I offered grace to someone who didn’t deserve it, and don’t regret it at all. Rarely do.
I found liquor in Meesha’s room twice this week, and now my eyes are open.
I am going to pound and hound without relenting until she accepts my expectations, and I am going to do it with love. It is exhausting work to love responsibly, but I am determined. This child will learn basic respect and accountability before she leaves my home.
I am a hero to a pretty pet curled on my red satin sheets. Her fierce heart reminds me of the hatching chrysalis Meesha and I watched, astonished at the bloody and brave unfolding of wings.
We finally have heat in the treehouse, which is a good thing on a cold rainy day.
My life: simple. After selling 2/3 of my belongings before I moved, I am fixing to (oops there goes my Texan again) purge once more and list a ton of shit on Ebay. I grew up so poor, I developed an emotional attachment to stuff. Realized beauty was what I sought all along. The eyes go blind from so much seeing, but the heart is always the bank. I stopped my truck in the middle of the street and snapped a branch from a redbud, blooming hysterically pink, and placed it on our table. Tossed it as soon as it began to whither.
I didn’t get any writing classes to teach this semester. Scary since I have been penniless several times recently, but honestly…? Last semester I wasn’t enjoying teaching very often, and kids deserve better than half of my heart.
Finally, I think maybe possibly I might have broken my mindless addiction to the internet. (edited to add: maybe not… I fucked off half the morning on Fetlife…. oops)
This sparse period in my life has left me looking inward. I am on my knees with my hands in the dirt, jerking at the fat stubborn root of self pity. I see so clearly how I have sold chunks of myself for love… the sickening dance we feel at home with over and over, and call ourselves ‘survivors’ because we still can still breath despite the same sucking chest wounds. I vow to try my damndest to be my own guardian the remainder of my days, the same way I care for lovers, babygirls, friends, plants, kids, and watery eyed little dogs.
If my art will ever have an authentic voice, I must be aware of what I already know. Then my quiet whisper ways will be more deliberate and true.
So much stronger than I ever was. Not because all the loss this past year was so humbling (I really didn’t need that), but because it has been so freeing. How rare this gift of beginning again.
Outlaw poet. Artist. Lover. Pioneer in the genderqueer movement.
Also a budding novelist, parent, empath, rebel, fierce survivor, web geek, and an unapologetic fatso. Many would label me "trans", but I am an old-school hybrid who believes that binary notions about gender transgress against all of us. In fact, I am so fawkin' queer, the dynamic I share with my lovers is het in nature. Out rock solid for more than 30 years, and I know exactly who I am... a big Butch bear with paws that smell of honey. ;)