There is old glitter all over, I can taste the metal on my tongue. Fingermarks have shaped the girl. The yarn is so thin it barely holds the bell. Its amazing it is intact. Nothing else from my childhood is, including my innocence. It came from simpler times. I was in Kindergarten, Mrs. Harkness had us make a christmas gift for our family. I made a clay bell, I liked bells. They sounded out warnings, they sounded out weddings, they sounded out church is in session. My family wasn’t religious. I only went to church with my neighbor, Diane Rowan, to eat candy with the quarter our parents gave us for the donation basket. We would spend 20 cents on candy and put the nickel in the basket. Diane was from Liverpool, home of the Beatles. I love the Beatles. We pretended our Barbies were married to them when we played marriage, usually Paul and John, sometimes Elvis. I have been married three times. The first was a green card marriage. He was English and gay so there was no chance for romance. The second was a drug marriage, we thought we loved each other, maybe in our herione induced way we did, It was more of a help each other out of the muck marriage. The third and final time was to the father of my two sons. One day I discovered I was pregnant and so we got married to have an income tax deduction. How romantic. Its probably one of the reasons we couldn’t stay together. I long to go back into the simple times of when this bell was made. To feel the raw material of life in my young fingers again. To have the glitter to create a dazzling life, to be in innocence, before I was raped, before i went to live in a girls home, because my parents couldn’t control me, before I lost all my possessions in our house fire, before I saw two husbands nearly killed in work accidents. Yes take me back. I am ready to begin again.
I don't know if I can do this but I'll give it a go.
I wish I could sing.
Our dad could sing.
I hear him even when I'm not listening to his record’s, or CD's.
I hear him in the bathroom making those “funny warm up your voice” noises.
God I love our dad.
I love everything about him.
His voice is just one thing.
But his hands.
His hands that held me, and my sisters
laughing, crying, holding tight,
Big hands with long fingers.
You can't talk about dad without talking about family.
Especially my sisters, and Big D like I like to call her.
But it doesn't stop there.
There's the grandchildren, our partners, cousins, aunts, uncles, and my Mom too.
Let alone all the close friends, and colleagues, that are like family.
And his great granddaughter.
Who he will hold in her dreams.
God I love our dad.
I hear him even when I'm not listening to his record's or cd’s.
And his hands.
we where there when he passed.
I didn't need to be there.
I didn't need it for me.
What I needed I couldn't have.
I needed our dad not to die.
I hear him now.
I know what he would say.
Every word of comfort, and love, and humor.
If my sisters forget to listen,
I will be here to remind them.
We washed him you know,
My sisters and I.
All three of his girls,
Washing our father together,
With lots of warm sudsy water.
We washed his arms, feet, legs, face, hair……
And his hands.
Then we dressed him.
Darmia, my incredible littlest sister,
splashed on his favorite stuff he used like a cologne,
Donna said her mom wore the same thing.
God I love our dad.
There are words in my head that don't come out.
How do we say goodbye?
That spread more than an octave.
To a voice that sang without music.
To eyes that sparkled.
At his children.
At his wife.
At his family.
At his friends.
God I love our dad.
Holding hands while walking through the park.
Sometimes, with his long arm over my head and shoulders.
With me stuffed in his armpit.
It never smelled.
He never sweat.
He was cool that way.
And he would sing silly songs in his deep reverberating voice.
Making up words to go with whatever we were doing at the time.
And I mean silly.
I love silly.
It makes me laugh.
I love laughing, and silly,
And his hands.
Also, his sweet hugs.
He loved to hug.
He loved good food, good wine, and good conversations about anything.
God I love our dad.
And his hands.
Long beautiful guitar fingers.
I loved to hold his hand.
Or just watch it move while he talked or sang.
Or held my face to kiss it.
And his smile
I couldn't help but smile when he smiled.
Oh and dinners were the most fun with our dad,
making me at least try everything as a little girl,
and later not liking me to share from his plate.
But I'd just try anyway.
And he would poke at my hand with his fork saying,
"Get away from my fooooood!"
He was funny our dad.
I loved his humor.
Making me laugh even when things were serious.
And when he told me something he saw in me, or my sisters, or my son,
or anything that moved him,
it always left me speechless.
With a lump in my throat.
And when I needed him, he'd stop everything and be there 100%,
making me feel like the most important person in the world.
My most important.
I love you dad.
“I love you too sweet face”
There are days when it looks like the golden liquid in my heart is leaking out bleeding me dry creating a ravenous spillage for unworthy energy mongers.
Golden droplets wasted on a dark pit where the inhabitants pop pills that make them pass their time in numbness and unfathomable stretches of sleep.
Medical officers with grim faces dishing out meds as though this were a psyche ward.
I'm one of five that refrains from the cop out.
I choose to be alert.
To stay awake until the late evenings darkness summons my dreams to feel the plethora of deep emotion swelling in my fractured heart.
To remain present for hells heat as it melts away smiles of freedom and joy.
Although pain and grief tear the lids from my tearful eyes
I remain committed to finding the way back to her pure soft smile and her shiny deep eyes that sing promises for tomorrow's bright future.
I believe in it.
I believe in us.
I believe in the glorious victory that shines through the tiny crack in the wall of my hope.
I'm reaching for it with my whole being.
Every part of me.
Every part of you beloveds.
Every part of us reaching for this glimmer of hope that tears down illusion and despair and brutality.
They say I was born for this.
Yet I struggle to find my breathe in this puddle of aching pus.
What do they know anyway?
None of them have ever visited hell.
And I'm glad.
I wouldn't want them to suffer like this.
I'd rather take the burn for them while I pray for mercy.
I pray that I may endure this heat and become torched into crystallized glass diamonds for all to enjoy.
For now though please cradle me in the loving safety of your womb beloveds.
Hold me close and whisper inspiring words of hope and faith into my tender ears.
Let me know you're there or I might forget as there are monsters here who steal ones power.
I'll keep my shields up and I trust you'll have back beloveds.
Allow me to inhabit yours hands as you stoke my babies cheek and tell her how much I love and miss her.
Let me be your poised lips as you kiss my family and each other.
I miss you too beloveds.
I want to be alive in your body as you relish in life's blessings.
Take me swimming hiking and dancing.
There you will behold my beauty and smile.
I love you beloveds.
I am connected to the eternal blazing flame that binds us together and fuels our fire as we use our collective power to birth this miracle that will reunite us.
We are a force that will rise up in victory.
I believe in us beloveds.
I am electric. Pulsing. Alive. Reaching for the core, the center, the source. The seventh direction. I made my prayers in color. Starting west with black, I would give thanks for introspection and my courage to be accountable and heal. Then North with white, I would feel into my appreciation for ceremony and family. For East I would wrap my prayer to Eagle in red and give thanks for the eyes to see the big picture. Then Yellow for South and appreciation for my body and sexuality and all parts of my physical life. I would wrap my prayer of thanks to Star Nation in blue and to Mother Earth in Green.
But for the Center, I wouldn't pray in purple like some others, even though it's my favorite color. I always held all the other prayers in my hand, at my heart, and I would pray my gratitude for my growing presence and connection, the ability to feel my source, my center, the direction within that ties me to everyone and everything at their source, their center.
I've prayed in this way, during sweat lodge ceremonies, off and on
for 13 years and it's working. Every direction in my life has expanded. I am living a beautiful mandala of people, synchronicities, laughter, creativity, cuddles, bubbles, caresses, smiles, flowers, crystals, wings, altars, gifts, words, and sparkles. I stand at the center, opening more and more to the wisdom and feeling of who I am as I appreciate every piece, excited for the possibilities I've already created that await my ownership of the magnificent being I am.
She awaits in the corner.
Her beautiful hard body is beckoning to be adored again.
The way we used to do when times were good and there was lots more time.
Her luscious curves are calling out for attention.
She is not used to being left behind.
She is not used to being put on the shelf, she is not used to being put on the back burner.
She is yearning to be touched. Her body attracts dust when she sits around waiting too long.
She still looks beautiful even though there is a thin layer of minute particles stuck to her entire body, it shows the passing of time. She leans against the back of the stuffed chair in the corner of the bedroom.
After unpacking my clothes from a months travels away from home, and getting my bearings in the house again, I pick her up and dust her off with a clean towel.
I run the fabric over the strings to warm em up a bit.
I was told that rubbing the strings back and forth would warm them up on a cold night out doors.
I used to play her by the fire at large gatherings. I never did believe that to be true, do strings really get warmer when you rub them?
I take a light downward swish across the strings with the nail on my pinky finger.
It sounds like laughter from a conversation with a best friend that you haven't seen for a long time.
Like when you sit down together and speak to one an other as if no time has gone by at all.
I slide back on the plastic seats, sweat running down my face, belly, legs as I readjust my body to leave room for another butt to plant itself next to me. I am in a caravan converted sauna. Quite ingenious. This small but meaty space does the trick. It's chilly outside but with the constant supply of wood fueling the heat, it's deliciously toasty in here. I can let go. I didn't even realize how miserable I am with the nonstop cool rainy weather that gets right into my bones. This heat is getting into my bones and I am freaking loving it. I can feel my whole body start to melt, from the outside in, like a stick of butter, loosing it's shape on toast, spreading itself further on the toast surface. My shell is finally lifting and I can breathe and allow myself to feel again. Working in the mud, washing dishes between rain drops, trying to keep a smile on my face despite counting the days till I can leave this wholly uncomfortable festival scene, I am afraid to open myself, to be any more vulnerable than I already am. The heat hits me again, and I smile cause it's penetrating deeper now, and I am giddy. I observe how physical comfort can change one's perspective so completely. I glance over at the girl with the bobbed black hair and big boobs, and our eyes meet, she is in it with me, a stranger only moments ago, and I can see her and be seen, naked.
Thirsty and tired I st st stumble
through the frigid waters.
Thunderous sounds crack overhead
pulling the sky into a contorted grimace,
a scowl of contempt,
a big fucking middle finger in your face.
Pray the celestial spirits
will spare your wretched soul.
Make atonements to
Kratos, Tartarus, Cerberus.
Satisfy the penalty incurred by your wicked ways.
Stop provoking the Deities!
You will exacerbate your torture!
Tonight they come.
Forever seeking the flesh of the ancient youth.
Be attentive to the sounds.
Hark the clanking of the steel quarterstaves.
Catch flight of the javelins skyward.
Trumpets pierce my eardrums.
This is it.
Steady yourself then charge.
Attack the intruders.
Be aggressive and stab,
claw and choke the antagonists.
Defend your territory.
Or try to be hippy dippy
and make peace with these sadists and die.
Bones split with a caltrop,
disjointed from their place of origin.
I will spring forth ferociously
with a torrent of steel blades
charging at the terrorist.
Contending and defending our continent.
Stand down you cockroach.
Abandon your post.
I claim this dynasty now.
Don't fuck with a witch!