Lunar Lunacy: Money!
The infamous Root of All Evil explored and reclaimed via poetry and photography
Lift up anything heavy.
Find a way to make a stranger more comfortable.
Let’s build something better together.
🪨┃🌜┃lunar-lunacy is sort of like a Creekmasons group art project! It’s meant to be a place where anyone who wants to make art can come up with things together. It’s especially geared toward those aspiring to become Adeptus Makers (Creatives who are published by the Content Collective), but we’d love to see you sign up even if you have no desire to ever have your work shared publicly.
This is a mini-oasis in a cultural wasteland where you can earn rep, share and receive feedback, and build connection.
A like ❤️ and a share 🔁 are super welcome as well. Perhaps you know a Liminal Trickster Mystic out there somewhere who is just dying to become a word wielding Lunatic? Send them our way!
LuxuryComfortPleasure
Mason: Colin Reinagel
Find out more at: Weird Life Studios
Colin’s commentary:
I got an AI edited picture that I took its sort of related — it’s of my pool, hot tub, and fire pit taken through a wine glass. I used AI to remove my hand.
It says that LuxuryComfortPleasure could be a trap to me. The fiery refraction through the wineglass could represent the portal into darkness that you can fall into if you spend too much time pursuing luxury, sitting in comfort, or burning out pleasure receptors, but I did take the image as an act of pleasure while enjoying comfort and luxury.
Unrelatable
Mason:
Find more right here!
We spend a lot of time
telling ourselves stories
about why we deserve
this abundance. Hint:
We don’t. Most of the
stories are pretty humble:
luck, privilege, accidents
of birth. At the same time,
We sometimes also feel
The pull toward tentative
prodding at our historically
flagging self esteem. Maybe
the luck would’ve meant
nothing without hard work
(though of course the hard
work would’ve meant nothing
without the luck.) Maybe our
neuroses balance the other’s:
I have Swords and Cups on lock,
she has Pentacles and Wands;
I have sporadic bursts of
creative energy, she has
reliable, undeniable grit;
I tactfully ask for what I want,
she knows how to make
herself receptive… and
her patience often pays off.
And I—in secret—spend
a lot of time wondering
whether simply believing
that the money portal is
popped open is enough.
I wonder whether tipping
33% on every bill inspires
reality’s reciprocity reflex.
I wonder whether piercing
others with my pointy aura,
when invited, is beneficial
enough to them to earn
good karma in return. Whether,
like a sadhu, the universe
can be generous because
I’m seeking union with source.
But mostly, I just spend time
feeling guilty about privilege.
The stories are only a poultice
for the wound of separation.
Why do I deserve to have enough
when some of my best friends
and closest relatives and
human brothers and sisters
are starving and homeless?
I don’t. It’s as simple as that.
My Job
Mason:
My Job
I pledge allegiance
To this boob
That I touch each time I say this
And how it could but doesn’t feed
The milk of this wanton desire
To Survive, Reach, even Flourish
One way
Or another
Under the hapless waning of my moon.
This invocation in defiance, I learned at 19.
Washing carrots,
Discharged at last to my own volition,
Plucking them from a cold vat downstairs
Bagging the good ones, taking home the broken
One hour at a time until the rent was paid.
Cutting free the outer strings of my wallet,
I found etched in its bare linings
Preludes to this necessary neglect
Writs to this dark delve of dissent
fused into the skin.
Money still casts orange to me.
Hues of such dark rooted indignity
Time still takes its present shape in relation
To how grudgingly it passed at the vat.
***
Could I father this hapless babe to heart
Anew and commend new vows to kin
I would advise balms made specifically
For the working wounds within.
Calendula drops at the umbilicus,
This human holy memory hole
of interpenetrating nourishment,
Comfrey salve anoints these lips,
Where a latching on that could never last
Gives way in grace to moue
Mint and Chamomile steaming in the air,
Countering this urge to go gladiator
When sidling steps will do.
Yarrow, Mugwort, and Lavendar oil
slip from loin to bended knee
Ferrying dreams, uncoiling springs.
Lastly I would scent my dollars
In Rose, unguent to my care woven transition
Back to my Generous Moon
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You had me at "I pledge allegiance/To this boob"