The turquoise stripe reminded me of the American southwest, I don't know why. Just did. That got me to thinking about Sekhmet's shrine or temple in Nevada. When I say that everything had stopped when my brother died, I meant spiritual things as well. Before he died, out of all the deities out there, I probably trusted Sekhmet the most, but after he died, I didn't trust anyone or any deity to come anywhere near me and not hurt me. Before he died, I used to talk to her; after he died, I didn't. I probably would have lashed out at her, too. "You should have told me, you should have prevented this!" Or maybe she did and I ignored her, just like I ignored my brother rubbing his upper chest and complaining of heartburn. Neither possibility was a good one, and I didn't want to know which one it was. True, lashing out at her could have gotten me set on fire, but I really didn't give a damn. Fine. Set me on fire. I deserve it.
The primary problem I have with the women who run her temple out in Nevada is that they're too - nauseatingly girly. Only American women can't conceive of a deity who could very easily get annoyed with a follower, chomp her head off and enjoy the blood spurting out of her neck. That's why I liked Sekhmet from the start: all powerful and extremely dangerous. And after she pretty much flipped me the bird during the psychic reading that Damien hi-jacked, I had read a supposed channeling from her, "recorded" by a woman in that temple: nicey-nice and lovey-dovey and said, "Yeah, right. We talking about the same cat?" I didn't think so. Didn't sound the Sekhmet I knew, that's for sure.
But I started thinking about her as I cut out this turquoise striped fabric. I figured she probably knew where my head was at, and I don't recall any Egyptian rule that ordered me to worship anyone when I was too pissed off to speak or pray or invoke coherently. I didn't even feel like apologizing, but did, in a half-hearted way.
"Look, I'm just in too much of a mess right now. You have a problem with that, fine - bite my head off, I don't care. Oh yeah, and thanks for the ...er ..." I figured I'd better stop there.
What I meant by that: the previous night I had enjoyed yet another dream. Correct that: I was ABOUT to enjoy another dream. First erotic dream I'd had in ages, and the man in the dream was Italian yes, but not Piero. I knew who he was. I hadn't thought of him in a long while, either. But without going into any nauseating details (you're welcome), suffice it to say that he and I had just reached the point of complete and nigh irrevocable ecstasy when I was brought wide awake screaming in pain from two powerful leg and foot cramps at once. My left foot was twisted into a knot so violent I couldn't straighten it back out again, and my right calf muscle was having a charley horse that was gluing the muscle to the bone. And I was literally screaming, "Help me, help me, help me!" at the top of my lungs because I couldn't even move, the pain was so severe. It took me about an hour to get my legs and feet to within tolerable comfort levels, and trust me - wherever I had been going in that dream was long gone.
Sekhmet being the deity you also invoke for sexuality, kundalini and libido issues ... anyway, I shut up. Wasn't her fault anyway - for that you can point an accusatory finger directly at the fool who drove his jeep into a Cambridge bus at top speed and knocked bones out of my spine. Messed up my back, my spine, my legs, my feet ... and now my wet dreams. [Grrrr ....]
When I finished cutting, I did some chores, looked around for some other projects I could start, vacuumed the carpet, picked up stray pins, sat down at the computer, brought up Twitter, gawked in shock and screamed, "What the f...???"
“Sometimes a coincidence IS just a coincidence!”
Except I didn’t really believe that, and got even angrier at her. “No, you can NOT use Damien to get to me!!” Except, she could – obviously - and apparently did. I mean, this felt in direct response to my telling her to go ahead and bite my head off, which had literally happened five minutes earlier.
To be certain, I went back and looked for my first mention of Sekhmet in
this blog. Tuesday, November 8, 2011. I wanted to make sure Damien didn’t mention
her, which would explain why he was now posing next to her. No. I
brought her up, he didn’t. Damien was
talking about the Angel of Death, “Azrael” (and he also posed with the Angel of Death in the same sequence of photos). I was the one talking about Sekhmet. The incident where he hi-jacked my psychic
reading and she ignored me was a week or so later, on November 20th. This is what I said:
“Aside from the fact
that I can’t find “Azrael” in my Lewis & Oliver Angels A to Z book (I
wonder if he’s in Michele Belanger’s book on Demons), Damien really has become
my Signpost Guy, because at that very same time he mentioned Azrael, I had
begun reading all about Sekhmet, who had, it seems, a lot of the same
characteristics as Azrael.”
And from that same entry:
“THERE ARE NO
COINCIDENCES. I know. I encountered Sekhmet and Damien’s mention of Azrael at
the same time. I don’t know why I found Sekhmet so intriguing, other than: I
was meant to find her intriguing, which almost felt like a calling of sorts. “
And again:
“If you read
his description of his wife from his autobiography, his connection of sexuality
with feline characteristics is pure Sekhmet, as connected as she is with
sexuality and raw, untamed kundalini energy. She may have her claws in him too,
even if he doesn’t know it. Or maybe he does and just never mentioned it.”
I just sat and stared at the photo, taking wild,
unfocused gasps of air. I think the most
frightening part of the moment was the break between what I was getting from 2
different directions (the dream where Damien looked like the statue of Abraham Lincoln,
and now this from Sekhmet): let go of
the guilt – on one side, but reality – truth - on the other: my guilt made perfect sense to me,
logically. If I was not to be blamed,
then why would Jim rub his chest in front of me, complain of day-old heartburn
and make me think of heart attacks? If I
was not to be blamed why wouldn’t he just remain silent? I wouldn’t have known about it, there would
be nothing I could do. But he did! And I recognized it as unusual! And we were a block away from Salem Hospital
when he did it! How could that NOT be my
fault? How is it I’m the only one who
sees the logic in that?
I spend the rest of the day growling at her. “It’s not going to work, it’s not going to
work,” through clenched teeth.
Except I'm not even sure I believe it.
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