I will be dust I will be rain

Forward:

I write this not just for myself, to lift these stories off my chest and into the minds and hearts of my readers. I write this for you who have survived incredibly painful times and for whatever reason have not yet been able to get your story of personal trauma and recovery out of your body and onto paper or into a space held by a caring person. I dedicate this work of personal and real experiences to you. I pray that as many of you as possible find solace and healing through the sharing of the personal revelations and truth telling I have done and will continue to do. May you free yourself from suffering and find immense joy, elation and freedom, whosoever you might be.  

Chapter 1. 1994

“Army Green”

Disclaimer: (14 years old, freshman at Green Ranch High School-- All names of people, sometimes even my name, are changed to the names of colors. They are randomly assigned for fun and for anonymity. )

What kind of image do I try to project? I wonder. I have to think about that. I am surprised by the arrogance I used to display.  Yes, beginnings. I like change. I could keep writing for hours, there are so many nagging diversions. Listening to Tori Amos, and I wish I did not associate her with Army Green. Oh I wrote almost a page before mentioning him? Good, good. I guess I can start talking about him. Why not? Everything else seems to have begun since him. I will be honest and not worry about sounding silly. No, no that is not right. I do not feel like going into depth right now. So there, changing my mind. Hey, that’s new! It just gets old you know? I do not have to make excuses and justify myself. I am so ridiculously insecure. I do try to lose myself writing. Maybe this talent, if I possess any, should be developed slowly. Ok, sleep, school, and then I can die; my current state of mind.

“He heard, but didn’t listen”

Maybe the only guy who ever loved me fucked me over twice. I wanted his affection, and embrace, I thought I loved him immensely. Who knows if he cared at all? He knows. I know he did not care enough to make sure it was safe sex.

He said “You and I don’t make love, we fuck or we screw.” As happy as I’d be to forget this, I won’t. Maybe I don’t want to. Lifetime celibacy sounds appealing. No, sounds like a prison term.

I can’t believe what I did with him was sex. I was scared out of my mind for weeks after, struggling with the idea of pregnancy. He was supportive to an extent. He was so worried. I have a lot of compassion for him. I wish I didn’t. Everything would be simpler. The first time, I said “No.” He heard but didn’t listen. I didn’t try to physically stop him after saying no. I was in shock for a while, wandering around silenced by the enormity of the event. Writing about it seems to take the weight off of it.

It wasn’t exactly romantic. The atmosphere, I mean. I go back and forth now, between depression and a forced, trivial contentedness. I keep flashing on it and pushing it out of my mind desperately. I have recovered, though. But I have been feeling hideously ugly and as if he never loved me, but he says he does. Or I doubt he even liked me at all, which I suppose, is ridiculous. I am struggling to get past all of this. So, there it is… my recent sob story. I wonder if this will happen again. No, I’ll take care of myself. Is it worth it?

“Cosmic Latte”

I woke up today, to realize I was going to go back to sleep. So I did, until my father came in reminding me there was an appointment with my parents, school counselor and me that I had missed. Then he took me out to brunch. So, I am going to bring up my pathetic grades am I? I know as well as anyone that it is my lack of any real effort that earns me those shit grades. And to whom do I owe a future? Perhaps only to myself, do I really owe anything.  It would be nice to not flunk the ninth grade. What is my incentive? I have simple desires. I want to live near a body of water. I remember that lake in Canada and how the world is full of such beauty. I will get through this.

After lunch/4^th period.

I dread sitting here; wasting time, twisted time, strangled by school.

Hi, I am Electric Lavender, (me) I try to be someone else because I am scared of how mean people can be.

Hi, I am Cosmic Latte. I pretty much do whatever the fuck I want and I throw my moods around.

Hi, I’m Electric Lavender. I have grown disgustingly cynical and depressing. It is not cool to trash everyone always.

 “Natural love and Radiance”

“To be trusted is a far greater compliment than to be loved” Although, I do think it is nice to have your love returned. I stop myself from loving or attempt to stop myself from loving anyone who does not love me, which is everyone.

 Cosmic Latte and I had a beautiful time in the graveyard. The clean dusk scent was in the air, the fading light holding onto the sky with a magical grasp. I want to remember how it all looked. We smoked a bowl cheerfully, the lights got blurry, and my heart filled with a natural love, and radiance. We moved around and spoke, seeming so far away and so a part of it all. I can’t describe it. I could never capture my high with words. Images cannot really be explained.

At play rehearsal, it faded, though for awhile everyone had such a glow. I started to get frantic at one point when I remembered Army Green. I saw myself; I felt it, felt him inside me again. So I had to lie down, push it and shove it out of my mind, away from me. So, since then, I feel needy. I can’t wait till spring break.

 

 

“Dark Slate Blue”

Last night was pretty. It is less than 10 minutes into First Period. I already am crashing. I am so worried; I think I am falling in love with Dark Slate Blue. He is the most angelic, beautiful person. He is too good for me. I can’t fall in love with him. Pastel Pink deserves him. He likes me, as a friend. I want to have a chance to be alone with him only I don’t trust myself. Dark Slate Blue and I have a good connection. I love listening to him. He was telling me how he lost his virginity, he was really drunk. I mean, he is so beautiful. When I feel like this about someone I am blind to their faults. In my eyes, they have none. That’s why I sort of let Army Green have what he wanted.

Dark Slate Blue is so caring and compassionate and shy and I can’t help wanting to do whatever I can for him. It is in a way, the way I felt for Army Green, or thought I did. This year is turning out so wrong. I lost my virginity and now I am struggling not to fall for someone who belongs to another. I wish it was simple. I have turned into what I hate, I am pathetic. I earned 2 detentions in Algebra. I was tardy. I want my friend to be happy, but she has what I want. Forget it! I must find someone else or no one.

What are these murderous thoughts? I wanted someone to cling to. Play rehearsal is fun when I am stoned. I should not go stoned to rehearsal twice in one week, could ruin that reputation I worked so hard at. I wish I could be invisible and fly. I talked to Deep Space Sparkle! I miss my darling Deep Space Sparkle. I must see her over the break. Why am I so attracted to jerks? Cosmic Latte needs to get over herself. Her depressed, withdrawn, melancholy act gets old. And yet, when she is cheerful it seems so insincere. I wish she could be easier to react to. Wow, I just realized I set the tone of this journal and I always sound so pissed or unhappy. Cosmic Latte attempts to think metaphorically and symbolically, she tries to train herself to think and speak a certain way. It is frustrating. When I think of Army Green, it jerks me back to reality. I don’t need him, or any other guy who would do what he did. I mean, abortion, childbirth, I did not think these things were going to affect me this year! Why am I so attracted to jerks? My first instinct when I had my period was to never have sex again. Today, I feel like a lot less of a person than I did yesterday.

 “Dust Storm glamorized it”

I can’t laugh very much. I mean, I can’t feel the laughter as well as I used to be able to. I did not feel anything emotionally when Army Green touched me, which is why I let him do almost anything to me. I won’t let that happen again. It’s strange, you know? I got mixed messages about sex. Dust Storm glamorized it, so I only listened to her because I wanted to believe what she was saying. It could have been so wonderful, I think. What would have been sane?

 Chapter 2.  The Aftermath

His cheeks flushed

I remained some steps away

Gathering ashes from our remains

The moon imperceptibly frowned on us

As we shivered from the damp grass

A subtle fury in me subsided

Maybe my battle is over

Maybe a cycle is complete

A hasty repair for an old wound

Something died and he won’t see it

Something killed me and he doesn’t know it

But I do

And he will always

Unknowingly have a little of me

The worst is over.

Army Green and I have not spoken in quite a long time. I want to make contact but he has other people who are more important to him, or at least easier for him to face.

“Spur of the moment, while in class”

Contradiction and painful friction

It is the fashion of my passion to not deny my page a rainbow rage

In this nation of voluntary segregation, the so called authorities cease to pull together

The pieces of hate, unable to clean the slate, do you relate? Or complicate the strife in life which matters

In a culture which flatters the twisted ego of the girl begins to shake shiver and twirl a lock of hair, round her finger, watching a memory linger, incessant sound all around, her sex was violent her violence was silence, her hand carries out a plan of action, tiny fraction of rhyme this time, my message is woven within,

Interconnected to what is affected, everyone burned by the ultraviolet sunlight having miracles to fight, but disease? Oh please, contradiction, painful friction.

“Fear of rejection, like an infection”

I wonder why they all look the same to me, it might just be a game to me, I am waiting to wake up, get locked up, get shut out, waiting to free myself, unlock the cages, let them out, waiting for them to see, to set themselves free, to unleash the tight reign of societal strain, material gain, personal pain, how can I explain? I don’t hear my words anymore, mute scrawling filling the pages which fold into days, holding something not quite finished yet diminished, partly reduced from actual size seems much smaller than how it feels, I fell through the cracks are getting bigger each time duller with each rhyme.

So physical reality doesn’t affect me and emotions run stiff and dry like my eyes or my thighs sore from flight not fright, didn’t put up a fight I saw it coming a lifetime away and waited. Like I am waiting now, for the rest to relapse or progress. Either way, here we are. This is who I am. It is so scary to look in between the distances between people and analyze the spaces we create, to study the silence and see the remains of how we related, the leftover pain, the unanswered questions, the skid marks from hasty escapes, the vacant holes where intimacy used to be, it’s disturbing. The scars from random insults slung carelessly from all directions, the hushed whisper of deep rooted resentment glowing from in all corners, seething and spreading, and then there is the time spent wasting away from fear of rejection, like an infection.

There is not enough material to patch up mistakes, not enough energy for dedication to communication, and the overwhelming sensations which seem to end the fastest while whole swollen rivers of rage keep flowing and we are forced out of obligation to keep rowing hating it more with each stroke knowing it won’t be long before you choke, the tide makes enemies, we ride waves of stony submission, succumbed to inevitable forces.

So I thought I had wanted this to happen ever since I met Dark Slate Blue. I have had the biggest crush on him. I did not want this to happen the way it did and now I wonder if it should have happened at all. He said he “respects me too much” and “cares about me, doesn’t want to hurt me.” He is so sexy, and has so much of him hidden away. We talked for a while about a lot, I asked him if any of what I had said had gotten through and he said it had. There were a million things wrong with that night but the fact that we did it does not have to be one of them. He feels it was a mistake.

So, lust fades and if that is all it was it will be over. I asked him to please not let anything change because of it and he agreed. He said he does not want to reduce me to “fuck friend” or whatever he calls his past. Usually we stop before we go all the way; he was so fucking drunk last night. I can’t believe what he said. “You are the sexiest girl I have ever met.” He said he wanted me really bad, he respects me, and I am really easy to talk to….but he is in love with his best friend. Ah! I always fuck this shit up! It was never meant to happen, I was just never meant to have anything I really want. How is this for luck? I just wish it would all work out the way I want it to, the way it should be. I could be so good for him, I could be. We’ll see.

I told him I could love him, and he replied flatly, “There is nothing to love.” I disagreed, with all the sincerity I could muster and it went on that way for quite a bit, I was trying to convince him of his worth and the whole picture became sharp with clarity. He is sensitive, hurt, talented, guarded, troubled and artistic. He has more than charm and sex appeal going for him but it doesn’t matter how much I tell him that, it has got to come from within him. I know it is not love, it was lust and he warned me of that. So, I am left the morning after feeling used, cheap and deeply alone, emptied.

The party happened Friday night. Parts of it were really good. I acted and felt insecure, and it was not all because of Dark Slate Blue. We did not get a chance to talk. Oh, I hope he comes around. I really do, but I also do not think he ever will. I just spoke with Dark Maroon, honest, mostly on his part, I feigned acceptance of his truth. Dark Slate Blue will never feel about me the way that I feel about him. I must come to understand and accept this. Dark Maroon is here playing guitar. It is a treat, really. Halloween is tomorrow. The plan is to get wasted in the cemetery. It should be fun.

For “Dark Slate Blue”

I wonder, you see about what could be

The reason they have to hurt him

What, please tell me, could they be thinking

When they try their hardest to break him?

Help me out

How could you hurt a child so young, so new to the world, so innocent?

How could you rip out his heart, say he must never show fear

You won’t let him feel, you won’t let him live

He tears at the cage you’ve built

He tears at himself, his heart he can’t have

Screaming inward and lashing out

The rage in his eyes turns itself into lies

The mirror, his own worst enemy

Reflection too real, he will always feel

Those punches you threw to silence him

You hear his rage through your own thick walls

The bars on his cage grow weaker

He knows it’s his mind, he knows it’s his life

It was only a matter of time

Before he took it

Back from you

Who brought him here

I still can’t see why you hurt him

I know about cycles I see how it works

But somewhere it has to end

All I want is for you to set free

This boy, who I call “Friend”

 

 

And another one for Dark Slate Blue:

“Unresolved”

I want to see you so much, it hurts.

I hate it.

I hate the open sores you have carved into me

And the power you don’t even know you have.

I want to hold you so much, it aches

I resent it.

I resent how you trigger this hunger in me and that ache of emptiness

That inevitably follows

I resent you have this power you don’t even care you have

I want to heal you so much that it eats away at me, a raw, panicked urge awakened in me

Eating away at my strength

This blessed strength I have been admired for,

It becomes my weakness, a curse, this longing to heal others and yet absolutely no idea how to

I resent it. I hate the power I gave you and I know you fear me,

I can tell by the distance you have put between us, carefully measured; quietly calculated

From behind a wide, shy gaze, and because I know too much, you fear me.

I know you want to love, it is written all over the hopeful grin

Your lips have searched out answers on mine, to questions only beginning to form

Those newborn thoughts in a way too old mind, if only I could dissolve the fear into trust

If I could close the distance and find the answers you seek

And your eyes sometimes meet mine but only with an edge of wariness

Through a guarded gaze, a poorly designed maze in your voice, so much hesitation,

Transparently timid, your tone is conclusive and lined with regret

I have circled your cages of fear. I found no answers, though I was never asked for any.

And no tangible traces of intimacy, no leftover sidelong glances

And what once could have been recedes from your shores before even arriving.

I have felt my way here to you, fingertips tracing the way, my eyes decoding yours

And they have said; I could love again I could trust again; but not you and not now.

Still your lips have sought out answers on mine

To questions just beginning to form

Tangled in tight webs of distrust, fists clenched

Tough boy, because I know too much

You fear me.

 

Regarding the one I wrote the “Unresolved” piece for: (Dark Slate Blue)

 “Flirtatious chemistry”

Dark Slate Blue was as sweet and shy as ever, while I felt sad and desperate and confused and conflicted and pained all at once. Our words said nothing and we shifted our weight from foot to foot awkwardly in front of each other, conflicted and pained all at once. I avoided his eyes so he would not be given the chance to look away from me.

Last night I hung out a bit with Dark Slate Blue on school campus after dark. Other people were there but we had a chance to talk, just the two of us. He was drunk and seemed more open than usual. My friend Pastel Blue said it showed that we have feelings for each other. He is back together with Charcoal Violet, but I am sure she is different with him away from school. He and I will always have our flirtatious chemistry and we both know it.

Chapter 3. “After words, After math, After birth, After death”

“So much to prove”

Empty.

I feel it hit the bottom of my stomach, 80 proof because I had so much to prove

My lips are tingling, I feel something now, and it rushes up to flush my cheeks

So thick, so real, reeling forward, I hear my voice and it is unfamiliar, my breath is too

But now my body is not part of me, I shiver with satisfaction at that thought, which

Begins to slur, Slurred thoughts take over

 

“Cannot hide”

 

By the second hit, it is dissolving layers of me

Sinking my eyes into my head

Cage, caving in

Hollow and light less

Hitting truth like it is a pipe

Inhaling like the hits before

This hit of truth hits the hardest and I cannot exhale

In my bloodstream now it beelines for my head

Fucking with my thoughts, they are real

Fucks with my feelings

Takes hold of my heart and won’t let go

Squeezing the pain up to conscious thoughts

Exposing scars I would never show willingly

I cannot get away from myself, I cannot hide now

I hate what he stole and what I gave; I hate what I have done

And who it has made me become and he does not seem to understand

Because I act like I am proud of it to cover my shame

How could anyone feel good about (sex after rape?)

Self - exploitation and abandonment

The layers fall away, one by one; revealing nothing of who I am.

 

 

“Conscious nests”

Delicate, ragged souls, singed by relentless persecution

They are the forgotten, the voices of the buried alive, innocent, ancient whispers

Pounding your ears and your conscience

Tracing your vision and some can taste them woven into the cracks between

This reality and the other ones

Unseen gaunt pale flower faces

With stems and roots in us

Ancestor children

Digging through poisoned layers

To reach our throats, my neck outstretches itself.

 

New Year’s Resolutions

 

I did not make any resolutions; I resolve to quit making false resolutions.

If I think of real ones, I will write them down.

If not, I hope I am still a good person…..

 

I planted a seed for a friend of mine; she has had a hard year.

It should blossom come spring.

I planted a seed for my grandparents; they have lived long and hard.

All flowers eventually wilt.

I am reluctant to plant any seeds for myself

I might neglect to water them

They would die before their time when I could have saved them

 

“Every thought”

You spent childhood locked in the basement of depression

Submerged in the holding tank they called school

Trying to regurgitate what they called “education”

But you choke on their lies

Malnourishment coating every thought

Your mind thick and sick with mistrust and mistreatment

Misunderstanding

Your prayers get lost on their way to heaven

A nonexistent paradise, you figure

More lies make more cries go unheard

So you turn inward attempting to shut out the unfairness

Eventually striking out with all the rage

Built up over the years and they wonder, what created this monster?

Unable to relate you turn to hate,

To see what you can create

 

Chapter 4 “For Breath”

 

My body is soft to the touch

And I am hardened.

Your words are heard through thick clear plexiglass

I am on the other side, soft, and hardened.

The world swims wild and frantic out of my reach, grasping,

I gasp for breath

Floating to the surface branching out

Sprawled somewhere delicate

My tone resonates in resignation

I have tools for touch, voice blends thought

A stimulus and a comfort

 

Chapter 5.  “Hundreds of feet in the air, suspended there”

 

Here are some excerpts from when I turned 18 and moved out:

Smoke will settle, dust will clear, I must keep some faith, some ration of hope, for without hope, a poet is doomed to her ugliest shade of despair. And, I still care, still care enough to want other colors and shades to play with, to decorate a page with, to destroy a cage with.

This section, both extracted from journals and told from memory, is dedicated to the memory of Gary Nesbit (1979- 2005) ? The exact date and cause of death is not known. I write in gratitude for his life and with reverence for his passing. I use his real name to honor the impact he had, and to set apart this story, since he is no longer with us.

When I met Gary, we were both freshmen, sitting in a drama class at Green Ranch High School. All the students and the teacher were seated in a circle for that class, and as I noticed him, I saw his hand over part of his face and then I saw tears coming down his cheeks. I wanted to say something, but nobody else did, and I sat in an uncomfortable, concerned silence.

After class had been let out, I was walking away from the Little Theater. All of a sudden, Gary appeared next to me, on his bike. I looked at him and asked him what he wanted, I was nervous, and in general, scared of guys. He handed me a piece of paper, I looked at it, and his number was on it. I looked at him and asked why he was giving this to me.

He told me that in class, he had a horrible migraine. That explained the tears I saw. He noticed me and he told me I was the only one who visibly cared about how much pain he was in. I was floored. I had no response. He said I should call him, and then he biked away. I did not call that year. But that is how our story began.

I really fell for him hard back in the day. I was 16, insecure and unhappy, looking for love exclusively in the wrong places. He admitted to using me or feeling as though he was, back then. He said that he would feel empty and come to me and being with me would fill him up, in a sense. Then he would leave me until he needed another fix, so to speak. But what I did not say was I felt the same way about how I treated him, the only difference was that I felt I could love him. Last Saturday, he sounded frustrated, telling me how he never really HAD me, he wanted to have me and he couldn’t. I was quite confused by that. I did not know what to make of all that.

Your mouth searches mine, asking silent questions needing auditory answers I cannot give.

I am so glad he will miss me; he says he will call when he returns. I bet I will be involved with others before then. I am sure he will, too. Maybe I feel like a comfort to him. Who knows what the real craving is? Girls throw themselves at him, but love is not quite so simple. He hates to admit he wants it, or needs it. We don’t say we love each other, but we do, on some level. Perhaps our time will come.

A curious contamination in my heart; my mind struggles against me. Emotions are exhausting themselves, ranging all over the spectrum, and the scales of temperament weighing heavily to one side then nearly breaking with the weight of the other one- Imbalance. The planets are out of synch; the moon must be playing nasty tricks, fooling with the tides of my luck, and officially wearing me out.

I spoke with him tonight; his girlfriend dumped him. He is such a source of confusion at times. He can be gentle and sweet, and an odd combination of very sensitive and very thick skinned. He has his walls up but there are moments when his guard might slip but it goes up just as quickly as it falls. He is a good listener. I think superficially he knows he is attractive but beneath that he feels scared and alone.

 I talked about the irony of him bringing this particular problem to me, there was a pause and I said, but I am the one who still cares, no matter what. He laughed a short laugh and said, “True.”

I was asleep in a bed at my father’s house and he appeared in the doorway, and lay his head down on my stomach. We began talking. I cannot find words for how I feel about all this, I am unsure, it is so mixed. I do want to love someone, perhaps only him, I have been seeing him on and off for a while now. I have known him longer than most of my friends.

He liked me before any of them, and he still likes me. “Like” is not the right word, for his feelings or mine. It does not suffice for a person you sleep with, think about often, want to hold and erase away all their pain and loneliness. I am sick of sacrificing so much though. He has a girlfriend now, once again, and it is not me. I squeeze my feelings into what is convenient for him. I suppress anything that might upset him in the hopes that one day he will want to be with me, officially. It is too complicated to explain. He feels strong and gentle. I try to stay away from the bullshit fantasy that I escape into pretending these guys are so beautiful. It is so embarrassing now thinking of how I thought of all those boys who just wanted sex from me. I got twisted up in unrequited situations for years.

He told me over the phone he wants to be with me and I think is it really me or some woman’s body to warm him when he is cold, what is it about me he really wants? I start to really question this now. I never really looked at this honestly before.

When I talk to him, each good bye, if it were a visual image, I would be hanging from a rope hundreds of feet in the air, suspended there, while the rope burns my hands and I am slowly losing my grip gradually while he is at the top of the mountain, holding the rope mindlessly, glancing down at times, at other times forgetting I am even there.  It is a waste of thoughts and a waste of energy, thinking I am better for him than his girlfriend. The rain seems innocent, the wind seems naïve. He is moving away and it is for the best. I am moving on.

Until, once again, I find that he has left his pager number at my mom’s house, I have it now. He sounds like he wants to see me but why am I letting myself get entangled again? We made a plan, but he did not show up, which is typical. I bet so many people would not be able to handle me. I hate playing the victim like I have been; I am no longer playing half dead.

“Any attachment seems like too much”

Even a flame can be delicate, I am watching my candle burn, and the wick is delicate. The tiny flame itself is fragile. A breeze can make it disappear. I wonder if all flames know the ancient secrets of the spirit of fire.

 I asked Chinese Violet if I seem happy. She responds, No, you seem lonely but struggling to be optimistic. That was fairly accurate. Hearing her say she needs help with how severe her depression gets, is a huge step. She admitted this to me recently. This is something I have known for years but hearing her say it is a big deal. I want her to experience the colors and beauty of life again.

It all began Thursday night at Chinese Violet’s house. A group of us were drinking and eventually people left until it was me, Dark Slate Blue, Chinese Violet, and Desert Sand. I kissed Chinese Violet which led to much more. I had sex with Dark Slate Blue, then Desert Sand. It was insane. At the time I thought I was enjoying it, and I was drunk, thinking it was positive. I talked with Desert Sand for a long time. I like him in a strange way. It almost frightens me. Of course I like Dark Slate Blue and I love Chinese Violet. There is more to that night but I will move on.

Last night I had a bizarre dream, the feeling was the strange part. I was walking down the street with Dark Slate Blue, he was being very vulnerable and I was trying to assure him it was safe to confide in me. We get to the cemetery, it was another group sex situation, only French Beige was there and he was getting in between me and Firebrick, I was very frustrated. Then it became a confusing blurry group of people on some hill in the cemetery.

 All of a sudden, Army Green is there, spiky black hair and drumming away, center of attention. I try to decide how I can prove that I do not care what he thinks. So I attempt to be nonchalant, and think it is a good idea for some reason to throw my arms around him to give him a big hug hello. He gives me an odd, alienating look that clearly says “What the hell are you doing?” I feel horrible and I shrink inside of my skin, away from him, away from the people, I have been feeling really bad.

I watched “Goddess Remembered” tonight in hopes that it would give me comfort and strength but it just made me feel a bit more desolate about the state of the world. These mood swings are intense. I am sick of it and so tired, so very tired. This is the first weekend in a long time I have not been drunk, a bittersweet thought.

I want to heal others so badly and yet I have done such terrible things to myself, not once or twice, but many times. There is much worse I could have done but why anything bad at all? I suppose there is so much bad and pain in the world that maybe it is inevitable and unavoidable that I experience pain or misfortune. But why would I keep inflicting it on myself? That is what’s strange. One reason I came up with is I see so much pain and misery around me and I am so sensitive to it, certain types of suffering, is that I subject myself to it in order to understand it. I do not want to be innocent, sheltered and fragile because to be naïve in this world is a huge risk. Before I didn’t know how it felt to be hurt badly and then it was too late. The more I experienced, I became so numb and then I could endure more. I matured, and some still has not changed.

I ran into Army Green at the Ani Difranco concert. It was oddly not earth shaking. I mean, it did not twist me up in knots of shame, longing, regret and frantic loneliness. He seemed a bit nervous at first. He gave me a real hug; we talked for a bit, small talk. I don’t know, he still affects me, I won’t deny it. But it is such a fraction of how much he used to affect me. My stomach only hurt a little after seeing him. I still have weird, repressed feelings about him and the two worst, most transformative years of my life. I thought I loved him, but what happened was technically rape. And yet I kept going back to him, like a depressed shadow of a teenage girl. Chinese Violet has mentioned how my poetry had changed since that time.

Last night was another spontaneous, drunk episode in this current series of social excursions. It was unexpected. I was at French Lilac’s house with Terra Cotta and Dark Slate Blue. French Lilac and Copper Penny went into her room and disappeared for the night, leaving me alone with Dark Slate Blue and Terra Cotta. I ended up having sex with both of them. Terra Cotta was rough, aggressive and actually hurt me. Even Dark Slate Blue tried to intervene on my behalf. Being with Dark Slate Blue felt better to me, I am much more attracted to him then Terra Cotta, on so many levels. Dark Slate Blue and I have a history, and more of a connection. Terra Cotta acts like he is making a porno.

The next night I was at Cornflower Blue’s house with her cousin, Coral Red. We came close to having sex but then, he stopped me and asked, “Do you want to do this?” I was so thrown off by the question. I really did not know the answer, but I could not FEEL anything that would give me an answer. So I avoided answering and then threw the question back at him. He stopped and said, “You don’t want this.” I was shocked and confused and then became aware that he was being considerate, respectful even. I asked him how he knew I did not want it; he answered “You showed me, from how you were.” He could not exactly describe how he knew. He must have sensed it, I was impressed.

 

 

 

Note:

For me, that was the first time I became aware that someone could be tuned into my body enough to know when to stop being sexual with me. It remained a pivotal, poignant moment in the midst of many chaotic and painful or numbing experiences with sex. It was a teaching moment. I am grateful to him for that night, for choosing the right action, which was no action. Simple it may have seemed to him, it meant more than he knew or knows now.

I want to love someone right now, but I am afraid to risk feeling certain emotions, any attachment at all seems like too much. I have even essentially blocked all feelings for Dark Slate Blue. I used to be so pathetic about him.

“Fight them for respect”

Sometimes my reflection shocks me because I look whole and substantial. Yet, I feel something substantial is missing from within me; I do not know what exactly is missing but it is.

Every time I write about or think about someone who does not return my feelings I sense a part of me slipping away. Dark Powder Blue was telling me fervently, “You fight them, always fight for their respect.” She was warning me and I have not really started to take the advice and apply it.

Sometimes self-doubt creeps in like an ugly, lurking shadow, like a poisonous gas you don’t even notice until you are sleepy, intoxicated by the suffocating fumes, it gets into the blood stream, seeps into your pores. You have got to get it out of you, but how?

“Language feels so cheap”

There is such impatience in my drawings. I agree with my drama teacher that all of our lives are probably too introspective anyway. And still, I want so badly to convey some emotion trapped in me that I cannot slow down long enough to draw clearly. It becomes very attractive to slip into the shell of withdrawal and dull my senses, sleeping through life. I know independence comes with responsibility and I really want independence.

Dark Powder Blue did some drugs the other night that made her feel like she was going to die. I stayed up with her and kept her reassured that she would get through it. I had her look at my eyes and breathe with me. Language feels so cheap especially when life is particularly intense.

June 28, 1998

I turned 19 today. I woke up to my sister, mom and stepfather singing “Happy Birthday,” My heart is warmed by the love that fills these days. I am in a new relationship with Topaz. This is the first night I have been away from him, we are in love, and a night alone is good. He says he will be there for me if I am there for him. He tells me to let nature take its course. He says “A man who does not want love does not deserve a chance.” My moods rule me these days. My heart aches tonight. I need to be with him like I need air and water.

 

“Light shattered”

This horrible light shattered all over the floor, splinters of it glinting

I stood there hinting, I want you, and I need you

Silent, twitching you turn away

Night unfolded into day, just to find you sprawled all over those splinters where you crawled.

You ask to be forgiven, because, no, it won’t happen again.

I stayed with Topaz for close to two years. We fought and experienced turbulence after not that long, and looking back I had no idea at the time that I could have probably found a much calmer relationship, but I was myopic and insecure. So I stayed with him. I attempted to get on birth control pills, but I was not very good at that, and I got pregnant. I did not for one moment consider having the baby. I called the hospital and scheduled an appointment for an abortion. My mother was with me the whole time. The only flashes from that I remember are about being in the room and wanting my mother to be next to me, but not wanting Topaz anywhere near me, I wished I had never met him on that day.

We grew apart after that and I distinctly remember a phone conversation I had with him after we broke up that opened my eyes to the glaring and disturbing differences between us. He told me he does not believe in “race mixing.” Quite the statement to make to a woman you impregnated who is of a different “race” according to you, isn’t it?

Some years later I wrote this:

Take your limbs and throw them into the movement for justice, all kinds, take your heart and wrap it in intentions for healing

1.      Yourself

2.      Others

3.      The planet

 

Take your attentive thoughts, direct them toward the highest good for all you encounter, don’t stop at this, take your habits, and toss them away to be replaced by ceremony, with pure consciousness, fueling the efforts

 

 

“Outright”

I would text you but I lost my phone

I’d call for you but I lost my voice

I would hate you but I have no choice, I love you

I would tell you but I lost my way

I would tell someone else but I have lost my courage

I would leave now but I am in no hurry

I would move on but I have become part of the background

So now everything moves on past me as I fade away

I would love you outright, but you would be so taken aback

And rightly so, since I have yet to declare this

It is not fair this

Was supposed to be a surprise

How I covet a certain look in your eyes.

 

Here is a piece from somewhere in my early thirties:

 

“Puzzle people”

What does it take to turn self- destruction into self- construction?

Oh Creator, you formed this woman identity into the shape of me

What does it take, Creator, to turn self-negation into self-creation?

Oh Creator, you turned some kind of soil and indistinguishable ingredients, into a human

Please tell me, would you,

How to become more solid, become more liquid

To refrain from anymore becoming

Does any of this matter really matter?

Since I know that illusory worlds prevail

Kali Yuga; if this is you, you mystify me, you entangle me, and you strangle me

This stranglehold is formidable, the way you suck me back in

This denial of release, my captured essence

And the observations of the tidy mistakes they call casualties

Yes, they are called casual as a formality

Observations of these times gather in the corners of our eyes like cobwebs

Yet, the present moment has the power to pull us back in

Pursuit of happiness drives us

While pharmaceutical agendas deliver us on the doorstep of pieced back together

We are puzzle people and our patience is required by Universal law

America just might grow into what it really takes for genuine faith to blossom

We choke on substandard English

and other colonial languages too tainted to express indigenous rage

And we all have origins of Indigenous identity

Every single one of us

Now we smile wide, side step our origins

Underneath shining masks of complicity

If there ever was a time to rise up, it would be now

If there ever was a time to come together, it would be now

“Mirror”

Breathless I wander into you, Ignorant of this miracle, convinced that we are alone

Breathless I move from form to thought, and back again. Where has my breath gone?

Breathless I hunt down a purpose, still ignorant of our miracle

We are all that is or ever was, this cycle of existence mirrored

a hundred thousand times over behind that galaxy of stars.

You are tangible; I can feel your spine, your hips, even your lips

Breathless, this spirit walks with death until new life beckons

 

 

 

Chapter 6--Welcome to 2001

“Can I feature you?”

In my early twenties, I discovered that I am a performance poet. I can do slam poetry and I tend to get high scores but my preferred venue is the open mic, where there is no competition. I find that competition only takes away from an evening of poetry and really adds nothing valuable to it.

The first time I performed my original work in public, was in San Francisco, in the Lower Haight at a café. I got up in front of a diverse San Francisco crowd when the Lower Haight still had some diversity in the way it really counts, no longer is that the case. I read a piece that ended by talking about poetry having ancestral origins, and I was questioning where it came from, where the poem really originates from.

I go outside in the back, to the smoking section, near a brightly painted, intricate mural that took up a huge section of the wall of a building defining the perimeters of the space. The mural depicted images of people, mostly dark skinned, from places around the world. Some were famous, others just warrior like, and many appeared in indigenous, or traditional attire.

As I stood, taking in the scene, and not even minding that I had arrived alone, a man came up to me. I quickly realized that he was the host of the Open Mic. He was friendly and he quickly, eagerly asked me if he could feature me a few months down the road. I hardly thought for a few seconds before agreeing. I asked him how long I would be up there. He told me about half an hour. I was blown away by this chance, especially since this was literally my first time performing my work in the city! He was pleased.

Not long after, I realized that being featured there meant I would need enough material that I felt would be worthy enough to perform. I got to work. I went through the poems I had written, this was long ago enough that I was still writing poetry in notebooks constantly and had no computer at all. That is virtually unheard of these days.

One very profound insight about that time in my life occurred to me recently. By the time I reached by early twenties I found that I had a very different approach to dating and relating to the opposite sex, or even to members of my own sex. I suppose I relate in an odd way to people overall, this could be a judgment or it could be a way to discern, what others considered a standard way of relating was a way I had no idea how to compute or imitate.

At that time of my life I would walk around the city by myself, contemplating and composing new pieces. I picked up the word Namaste and heard the meaning at the time was a sort of blessing or greeting. I would often drop to my knees and pull out a pen and notebook in order to record whatever kind of description of the experiences I was having.

As outlined by all the various out of control experiences I had with intimacy during my adolescence, I ended up realizing that I do not date people in the most common use and meaning of the term. I download. I do not date, I download. What do I mean by that? When I meet someone I like I would not exactly date them, I would download information I could receive from their vibrational body and while that may be a strange pill to attempt to swallow but I am certain that this was a method I was using with some level of intention back then, but I was not clear enough inside to gain clarity in my relations to other people.

By saying I do not date, I download, I am asserting a difference in approach from most women and how they view men. In the majority of the world’s cultures, gender roles are dictated rather strictly. A woman is generally assessing a potential date in terms of his ability to provide financially, his looks, and his maturity level. That is a generalization so of course there is room for other kinds of assessments but these are the basics. When men assess women, they prioritize looks over anything else, sex appeal, and at some point, personality.  Of course, some have a different more elaborate list but for the purposes of this description of interaction between the sexes, we will stick with what I have laid out.

The implications of this situation are many. I am in a position now to examine what type of role I want to play in the life of another person without being slammed by a huge set of expectations that get in the way of authentic intimacy.

I understand more about myself than I ever have and I expect that self- awareness and growth to continue exponentially.

 

Chapter 7- Welcome to my Twenties and early Thirties

I spent a whole lot of time at this point wandering the city, being some sort of version of a beatnik poet, but clearly shoved into the wrong era for beatnik existence. Yet and still, I persevered. I kept moving. I spent time in Golden Gate Park by the carousel, I pounded pavement in the Mission, and also in the Lower Haight and all the while I was driven to write poems and sometimes chants that I felt compelled to share at the places I found.

How do you know you have reached some measure of success as a person who perpetrates counter culture? It seems that the accolades of modern society revolve around mostly academia or in the context of what are considered “real jobs” where one may land a coveted promotion, and so on. When I was asked if I wanted to be featured, that was the warmest introduction to the stage as a poet that I could have gotten. So naturally, I sought more experience in the blossoming spoken word and performance art scene that was permeating the Lower Haight.

In this day in age, in the United States, a person of my background is expected to achieve a certain level of success. In order to do that, you have to believe in that very much promoted type of success, you have to believe it matters, that it is for you, that you fit inside of it somehow.

I never really believed in it. I may not have always had some other type of success or goal to focus on instead of it, but I never bought into it. I got as far as finishing a B.A. degree and then applying for a Master’s in Social Work. I applied to several different schools. I took a trip to Boston, to talk to people at the University about their program. I flew to England with my mother to meet people at King’s College in London, where they offered a Master’s degree in Comparative Religion. I remember sitting at a restaurant with my mother and trying to talk about the concept of “World Rejecters.” She had no idea how depressed I was at that time, how much I wished I could reject the world. She responded by asking me, “Oh, do they talk about that in the literature?”

How I hated the place I was at that moment. How I hated this Ivory Tower version of me that was looming over us at that time. How I hated this expectation of incredibly pretentious dialogue about subjects only the super privileged people who were overly saturated in elitist scenarios engaged in. I could not bring myself to fashion my mind into the type of mind that ends up perpetuating conversations or diatribes that are not much better than mental masturbation, while the rest of the world burns.

Yes, I know that the rest of the world lacks authenticity in a big way, and deep down I know that I am nothing if not authentic, nothing if not disgusted by elitism, and to step away from that would have been to step into wretched terrain and ugly territory I wanted more than anything to flee, to run from and never, ever look back. That is exactly what I did. I blame nobody for that time in my life. My mother was only trying to help; she was showing she believed in me, my academic abilities, and my intelligence. I do not fault her for not understanding my struggle at that time because, poet that I am, I am still sadly at a loss for words when it comes to this sort of confusion and angst. I do my best to capture it, when I feel relaying it may do some good.

Chapter 8-- If you want to save the world, save yourself first.

The world of left wing activism is one that I have been learning about from ages where my very first memories were formed and remembered. I was three, maybe four years old, when I was being held by one of my parents in downtown at a protest rally on the steps of the Federal Building in San Francisco.

All the protesters around me chanted loudly, “Embargo South Africa, not Nicaragua!!” Being that young and little, I had no idea what they meant with those words, but I picked up on the intensity, the passion, and the righteousness. Even at that young an age, I knew this group was making noise for a reason, and later on, I ended up being a part of countless protests, marches, rallies, until finally, it occurred to me, this is the surest road to total burnout.

I started to think about pacing myself.  This world has been in dire need of change long before I was born and it will need it long after I am gone. I should let go that politicized messiah complex so many hardcore activists seem to have and figure out how to live my life, start looking inward more for answers.

I needed to simply start to make peace with the fact that there is SO much to do, SO many causes to adopt, that if an activist does not pace herself and become protective of her time, she can slip into way too many die hard, intense situations with people who do not have boundaries when it comes to activist work, volunteer or paid. Like anything, I suppose, especially anything that gives you a kind of high, it can be addictive. There are not many 12 step or support groups that form around addiction to activism, but there should be.

I am still, after all my experiences, pro-left- wing activist work. I still feel passionately about many causes and I still join in from time to time. However, my days of canvassing door to door, phone canvassing and other forms of grassroots organizing have been for the most part replaced with therapeutic bodywork sessions for people.

I became a trained massage therapist and found that there was huge emotional satisfaction and relief knowing that a client shows up feeling a certain way, needing a specific kind of help and almost every, if not every single time, they leave feeling so much better and calmer than when they arrive. This work does not totally erase the other kind of feeling I have gotten from putting in hours or attending actions supporting important causes.

There are two specific successes I have had as an activist that have essentially made all the organizing and work worth the effort. I do not say that lightly. I truly have found that if you allow yourself to whole heartedly celebrate your success when there is one, in activism, you will be more motivated to create change on many levels. You might stay where you had the success and build off of it. You might emotionally or intellectually translate the great feeling and pride in the success to another kind of work, whether it is raising a child, diving into a healthy relationship or deep friendship or many, many other possibilities. The point is, it is so crucial for your mental, spiritual and emotional health to profoundly honor and celebrate when something actually goes well, when we/you win!!

The first success came fairly fast after I joined a campaign as a grassroots organizer in East Oakland, at the Fruitvale office of ACORN, (Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now). We were going door to door to build membership, in the spirit of David preparing to slay Goliath, no matter how much bigger or unimaginably mean spirited he may be. In this case, our Goliath is composed of Banks and Institutions that engage in what we call “predatory lending”.

These folks, and it does boil down to individuals, even though they are backed by powerful banks and other groups, prey upon families and regular people in neighborhoods, by getting them to sign up for types of loans and agreements with the banks. These regular folks are told just enough to get them to hope they will become homeowners or have some sort of stability that these banks and representatives sell them an image of. In fact, what did happen is these loans came to be called predatory because many who signed up for the deception would end up with their house in foreclosure, which was the plan all along.

On the much larger scale, the World Bank goes into impoverished Third World Countries and gets them to invest in expensive roads and other infrastructure, just for these folks to turn around and realize they are deeply in debt to the World Bank, who is expecting money from countries that have almost nothing. Predatory lending is cowardly, cruel and dead wrong.

Our success at ACORN, was to get a local measure in local politics in Oakland that banned predatory lending in Oakland!! At the time, so much was happening in my personal life, that I hardly registered how amazing it was that we had just WON a campaign! Silly little us!

Now that I look back at that time I see the courage in my spirit, in doing what I did. I ignored the fact that as a white girl, walking through what were considered dangerous areas, alone, I was often told I did not belong there. I was single mindedly focused on my work objectives, getting members and creating change, person by person. I was often asked by folks to come inside, they would usually sign up after hearing my qualifying question and short speech about what we were doing and how we need everyone. They probably thought I was crazy, and looking back, I did sort of lack that kind of fear women are expected to have out on their own.   

The second political success of note happened after I graduated from Humboldt State University with a BA degree. Interestingly, it happened as a result of the organizing work I had done with other students. We belonged to a campus branch of a larger group, called United Students Against Sweatshops, or U.S.A.S. This work included fighting powerful groups, such as our University that used sweatshop labor to make apparel with the Humboldt State logo all over them, effectively aligning themselves with worldwide exploitation of chronically under represented parts of the population, most of whom are people of color.

While this looks incredibly shameful for the image of our progressive, known liberal University once these facts go public, there was still a fight to be had with the administration. Our Humboldt branch of the group met weekly at my house, which I shared with roommates. We met in order to strategize, to plan protests, and raise awareness. We even got the attention of some administrators and we met with them on several occasions to potentially bargain or make demands. At one point, since we were making ourselves quite well known, we had a meeting with Rollin Richmond, the President of the University. The demand we made, making clear it was non-negotiable, was that the University needed to sign a document that all the branches of our group were demanding employers of sweat shop labor sign. It was called the Designated Suppliers Program, or the DSP for short. The core demands of this Program calls for a designed set of fair labor practices and effectively bans sweatshop labor.

Incredibly, a little while after I had graduated and moved back to the S.F. Bay Area, I heard the DSP had been signed, not only on our campus but others had also signed! I was super happy, amazed and so proud of us! We had no idea if this work would lead anywhere and not only did it prove successful, we got exactly what we asked for.

Before I found out about this win, one of my favorite memories was from graduation day. I walked slowly, incrementally behind other students to make it to Rollin Richmond, where we were expected to nod and smile, shake his hand, while the other hand placed a rolled up piece of paper signifying our degree and then we were to walk calmly off of the stage.

I seized the moment. I took his hand, looked at him directly in his eyes, and said, so he could hear, “I hope you sign the DSP.” He looked startled and I smiled brightly at him and walked off the stage, quietly proud of myself for shaking him up a little, and maintaining a maturity that my parents were truly proud of me for. I remember this being the event my stepfather said he felt showed I had really joined the adult world. I love my parents.

I love them for who they are, for how tenaciously they have loved me, even and especially when I was working hard at pushing everyone away who did love me. Many have paid really nice lip service, to me, in the capacity of those three words, I love you. Yet, it is my parents, specifically my mother, father and stepfather, who have been in my corner throughout some very uncertain and painful pieces of my life story. This is a life story that continues, alive and breathing, as I approach my 36^th birthday, feeling profoundly blessed and loved, supported, and pleased I can love and support others, and be bonded closely with them.

I feel inspired by so many, heading into the later part of my thirties, content to be a woman who is confidently, consistently saying NO to motherhood. I choose to pour nurturing, mothering energy and light into the lives of those I choose consciously and carefully to weave my own life with.

The poem I take a couple lines from for the title, is one I wrote a few years ago. Writing, when I do it, I later find it seems to happen outside of space and time, and comes from places I am not on a daily basis able, yet, to access into my ordinary consciousness. I am at peace with that, on some level because if I sounded the way my poetry and writing often does in regular speech, I would have far fewer options of folks to talk to or would be able to be around me.

With no further ado, I give you, “DUST”

i will be dust

i will be rain

i will be the beginning and the end of the

sweetest pain

teaching you gratitude

for lessons learned at the

most horrific times

and if there is no lesson discernible

i will be the comfort that comes to take

the rest of the suffering away

i will be the patience you cultivate

and will grant you relief from

the long stretches of waiting

because without me

you would go so far inward that nobody could reach you

and i will be clarity

so that you have something to cling to that will do you no harm

will only assist you on treacherous paths

that you must walk because you chose them before you even arrived in

a body that you would have possession of only for some 90 years if you are lucky

i will be dust

i will be rain

i will be there to hear you complain

of every ache, every betrayal

i will never fail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waves- in 3 parts

part 1

take my lips and my hips

the essence of what about me is womanly

and yes that is worldly

tell me how I have fallen

for whom for what and why

then I will show you I can fly

yes tease you with visions of wings

so real it actually stings

take my fingers

drumming away on surfaces

on the poison that lingers

ask me for a mundane thought

before it would seem all that would be worthwhile

could be sold and bought

teach me of your capitalist agenda

only to find I am not much of a spenda

and you are wasting your time

with such game

so truly and utterly lame

part 2

I take two fingers

press them gentle and firm

on your soft lips

I whisper Shhhhhhhhhhh

our gazes locked

you can smell a trace of that nights perfume

and oddly it settles you into a moment of patience

In yoga asanas. especially warrior

I think "soften your gaze"

and when I do, my body is relieved

you have softened your gaze too

I smile and breathe deeply

part 3

she considers all the matter

that supposedly matters

the clutter and pieces of objects

that make up bigger objects

which represent status

in a personal or professional space

what in all of this must she face?

dreaming of rivers

she presses her eyelids shut

all these items pass away

they have shape and form until they become stardust glitter

and fade into the rushing waters of transient waves

They move toward this ocean

just as at one point soon

she will too.