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Someone told you I was queer. Queer like a three dollar bill riding a unicorn backwards through a Sunday picnic.


“But you don’t look queer” you said, and I said nothing - just smiled and let it slide like I always do.


And you said “ So you like..”

And I said no.

So you asked again.

And I said no.


And you, wrapped up in that sudden burning human need to identify, to know, you just had to ask…So,


what do you like?”


And I said:


“I like shoulders carved from granite and mouths soft like mist. A voice that swings

low like the moon when it cries and rings of sunlight in shadows when it’s happy. A body curved and moulded to the world for in which it is formed; the abundant joyful power of a harvest deity covered in rolling hills of soft soil, the cliff-sharp agate-peaked and swift footed biter of lightning, the wind sprite small and soft-voiced howling wisdom… the cloaked and implacable shadow wrapped in secrecy and buried in a fleshy oubliette.


That’s what I like.


And you know what else? I like honesty, because life is a fairy tale and you can never ever be really sure where the next word will take you so it’s best to remember what you said in case you ever have to defend yourself.


But don’t ever think you’ve got it all figured out, this black and white

                                                                                                             girl or boy

                                                                                                                        up or down


bullshit, don’t you ever think that the truth never changes and there aren’t princesses trapped in the bodies of gods and wolves hidden in the hearts of little girls.”




…And I didn’t hear what you said after that.







An Aside...

May. 4th, 2010 02:03 pm
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It took me twenty eight years to figure out that I don't owe anyone an explanation and that a real voice is too loud for language.

My feet are well muddied from a hundred different lawns.

Yep, now I'm just another dirty dog that dug under the fence one night and came back to find the hole patched, the lights off and an empty bowl with my name on it tossed out with the trash.

...Awwe come on.... you know I can't help it man the rain smelled so goood...

But it's okay, it's okay, I've been that sort of stray before - and I know how to angle just right to keep that heartfelt rib-kick from doing any real damage. So kick away, have a nice day and may we meet again in a new life.

I'll be the one dancing through the dandelions, my brow furrowed deep with ecstasy.

And you're still invited to dance with me.

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It is in our nature to try to summarize our Selves into a syntax that will introduce us to each other. Perhaps it is an adaptation to losing the ability to recognize these things by scent or sound. So, when you introduce yourself you tend to list some words that in your culture at that time pertain to aspects of you that the other person should know at that moment. We give ourselves and each other labels as a means of quick and easy communication. 


I find, however, that labelling people as things, or naming behaviours at all, is a fleeting attempt at making order where there cannot be order. So, if I tell you that I am something, there are a number of things to I ask you to think about.


(For the sake of this point, I will tell you that I am blue.)


Now, what is blue to you is going to be an amalgamation of whatever blue means to you, your history with blue, your experiences with blue, what you have been taught about blue, etc. And, on top of that, which of these memories and experiences and lessons surface will be related to what is going on in the instant that it is said and the environment that we are both in. So, what you will be thinking when I say I am blue and what I am thinking when I say I am blue will be result in completely different ideas.


A label strives to make this idea constant, unchanging, and solid. This is an impossible act in a world that is forever changing and evolving and deteriorating, yes? Of course, but we are trained to do this anyway. Over a period of time any name for any thing becomes useless or “wrong”; a bunch of broccoli in a container marked broccoli that is left long enough to become earth again is a “mislabelled” container. So we add exceptions and footnotes and “but’s” to all of our definitions, which makes the entire process moot.


What this comes down to is that when I say that I am blue, neither of us can be truly sure of what I’m trying to say.


And, eventually, in one way or another, this will become apparent. It may result in anger, or confusion, or just a laugh, but it will cause a disruption in how we understand each other. I may decide one day that I was never blue or don’t want to be called blue anymore, and you will feel less close to me for this. Or, you may decide that because of an unfortunate event or word of mouth you no longer like anything listed under “blue” and stop speaking to me. I may decide that I am so used to being blue that I should only bother with things directed towards what I consider “blue” and exclude everything else. You may decide to be friends with only the part of me that you have defined as blue and never want to hear about the parts that I may see as red.


It is easy to end a relationship or lose opportunities over such nonsense as this.


This said, I will still struggle with syntax, and will often simply state that “I am __”. And for the time that it took me to say or type that, it was probably true. In fact, some of these words may span my entire lifetime, but others will not. But the meaning will still always be a little different to you than it is to me.


So, if we are to know each other longer than an instant, instead of only focusing on these words we have for each other, let’s focus on sharing the whole of us, over time, and understand that any fleeting introduction full of labels is just that. But let us promise to allow each other, and our “definitions”, to change and be ever-changing. Maybe we could not cling to them, but instead use labels, if we have to, as the footnote to the whole, not the whole itself. And let them be free to evolve and disappear at will and to accept this as it happens.


Maybe we will “mesh”, maybe we are going in the same direction for a little while and can share an experience or two. Maybe we’ll never learn to like each other and are on two completely different paths. Maybe we will influence each others lives forever.


Okay then.


It is nice to meet you.

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It’s soft, sometimes. The first breath of fresh air after heavy rain, or the feeling of a blade of grass against one’s cheek, is often all it takes. And, other times, it’s anything but soft, mixed in with the sound of heavy percussion, the physical push of anger, or sex. And even other times it comes on as a static-hiss, the reading of a certain passage, or the picture of the perfect landscape.

At first, it feels like a swelling of the ribs, like the lungs so often desperate to breathe have grown large, and threaten to destroy the body. This dizzy realisation that one is alive, that one is in the process of being. Not the everyday biological function, taking in an endless barrage of outside stimuli, but actual life coursing through actual veins. I am an entity self-contained and meaningful in its own right; the switch has been flipped to “broadcast”.

Everything has new light. The haze of sunlight dappled green against the driveway, or the wondrous terror of a thunderstorm; all amplified, electric, sharpened in this new way of seeing. The air is animated, and breathing it in I can feel myself shift. This shadow-self of burning muscles and boiling blood, a spiral of change towards teeth that are a little sharper, and eyes that are little brighter.

And the music is there, though it isn’t any music we’ve been making. It starts in the frogsong and the rain, and the birds in the nest. And I can dance to it, this body that has never danced for man’s music, it knows this rhythm, this ecstatic mayhem. It knows itself, and this identity has feet that drum like hooves into wet earth.

Magic in these moments is the being of Another, any other, to grow feathers or antlers or claws and dance our own waltz, to hear the words of songs of which meanings mankind has forgotten escape our own lips. To finally bridge the gap between man and nature by the way of myth, and to feel freedom forever bests any spell that could ever be cast by human hands.

And too soon it is over, and this clarity fades into mundane wonder at a star, or a swamp-bed. Photographs are taken, conversations are had, and within the shadow-self rolls and swells and remembers, and waits for the time when the guard will be let down next…

There was this purity, in childhood. When one found a hidden place of wet earth and green, or a farm-field, or a creek full of frogs, and it was something new and there was nowhere on earth like it; when we were free to go feral under the evening moons.

Eco-psychologists call it the “green effect”, my ancestors called it the work of the fairies, and before that they chanted and scratched it into the cave walls and gave it the shape of a woman. But at this precise moment those words don’t matter. It Is and it is right now, the most real thing in the entire universe, the purest drug. And I long
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Hahaha. Another new toy to play with. I like the idea of another home.

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