Slaughter Prejudice Like a Lady

A dear friend of mine is turning 82-years-strong in a couple of days. For her birthday, she asked for her Devils—as in Marine Corps Devil Dogs—to dye their hair blood red, navy blue, or white. Some of my medical issues make it dangerous for me to dye my hair using the options she provides. So, instead of coloring my hair, I decided to create two art-full-and-love-touched pieces inspired by some of the traits that make me admire the birthday girl.

The first piece was “How to Keep Wannabe Autocrats from Walling Your Weird (in 5 not-so-easy steps)”. The blackout poem bit I’m sharing now is the second. But… those of you who know me also know that I can’t stand even numbers, so I shall post a third bit on Wednesday. That one will focus on two of my friend’s favorite pastimes: reading about mythical creatures and dissecting what strangers share about themselves in personal ads.

Anyhoo, here is the blackout, frankensteined to life with paint and pens and markers and needles and red thread and a page out of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and other scraps. Did I mention that my friend loves swords almost as much as she loves the idea of living in a world where everybody matters? Well, she does. And she has been fighting for that all her life.

Slaughter prejudice like a lady.

How to Keep Wannabe Autocrats from Walling Your Weird (in 5 not-so-easy steps)

“We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love” [for life, for self, for those we share our weird with]. ~ Robert Fulghum (and moi)
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1. Resist common ideality.

2. If the fist of orthodoxy threatens to meek your Nature given wild, scream, “I love strange!” and dance for a spell.

3. If anyone suggests your differences make you less, remember that normal is a con (more apparent than real).

4. Worship critical thinking, and sense.

5. Trust your strange.

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the blackout poem bits behind the how-to


for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55.

Ink to Ashes

When my ink burns
hottest, thoughts of us scream
old wants out of my pen,

and

the me who loved you starts to ache
for the fiery words we howled together.
But I know you are a scorched page,

I know

happiness turns to ashes
when self-love is slaughtered
so that lust can feed.

I know

your blood has gone cold
and your lips sing poison.

 

for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.