The resurrection of Phantom Kangaroo

More than 10 years ago, I created an online poetry magazine called Phantom Kangaroo. Its birth could be described like this:

Strange occurrences of kangaroos appearing in areas where they should not be are sometimes reported. Often they appear ghost-like, disappearing or hopping through walls. 

Some speculate they are aliens, or spirits haunting us from another dimension. Someone suggested animal teleportation, maybe they bounce in and out of existence. Whatever they are, these phantom kangaroos are an omen. A cryptic warning that you will soon be falling into the unknown. They seem to say: I am real and I am a hoax, and so are you.

Sometimes poems seem to say the same thing. Sightings of these poems can be found here.

I was in my mid-twenties, poor and living in a studio in West Oakland. Phantom Kangaroo was a passion project that, at times, couldn’t sustain itself. Like the cryptid, it hopped in and out of existence. At one point the domain was held hostage by algorithms wanting thousands of dollars to give it back. So I waited it out.

This past year of sheltering and cocooning forced me to rummage through my inner cauldron for all the things that bring me life. Creating a space for poetry is one of them. For the past few months, I worked late nights and weekends to put together something that was long overdue — Phantom Kangaroo: The Anthology. It is a 296-page hardcover book of 300 magical and paranormal poems published during the past decade.

Now that it’s complete and no longer haunting me, I have resurrected the magazine. Issue 24 will be published on June 13, 2021, along with the first ever print magazine. Phantom Kangaroo remains an eerie place for poems. The door to the unknown is now wide open.

Found notes

This note is not dated. Possibly an attempt to time travel. Not sure where the quote came from, but good advice nonetheless.

Dear Claudia of early ‘03 — you will get your heart broken a bunch of times more.

____________

“You should be cooking on all 4 burners.”

Sensory Bathing and Sensory Deprivation

I tried to meditate but it turned into worship. I say “but” when I should say “and.” I am shifting all of my buts and no’s into yes, and(s), because this is where the magic happens.

“I tried to meditate and it turned into worship.”

I realize now that meditation will become whatever it needs to be: breathing, listening, dancing, prayer, channeling — what ever it needs to be.

Right now, I am balancing practices of going inward for guidance and then immersing myself in the environment around me. Here is a practice of sensory immersion I pulled from Angel Tech: A Modern Shamans Guide to Reality Selection:

Close your eyes. Listen, moment-to-moment, to the sounds of your immediate environment. Listen to how your mind may make sense of the sounds: naming, categorizing and figuring them out. Now, give yourself permission to simply listen to the sounds as different energies. You can do this by not associating meaning to any of these sounds and just let the sounds come sweeping through you as currents of sonic energy. Let these sonic forces have their way and go where they may within, around, under and over you. If they like, let them merge forces with other sounds to produce new levels and overtones of sonic resonance. Your sensory task is this: How much can you give yourself over to this experience and let it envelop and encompass you…until you are at one with the sounds?

Grounding yourself with Sensory Bathing

I sit outside in a sunny spot and close my eyes. I listen to each sound and name it. I hear the wind rustling through trees. I hear various birds chirping — different tones. I hear wind chimes, some high, some low. A car’s motor. Loud, nondescript words. A plane flying overhead. Machinery turned on. My dog panting, then lapping water. A horn honking.

Life expanding and contracting.

My perceptive world is all at once multi-dimensional, and I am a part of it. Small and important at the same time.

I am that child crying out. I am the car speeding toward something. I am the rooster crowing. The urgent horn honking. The wind blowing — just passing through.

Going inward with Sensory Deprivation

I don’t deprive myself of all sounds. I use noise-cancelling earbuds to listen to Solfeggio frequencies and soundscapes that connect me with source energy. I put on my eye mask and I go inward. With every breath in I take in energy from the universe and then I breathe out longer than I take in. Every exhale feels like a gift from within. This is how I connect with the consciousness beyond my identity, my physical body and this reality.

Not here. Not the sounds on Earth. No light from this planet leaks through my eye mask.

I go inward — but outside of space and time. It’s dark, and sometimes there are visions, or hallucinations, or imagination — whatever you want to call it.

The things that I see are for me to interpret. And words are spoken — sometimes they make no sound, sometimes I repeat them aloud — messages about me or loved ones or whoever pops into my circle from time to time. In these short moments, I become privy to some arcane knowledge about how the universe works.

I understand how going inward can become addictive. The chasing of enlightenment.

Which is why sensory bathing is needed for grounding yourself. Use whatever methods you need for balance.

Journal entries: March 19

March 19, 2020 — one year ago today

It’s been only a couple of days since a Shelter in Place order has been given to the Bay Area. The situation is this: my husband is still working, nothing has changed for me really, except I am going out into the world even less than I was before.

I am trying to find solace in my own shelter. We have spent a few nights outside watching the sky go grey, then dark. Last Sunday, my husband grilled burgers for us, while we listened to Ryan Adams, and I sat under the patio cover looking at the rain pour down.

It is humbling, it is sobering, it is beautiful, it is expected, it is necessary, it is happening.

I hope we come out of this for the better, I hope we come out of this stronger.

I hope we’re all realizing what really matters, and what really matters are the people we love and wish safe, and our own mental health which is now being tested.

I’ve realized in this self-quarantined time that I need time alone, away from work, yes, but mostly away from my identity as a wife, to write. I regret everyday that I am not writing, and every day that passes that I don’t reflect or look inward at what is happening inside.

When I die, I will die alone. I need to make peace with myself before then.

One thing that has been coming to light since this all began is how grateful I am, every single day, to not be a mother. Right now, it’s just the two of us and our quiet, sweet pets and I couldn’t ask for more.

Let’s imagine the worst case scenario. Everyone must be quarantined at home for the remainder of their lives.

How will we be aching to connect?

Right now I just want to let the world go. Instead, I want to swan dive into the stars, echoing out:

Is anyone here?

March 19, 2021 — today

It’s been more than a year now since the world shut down, and I’m finally seeing a bit of light at the end of the tunnel. My husband is fully vaccinated. I just got my first shot. I’m letting myself be excited about the Summer.

The things that happened, or unfolded, in the last year — death, retreat, loss — none of it really changed me. I still recognize that voice in last year’s journal entry. She was a woman who sat in acceptance and gratitude.

We all went inward this past year, and what it did for me was center me more firmly.

Five years ago today, my husband proposed to me on a hike in the Marin Headlands. I am dubbing March 19 the day of acceptance.

I never wanted to be a wife. I was resolved to spend my days alone in a trailer surrounded by books and mystical objects found in thrift stores. I was very lucky to find someone that makes me feel free and in love.

This past year sequestered in our home together was, for the most part, fun — like an adventure. I’m always hesitant to share that, because I know how hard it was for others, but I will never apologize for that.

I made a conscious choice to marry my husband. Before I made the final decision to not have children I read books like Reconceiving Women: Separating Motherhood from Female Identity and Regretting Motherhood: A Study, and more importantly, I talked about it a lot with my therapist. It is by far the most self-aware, conscious choice I have ever made for myself, and I can honestly say, the best choice I’ve ever made for myself.

Everything that brings me happiness and is a benefit to my life was born out of conscious choices.

Conscious choices don’t have to be hard to make. I quiet the voice. I consume information. I listen to the way my body reacts. I feel for my soul in the dark. I discover a reality that’s already unfolded. I always already know the answer.

No one cares — pass it on

Some things are learned through osmosis. Ideas and messages bounce around the universal consciousness waiting for their turn to materialize.

You'll know it when it happens to you — a seemingly accidental download into your head. You'll store it away in a folder or write it off as malware and forget it about it. Then it'll pop up again, and then again. It will try to wear you down, beg you to take momentary ownership — to pass it on in some form.

Most of these ideas are neglected and then recede into the ether in search of a new conduit. All because you were scared or doubtful or distracted or "not ready."

No one cares — pass it on.

I started this blog because I am a writer. I have been since I was five. The first thing I remember writing was an unintelligible love letter. The next thing I remember writing was a story about a bunny who was afraid because her parents were fighting. My teacher was so concerned she called a conference.

And that's what writing is for me — a medium for love and a way to process grief and trauma and obstacles. I would have not survived adolescence or my twenties without my journals. It is my tool for deep diving into my inner self.

I started this blog to share ideas and resources and art that makes me happy, that makes me curious, that makes me wonder. I wanted to keep these things in one space — like a digital garden.

Only beautiful things will bloom here.

It's been a few months and I have yet to post anything deeply personal. But the message "No one cares" kept popping up and up again and it was so damn liberating, because it's true.

So I'm here. In my own space. Sending love letters out into the world, passing on messages from the universe. Reiterating what the collective consciousness wants you to know.

No one cares — pass it on.