iron rose

Nov. 10th, 2016 03:20 pm
anonymousblack: ([rollins] iron rose)
in the movie she becomes somebody else like we all become somebody else, in the end, in the telling, in every manner of mirroring narrative, because in the end she isn't remotely who anyone assumed her to be. it's a fatal mistake. it's a death or death matter. to the death, one way and the other. someone will die and someone will die. death rolls out before us, to the far horizon in every direction. death takes a sharp turn to the right. and that's the way of it, bones clattering bones, bones on the ground and bones in the dirt, bones stacked up on bones, a bone-dusted repository for bones. in the end she becomes somebody else. bones tumbling over bones. bones dancing the circuit between function and exposure: bones dancing clear the boundary between the dead and the soon to be dead, the soon enough to be dead, i need air, there's not air, are you listening to me? are you listening for me? can you hear my rattling bones?



she screams, she sounds the boundary. she screams, she gives it form. she screams into the night, over the bones over, the graveyard. graves again graves, graves jammed up against graves, and again over themselves, four graves deep in places, the wrought iron markers eventually collapsing over themselves, breaking to bits, to bones and bits, the wrought iron markers bones for the scatter rusting over themselves again under, four graves deep. her lover's fraternal torment becomes an initiation he will not endure, an initiation he is not meant to endure: in the movie he becomes somebody else. you know what it's like. who you wake up with is not who you fell asleep with, that's a given, but what happens to your dreams in a night without sleep?

in the dream we collapse at each other's contradictions. bits and bones. bones and bits. a bone to pick, we pick at each other's masks. no matter can be taken lightly since the power went out. powerless, we wear each other's masks. we forget the masks are on until our first kiss clinks ceramic. in the dream i can't help myself. it's like i'm possessed. then again, of course. i pick up the shawl. i dance it in place. i dance out the quarters. i call the quarters. i call the elements: death and death and death and death. death above. death below. the circle is cast. we are between the worlds:

we are between the worlds. since tuesday night i have sleep with a dagger at my side. since tuesday night i have slept with a devil mask on the wall. i sleep in a pile of bones, as a pile of bones, bones piling up over themselves, rattle rattle, rattle again rattle, howl it out, scream it loose: and listen, and listen, and again listen. listen to me. i said fucking listen. if only he'd listened they'd have lived through the night. if only they'd listened maybe i'd have lived to forty-six. if only he hadn't let her remember the mask on the wall, the knife by her bed. if only, if only. the wind blows with only. and a scream that starts outside the body, coming in slowly from a long way back, coming in slowly from the intent and the mean, coming in slowly, nuzzling up like a cat, pressing contact that could be affection, that reads as affection, but that, in the end, is simply another territory marked. and like that. and like that. mark it out. call it done. and the scream comes in slowly, but it comes in nonetheless, no worse for wear, no easy thing. it sounds the boundary. the place where their connection breaks. the place where all connections break. the place of breaking, bone from bone, heart from mind, body from body, pull out, pull out, pull out or the cord the binds us could manifest in another's bloody scream of that broken trust. but then again:

no one will ever know. and again: no one will ever know. once down the crypt, once in the voting booth, it makes no difference: no one will ever know what actually occurred. she closes the doors and the doors stay shut. she closes the door and her dance is done. she closes the door and no one will ever know: the perfect murder. in its way, every murder is perfect, because perfection can only exist in death. i mean nothing can be added. i mean nothing can be taken away. i mean that's what we have, what it was in the end. that's what we take to the scales, and the only person who knows the whole truth of the matter is dead. i mean in death we are essentially what we've always been as well as what we were always meant to be. i mean it's where we are always going and where we were always going to go. it makes us someone else, always someone else again. again in the end, that's who were were always going to be: the end.


anonymousblack: (then again maybe i won't)


yesterday during set up i was mixing my donated nefertari's tarot into the box at the tarot station when i looked up to see a cat jogging towards me from a nearby open door. beautiful cat, black through the whiskers, glowing green eyes. i dropped down so i could scritch him behind the ears and his owner, one of the residents at the collective who'd been nearby smoking, came dashing in after him to apologize for the intrusion.

"this is not a problem," i explained. "black cats and witches go together like..."

"black cats and witches." we laughed. "his name's osiris," the resident told me.

the top of my head tingled. before i donated the tarot cards, i'd intentionally pulled the high priest, which portrays osiris, so i could use it as an altar image. i've been gradually trying to work more resonant images of masculinity into my spiritual practice. then i have a day like thursday and i'm just like, you know? there's an awful lot of rape and forcible impregnation in mythology and i think i'd rather not have too many reminders of that in the places i go for spiritual renewal. or, you know, hanging around any of my goddesses who might get triggered. but osiris? he's been in my peripheries for a while. osiris was sexually exploited by his sister-in-law before getting horrifically murdered by his brother. he's a sacred victim. i'd like to hold space for him, some time. plus he's in the book. so. i'll be doing that, regardless.

the resident talked for a few minutes, mostly about osiris the cat and his reclusive sister isis. we only thought to introduce ourselves at the end.

"i've always thought judith was the most beautiful name," he told me. "it was my great grandmother's."

the cat bumped his forehead into the center of my palm at the invocation of grandmother, emphasizing the yet unsolved riddle of that moment.
anonymousblack: (voigtlander)


we're up to 49 attendees for this thing
and that's just the folk who were cool with having their participation in our weird event broadcast publicly on facebook
i'm supposed to put on a mask
and serve as a vehicle for a mother of the dead


what i'm saying is: OMFG PERFORMANCE ANXIETY




(wish me witchcraft)
anonymousblack: (lookout)
we made these puppets a few years ago for a dark show, never made a video for either of them until last night. this is jack, the puppet that i made. i am especially proud of the knotted cord around his neck.



i'm negotiating some stuff: but aren't i always? locked down, tied up. i should be writing, as in content i am contracted for, but: it's strange. very strange.

i made an ancestor altar. it's a component of the work i've been/will be doing with my community for the coming ritual cycle, but it also isn't; it doesn't have anything to do with my current community at all. it's something that i've been building toward for decades, something that i've been feeling a pull towards since: i mean, it might be (part of? all of?) what i'm here to do spiritually. and that's... validating, to feel it come in from many directions like that, but also extremely frightening. because i haven't really thought of myself as someone who came from ancestors (except in all the ways i've always thought of it), i certainly didn't feel i was "special" enough to do ancestral work, whatever that means; but the main thing is that i don't want to make mistakes. see, mistakes i make in this endeavor don't just hurt me, but, potentially, the lineage. there's the little questions, like, is my very catholic maternal grandmother cool with the idea of her image and the prayer card from her funeral sharing altar space with the venus of willendorf replica that constituted my first purchase of a devotional object on this path? what about magically charged anointing oils? what about a carved obsidian skull?

an altar object i am using for paul is a folio of writing i did in the creative writing class we took together in high school. it sort of feels like it's stolen, is the thing. he'd given it back to me at one point for an update and, as it occasionally happens with long-time friends who cycle in and out of touch, i still have it. so, taboo. so, shame. taboo and shame don't only serve as indicators for what truly matters to one, they also generate a tremendous amount of energy around issues i am working on and are therefore crucial to my pathwork. because of this, i try to keep objects on my altars (sometimes it is very hard) that are uncomfortable to me for related reasons: something i stole, something i appropriated in somewhat willful ignorance, something i forgot to give back; something i broke, something i paid too much money for, something that didn't live up to expectations, something that echoes me back on a traumatic event, something that represents a failure. oh man, is this sort of material plentiful amongst ancestral objects. SO MANY MISTAKES. as such, the new altar is pulsating with energy i'm not exactly sure how to work with, yet. possibly this is a good sign.

could be maybe i shouldn't have built it in the room where i work.

i also don't know how i feel about my grandmas watching over me while i try to write entertainingly about bethesda. frankly, on the whole? i don't know about how my very catholic grandmas would feel about my moving to the eastern seaboard to shack up with someone i met on the internet, but it's still better than the awkwardness that would result from me having this deal in the bedroom. and i do mean this whole heartedly: ye gods.

one of my favorite bands from back in the day recently made several of their earliest demos available on soundcloud. it's an excellent all hallows offering if ever one there was. i'm only allowed to listen to work playlists until this article is drafted (better than the mess i drafted friday, i mean) but maybe some of my readers will enjoy, at least relate more to that particular obsession.
anonymousblack: ([magritte] mentor)
1.
there's a kind of stillness. there's a place where the stillness collects.

there's a place of gathering and a place of retreat. collected at the corners, in the places where thought could go:

there's a place where this is nothing. a passing glance, a possibility unrealized and dropped back into the bottomless receptacle of unrealized possibilities. hands touching, fingers linking, but nothing really remembered or held. you want to be remembered. you want to mean something to the people who mean something to you. why don't i mean something to someone who meant something to me? of course i mean someone specific, of course this is a path traversed so many times it's damn near eroding stone, but there are moments when this really does not feel like the way things are supposed to be: but what do i do with that? i have mismatched metaphysical socks. my psychic t-shirt is on inside out. i'm piled up with clutter, nothing goes back to its proper place when i'm done using it, though there's always a chance it didn't have that place to start out with. i am not a tidy person. i'm tired. i'm sad. i don't know that this is going anywhere, and to be perfectly honest. to be perfectly honest. to be perfectly honest, but then i don't know that i've been even passably honest for the last year (at least).


2.
i'm climbing all over myself. i'm crawling out of my skin. creepy crawlies, broad sweeps of shivers, staring back at myself again and again and again. is that another fine line? am i sprouting a zit? can i really afford to be shedding this much hair? trapped between puberty and geriatric solutions, as i ever am. who am i looking at when i look at myself? it isn't me. at least, it isn't the same person that other people see when they look at me from across assorted distances, be it inches, be it miles, be it in person or conveyed in photographs, mixed media, or text. where am i for myself?

i'm lost at sea.

i'm missing in action.

i've begun to presume a thing or two.

i'm gathering up my own numbers: there's a kind of sincerity in that, at least, even if it isn't simply put cut and dried on the surface in the cold with the shakes rattling hard hear me now hear me then, remember what i said, remember who i am, do you understand who i could be? i'm so conflicted about my expectations, my reasons for having them along with whatever it is they might be. what are my expectations?

doctor’s orders piled up on the nightstand: blood work a sonogram a mammogram and


3.
so many secrets in the blood.

there's this strange ecology to my desire. maybe it's not strange as much as it is anachronistic. who thinks like this when they're forty? who thinks like this when they're thirty? honestly now: who thinks like this? i do. i don't know and i don't understand it and then and again i've tied myself up in knots and i'm piled up i'm cluttered up i really don't know i really couldn't say just keep it rolling keep it diving spell it out break it down break it up you say remember to learn the proper pronunciation i'm trying to get your attention i've been trying to compel you to say something but maybe it's hopeless maybe this isn't going anywhere, maybe that decisions been made just as it’s always been and i’m just not worth it in the bitter bitter end. i don't know. i couldn't say. why would i know? what could i say?

the wind raises itself up, the wind whistles, the wind roars, the wind sings. i wanted to understand it. i really wanted to understand it. i wanted to bring it into my life and explore what it could have meant. instead, nothing. instead negation. instead all this nothing piled up to nowhere piled up on my clutter piled up in my corners piling up to crisis points in every direction and then again maybe and maybe and maybe again


anonymousblack: ([rs] hug)
One afternoon, after we had been talking about Prometheus stealing fire from the sun to give to man, and about Pandora opening up the forbidden box with all the evils of the world in it, Gramps said that those myths evolved because people needed a way to explain where fire came from and why there was evil in the world…

It seems to me that we can’t explain all the truly awful things in the world like war and murder and brain tumors, and we can’t fix these things, so we look at the frightening things that are closer to us and we magnify them until they burst open. Inside is something that we can manage, something that isn’t as awful as it had at first seemed. It is a relief to discover that all though there might be axe murderers and kidnappers in the world, most people seem a lot like us: sometimes afraid and sometimes brave, sometimes cruel and sometimes kind.


- Salamanca Tree Hiddle
From Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech
anonymousblack: (hope is the thing with the feathers)
i got in the atwood retreat.

ETA: if you are able and willing to help with funding, because, like, i kinda seriously need help with the funding, especially since the venue needs $600 by sunday to hold my spot, you can look over my generosity with indiegogo deal:



Help Judith Get Workshopped by Her Hero



still processing. jeez. i promise i'm excited, i'm just also... terrified. it's like i've been conditioned to respond poorly to a windfall or something.

ETA: i got $625 in two hours. rest assured that the crowdfunding gods are doing what they can to squish my squee, as i thought: hell! i did that in two hours, let's just go ahead and try to fund the whole deal right now, but apparently stretch goals aren't a thing for my chosen venue. i'll figure something out! updates as they become available. feel free to reach out to me directly for more information at my livejournal email address.
anonymousblack: (that time again)
to anybody wondering how i am negotiating this news cycle of a presidential candidate finally getting multi-media outed as the living embodiment of unchecked male entitlement, including an accusation of his raping a thirteen year old girl on, in fact, the twenty-eighth anniversary of my being raped as a thirteen year old girl: not very well, in fact. not very well at all.
CONTENT WARNING: sexual assault )

so that's where i am.

how about you?

all the comments screened for the security of anyone commenting with sensitive information. i will only unscreen such comments if you say it's okay.
anonymousblack: (into the woods)
to make an offering: to make an offering of one's self, one's intent. to offer one's own body as a vessel for spirit: purified and consecrated, returned to the singularity of devotion and intent. to purify through offering. to understand what an offering is. do i understand what an offering is? i struggle with it: what to offer, how to offer it. i struggle with allocating resources, with finding space on the altar, with what to offer and how to dispose of it when the offering is done. when is the offering done? sometimes i struggle simply with timing, the how and when, the who and why. i'm getting better, i guess, but it's still a fight and a chore when i'd like it to be a pleasure i willingly embrace. i'm getting better, i guess, but there's still a lot of work to do.

that's part of the offering, i guess.

*

1. still the rushes, still the body, hold the body and wait. hold the body. there is something here, something comprised of fragments and whispers, half spoke, half neglected, half clutched to the heart for much too long.

2. and then in the distance: for it is always in the distance.

3. and then in the distance: for it is always a long way off.

4. and then in the distance: there are answers, if not questions. there's forgetting if not something to remember. in the distance, there could be multitudes, there could be any number of things: so count them, count on it, count and count and count and count. keep counting. count still. make an offering of the count

5. holy mother, i spill myself before you in offering. i spill myself at your feet. i pray what you receive will not be taken lightly. i pray there is some other answer gathering itself up on the inbetween.

6. hush, it is important to tread lightly. to not speak a name until it is time for it to be spoken. to not be a stranger among even stranger. to count and be counted, to dream of countless things; to let the wind blow through, to let the wind blow out, to blow with the wind, with that kind of release, with such intense fervor

7. and yet we do not know what there is to know.

8. and yet we could not say what we needed to say.

9. and yet and yet and yet and yet: qualified to nonsense, we rattle down the hill in a rainwater barrel.

10. oh to be remembered, to be remembered for who i am.

11. oh to be desired, to be desired as who i am.

12. oh to have you lean over me half-dreaming, to press against, to press into me, to have you taste and bite and remember

13. remember me, my love, remember me with your desire.

14. but that's not the half of it: the half of it remains: rattling down a hillside in a rainwater barrel.

15. what will you do, when you hear? what will you do next?

16. i cannot know what will happen but i can trace the threads as they weave in and out of space and time, remembering to forget, forgetting to remember.

17. for nothing is truly forgotten, just as nothing is sincerely remembered.

18. and with that and like that and my dry scratchy eyes and my heavy tipping head and my aching bones and my aching head and the crick in my neck and the stitch in my side

19. for to answer without a question is a form of attack.

20. and to question, repeatedly, where there is not an answer is a manner of assault.

21. and you could have kissed me, but you did not kiss me, so what does that mean?

22. we are full, we are full of wind and circumstance. we are hot and hard and blown right through.

23. we are remembered. we are forgotten. we are an unasked question. we are an answer surrendered in offering of, in offering to, oh holy, oh holy holy, oh holy most holy to:

24. shh, the answer is coming.

25. hush, the offering is made.


anonymousblack: ([cats tarot] lovecats)
tuesday night we decided to play cards against humanity. with just the three of us the game was going to go pretty fast, even with a brief beer spill break (i believe with CAH this is known 'baptism'), so we dealt in the cat and had her play by random unseen selection. i started hearing numbers about halfway in; when i pulled cards from her deck in accordance with the numbers our results were always more interesting. our last hand was a haiku. the winner, no contest:



...was the cat. it was both wondrous and hilarious, watching each of us realize this. we all kept trying to credit each other, and yet, at the same time, we all desperately were hoping that it was the cat, because what a beautiful fucking absurdity. one by one we realized that yes, none of us were claiming this haiku so yes, that could only mean one thing: it was the cat! the best haiku was from the cat! so not only did we get to realize this ourselves, but got to watch each other realizing it as well. the moment got exponentially better with each of those realizations.

meanwhile, bijoux just sat on the couch, purring like a coffee percolator, secure in her knowledge that she'd won CAH forever.

sometimes the magic really does leak into one's life in some very unexpected ways.
anonymousblack: ([rs] nap)
0930162100a.jpg

gonna go hang out in the indiana wilds with [livejournal.com profile] crimson_vita for a few days
and i almost never talk like this?
but there better be a few new lj comments waiting for me when i get back
or i'm just going to soak your feed in willow/tara hardcore for the rest of the year

wait no that's rewarding ...quite a number of you weirdos
or so it should be, considering.

so what i mean is
i'll continue my slow fade out
and nobody wants that
right?



right?

well, some of you do.
it's what keeps me going, some days. ;-)
still. make with the comments, already.
girl can't journal on spite alone.
anonymousblack: (((something)))
WLYA_cover_1024x1024.jpg


wherein among a delightful harvest of words from zoetic's premiere july creativity challenge, you'll find a selection from my in-progress books of truth, entitled "unknown pleasures." orpheus and eurydice pop each other's cherries in a basement on independence day in 1991. pretty tame compared to my sample for the atwood retreat, but that took place a good deal later in the relationship and, you know, pairings like that are bound to get a lot more experimental with the passage of time.




in other writing news, my poem "reliquary," featured in petite hound press's twelfth issue, was nominated for a best of the net award (talk about first times!) you should definitely read the amazing introduction petite hound gives to the issue, as i learned several things about this poem i did not know. i love it when people figure out stuff about my work and explain it to me. lot of the time i look back on something i wrote and am just all... yeah, hey! i sure did... write something there, yup.
anonymousblack: (labyrinth contrast)
1.
does it matter? the rich and warm of it, the nightly swarm of it, the on and on and on and on again off of it, the are you listening, do you hear me, would you hear me, does anyone hear me at all?

i don't know what it meant or what it could mean. i don't know, and the trip of stumble of that, the hopeless rumble of it, the what would i say if i could say something, the what would it mean if it meant something:

open and shut, or never resolved, no answer to be found, no trail left to follow, a tangential tangle of what wasn't said and what wasn't documented. left undocumented. a ravaging pathway through dense underbrush, and lies, or what could be lies, what might be lies, lie down now and close your eyes, lie down now and hold your tongue:

what am i saying? what the fuck am i even trying to say?

the point of this is that there isn't a point. no single point. no single point of entry, no trodden path through the chaos, no satisfying resolution or manageable solution, no simple way to work out or through. just:

all of a sudden you're here and all at once you are gone. and you arrive in a mess, and you wander around through a mess making a terrible mess as you go and, once gone, leave yet another mess behind. so it is what we are: a mess. we are messy creatures. we are infernal leviathans of god might not even know what. we are enigmas wrapped in riddles stashed somewhere in plain sight that you'll never think to look. and then and then and then.

does it matter? did it matter? will it ever matter?

i don't know, and that lack of knowledge crumples up under my fingertips, rattling, ripping, no matter too serious, no matter it's silly, but then again, you know? but then again. we matter to each other, i think, except when we don't. at least we have that. maybe that's enough, i think, except when it isn't. i haven't written for days. i couldn't tell you why. just that: i don't really have anyone to report back to, no deadlines, lines for the dead, keep it steady keep it sure and keep doing it even when there isn't a purpose even when there's not much of a point, nobody reading, nobody going to read: choke me dead with my own hard line, why don't you?

lose the line again again: to indifference, to social protocol, the letter of the law, the nonnegotiable absolutes of life and death, we're sorry but it's not a good fit, we're sorry but good luck with it, i wanted to love it, i mean, i really wanted to, but i did not. or maybe or maybe or maybe, right? he didn't say one damn thing to me, not at the end, not near it. i keep waiting, i keep hoping, maybe something, some indication, some post-dated email set to drop one day when i'm at my wits end, such a save, such a save! some half formed semblance of a real goodbye

but then again, i can't expect that. but then again,

what have i ever done to deserve that?


2.
"read between the lines," he told me and said to repeat it back.

"write between the lines," i said, and didn't meet anyone in the eye for a week:

because there are too many secrets, too many matters pressed flat and drawn out over themselves and under again. an illustrating example. an unwanted explanation. yet another privileged stranger presuming to tell me my suffering is meaningless in light of their own. perhaps it is. perhaps i am overreacting. i've certainly overreacted before. maybe i am making it all up. i am quite imaginative, you know. aren't we all? except when we aren't, you see, and those are the scenarios where people are shot dead, are dropped between the cracks, are crushed between the cracks, abandoned to the mercy of a culture increasingly demonstrated as psychopathic in its negligence, in its self-serving 'me too,' billions of people ready to kill for even a little bit of what they've been brainwashed into thinking they want; billions of people ready to disown life long connections over facebook memes and hashtags, the hatred, the cruelty, the eternal middle school locker room that has become human relations: for what?

i started out thinking "so we can be heard," so our broadcast signal has someplace to land: but now think it's more like, "so we're never obligated to listen, so we don't feel any responsibility toward what we hear." not only to random internet strangers who, however "astutely," write openly about their heartbreaking experiences with systemic oppression, but our own loved ones, our partners and dearest friends, our children, children we've prayed for and paid for and pay for still: because it's all about getting the most out of my experience, right? if i can have it all, you better believe i better get it. i get to have a childhood a bff a prom date a college dorm room a steady a bff an able body a beautiful face a car designer clothes a soulmate a soul a dog a house a spouse a kid another kid a lawnmower a summer vacation spot a hot tub a home stereo system a gmo free organic diet access to alternative healthcare access to anything resembling healthcare at all a day at the spa handcrafted fair traded ethically appropriated stuff permissive spirituality spiritual boon without suffering the assumption of my ultimate correctness by others power and substance a meditation regime fancy ass yoga pants freedom from negativity the authority to label anyone who pisses me off a narcissist people who agree with me people who call me strong attention and accolades acknowledgement and adoration talent and renown an important voice a voice that gets heard an opinion that matters to somebody somewhere publication designer degrees in higher education a respected internet presence enough numbness to get through today's feed enough numbness to scroll past a love one's pain to explain it away to tell my loved ones that what i am going through is so much worse and feel validated in that everything! everything everything everything we want, taken without so much as a half-hearted examination of what we actually need, and it doesn't matter what we're taking away from the planet, from society, from other people, who, as much as i might claim to love them? are not me.

yet.

that's the thing.

yet.


anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] hari bleeding)
he's the nothing.

a substantial number of people in the room cheer: for the nothing.

i'd say "say goodbye to fantasia," but maybe it's already gone.
anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] glass)
fell down on roland: no structural damage but a lot of lost skin and a very swollen knee. but! i didn't have a cardiac event, so there's that. and the palpitations almost entirely stopped for the rest of the night: came back in the morning, but a lovely reprieve (while it lasted)

went in for bloodwork: i mean, you try to keep a good thought, like you're supposed to do if you want to get better, right? (note to readers: never, ever, ever say this to somebody with a chronic illness. don't even say something kind of a little bit like that. never. ever. i mean it. i will hunt you down. and if i can't--which, let's face it, will probably be the case; it's half past midnight and i'm already so far gone with hunger i could spit--chronic illness karma will hunt you down in my stead--and trust me! you really don't want to tango with that cowboy.) so i tried to keep a good thought, like i always do, except when i don't. but as the needle went in, that part of my nervous system that just knows there will be bruising, it hollered a string of (not vocally engaged) expletives and oh, dear. that i could even contemplate long sleeves in this july backwash masquerading as september. not quite my post-surgical butterfly rorschach, but definitely something that could draw comments of alarm from a good three yards back: whether or not that's another one of those none-of-your-damn-business scenarios that could earn you a good lassoing from the chronic illness karma cowboy.

so i limped and whimpered my way into the lab, had a variety of strange interactions with the lab staff, then limped and whimpered my way back home. i spent the rest of friday in bed icing my knee, listening to underwater guitars, worrying about humanity and watching my chest thump.

i don't know.

thump

Sep. 22nd, 2016 08:12 pm
anonymousblack: (end of transmission)
heart palpitations. all week.

so done.

oh, yes, i'm as sure as anyone that getting incredibly cheesed off about the situation will help it most plentifully. unfortunately, there's not a lot else i can do until this latest round of bloodwork comes back, hopefully ratting out the increasingly avant garde theatrics of my endocrine system, which has, of late, been indulging such delightful crowd-pleasers as "three a.m. oatmeal isn't nearly enough," "all the women in my witch group secretly hate me and don't you even try telling me otherwise," "[incoherent thirty page tear-stained rant about the patriarchy i think]," "sleep is for the weak, let us never supplicate ourselves to it again" and "OH FUCK NO IS THAT A HAT."

PLEASE SWEET MOTHER OF ENDOCRINOLOGY PROMISE ME THAT THIS IS NOT MY NEW NORMAL.
anonymousblack: (it's very pink)
so sort of, um,
i might have an opportunity to do a week-long residency deal
next spring
and the um
yeah. like,
the workshop leader?
the writing god incarnate i might be able to get workshopped by?

maragret.fucking.atwood.

that's if i didn't mess up my chances.
and if i can scrape together the cash.
we'll be crowd funding, by the way, if this comes together: ask me how.
but while i'm waiting to hear back if i got in.

j: i sent the wrong writing sample.
b: why are you so convinced
j: i know it. i shouldn't have sent that thing.
b: why are you beating yourself up about this?
j: i shouldn't even have typed it out.
b: i'm sure it
j: actions have consequences, benjamin.
b: no, because
j: maragret atwood is going to think i'm a perverted maniac.
b: judy.
j: what am i saying? she isn't even going to see it unless i get accepted to this thing. which now seems unlikely. so maybe i don't have to
b: judy!
j: what?
b: do i need to take you into the study and read you passages from...
j [laughs]
b: ....any of her books?
j: ....everybody in canada except maragret atwood is going to think i'm a perverted maniac.
b: i really don't think you have to worry about everybody in canada reading it.
j: there are xerox machines in canada, ben. a copy will work its way back to maragret atwood eventually. and when it does
b: yes. yes, judy, they are going to distribute mimeographs of this writing sample at every point of entry along the canadian border
j: exactly. next to my picture.
b: with a big red "no" slashed through it.
j: that's all i'm saying. and it will be a priority to give a copy of it to maragret atwood, because she's a national treasure who needs to be protected from perverted maniacs like me. so she will read it, and when she does, she's just gonna be, what is this chick smoking.
b: well.
j: i vaporize.
b: sometimes i don't know that it's such a good idea to leave you unsupervised with this brain of yours.
j: FINALLY. SOMEBODY WHO UNDERSTANDS.
anonymousblack: (fire)
brought to ruin: brought into memory: brought into the nightmare continuum of daily striving, daily failing, daily never quite enough: brought into being. pain's crowning glory. the crown of thorns that encircles every immaculate heart: by way of tradition: by means of necessity: and on like that: and on and on and on: held in the arms of love: grasped by the claws of pain: how it is: how it was:

:how it ever will be:


pain is the germinating necessity of love. love as an elemental force. love as a transforming reality. love as a difficult and occasionally (?) fatal initiation: love as a difficult and ultimately fatal initiation: those of us who could not come back from love: those of us who could not even survive our own love: you know the way of it, or you did, or you will and in this moment with this ring for so long as you both but that's not even the half of it, the kind of love that only lasts as long as you both shall live: kept in that box, and it does not have to be, but quite often it is: that's love as a human mechanism. love as a red ball bouncing in time over ideological assessments of the form and function love serves, not the earth shattering chaos love in itself actually is: not love itself: not love itself: so many of us never even have contact with what love, itself, actually is. not transformational love. not love that transforms. because transformational love, it does not move mountains.

it obliterates them.


such love does not waste its time sitting, head bowed, hands folded neatly, patient for evening vespers: such love twists the heads off the wicked and crushes their skulls in her mad dance. such love scorches the dead and corrupted into fertile ash. love is brutal, love is angry. love is fierce, love is belligerent. love never shuts up. love is beautiful, but not in the way you want it to be. so often we first see that which triggers out deepest love as ugly, at first: at least undesirable: at least disquieting. you have to do the work to see the beauty. you have to make yourself vulnerable to that head twisting, skull crushing, wildfire love and there are no guarantees. you'll see it, but only in flickers. you'll feel it, but only for one match's strike. at the heart. on the tongue. through the sacral center. sparking at the finger tips. you must build up your tolerance. you must keep taking risks. love can protect those who serve love, in a way, for a time, but then, but then. love serves her own understanding of justice. if one only wants the meek, user-friendly, maternal and nurturing good girlfriend of love, an easy marriage, a long and prosperous life, love has no use for you. never germinated, you'll rot away still inside your husk. love doesn't give a fuck that you believe it isn't time. ready or not, that's what love is:

ready or fucking not.


love is aggressive. love doesn't care how tired you are. how scared you are. how traumatized you are. how strong. how righteous. how virtuous. how talented. how stoned. how impatient. how smart. how healthy. how refined your media preferences. love is here. shut the fuck up and be grateful: that's literally all you can do. because: you do not cross love. do not piss love off. you are, ever always, love's miserable bitch until you are dead. or you are not. you try not to be. you rebel, you qualify, you discipline, you hold yourself back: you abandon love and end up, ever always, love's miserable bitch until you are dead. your choice.

how, love, how? how? how?


like that we are textbook examples, unwitting adherents to an exhausting mythology that loops back again to the start before you've come out the other side. like a public school american history class, you haven't even figured out who won the civil war when it's back to george washington not telling lies about the cherry tree from which he chopped his wooden teeth. if i got some of that wrong i apologize: it's from that class of stories you've heard so many times you stop hearing it, it ceases to exist, it's just this weird melange of psychological trinkets that populate a modern american childhood. frosty the red-nosed ugly duckling bringing offerings of frankincense and his last bread crust to the most sincere pumpkin patch. we love our most important stories into consumerism and humor tropes. because we all know these stories, or, at least, we think we do. we all know these stories, so we never really hear them: but sometimes, in spite of everything, something breaks through. we connect. we find something that speaks to us, to our experience, to the person we are or the person we were or the person we want to become. i could pour myself bare on the altar of love without a second thought. that's how a lot of us do it, after all: to be honest, a lack of larger considerations might be why any one of us takes a hit of that lethal stuff in the first place: we don't know any better. we set ourselves up for it: we thought we knew what we were getting ourselves into: we ended up with something else entirely: someone else entirely: entirely: entirely

oh.


anonymousblack: (who do you think you are)
probably "more matisse than you can rightly shake a stick at" is not appropriate language for a professional article that i am being paid to write. probably. right? probably i shouldn't even risk leaving it in there as a placeholder if i wish to continue getting assignments from this client. probably.

right?
anonymousblack: (away)
as it turns out, i can now count my apartment's garbage disposal unit among my consecrated magical tools.

so! that's how my summer's been going.

how about you?

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