Howdy haunts,
I wanted to let you in on an idea I’ve been tooling with. One that is informed and meditative by my recent therapy sessions…
I’m certain most have you noticed I have been in a sour rut when it comes to public births of the podcast or my art – and you, as patrons, have had a shotgun seat to these missives due to my comfort in being honest within this wonderful community.
Truth is, I have been struggling for quite some time about wide releasing. I have incessantly been hiding and unlisting bouts with public livestreams, only releasing albums by informed request or allowing the closest to me to read my writings. You, as patrons/friends have allowed me the buried but burning documentarian self to flourish behind these digital paywalls. Thank you so much.
The reason for this new, sheltered and self-immolating self is largely due to my recent bouts and troubles with mental health, and the rough regards concerning my self-image and mental disfluencies. I haven’t trusted myself or allowed myself to be me for worry that I haven’t been and do not feel like, well, myself.
So, after long consideration and a burning desire to regain the “why” I got into podcasting, streaming and birthing creations into this digital sphere in the first place – and through the continuing progressions of therapy, my divergent magick daily routine and dark twin tickling (not cuddling), I am planning on doing Mon-Fri short, public liminalstreams starting next week. They will be confessional, topic based and interactive via Youtube and Twitch.
It was a revelation as to why I have been getting terrible stage fright, dysmorphia and anxiety about being a broadcaster as of late. It is part and parcel to a tradesmen not honing their craft. Don’t worry, I do not consider myself a tradesmen – but I felt I had once, when things were at their shiniest. And I need it back.
So, as a form of both harm reduction and immersion therapy, not to mention wanting to grow as an orator or someone who is dextrous with the right words matching the right intentions vocally, I think this hexorcise is the way.
It will also help me be less sacred about my image – allowing a nonchalance to marry the present – and resolve my yearnings to document my pursuits regarding mental health, magick and art. Memory is a crooked little beast that needs reminding, and the foresight to be witness to any growth is terribly rewarding.
I miss the third mind I used to relish in conjuring. The communion of me as agent and art as receiver is purpose, and without it I feel like a hungry ghost, big bellied and tiny necked, attempting to fill that spoiled tummy with lazy shadows and soot.
I KNOW I have been itching and scratching at my coffin for a long while, though now, I feel as though I just remembered I installed a bell above this grave all along. And holy shit, the string had always been tied to my finger. Ring, ring, ring.
Funny how my most sacred artforms (egregores, ego-sores, ego-lore) from writing, music and journalism, are better left combustible and burnt, rebuilt, burnt, rebuilt… same with “broadcasting” as whole. Dharma bum that shit.
I will keep everyone here abreast of the process, of course, so February 13th – please join the new pursuit!
Haunt on,
Keats
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