Monera Mason is a mischief-maker.  Her work includes: starting questionable cults with notorious software gurus, writing abstract fiction, catalyzing shenanigans which she deploys on unsuspecting bystanders in the City of Neon. 

Despair and Hair

I cut off all my hair.  It was an instant decision upon glancing at the blue handle of the scissors which were next to the bed.  

I suppose when you learn very precisely how long the lies had been festering that there is very little of you that feels attached to beauty.  That the truth at that moment plunged me into such despair that I instantly mourned for the loss of a future I had been so emotionally invested in.  I suppose those lessons on attachment never really sunk in.  This was a radical act of detachment from something that makes me so female.  Female has felt like an increasingly dangerous place for me to hang my hat.  

I always preferred Monera anyhow.   

I forgave so much in the last year believing this was someone who was evolving and needed space to grow.  A person with core wounds that tugged at that sorrow of being outed and rejected.  I always do this to myself.  I look blindly at all the right moments, sweet words, tender kisses, and apologies and I hope for their best self to unfurl.  

A caterpillar has imaginal discs that will become the building blocks of the evolved transformation.  Ego has led me to believe that I have a unique talent in seeing the imaginal discs that reside in a being.  That if I am the haven for their weird to grow they could address some of the shame-filled histories that haunt their waking life.  That I would be building a relationship based on honesty and expression and we would go happily into the world with our freak flags flying high.  

While I think I am feeding these growing larvae milkweed in preparation, I see now this is not the case.  Thinking acceptance is the sustenance of expression I bottle feed the growing weirdos.  In reality, it is the job of these monarchs to feed themselves or perish.  

In doing so, I become the chrysalis, but all too often a slice enters the picture, and all that is left is the ooze of the unformed creature and I the coffin of theoretical possibility.  All that work, invested in transforming the imaginal gushes out in deeply unpromising ways. A profound emptiness is left. 

I have forgotten, in these few years, that I became a butterfly a long time ago and my job is to seek the high mountains and the comfort of the oyamel with those who have already transformed.  The journey is long and seemingly impossible, but nature finds its way.  

Modern Myths

Today Nothing Gets Done