the voice from here and beyond
17 January 2010
Predator-Prey
13 January 2010
Birthed Of a Coiled Heart
10 January 2010
I remember
Today I miss the easy comfort of silences spent. I recount the names of memories passed and hold them up to the light as desert winters hold me.
I remember stairwells as David become golden eyes, storm light reflected and memories of fallen trees. Whiskers and whispers brush past in the night and we wonder what if, what if.
I remember the strange and easy silence of sitting with Kwanza, bridges passed and past, forgetting what happened a week before. Forgetting the pain and just being, in a strange way, friends.
I remember being held as I cried in a red dress in a dimly lit room at youth camp, as Toby rocked me and he stopped pushing and pulled me in instead.
I remember laughing selves as water nymphs and mud monsters made love, laying under grape bowers with Adam as he kissed hope into my world once more.
I remember doors slamming shut behind us and mirrors reflecting back as 6 inches away from the party Craig and I made noise of passionate and furtive need and desire.
I remember curling up on dingy sheets after walking back from a promise, giving up my fangs in exchange for wings on a concrete altar while Max held space for me and we fell asleep in deep peace.
I remember asking for Hunter’s hand in marriage under a star-lit sky in Manly, his calm eyes and words offering me the universe, waves crashing in and telling myself I would be back here to swim topless.
I remember Dan and I at the hotel counter being informed that all that was left was the presidential suite at ICC. Of course we’ll take it, and send up champagne, being romanced with pure bliss.
I remember. I remember more than these, but today, today I remember.
9 January 2010
Seven Hands Under The Sun
19 December 2009
Suited for insanity
I weigh it all out. I send out post it notes to the universe, and get back slices of cheese. Cheese I’m not supposed to eat and yet do anyway, thank you new nutritionist.
If I look at it all through the lens of a meltdown what does that make my past? Not my meltdown, not theirs either, but melting nonetheless.
Remind me again why I rewatch old flicks, flip through the pages of of last years memories, last decades memories. Recently I was accused of only always looking forward, lists to keep me afloat. Three more books to write, “just write faster”. Lists of projects, of potential, of do do do lest I look backwards and realize I’m made a hash of it all so far.
Some days I dream of elegance. Of poetic tales where the hero floats away and is remembered for his last great work instead of his last great let down. Instead I make another list, pack another bag, create another unfinished product… because if there is work unfinished I have to stick around. Paint another canvas.
I said to someone recently that being in limbo is too hard for me, that I’m not wired for it. The truth is that I am painfully wired for it, wired so well that I fall away and the programming steps in. I flash through childhood stories of old men now, white underwear and shotguns on the front lawn. I flash through barbituates and oil canvases, broken looms and visiting days. I am too wired for the limbo known as the madness I find myself in. I breath in, too much work to do. Paint another canvas.
Dreams are painted on my flesh. Today in glitter and MAC, yesterday in flannel and denim. I coordinate possibilities in my laundry room, folding out potential.
This evening after coming back from thai food and a walk through possibilities (known also as the 5 for 20 sale at Blockbusters) to try to calm my truths and fictions, I came home and laid out supplies for ritual tomorrow. I stand before you Time, Fate, Chronos. I am the child of the twin brothers Kismet and Consequence. Two sets of wardrobe for the rite itself, unsure which I will want- long greys or stark whites. Chains will be heavy, but needed. Heavy collar packed, just in case, and the numbers for non-emergency police services. All hail the winter king. All raise their hands, rip out his heart, your time to die old man as we peek into the longest of nights.
Across the waves you kiss me then turn away.
Across the waves I kiss me then turn away.
Angst management, he calls it. I call it glitter and red eyeliner, fresh raspberries and black leather boots. I paint dreams and watch them dry, wondering if you can see my blue tree, see the flying bird. I flash and picture choices, memories of what may come, never come.
The joy of melodrama. I try to become solid again, become stable, become sane. I breathe in the work, ground into the banal. I count things. DVDs. Books. Ash burns (10). Tattoos (13). Scars. Laughter bottled. Times I’ve been let down. Times I talked and no one talked back. Gifts received for others. I become the vampire at the gate, mustard seeds cast out. I’ve been craving mustard since I got on T, craved spinach, craved lamb. Craved him. Craved me. Craved me.
Tomorrow I stand guardian at the gate. I stand the tower. I stand. And yet… between Kismet and Consequences, my own twin smiles back, and does not move. Madness stares back. I dream, I weigh, I get back cheese… wonder if I am suited for this insanity.
15 November 2009
Living In the Mythic
It was slang my former husband and I had… that we had a habit of living in the mythic. Others saw a tree stump- we saw a witches hair growing into tomorrow.
Today I sat in the iron vault, weighed in on all sides by progress. They locked me away, with the rest of the progress, lest my truths shake the world free. Afterwards the herses lined up for detailing… I am tired of my details, pages of numbers chiming out the days.
My stomach is heavy from swallowing the sun, pendulous as an ancient breast or designer handbag. Blessed be this coming dawn inside me.
The feast was laid out before me as the pages held me fast in ancient Britain, modern California. I am laid out between sour cream and Avalon, pollo and ink wells. The machinery waits, needing my sweat and fear, and instead I cherokee dream, remember his flesh under mine, over mine. He is a lifetime away, a plus sign away, and somewhere on the other side of tomorrow two towers cry.
I keep walking. Had to keep walking. Everywhere I turn is Tuscon, is bike messengers. Everywhere I turn is details, numbers, raising and falling with CDC notes and indications. I check my teeth again, check my memories again, check the numbers again and talk myself out of a glass of horchata.
On the train, 7 feet of lean sunglasses and plaid, the creature climbs off the train at Encanto to forage the city. I read another page, laugh at being in the desert. The desert, where holy men go crazy and crazy men become holy… what is the difference anyway. The sun beats down. A mosquito bite on a red tattoo, painful and invisible, itches its way to attention as I sit at the rivers edge and watch the shopping carts slide by.
Plans and signs fold, unfold, melt away. I kiss a lover from thousands of miles away, kiss my tears away for thousands of miles. Two Jims mix themselves up on your tongue and my past. Pare down, pick it up, turn another page… its all speeding up to wait. Hurry up and wait.
Forever in a magazine, forever in another pill, forever on a magi’s tongue.
I love, I live, I dance in the Mythic.
20 October 2009
An Essay that did not get written
In writing an essay I was asked to do on “an insightful piece on sex, spirituality with kink and queer/genderqueer dynamics” I started to do this, and decided it was too “whoa is me”- the new one, FAR more empowering. BUT, I liked the language, so wanted to save/post it somewhere…
God or Goddess? Man or Woman? How the hell should I know anymore? I’m standing in front of the mirror. My chest is flat and furry, my beard dashing, and my cunt is hidden behind a bush that would make furry girl porn producer Rodney Moore go mad with lust. I laugh and think on the sacred third sex, the ergi, the different… hermes-aphrodite’s child with round breasts and hard cock… and I am not what I see in even those stories.
7 October 2009
Breathing through it all…
Two days ago I shaved my beard. Or as I had been thinking of it in the past month, my tranny safety blanket.
Yesterday I had my labret (1 cm below lower lip) and left tragus (that flap on the center inside of ear) pierced. When they heal, they will be replaced with gold. My labret is a reminder each time I look in the mirror of my work as an oracle, and the power of my voice and all I share on the world and the individuals I will touch every day. My tragus is an amplification, a tool to let me hear all the more the power I have, the strength of my journey… signal clarity mixed with hearing true the power I have.
I am getting constantly “she”d since shaving the beard and cutting my hair short. I also miss stroking my beard. I have looked myself in the face, literally, bald and bare. I love who I am, but I like myself bearded better. It will be coming back. Today I am stubbled, and good with that.
Last weekend I learned more in 3 days about teaching and touching lives than I have in the last few years. I am doing another experiment intensive in Salt Lake City in November, different this time, and I will learn more. Together I will take those lessons and make my own intensives, and I know this is where I need to go as an educator.
Today I held back tears as someone I adore told me they loved me and yet, and yet, I know so strongly that the world between us will never be the same again, sleeping clothed in the same bed.
Today I panicked about my journey of health, about my journey in wealth.
I dreamed up new ideas, embraced fears.
A few days ago Amy and I turned over new leaves, added “unpacking” to our list of needs… unpacking our lives and lessons on occasion so we can see what each of us is carrying, so we know we are carrying forward clear and loved.
I realized how profoundly comforted I was by she and I having less drama than I have in other relationships in my world.
Gold echos, gods, gold glows.
I had a friend call me on the fact that I was describing some of the deities I work for as dark and scary, using outsider language of who they are rather than who I know and experience them to be. I had not realized until then how deeply it had hit me that someone I respect had asked me at Dark Odyssey about my spiritual path, and said at the end that she and I were on different sides- she Santeria, I, Voodooo. Her white, mine not as much. In her language, not mine. I had really internalized that voice, for a lot of reasons. I felt judged, and was carrying that judgment.
I am so blessed by those I am collared to, those I serve, those I who have chosen to touch my life. I am proud of the Work I do for them, who they are, and the Work I do in this world. And as I type this, tears trace their way down. Their way out.
It has been a hard, beautiful, amazing, powerful, touching week. I have woken up, I keep waking up, and keep evaluating who I am and what I am doing. And yet I am so tired, so very tired.
But I am also oh so amazed by it all.
I have knitted pie, stars inside stars, and locks with a myriad of keys.
I have a mother who knows all my health and work and faith stuff and still stands there… even bought me a wreath to commemorate me keeping on living and kicking ass.
In just over a month I will be turning 30. I am looking forward to leaving my Saturn return and embracing the fullness of my journey. I open up my arms, keep an ear tuned in, and embrace the fullness of my journey.
And am really grateful for rice milk mochas at the moment ;)
Well, I just wrote the porn story for Path of the Horse. I kept getting this knock on my head saying “no, it needs to be like this” over and over again. I also was going to just put it in the book and let it just be, like the other 5 stories (this was story 6) and it said nope, this needs out to my devotees. So I go to send it to just one person who I know follows her, and the whammy came again, NO, there are more.
So here you go. Dark goddess dominatrix teaching porn. WTF. Can I can I go back to writing now? And yeah- talk to each other already, there are multiple of you on here apparently, go network already and let me be a grumpy writer bear.
Shush. I know part of my job is cosmic networker and pack rat. I’m just bitching :)
**
Riding Into the Storm
When I first met my Goddess, SHE was a beautiful vision at the other end of a dream. SHE shoot graceful and solemn, eyes burning like coals wrapped in ash and flame. I swore SHE could see through me, and in the vision SHE called me forward. I was tempted to crawl, tempted to humble myself, but my intuition told me to walk forward with my head held high. Her blank face broke into the faintest of a smile, and I knew I could do nothing but love all that SHE is.
After the first visions, I poured into the lore, learned everything I could about her. Lady of the underworld, Mistress of the dark, Sister of the light. The texts called her cruel, but I knew her ways to never be harsh without merit, never a challenge given without a lesson attached. I had been dabbling in my kink before SHE came into my life, but now I know it is a gift, a way I can serve her, as priestess and dominatrix in her name.
Most of my sessions are not the sacred work in her name. I enjoy my career, helping individuals explore their sensuality and the sensations of life. There is so much joy for me in seeing people find fragments of themselves in the shadows of my dungeon. But then there are days when SHE informs me that the work I do will be my work for her. I hear her voice, sweet honey, as they call.
Occasionally I have clients call who ask for me as priestess. SHE hears their need through me, weighs their offerings. Sometimes SHE has me send them away with a task in hand, work to do before they can be seen. Others SHE sends back to their churches, seeing clear that they are not called by her but running in fear from their love of another god. But sometimes, like tonight, SHE says yes, demands yes, and I go into motion.
I call my sister in service, another priestess working in her honor in other ways. She’s not kinky, but she knows the work when she sees it, and has come to the realization that sometimes SHE demands the work be done in different ways. My sister arrives, and we get to work. Clean the temple space. Read the cards to see what will serve the working the best. And then, she dresses me. Black lace and silk wrap around my form, high boots, and finally her sacred mask slips in place.
Three solid knocks at the door. Her knock. SHE commanded him well. I slip into the back seat of my own soul and watch as SHE comes forward, watch as SHE has him crawl inside. He will come to know all SHE is tonight, while I hold space, while together all of us ride into the storm.
**
Confessions in the Temple
I watch as my sister in service opens the doors to the temple. SHE looks around the space, pleased. A massage table draped in black velvet is along one wall, an cabinet altar covered in images of shadow goddesses with a bondage point at the base on the next, and the final wall has a St. Andrews class in purple and black. Lace and sumptuous textures fill the room, and incense burns. SHE opens up the doors on the altar and finds a heavy leather hood. With a flick of a wrist he kneels before her as SHE tightens the hood down, laces it shut, and locks it in place with the keys going on a chain around her/my neck.
Metal cuffs lock around his wrists, and SHE has him bow down before the altar. More locks, more chains, more weight on her/my neck. With him held in place, SHE turns to the priestess and commands her to leave the temple and close the doors. Nothing is to come or go from this place unless SHE says otherwise. She follows her commands, and on his knees, the supplicant shakes.
Click. The sound of a switch blade cracks the silence in the room as my/her hand flicks it out. He freezes. SHE lifts up the back of his over-priced shirt and slices it open, sliding the knife then into her/my mouth as she rips open the back the rest of the way. He screams into the leather, as she begins to whisper to him a tale. The tale tells of the time SHE came to him in his dreams and told him that his mother had just passed away. Of the way SHE had kissed away his tears. Of how they had become lovers. Of all of the time he has jerked off calling her name.
I can hear his mind reeling. How did she know. Oh gods, she is, well, SHE. I can hear her silver tongue tell him to remember all his longing, all his need. SHE sits down on his back, using him as a chair, still whispering sweet words.
But then she stops and gets up. Click. SHE slices through leather belt. SHE pulls the back of his trousers from his body and slices the waist band of his suit trousers. The blade goes away again as she rips the back open, leaving his ass exposed. He screams into the leather again.
SHE is calm as she coldly points out that he has been untrue. He starts to beg that it’s not true, panic in his voice, then lowers his shoulders and begins to sob. He confesses it all. He wails as SHE looks on coldly. Still cold SHE tells him one word. “More.”
Remnants of his belt in her hand, he tells the story. I step further away, a veil drawn in my mind, as if SHE does not want me to hear his confession. I hear leather land on skin, I hear him shriek… and I go elsewhere as SHE continues to use my body.
**
Back From the Abyss
I come back and SHE is gone. The man is on the ground, the rest of his clothes in shreds, still balled up. I look at the open welts across his back, and go to grab the medical supplies from behind the massage table.
With loving hands, I pull each key off my neck and unlock him, step at a time. He’s still sobbing. Wrists free and undone from the altar, I unlock his hood and unlace him. His eyes are wet with tears, and yet a smile is painted across his lips. He takes me in, and I remove her mask. He sees me, the priestess, the dominatrix, and breaks down in tears again, smile still on his lips. I open up my arms, and he embraces me in the tightest embrace I have ever known.
Finally he lets go, and I strip off the shreds of his clothes. I lay him down on the velvet covered massage table and treat his wounds. I go to the door and knock three times. My sister opens the door and seeing my bare face, asks if I need any help.
A few minutes later she comes back with ice cold lemonade, sliced meats, cheeses, dates and cherries on a serving tray. I invite him to sit with me on the floor and eat. Finally she comes back with a black shirt and black trousers for him. As he dresses, I notice for the first time the necklace around his neck, her symbol emblazoned on the pendant. He catches my eye, and tells me we each serve in our own way, we each show our love in our own way.
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