when reality starts tasting like a columbine again

I had forgotten myself for a while but today I actually had to go and jump in the river. Channeling this kind of energy appropriately isn’t always easy for me, but here I am with another opportunity to do so.

And there’s also the option of submerging myself in ice-cold water for a second. When I remember that I’m human again it’s always a good little thrill but lord, yes, I need to keep cool.

A jump in glacial runoff and snowmelt it is. Those who know me know I must be hot for this. Those who know, know. We can’t help ourselves, even when we’re aware of ourselves. We ignite. There is no shutting this off without the death of something. It has to be carried and surrendered to and it has to be owned. The moon pulls strongly on women like me. me encanta.

I run these enchantments up and down my body, over and through, the explosions of colors, the expansion of the sky, the slightest touch of shiva’s fingertips. This particular meditation is my favorite. Every so often I shiver, but I go only as far as the edge. I don’t want to leak this. I want the essence to stay in me for a while, to save it for the expression of conscious devotion and unity.

Until then, the river and I, we understand each other. It pours its melted ice over me to cool me down, to shock me back into consciousness.

 

 

 

 

 

To Put It To Rest

Later, much later, and only after one more person has asked what the big black fuzzy thing is up in the tree, i take two large fluffs of it and surround a dying baby squirrel in the grave that I have already dug.

I will not bury you alive, I say, but I will sing you through your suffering. Your passage will be blessed. Its eyes grow ever dimmer until at last, the light is gone.

Snip, snip, she moves her hands around my body, periodically picking at my apparent aura while I question my own insensitivity. How can you see things there? Science wants to study and explain your synaesthetic vision.

You must recognize and cut these when you see them, she said. You should be able to see them, and you should be able to break them off, but if suddenly you find that this is all you do, then there is another problem and it requires a different set of techniques and defense. and then you will get back to this.

What color are they, I ask. I imagine these silvery red lines of fantastical need reaching out toward me, reaching out from me because like attracts like and i chant as i cut them apart. I watch as they flutter like ribbons.

i must remember to breathe deep once i’m unbound, to draw myself and my tendrils in, to transmute what is here inside. it’s an alchemical process, she says, and eventually, this will not be what you call in for it will no longer be what’s inside.

She is plucking the air around me with her delicate fingers pinched together at the tips. When she finds what she is looking for, her fingers spark open as she flicks off the torn filaments of energetic bond. I imagine them falling into a pile of curly wisps like a foot of hair cut from my head, eventually becoming bedding for a soft and wild and still-warm corpse.

Here I am now… a list:

Here I am now… a list:

single mom, middle-aged divorcee…
that kind of woman is dangerous.
she is never destined to be anyone’s wife.

shakti lives on in twenty-year-old memories.
they still long to breathe her in though
they would never bring her home.

her power crosses decades and oceans.
her vision reignites passion for those who believe.
when she is taken, she revisits them all.

remember who you are, shakti.
remember your life of service and devotion:
take only what you need.

 

oh the times…

Suffice it to say I feel so far removed from new york these days. I have never had the chance (or desire, really) to see what sprung up out of the giant hole where the world trade center once stood. I never went back there.

Here is what i do remember: it was an ordinary day, a sunny day at the beginning of fall, and i was getting ready to ride my bike into manhattan and go to work. Instead, i left my bike flat in the hallway and ran to the roof, moments before a collective, citywide scream as the second plane plowed into a building, knowing i was standing on my rooftop watching thousands of people die, then watching the towers fall and knowing something wasn’t right – the way they fell was far too similar to the way the Purina plant in Brooklyn fell during its planned implosion just a few months prior.

The flag-waving frenzy that ensued, the free air conditioners, vacuums and air purifiers FEMA provided while telling us that air was “safe to breath”, the “missing” posters of suburban husbands in their white button-downs and ties, the exhaustion and sadness on the faces of first responders and rescue teams – it was a lot. It was intense. It was hard for me to express what I was feeling. What i saw looked like something out of a Hollywood movie. It was hard to believe it was real. When does anyone ever witness a plane flying into the side of a huge skyscraper and exploding? It has taken me years to sort this out.

New Yorkers slowed down for a minute tho, and suddenly everyone was kind. For a minute, we were a people united in a horrible, shared experience and that New Yorker way of dealing with shit: we took to the streets, expressed ourselves, and got stuff done.

9/11/01 was the death of thousands, and the birth of my full, acknowledged disillusion in so much. It was the day “we the people” took on a whole new meaning, a day a new faith was born in me, a deeper compassion, and a righteous indignation and rage that has been growing and refining itself since then as i learn how to be a true, peaceful warrior and how to use these potent expressions of power in an effective way.

There are people in this world who suffer these terrors and tragedies daily. Like so many of the New Yorkers that died on this day 15 years ago, they are everyday people with wisdom, lives, loves, and families, at the mercy of governments and war machines (aka “terrorists”). They are, daily, watching their worlds crumble around them and feeling the kind of horror, pain, sorrow and loss we got that one massive glimpse of so many years ago.

Never forget. Power to the people. More compassion. More love.

censorship

let’s just say it’s been a trip down memory lane tonight.

it’s one of those trips that’s made me come back and wonder where the hell i actually am right now. whose messy little cabin scattered with toys is this?

there are those good, wholesome things about life here, for sure: fresh air and mama friends, raising a little girl and channeling my warrior princess, eventually becoming a queen… i am a queen, her queen.

Emerging from the chrysalis, though, and in learning to use my wings, i sometimes forgot where I’d come from, how i’d once writhed my way through life.

that undulating, youthful thing, she was fearless with a strong sense of morals and loyalty and thus, never expected to have to explain herself. facing a blank page was an adventure that looked toward a horizon: to fill one you had to cut the mind loose (and very often hold the bladder). to experience the story writing itself like that was to experience the story multi-dimensionally. what could not be in this one, perhaps was how it went down in another, and there was so much thrill and joy in exploring that, using my mind to answer what ifs.

in my imaginary world, where the catalog of human emotions is encyclopedic, those words would just fly out and land in their appropriate places on the page. i went there without question: i must be trusted to go there because i will always concoct stories. That’s my safe place.

maybe fifteen years ago, i was offered a job at a house of discipline, located in a non-descript building in midtown Manhattan.  I was hired to work the front desk and it was the absolute dream experience for an acute observer with a sense of adventure.

i learned some things. the slight distance from it now is healthy though it feeds me to this day. It still gives me things to think about, things i should probably be spanked for.

what a need it can be sometimes, to feel like you have a place where it’s safe to play in a way that doesn’t involve censorship.

I am a moth-winged queen but that squiggly fat grub, she’s in there, caged and slightly sedated at the moment but oh, she’s in there, trying to remember how it is to writhe and what it boils down to, really, is this:

i wanna dry hump my girlfriend in the corner of a bar where we are all adults and then come home and fuck my wife. and then we can wake up the next morning and be good and really happy parents.