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.

The Straw

Is this what it takes?

Six lives, another shooting, utterances of mental illness and gun regulations.

This morning, I tried to find an article about Elliot Rodger's killing spree. Just that - just the numbers and the facts. Instead, I was met by a wave of articles in reaction to the killings - ones that discussed how prevalent violence towards women still is, how important it is to have conversation about it and be aware of it, how even things that seem as small as derogatory sexist language (which, by the way, don't seem small to the people at whom it is inherently targeted and who know the implications of it) - are unacceptable, and a path to this kind of thing. Disrespecting women is not okay - not by using sexist language, not by feeling entitled to their bodies, not by shooting and stabbing people when they won't sleep with you.

And when I saw this wave of articles, I felt a slight and quick sense of relief. Finally, I thought, some people are starting to get it. Finally, conversations are being had about these patterns, about this culture. For so long, I'd been pointing out inequalities and how prevalent sexism still is, and now people are listening.

Then I paused, and I let that sentence run through my head a couple times like a song lyric.

For so long...

...and now people are listening.

And now people are listening.
And now people are listening.
And now people are listening.

And only now are people listening.

Is this what it takes?

Is this what it takes to realize that sexism is rampant? That violence toward women is deemed acceptable and even encouraged by certain groups, schools of thought, institutions? That telling teenagers that males always want it and that women are withholding it (not to mention the various and sometimes equally damning consequences of saying yes and no) is perpetuating ideals that make rape culture a thing? That the sentence "boys will be boys" is one of the most privilege-heavy, ignorant, bullshit fucking sentences that is used on the daily to pardon and excuse sexist behavior? That "friend-zoning" is nothing but a sense of entitlement towards women's bodies? That cat-calling and sexual advances maybe aren't so harmless? Maybe aren't so flattering? That being treated like an object with the sole purpose of the sexual satisfaction of others maybe isn't all that great? That being told I'd look prettier if I smiled isn't just some backwards compliment? That asking "What were you wearing?" after someone is sexually assaulted isn't fucking acceptable - isn't human - isn't okay?

Is this what it takes to realize that women are people?
That women are valuable?
That women are still being treated like shit?
That it's not our fault?

And do you know why I'm so mad? Because no one listens to me.

No one.
Listens.
To me.

I am open about my views on women's rights, about how shitty it feels to be verbally harassed on the regular and it be totally accepted in a public space. I am open about my frustrations with the lack of equal representation in media, about how absolutely harrowing it feels to be scared walking home at night. I read articles about Vancouver women being pulled into parks - sometimes in broad daylight - and sexually harassed.

Weekly.
Often.

And I still have to bear the burden of feeling awkward every time I ask someone not to talk about women a certain way. I have to bear the burden of being dismissed as an angry feminist.

Dismissed, disregarded, ignored, written-off, because I am passionate about turning this car the fuck around.

Silenced, gas-lit, called "too-sensitive" or "over-reactionary" because I am worn down, panicking, aware of the silent and lethal gas we're all breathing.

People will listen to me when I talk about other things, sure. When I've had a frustrating customer at work, or I'm having a hard time with other personal issues pertaining to my creativity or productivity - when I've had a fight with a friend or family member, others are there with open arms, warmth, and support.

But then I talk about sexism, and how it affects me, and everyone's eyes start to glaze over. Everyone becomes listless, floats away, breathes the invisible gas a little bit deeper and I'm left talking to no one. I'm left with a sticker over my forehead that says "FEMINIST" and I am avoided like the plague. I am left. I am left, I am left, I am left.

So.

Is this what it takes?

People dying at the hands of a man who did us the favor of making his reasons explicit? Who kindly outlined and expressed his misogyny, so that the rest of us could finally put the pieces together and realize - oh - this is a weird pattern. Maybe these numbers have something to do with these other numbers.

 It's not a fucking connect-the-dots, guys. It's human lives.

(Is that what I need to say? "Human", instead of "female"? #yesallpeople instead of #yesallwomen? Will people listen to me if I call myself an "Equalist" instead of a "Feminist"? Will people finally fucking listen to me if I sugar-coat it and be sure to say "some men" instead of "men"?)

I feel hopeless. I feel disappointed.

Some distant part of me that isn't fed-up and ready to burn down a fucking building is glad these conversations are finally happening. I will get back to that more grounded place soon, but right now I am Kali, I am Durga, and I am so fucking mad. And I am allowed to be. I am entitled to that.

It's just that - one murderous guy can do something horrific and then, all of a sudden, we're listening. We're receptive. But when myself and other women speak about our very own experiences with sexism (and we've been doing this from the start), we not only get shut-down, but we get undermined, mocked, ostracized, threatened with more of what caused us to speak out in the first place.

I'm going to share a piece of advice with those of you who feel awkward approaching this mess:

Listen.

Please, listen. Allow yourself to be affected.

Even if - you're a man, and you can't have the same experiences.
Even if - you feel awkward.
Even if - the person you're talking with gets emotional (employ some empathy and you'll see why).
Even if - it all just seems like too much to bother with (because you have women in your lives whom you love - and it affects all of you).
Even if - you think feminism is scary, or too much, or an overreaction. Listen, and you'll see. You'll see what we're talking about, and why we're talking about it. We want to talk with you. We come in peace.

 
This matters. It all matters. What I say matters. What women say matters. Listen to us. Listen to us from the start, don't wait for the bodies to pile up.

Please, everyone. Open your heart and  lend us your ear. We deserve to be heard.

-S

Blood Potato Ale

I must remember that I am loved, when I feel like this.

By my friends, by my family, by my lovers, by me.

Even when I feel like a speck of dust, I exist and cannot be forgotten even if, perhaps, I want to be.

When I woke up this morning I felt at first as though I felt incapable, inept - I was a speck of dust, how could I write zine content or letters or a fifteen-minute comedy set? How could I do those things if I was just a mote, suspended in a ray of sunlight, if I'm lucky - or perhaps in some fibre of the carpet, lost to the world?

But then I remembered I am a human, with a big human body and all the muscles and tendons and brain electricity and oxygen I need to get up and do any one (or two, or three) of a million things and, even worse than not being able to do those things, I...

I didn't want to.

But I did.

But I didn't.
 
 But I did - I was just slammed up against this wall inside myself, this big, concrete wall that can't be kicked through with steel toes or gusto. And worse, it drains you. The longer you push, the more energy it takes, and then you have to lean to stay upright - and it saps, it saps, it saps. Then you're slumped against this wall so high you can't see the top. The pull of the beauty on the other side is so magnetic that you're pressed as hard to the wall as you can possibly be without breaking a rib, but the more you touch the wall, feel how cold and smooth it is, the more tired you become. It's a trap. It's a horrible, murdering trap.

So I got home from brunch, tired. Put on my pyjama pants, tired. Put on a big, striped shirt left by a lover that still smells like him, tired. Put on the kettle, tired. Chose a tea, tired. Removed a wasp from the windowsill, tired. Curled up in blankets, tired.

And now I sit here, tired. I'm being sapped but I'm lethargically chipping away at this colossus that wants me dead. My head is so heavy but I'm resting it against the wall, and my hands, light and quick as daddy long-legs, type away. The clicking sounds a lot like a chisel.

I may not do everything I want to do, today. I may not win this. I don't even know what winning looks like. But I will write. I will sleep. I will be.

I will remember that I am loved. That my heart is open like a fragrant flower, feeling pleasure at the sun's attention. That even though I am slumped against this stone, I am, for all intents and purposes, a divine being. I have much power, but also many lessons to learn. They are, in their right, all one in the same. I will move through, I will gather and forage, I will transcend. Such is the way, and sometimes we forget.

Milk Chocolate

Okay - stifled.

I've got my nest of clothes from the floor onto the bed, but I am distracted. I am tired. I am checking Facebook over and over and over again and I am somewhere, buried under a mountain of apathy and diluted angst, furious. Stirring. This is the excitement and zeal I felt earlier, but something grey and dull and heavy has it's hands around my throat and I am limp on the floor, losing consciousness. Not for good. The oppression only visits, but I am absolutely sick of it's doing so.

I feel very... angry.

I can hear my mother's voice saying that this is good - the anger's fire is what burns up all of the cobwebs, the stops, the blocks, the barriers. It is Durga's flame that courses through you, incinerating all that is unnecessary and inhibiting. I could murder this plight. I am so absolutely furious at this force within myself that suppresses, mocks, cajoles me into sickly sweet assention, concession. I lay my body down under it's weight and flick through distractions, small morsels on the too-bright melatonin-inhibiting light from my little phone.

What is this bullshit? What is this emaciation in my creative life? I am starving, I am weak, I am pale, I am blue under the eyes and fighting for breath with my small, dry, shriveled lungs.

Where is the smell of the ocean? Where is the paint on my hands? Why are my lips not raw from kissing the earth and it's dirt and it's people? Why am I so soft, when the soles of my feet should be calloused and my arms and legs and core sinewy and able? The sun should be soaked into my skin. My voice should be loud and moist and clear and rising and falling in the velvety night. It should sound like red wine. I should be writing until I fall asleep at my desk, singing until kisses move over my mouth like the tide on the sand, halting the sound. I should be running through this evening, smelling the world and coming home to fall into a heavy sleep, dirt still on my hands and feet.

What is this cycle, this pattern I have created? Why am I so estranged from my mother nature, from the song of my soul? I fight through these reeds to get to her, but it is so hard, consuming is so hard, I am force fed, I am told I am what I am not and I believe them because if I don't, I am punished. I wear a muzzle and a collar and I am servile. I will not break from being so until I actually don't care what others have to say about my body. If I am attractive or not, if I smile enough, if my hair looks a certain way. I will not be unrestrained until I know where to find my happiness instead of looking for it in stores where people are paid money to help me give them my money so they can pay the people to help me get my money again.

I cannot. I cannot.

I am nauseated. My mother, she would say this is good. Barf it up, she would say. Get it out - it's only the world. You are only barfing up the world, so heave away. Heave and choke and sputter and spit and weep - it is only the world. But once you are empty, you will be free.

The real world, your mother nature, your writing, your beauty, your song - it will all come to you. You must act as a vessel. Stop trying to build, to accumulate the right receptors for what you are trying to be, what you are trying to be, what you are trying to be. What are you trying to be?

Barf up the world. For once you are a vessel, it will come into you.

The Large Intestine

I'm running away from my widely publicized (ha, comparatively so) blog. Why? I don't know. It's not what I want it to be, as well as in the public eye? Double whammy.

This is so, big. I am so, free.

I'm at a coffeeshop, eating a muffin, drinking a tea, getting to work on my creative projects. And what did it take? Seemingly, one person to shake me out of my routine. One person whose presence forced me to redefine my values. I was asked questions I had never asked myself, made to feel things I wasn't sure I was capable of feeling. When someone looks into your eyes so deeply, day after day, you wonder - what do you see, there? What is it in me that causes you to gaze, so intently? That causes you to pay attention? Perhaps I should follow your lead and find out.

And I am swept up.

I am now, effortlessly, as if the blocks were never there, meeting people. Making things. Writing. Singing. Living. Talking. Crying, when I need to. Laughing shortly thereafter. Not feeling like I should wallow for a prescribed 20 minutes before allowing myself to feel joy or delight. Allowing myself. I am no longer regulating so heavily. A very picky, very attentive, very tyrannical part of me has calmly stepped back.

Even now, I think, "Maybe this could be a pattern - I could write, blog, for 20 minutes as a warm-up before I begin my projects. I could come here often and have a pattern, build this, wear it in." I am trying to make things easy for myself but in doing so, make them harder. Make them sharper - with more corners and lines to step over, more things to remember, more things to foresee. But it is so easy, now, to let go of things as quickly as I conceive of them. Some I grasp to, fighting as they wriggle, slippery fish in my ice-cold, wet hands. Some are driftwood. I am learning discernment from the most peaceful place.

Now, to go feel the tip of my pen glide across paper.

White Foxes

Today seems to be one of those days where, if I don't look too closely or too far away, I seem to have the hang of things.

My day today has been pretty positive. Yesterday evening was the beginning of this streak, I think. I was visited by a friend who not only destroyed my plans for the future, but she also encouraged me to keep doing what I'm doing. She also recommended an author for me, which was prime timing since I'm about finished my Smile When You're Lying by Chuck Thompson. The author's name is Anais Nin, and I hadn't heard of her, but apparently she's a pretty big deal. She wrote erotica before pretty much anyone else, and she also kept journals for nearly her entire life. I picked up the first volume of her journals. 

The woman I bought the book from, who I assume owns the store, knew exactly where Anais' books lived, even though they were spread across three sections. I wonder if she could do that for any author. I was very impressed, but maybe Anais Nin is a way bigger deal than I know.

I feel like I'm also being tested. Yesterday, I expressed to the aforementioned ground-breaking friend that I seem to be falling for guys who are unavailable to me, for one reason or another. That's what I wrote Dear Somebody about, in case that theme wasn't obvious, though I feel it was... Wanting someone who's in love with someone else, wanting someone who has forgotten me and moved away, and wanting someone who I know exists but haven't met yet. This friend laughed when I said, "Maybe it's some profound level of me acting in self-preservation - I get heavily distracted by boys, when I would greatly benefit from focusing on my own passions." She replied, "So this is probably exactly what you need."

And I'm glad we had that conversation, and that I have that intention - to focus on my passions instead of being sidetracked by the seductive and persuasive prospect of a lover, or lovers. Hours later I learned that one of my pseudo-prospects might not be as unattainable as I thought. I feel I'm handling the situation quite gracefully. Anyway.

Some music inspires me so much. Certain chord progressions or voice types seem to remind me of some lost home I once knew but will never remember.