Posts tagged Ingrid Calderon
Art in Purgatory: The Muses

“ut pictura poesis, “as is painting so is poetry.” —Horace

In the umbilical connection that is the poet and the artist, I wonder if each would agree, that one is as essential as the other. We can romanticize this connection by a million threads, and still end up naked. There are endless examples of such relationships in history. With love and passion at its core, it is a magick that can seldom be ignored. 

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The Tenor & the Vehicle: Therapy & the Tarot

Before I was blessed with health insurance; before I had the privilege to take my overthinking and my casualties to my therapist, I practiced what you could dub, an organic-healing ritual. Without trying to sound too new-agey, it’s simply the act of being present in the bad feeling. To let it run, and sweat, and tire itself out. I indulged it, in whatever amounts it needed to be felt. But, like any dedicated athlete of the psyche, you must have proper training equipment. You must be able to reflect back on the workout once the tenderness subsides. You must build new muscle to carry heavier loads. 

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The Art of Healing Through Bitchcraft

“What you pay attention to is what you become conscious of.” 

Sloughing is inevitable. We shed our skin approximately every 27 days. We invite new perspectives and surrender our old ways almost unwillingly, if the timing is right. We battle and cry and move forward. Personally, I build alter-egos that help in this process. Ones that will heal, ones that will not fade with time. Ones that are conjured from a place of truth and beauty. I summon the powers of indestructible Goddesses like Kali and Ixchel. Goddesses that have endured heavy pain, while remaining undoubtedly feminine and robust. It doesn’t even necessarily have to come in human-like form. It could be something as beautifully simple as a memory or an inanimate object that satiates. 

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Shade of the Sun

The dread of city life promises aching bones, chatter brain, curled blood. 

It promises red lights, turning yellow, turning green. It promises anxieties of crowds and elevators. Our adolescent sense of immortality long gone, replaced with fatigue and the sense of nostalgia the sky brings. We crave secrets and the cotton arms of nature. We crave home.

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