Posted on by d

blood mysteries.

Blood mysteries, moon cycle, moon cycles, women, bleeding, moontime | sanguine meander

that’s the thing right there that i was looking for, working toward. i was riding an edge as long as i could until i couldn’t anymore.  i fear for my high-thread-count sheets but what delicious and intense release: i feel as if i have cultivated something, and wow it’s 11:11 right now and i wish for all the good and wonderful and beautiful things of this world to be of their most radiant power.

i had to let go of thinking i might be a narcissist for wanting the very large space required for more deeply examining myself. my therapist says that if i have to ask, i probably don’t have to be too concerned that i’m a textbook case, but likely i’m far too self-absorbed and should be less worried about the lint in my bellybutton or these thick thighs that grew up around white people too long. i spend a lot of time alone though, on purpose, and i’m learning so much, and it’s all useless and important. Some things: a) examine patterns of abuse more deeply because you haven’t graduated yet and b) there is great value in a good energetic fluffing, in working with tension as a fuel for creativity. yes. what would you call that? sapiosensual? that’s me, tho.

i smoke a joint in the back yard with a friend and then forget for a minute that she’s standing there because i’ve started to remove the dead flower heads from a big sage bush. she stands in the dry grass next to me and i think oh god, i gotta not do this right now, no matter how compelled i am. i want to stand here and groom this plant, to encourage a second round of bloom. I am intoxicated by the scent of tobacco flowers nearby that open each evening for the impending moon and i drift easily. I sometimes go to such pretty places this way. also there are oars in the boat.

and so i reframe this whole situation, just like everything else recently that i “want right now” and realize that if i don’t obsessively trim back the sage bush while my friend stands around bored, I will have several more opportunities to groom it and breathe in the jasmine-y scent of the nearby tobacco plants, which have produced all these otherworldly white flowers that awaken several of my senses. of course, this could all be different, too, if my friend was intoxicated by the scent of these tobacco flowers, if my friend wasn’t bored by plant pruning. it’s a big plant. we could have really been going at it.

Posted on by d

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.

Posted on by d

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.

Posted on by d

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.

 

Thank you for your patience while I regenerate this creative writing pit stop.

My professional job is as a copywriter and editor, predominantly blogging and content creation for ethical enterprises and nonprofits. I also recently returned to school as a student of sociology, communication studies, and philosophy, and thanks to my desire to overachieve in wordy pursuits such as these, I’ve written more papers in a year than many people write in a lifetime.

As such, I’ve also rediscovered my love of poetry and flash fiction. While yes, every word, every placement must count, there is so much freedom from content marketing, formal academic writing, citations, and formats, and it’s been a necessary endeavor in that way, as I am ever-compelled to write.

I’ve begun reading at open mics, workshopping my writing and submitting to literary magazines and will continue to revamp this website as a creative writing portfolio, a place to link published work, and somewhere to post musings that belong nowhere else.

me