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I’ve been thinking alot about the relationship between language, reality, perception, and most especially divinity.

In many religious tomes, there is mention of the Word of God. God, the name; God, the word spoken into being from which life came forth.
Language has always been not only a tool, but actually somewhat of an aspect of the supreme being Judao-Christians call God. Words themselves holding power, incantation, spells, names versus true names versus birth names. What we call ourselves. What others call us.
The Word of God.

If someone were to ask me where I find grace, where I find sustenance and serenity and release, it is in words. Well, words and museums. This also makes me think of my dreams. I often dream of being suspended in water, of breathing underwater, submerged and comfortable in the cool weight. It doesn’t feel womblike, it feels…I can’t describe it. My old therapist said that water dreams are a sign of a connection to that higher power, called me an avatar, called me sacred.

I think on this not because I think I am a sacred, special being (ok maybe I do a little). But words…they are so important.
So important.
I think maybe there needs to be a massive SHIFT in religions. Worship not some patriarchal man in a gown in the sky thats telling you that you’re wrong. Find self in the sea, the vast limitless ocean of language, adrift on meaning and sound. I’m not talking faith or Jesus or whatever else a belief system requires of its practitioners. Just…words. Poetry. Songs. Tales. Not to invest in them as law, as written in stone, but to take them apart, find the truth that is woven amongst the flapping tongues of those that think they know best and them that was actually there.
In the old tales, we speak of fairy creatures, we speak of dawn and the shuttered gloaming that trails magic in the mists. We speak of Giants, whose hearts are hidden in duck eggs in boxes amongst gnarled tree roots. Of mothers, and the mothers of Monsters, and how the only difference between Grendel and Beowulf is Grendel’s mother is mourning.
There is power in the poignancy of connection. Power in that silken gold thread, woven into a million different fabrics, but still shines brightly no matter the pattern.

The Christians set themselves up.

There was a Word, and the Word delivered God.



Originally this blog was going to be a place for discussions on sex and sexuality. But I’ve decided to not narrow this down so much. Instead, I’m just commandeering this as a soundboard for my thoughts and poetry.

She watches men with hungry eyes, searching, lost in her own musings. She lures without meaning to, a beckoning lighthouse on an uncertain shore. Honeywheat tresses, cat eyes, lush curves and a hopeful smile, she has the flash of sass and well-intentioned naiveté that most men find irresistible. Tara doesn’t understand the power she has over men, but then again, most girls don’t until they’ve been used enough to realize their spark has died.

Tera has been raped. Three times, she’s been taken, forced, beaten, bruised and broken. Each time she barely fought back, her voice caught in her throat like fish-hook, sharp and bleeding. Each time she curled inside, punished herself for being so vulnerable.

I look at her and I see myself. I see that those same searching eyes, that same pretty face and downcast smile that greeted me every morning that I returned home with smeared mascara, torn fishnets and an echo inside that never resolved into words. I can’t protect her. I wish I could wrap my arms around her, stand watch, turn back the tide of man that crashes against her, again and again, filling her with salt and sand and taking away the precious cargo of her seashell songs. I wish I could wrap her in warm wax, a shell that yields, a red glow to diffuse the shrill scream of lonely that sounds like broken glass on cold asphalt.

I can do none of this, just as no one could do this for me.

An Open Letter (Fragile Girls)

There is nothing that I can say that will make this pain any less. I have no great words of wisdom, no packaged phrases of trite sympathy. As much as I wish I could tell you something new, something to hold and help heal your heart, I don’t have that power.
But I hear you. I hear that hurt, that pain, like one long stretched note of a violin, sweet and aching, like icicles thrust into the center of lungs. I know that pain, that unyielding burn, a black hole behind your ribs, a constant reminder of lonesome.
I also know that nothing can make that pain stop except time. Thats what you may need right now, little chickadee. You need time to heal. Time to let yourself be alone, remain closed off, turn inward, understand what it is your searching for. I think that’s what all these men pick up on, and what you find yourself lost in. Searching. Seeking something to fill yourself with light, with warmth, with love. Searching for that movie glow magic, the comfort found in an honest mans arms.
I remember that constant searching, that quest, that drive to feel wanted, needed, understood, accepted, cherished.
You are something to be cherished, ma cherie. You are a vessel of light, a songbird, a bubble of laughter and yellow sparks and flowered curtains flapping in a summer wind. Its BECAUSE you’re special that men flock to you, try to take that spark, and leave you with only echoes. Its because you are so wonderful that you feel this miserable.
Wonderful people like you are not a dime a dozen. You are your own lighthouse, a beacon that beckons from an uncertain shore. Men from all walks of life are going to be drawn to you. How could they not? You are lovely, vibrant, lush curves and cat eyes. Your job is to decide who is worthy of your time and attention.
Thats a lesson that took a me a long time to learn. It took me a long time to learn how to filter out all the creep bags and losers in wolf smiles, circling me. You have to realize that the pretty girl looking back at you with sad eyes and a hopeful smile is a girl worth protecting, saving.
No one can protect you but yourself. Nothing but your own arms are can fend off the people that can and will hurt you, if you give them a chance. I’m not saying build up huge brick walls and keep the world out. But over time, you’ll learn to wear your battle armor, learn how to raise your shield and repel those hoards of men like hairy Mongols trying to storm the great wall.

All I’m really trying to say is that I love you and I hear you. I see your struggle, and I know how lonely and dark it can feel. Take all the time you need, bubelah. Cry when you need to, hold yourself in the quiet shadows of your bed, grow your scar tissue, lick your wounds. But know that this will pass, this pain will pass, the seemingly vast abyss inside yourself will shrink, the more love you put in there, the more you let good people love you. I have so much faith and hope for you, I just want to stand watch over you and dare any fucker to try to take you away, challenge any douchebag to hurt you again. I would destroy every pair of kneecaps that came my way. But I know I can’t do that, and you may not appreciate a half-crazed Jew with a cock blocking baseball bat. So I’m going to end this letter by saying I think you’re an amazing creature. And I know one day you will meet someone equally amazing that will whisk you off your feet and make you cakes and sandwhichs and take you to the zoo. But until then, hurt and heal, and know that this will pass.

I love you, muncheekee. Stay well. And if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.