A Quick Blog- On Dreams

They say that once you dream in a foreign language, said language is truly a part of you, your brain, your wiring.

For the past two nights I have dreamt of feasts- feasts during which I ate nothing or drank Diet Coke.  I guess I've confirmed my wiring.

Much love, friends.

Disposable Goods

I have been really lost, for a really, really long time.

I have drifted along, letting myself float along with the ebb and flow of days, weeks, months, and now I am encroaching on 'years.'

Today it occurred to me that, in my mind, I am a disposable good.  I am that lost, to myself, that I am no better, no more worthy of a place than a paper plate- or a plastic cup.  I am not pottery.  I am not stained glass or a Tiffany lamp.  I have no vaulted ceilings of cathedrals nor graceful arcs of mosques.  I am neither the great American novel nor Virginia Woolf.

No, I think of myself as the day-old newspaper; the one you would use to wrap up a vase or some other delicate, precious good.  I am bubble wrap; a Starbucks cardboard cup- carelessly discarded and careless about it.

That is how very lost I have been for a very long time.  I came to this realization only today as I stared out the kitchen window onto the frostbitten lot.  There, in the trees, nests, bones, and rocks, is permanency.  There in nature exists what I want to be- steady and present.  Cold, warm, all the opposites all the time; dualistic; dramatic; present.

Instead I constantly throw myself away- and I expect others to throw me away.  I expect my own disposal.

The nature of the beast which prowls through my mind, my heart, my soul, is mean.  The nature of the beast has an honesty that reeks of brutality, meanness, and self-loathing.

Ah the beast of disposable goods.

xoxo, Friends.

How Kings Make Me Cry

The past week or so has proved outlandishly emotional on so many levels that I am left floundering.  And weepy.

To begin with, I concluded once again that the support I am given and love I receive is utterly undeserved.  Utterly.  I have known this for... ever.  I do nothing to deserve anything.  And yet I am given.  Stupidly, instead of gratefulness I often feel guilt.

There is, of course, a depth to plumb here.  But suffice to say that what the good, loving, wonderful, kind, beautiful, Beautiful, BEAUTIFUL, people I know feel for me should not... be.  It should not be.

But more intensely- in the middle of all of this re-realization, I decided that tattooing the entwined stag of beautiful and heartbreaking Celtic Lore on my ribcage was a brilliant idea.  Which it was, absolutely.   No regrets on that one... except that I just didn't realize how much it would HURT.  Holy mother of all things tattooed: Rib Cage + Needle + Emotional Breakdown = Pain.  Immense, gutting, churning, gasping, weeping pain.  And I wept.  On the table while my Lovely Lee laced a Stunning Stag onto my delicate skin, I cried like a baby.  I cried and I cried and I cried.

Bless my Mother- who avoided photos of my red,
sniffly, blotchy, tear-streaked face while documenting
the Stag Entwined.  

I cried for the loss I have experienced over the past year and a half.  I cried for all the people who have loved me- who love me- and whom I have disappointed.  I cried for the meaning of the stag- the King of the Forest- entwined by vines, imprisoned and eternally struggling.

I cried because by the third layer of ink on my raw skin I just wanted to go home and sit in a lidocaine bath.  For three hours.  Which is about the time it took to finish this beautiful creature who now makes his home on me.

And you thought I was kidding when I said I was getting a bit weepy.

Until next time- my advice is to a) avoid tattoos on your ribcage; b) especially if you are in the middle of reassessing your cosmic well-being for the thousandth time this year.

Much love, Dearhearts.

Brother Bear

Today is my brother's birthday.

And in celebration I must say how proud I am of him.  I have witnessed a most impressive evolution in his existence over the past couple of years and the person he is becoming is a person I am happy to know and happy to love.

He is my blood and for that (after nearly three decades of sibling rivalry/issues/bunk), I am ever-grateful.

Happy Birthday, Brother Bear.

I love you.

Some Poetry for Consideration

First:

The sinister ministrations of the witch-child-
How misunderstood.
There is no sinister in the witch-
no ministrations for evil
which bends the will of the world to the witch-
No the witch's will is bent to the worlds.
Bending, bending, bending until
broken.

For only then does the witch become the ward, does the witch become the watcher, does she become the power.
------

Then:

Take time- and THINK.
For this Formidable Force
is causing questionable qualms:
Friend, foe, forlornly forgotten
In favor of such False Fraternities-

Lines drawn in dire circumstances
are often drawn carelessly,
inconsequentially.

Alas! this Abominating Altar
Alters all Persuasions,
Aspirations-

And God the Good Grows Old.
-----

Finally:

Foggy images flash behind the pages:
linen paper filters light, so sweetly crepuscular.
I watch memories and shadows float by behind the restricting barrier.
It makes them seem lovelier- like a dream
Or an idea I once had.
How delicate.  I imagine that they are my past
and my past is fuzzy like flowers, like petals-
Not clear and careful as it really is.

I wish for clouds to muddy things up.
I wish for the bitter taste of clarity to fade.