Be the change you want to see.

i am not my family. i am not my friends. i am not my hair color, or the melanin in my skin (or not) or the number on a scale or in the back of my jeans.

i am my scars. i am my choices, and my mistakes, and my experiences, and my adventures, and my successes (and my failures.) I am my own striving. I am what i hope to become. I am what i hope the world should become: trying and sometimes failing, apologizing, making amends to make the world better and more humane. I am the love i give in the world, the compassion and the yearning.

i am my own words on the page. I am my own colors on the canvas and on my own skin. I am my intention, my will exerted upon the universe. I am the magic I need to see in the world. I am the work and the connection, I am the kindness and the trust and honesty that i bring to the discussion. I am the questions that help understanding.

I am between the truth and the lie. I am in the middle of the becoming.

I am the compass needle pointing North.

From October 12th, 2018, 03:28 pm
Inktober/wordtober/poem a day
The prompt was "Nessie" but I'm taking this somewhere else underwater.

Longing.

Have you ever been shamed for what you craved? Has your longing ever been pointed out as wrong or weird or twisted or broken or an imposition or something unnecessary?

I have. I've been shamed for wanting things, for wanting experiences, for wanting people. And I don't think that was right. And most days I'm okay, most days it feels like I'm over it, but today is not one of those days.

The thing about a longing is it doesn't come out of your mind. It's not a thought. It wells up from deep in your belly, deep in your heart, or dare I say it, spirit or soul. You can't talk yourself out of a longing.

You can hold yourself quiet about it, can keep the surface of your personal pond pristine and peaceful. Still, underneath the surface something lives, something moves, something travels. Something roils the water beneath the surface.

And there are days where I can no longer bear to live on the quiet pristine peaceful surface. On a day like today, I sink below to the Deep places, where the water presses through my flesh and into my bones.

I sink down to the deep mud churned places, where I can finally breathe.



2)
KILROY WAS HERE
(probably 2015)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903659

...and it takes place after the end of the world.

Oh god, we were SO FUCKING STUPID.
So naive.

those long discussions around the campfire or around the HDTV, cold beers in our hands, hot nachos in the fucking microwave, laughing and joking about the fucking "zombie apocalypse". How we would have this job or that job, how we would hole up in a Costco store, because it would have everything we'd need to survive and even enjoy life after the world ended. The skills we already had or could learn quickly in order to be valuable enough to win our way into someone else's fortified stronghold.

We had NO IDEA. We had NO IDEA what we really needed, what we really knew how to do, how fucking SOFT we were.
How much EVERYTHING would hurt. How much WORK just bloody EVERYTHING would take, how much thinking and planning and acquiring.

How much FEAR. Terror. Absolutely shit-your-pants terror.

We used to say, "I'd get a really good knife, and really good boots, and this kind of backpack and that kind of rifle" without really understanding.
What happens when your knife gets dull? Well, you sharpen it. How do you sharpen it? Do you KNOW how? do you have the right tools? can you recognize something else you could improvise as a blade sharpener, if you run across it? and can you use that blade, even dull, to do what you must to survive another day? It's hard work, gutting a carcass, butchering an animal for meat...

Same goes, obviously, for the REST of all our dumb-shit assumptions about how privileged and lucky and SKILLED we were.

What happens if someone TAKES your tools from you? Those books you treasured, that were the reason why you thought you'd gain admission into someone's guarded bolthole? The boots, the knife, even your CLOTHES. What happens if you're not strong enough to protect them? To hold onto them?

Knowing how to brew beer isn't very valuable when there's not enough fucking FOOD. Nobody really cares about booze when they're starving. Knowing how to bake bread is useless, so are gardening skills, if you can't settle down anywhere longer than a week or two for fear of the scavengers. Wildcrafting is a blessing, and I'm glad every day for what I learned from my beloved Girl Scout Leader, of all things. What she taught me when I was fourteen makes the difference now between hungry and starved to death.

I'm always hungry now, I'm always worried about getting hurt bad enough so I can't run anymore. I haven't had any of my meds in over two years, I've got half a tube of neosporin left and fuck-all chance of scoring any more. I'm getting slower, I hurt more often, I'm lonely as fuck. I'll never stop grieving my husband and my home and the comforts I once took for granted, but I just don't have any fucking TIME to FEEL. Every moment has to be spent in working out how am I going to survive this day, food, water, shelter, taking care of myself, whether I can trust anyone at all. Despair would dog my footsteps if Despair could keep up with me. I move fast for an old broad. Fuck that, I move fast period.

What the fuck am I even doing? Who am I even writing this for? I have no idea who's going to read it, but I'm stuck here anyway till it's dark and I can sneak away through the shadows. Might as well, I guess.
heh.
One thing my shitty childhood was good for. Learning how to hide, to sneak, to find all the places nobody would think to look for me. No, I'm not sharing my secrets. Find your own damn bolthole. Oh. Heh. If you're reading this, I guess you DID find your own bolthole, just that I was here first. Hi.

I'd tell you to keep the faith, but I don't think anyone has faith in anything but themselves anymore. I'd tell you to keep up hope, but I know you know that's a stupid, useless thing to say. I can tell you I'm thinking about you, because it's true. Random Stranger Reading This, I hope you're less hungry and less alone than I am. RSRT, I hope you have someone or something to love and take care of. RSRT, try to be kind. My only happy memories from the last two years are of random kindnesses. Someone scratched directions to a waterhole that hadn't gone dry. Someone left bedding in a bolthole. Someone left the last few pieces of fruit on a tree... that might not have been kindness, that might have been someone who was too big to climb out onto those thin whippy branches at the top of the tree... someone little like me could still get up and out to them.

Once, back in the day, I was fat and prosperous and happy. I thought I was ugly, being fat, I had NO fucking IDEA. I was so lucky then. I was loved, and safe, and pampered and treasured, and I had no idea. Now I'm tiny, wiry, strong, and fast. I have had to be, to survive.

Random Stranger Reading this, despite everything, have hope. Life may be shit right now, but if we all keep going, something has GOT to get better. Maybe I've been off my meds too long, and this is a manic episode, maybe it's just I've exhausted all my fear and I don't fucking have time for anything that doesn't keep me going.

I do have hope. I don't know why, but I do.

It's almost dark now, I can barely see to write, so it's time to pack up and head out silently to my next bolthole.

I hope you can pass some hope along to the next person you meet, and I hope they're worthy of you trusting them.

Good luck, and gods' speed to you.

"kilroy"

Logged reading time: 7:30


3)
poem: Building Strength
(2:30)

why is it painful to let go of unhelpful words?
perhaps these were once upon a time, protectors,
the words bookworm, nerd, gimp, weakling.
the belief that if it was hard, I wasn't meant to do it...
if I were meant to do it, it would surely come naturally?

i can't seem to get my glasses clean
to see my own Self in the mirror
to understand my own wingspan
or the extent of my reach
or how far I can leap

hamstrung by my blindness
the persistence of memory
self image of pale, soft, weak, fearful
but there is so much more to me
than what I used to be

Am I strong? Yes. Am I smart? Yes.
Am I capable? Yes. Am I flexible? Yes.
Am I kind? Yes.
Am I soft?

*smile* Yes, I am soft.
Soft like a pillow at naptime, and comfortable.
Soft like silk sheets, and strong like them too.

Am I brave?
Yes.
Could I write were I still fearful?
Yes, ... but I wouldn't show my heart, were I still fearful.

I don't deal in trivialities.
I want the blood, and the bone, and the sweat,
I want the gritted teeth and the grunts of effort.

I step beyond old useless protectors.
I make myself stronger from the inside
I stand strong

I do not need the deflections of nerd, gimp, weakling.

I see the world as it is and as I would have it
and I reach out my hands
to begin shaping the world
A strong, kind, smart, compassionate world

and my strong hands
will shape it

NOTES: Good audience attention and faces.
Kit said, "damn you got some tasty brains!"
Jeff said, "good pieces!"

Jen and Andrew, Sean and Julia, Suzie and Bala, Mindy and Steve, Jeff and Daniel,
Kit and Amy, all attended!!!

The prompt was "Nessie" but I'm taking this somewhere else underwater.

Longing. Have you ever been shamed for what you craved? Has your longing ever been pointed out as wrong or weird or twisted or broken or an imposition or something unnecessary?

I have. I've been shamed for wanting things, for wanting experiences, for wanting people. And I don't think that was right. And most days I'm okay, most days it feels like I'm over it, but today is not one of those days.

The thing about a longing is it doesn't come out of your mind. It's not a thought. It wells up from deep in your belly, deep in your heart, or dare I say it, spirit or soul. You can't talk yourself out of a longing.

You can hold yourself quiet about it, can keep the surface of your personal pond pristine and peaceful. Still, underneath the surface something lives, something moves, something travels. Something roils the water beneath the surface.

And there are days where I can no longer bear to live on the quiet pristine peaceful surface. On a day like today, I sink below to the Deep places, where the water presses through my flesh and into my bones.

I sink down to the deep mud churned places, where I can finally breathe.

day 8 Prompt: Yokai

Yokai is a word I looked up:
I don't know Japanese culture.
Bits. Fragments, only, really.
Kitsune the only example I recognized.
Dim memory that :demon: in that millenia old culture
Means something quite different
than what I might assume.
*
Trickster? Demigod? Supernatural being of uncertain motivations?
Is Yokai more like the Fae of Irish tradition?
Or Coyote in Southwest North America?
*
My ignorance is large.
I don't even know if the word is singular or plural
(I'd guess plural)
Wondering could I compare Loki, Hermes, Anansi, in the same category
(are there female Yokai?)
*
Seanan McGuire has a character who's Kitsune.
That's pretty much my whole experience.
*
There's a whole deep mythology I'm missing.
I may never understand.
*
I forgive myself for my own ignorance
and I pray I'll be lucky enough
or kind enough, or careful enough
that others will forgive me for my ignorance, too.

Prompt: Black Cat (for Rosalyn, the cat that was almost mine too)

fingers down your spine, ruffling your fur
softly blinking down at you
i love you i love you i love you with every blink

you blink back
you offer belly
my eyes fill with tears
this is a new trust
a new vulnerability

in a life that had precious little trust
and even less vulnerability to spare
that moment
long elegant legs outstretched
rusty red tipped black plush fur
warm along my leg on a cold day

i plunged my hand into your fur, but gently
i relished the moment, my heart hurting
but blinked back down at you

i love you i love you i love you

We Remember Them

In the rising of the sun and in its going down,
We remember them.
In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter
We remember them.
In the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring,
We remember them.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of lsummer,
We remember them.
In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
We remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends,
We remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength,
We remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart,
We remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,
We remember them.
So long as we live, they too shall live,
For they are now a part of us,
As we remember them.

Text by Rabbis Sylvan Kamens and Jack Riemer from Gates of Prayer, R.B. Gittelsohn

it didn't feel like being crabs in a bucket
too lonely an experience for a plural metaphor.


though definitely there was a dragging down experience:

• anything exceptional
  
• anything experimental
  
• anything that broke the status quo

I expected we'd be raising each other up
not pulling someone back to toe the line
I expected us all to reach for the stars
not speak only when spoken to

I didn't realize my teaching internship
landed me in a diploma-mill
churning out inferior product
with very few value-add options

Should I have known better?
I didn't.
I have always been too trusting.

I was sent into the trenches
to build bridges with cardboard
and I was guilty when the bridges failed.

when I asked for lumber they said
"There's no budget for that
You'll have to find that yourself."
And some of them smirked.

I was a hero
but I couldn't see it
all I could see was
muddy trenches and disrespect
for miles in every direction

and when I was discharged
grateful and ashamed
I took my papers and went away
glad and sorrowful
that I was too soft for these wars.

I tend my garden on this faraway hillside
watch the struggle from a distance
climb the cliffs seeking perspective -
and maybe some new way to stop the war.


(this is my entry for this week's therealljidol.)

Smoky candle wick
Relit by match through the smoke
Magical science!
Silver sooty snuffer burns;
Pain and blisters as I learn.

Around the campfire
Dreaming, mesmerized by flames:
Red, gold, blue, orange.
Flash! Roar! Swoosh! Whiskey on coals!
“You guys actually DRINK that?”

Many fires go out.
Dad dies. Grief drags us all down.
Under the rain and fog
Slog through the mud seeking joy
In Library, Students, Books.

Candleflame, cauldron.
Friends in darkness, points of light
Sometimes belonging
Ritual, dance, myself, words...
The sun comes out, the rain stops.

A phoenix, reborn:
Passion flames as strength returns.
Tattoo needles burn,
Fighter’s heart burns fear for fuel
Crucible of warriors.


This is my Week 15 entry for therealljidol. This week's prompt was "A terrible beauty has been born."
The link to the poll is HERE if you would be willing to vote for me, thank you.
Please follow the elegant and finely-crafted link HERE to read the excellent work of my colleagues in this endeavor.

I would dance you a love letter
...but my steps are no longer sure.

I would sing you a love letter but
...my voice is hoarse with winter coughing...

and I could paint you a love letter
...once my skills are up to the task,

or I could play you a love letter, although
my fingers don't yet find the notes.

Instead, I shall tell you the truth.

For the truth is that you are beautiful
and kind
and worthy of love;

that the crocuses and snowdrops about to break the surface of the earth
are already seeking to love you;

that the sun is best pleased at the sight of you,

and the moon, sailing by, contemplates your visage with as much wonder as you contemplate hers.

Trees dig their roots in for you.
Daffodils blossom, and crows and foxes sing for you.
Even the dewdrops sparkle for you...

You are eminently lovable, and you are deeply loved.

<3<3<3

Early Morning wake up call I hear,
The homework's done, I've nothing to fear,
Except being late, now for breakfast and tea,
Then out the door for me!