it is taking my great aunt dying for intuition1 to hike though it could have only taken a neural pathway—an intention for next time. moon beaming through meenadchi’s rewiring with the moon, intuition leapt from my family constellation bumping and blooping and then, click—”ooh-ahh,” i awed. critical thought after critical thought of my parent zooming through my brain, a wiring so trenched, awareness was not enough to fill the pit.
object representing kamra, a snack-sized Mason jar stuffed with confetti and past candle and ritual tinkerings—object representing needs, a teddy bear best friend necklace found itself draped over object kamra after tumbling critical characters in my head object, an aspheric glass ball, and family object, a green rectangular card picturing purple painted angels into kamra object. i gasped and my intuitions chorused—representatives buzzing through me—my hands arranging chess pieces.
i like the idea of being stuffed, not in a too full way, but in an all of us together now way. my ego tells a story i am of a singular shape. my intuition speaks a wider embrace. i almost lied spewing “family constellation magic is beyond my zone of genius”—and just like that—truth changed and contracts ceased to exist. i feel change compulsion. i write even when dying is happening. i stim words. i intuition source manifest—and i transmute critical sparks into kind electricities nerve tract by nerve tract.
u & earth/universe/u chattin’ shit like ol’ mates