down (*m* gave it to me, after all) but the title of it caught my eye.

it was something like, "150 little meditations for busy women," something like that.

i got this crazywild streak in me to try a bit of bibliomancy while waiting for the doctor lady. i don't do this very often because my own divination exercises center more around the events in my life, listening to the universe, and mr. brezsny's little tidbits of cappylicious pronoiafunk every week. but i like to think i've fostered a healthy habit of following my bliss, and if the Funk moves me to divine from a text some interesting tidbit that'll rock me into Oneness with the state of iGoddess, then who am i to blow raspberries?

now, for those of you who have actually tried this little technique, i imagine it works differently for everyone. for me, whenever i pick up a book for the purposes of divination, it immediately comes alive in my hands. i'm instantly more alive than i am at any other time, channeling so much energy i can hear myself humming with it. i close my eyes. the pages feel like they're moving, shifting in their binding and pushing one another so that some pages protrude more than others, making it almost too easy for me to find exactly what wants me to find it. the page burns beneath my fingertips, while the other pages grow ice cold the further away i get. it's the ultimate game of "hot and cold."

if i'm using a large book, like the televisionary oracle, once i've opened to the page that wants me, the lines themselves grow hot and cold beneath my fingertips until i'm pointing at the very words i need. when it's a smaller book that fits easily in my hands, i open my eyes and all the extraneous words grow blurry and what i need stands out in sharp relief.

most of the time, however, the practical kitchen witch in me sees no need for things such as this, but every once in a while it can be fun.

so what did the book say? only this:

"...on letting go."

i had to smile. i laughed. i laughed at myself, because at that point i'd been so bombarded with every imaginable version of "delena, let go!" that i finally just had to toss up my hands and say, "all right! all right, already!"

there was some quote from some english guy, something about how sometimes we are so weighed down by what we carry, and the peace that comes when we finally let it go and are suddenly free to enjoy life. something like that, but i couldn't quote it exactly because i didn't write it down.

either way, i get the point.

i'm practical. pragmatic, even. ten years ago, i made it an extreme practice, turned my insomnia into a discipline to push my body to its limits. i would fast for weeks at a time, also to push my body. no matter what it was, i could get the job done better, faster, and more efficiently because i wasn't slave to my body's needs. it was simply practical.

somewhere along the line, i forgot that i was human and built as much for softness, pleasure, and laughter as i was for work and excellence and practicality. "you're not a machine!" *m* said once. yeah, but if i can get it done, why not? as long as it's only me i have to concern myself with, i find it difficult to justify my humanity sometimes, if that makes sense.

not very funkalicious, i know, and not exactly the spirit of a revolutionary freedom fighter. call it my inner apocalypse, the place in me where the phallocrats have planted their little flag and sold beads to the natives. call it my flaming inner narcissist, what jung calls the shadow self which i must defeat with daring ecstasy, kill with kindness, and slaughter with saucy passion.

i called in sick this morning. my finger was so swollen i didn't have much of a grip, and my left arm was slightly weak and trembling from where they gave me the tetanus shot. but mainly, i was still just very tired. my alarm went off, and i lay in bed and seriously debated with myself for ten minutes on whether to get up or stay home.

however, i finally had to be honest with myself and admit calling in, and resting, was really what i wanted to do. practicality aside, pragmatism and blind devotion to an outdated discipline notwithstanding, there was simply no sense in doing something just because i could without thinking of whether or not i should. so i let it go, and called in.

[and post script: it turns out i was looking at the vicious propaganda answer wrongly. it wasn't that freedom, independence, and eros were not mine to have this year. i simply had to let go of the vicious propaganda. turns out i was still searching for the phallocratic smoke and lies and thinking it was real because, wow. before this year was halfway done, lo and behold all three have fallen into my lap.]