I am enamoured.

I heard the sky growling and it startled me,
I jolted. I didn't see the lightning because my
lights were on.

how funny.

a conversation where I pretended I didn't
 want to be somewhere else -

she was saying come, come out,
let's make love.

I was already wet when I stepped out into the rain.

I stood at the edge of the field, ever-cautious
one boot missing a lace, in fleece pyjamas -

I can see the eyes through which she saw me then
and I looked
adorable.

suddently struck by the fear of being struck
by lightening -
paralyzed, shivering

I wondered
how it would feel.

to be lit on fire
to by touched by the sky
in a moment so tiny and large.

I wonder if anyone would believe I had been touched.
that I had managed to attract such a high-class lover

I bet you I could walk around, charred, bleeding
hair on end, and panting
and people still wouldn't believe me.

I am enamoured.

the field called me out,
told me where to touch her.

and so I crept, apprehensive but
unrelenting, to her centre.

trees stood witness as I lay down.
I spread my arms and legs and
looked up at the sky.

a blaze of light,
and rolling, growling thunder to the East.
I grinned.

I wasn't alone.

the raindrops, many and mischievous
patted my body. lightly,  playfully,
but they wouldn't let me open my eyes.

"Take pleasure," they said - "feel this. Don't look."

and so I didn't,
and I stopped shivering,
and I felt the earth under me.
and I felt the curve of her body against the arch of my back,

and I am enamoured.

I sat up, I ran my fingers through her hair,
and they got tangled.
I tugged her head back and kissed her neck.
another roll of thunder, like purring,
and I am hers.

on the way back to the house, I lean up against a tree,
bury my face into the musky chest hair,
press my body up against him.
I am your lover, I am your lady.

I could have come just like that, with my arms around him.

I walked back into the house like a drunk from having kissed the world
so sweetly.






I do love thunderstorms,

Kenyan Black Tea

Am I the only one who feels like this?

I mustn't be.

The only one who feels like I'm not "doing something" - the only one who feels like they're standing idle as the world marches by, who has benched themselves and is watching some magnificent dance happen in front of them. I'm wringing my hands. Once in a while I twitch like I'm about to step in, about to take a whirling partner amidst the mass of colours and textures and movement, but I hesitate. I step back behind the invisible line and wait. And watch.

The funny thing is that I'm aware of societal ideals and some of the programming I've undergone and that the programming makes me feel like I've got to be earning money, busy busy, having healthy, exclusive sex, shopping at least once every two weeks, volunteering, giving to charity, reproducing when the world deems me ready. And then I, in my counter-culture fight-the-man, over-eager-bleeding-heart way want to renounce those goals (or markers of worth and success) in favour of more volunteering, getting my hands dirty, working with those in need, reading novels upon novels, living off the grid, meditating fodez, free-loving, my goodness.

So much.

And then they blend together. I want to become a psychoanalyst like Clarissa Pinkola Estés and write books for girls like me to break pieces off of, chew on a chapter every week or so, eventually coming to recognize it as nourishment of the deep and often overlooked (or even repressed, spurned) soul. I want to connect with people in a meaningful eye-contact way, mean it when I say "how are you", and be willing, deeply willing to listen to the answer. I want to create that space for humans I come into contact with, and I think (I know, I really, truly know) that I can.

But you cannot serve from an empty vessel.

How will I stock my shelves so I can have offerings, blessings to begin with?

It's perhaps not the most eloquent metaphor, but I imagine that secret, refrigerated room in a grocery store, behind the shelves of milk and butter. What work needs to be done to move these things forward? What are these things? Wisdom, tools, perspectives? Perhaps. So maybe I have a whole other side of this journey upon which to embark. I can help people all I want, but the wisdom, the experience has to come from somewhere. I can imagine only one way to receive these shipments of goods, and that is to keep mindfulness in my life. To have a grounded but also a birds-eye view of my circumstances. I am already so analytical - what must I change?

I can feel the frustration rising. Do I do more art? Will a collage make me feel complete, whole? I'm getting a feeling now like an echo. They're things I've said before, but more so blurted out at myself in times of spiritual peril.

"You're asking the wrong questions."


"Your worth is not defined by your actions; your worth is defined by your being."

And why is it I still feel so gawky? I feel like a preteen, like when I shot up to 5'9'' in six months and walked around like a baby giraffe that shaved off half of each eyebrow and cut her bangs with nail clippers. I feel unsure of myself, like a wallflower in a crisis of hilarious awkward tension. I am fighting some graceless battle with myself, throwing punches and missing and grimacing and not really committing to violence but not really committed to making nice, either.

I can theorize what it would be like to feel beautiful.
To feel powerful, to feel rooted in the assurance that I am a full person and I am accepted by the people to whom I matter and whose opinions matter to me. I don't say all this from a place of self-depracation, either - I don't feel that way. I simply don't, not at the moment. I feel calm in my skin, but not quite comfortable. I think perhaps I need some ceremony involving photography and fruit and salt and a safe pair of hands and eyes. I feel wary, when I walk through the world. I'm not sure who may hurt me or who I may hurt by accident. I feel like a burrowing owl leaving it's safe haven, having read about the outside world, but not having street smarts.

I love writing and I love making zines but I am dammed by thoughts of, "Where is this going? Is this piece of self-expression marketable, and thus worth creating? How much would I charge for this little paper shard of my soul?" Questions, I feel, no one should ever have to ask.

I think that through writing this entry, I've resolved, at least for now, to keep on doing what I love. They say, "the rest will come", but I don't really know what that means. I am exploring, and I love it. I love meeting people and asking them questions, I love writing and seeing what comes out of me. I love loving and holding the space for people and feeling. I really love feeling.

I also think I'm going to make a choice (like in a theatre way) to remind myself that I Am Here. I often float into this observational, not-fully-objective mental space where I think I lose my sense of self and feel rather swept along. Writing brings me back to my "home frequency", I think. Maybe I need some sort of stone or talisman or doll with me to remind me of my self. Of how unique and still inconsequential I am. After all, part of my identity is that I am a dust mote on a sunbeam. You can't really see me unless you pay attention. And I may be small, minuscule, barely visible - but I am having a gay ol' time up here, floating around.