I Was Wild, Savage, Human

Red is soothing (to me). The same is true of sex, laughter, creative ripping (paper or fabric), and of reading and writing containing the aforesaid bits. So, when my flesh and bones hurt so bad that sleep is an unbelievable dream that could only happen to extremely lucky fictitious characters, I call on red and we go wild.

I’ve been in ridiculous pain for a few days. The throbbing started under my left scapula, then it spread to my left hip, my left gluteus maximus (I’ve always loved that word), the back of my left leg… all the way to my toes *red, red, red*.

Still, I’m not unhappy. I’ve had moments when I was angrier than a mantis in heat who has just discovered he is a male, but not unhappy. I’ve written a lot of fiction, stitched several poem bits, and blacked out (red-out?) seven or nine pieces.

There were tense moments when I cursed Comfort (in creatively ripped red):

Another time, I crafted a blackout poem that is all sex (joy and sweat and screams and bliss-filled old lies howled out of pleasure-drunk-panting lips):

Earlier, when pain made me shake and shrouded my all in chills, I laughed (crying cackle-coated tears), lay on the bathroom floor—cool tiles *and the right book* are such a blessing… Then, after Laural Merlington finished narrating the 3rd chapter of A Stroke of Midnight, I dragged my flesh and bones to my writing space, and with hands that barely shook, I red-out a note about Pain and Me:

*the background is from Vampiros, illustrated by Meritxell Ribas Puigmal*

Things are better. Some of my bits are still screaming. But something tells me that tonight, I’ll kiss the Sandman on the mouth… and will both like it.

Pain Is Gentle…

…like a smile on the face of a tiger.

The last few days have included insane laughter, baring of teeth, and loud thoughts, shouting, Bring it on, you bastards! Life and Fate and the bits of me that hurt like a hot poker in the ribs just glance at me, worry filling their non-existing eyeballs—even Life and Fate and hot pokers understand that pushing a wild witchy woman who’s about to reach the end of her tether is not safe for anyone. So, they just stare… half enthralled… half waiting to see what I will do next…

I have been keeping them (especially pain) busy by doing things with my hands. Pain has no mind for work or sarcasm. That’s the reason why when the hurt tries to burst my insides, I laugh and surround myself with jokes of questionable niceness. Yesterday, even the mad grinning was failing. So, I pulled out the big weapons: markers, pens, needle, thread, recycled paper, tea bags and coffee filters, dried flowers, refurbished frames, nail polish I’ve owned since the Dark Ages (of course they had nail polish in the Dark Ages!), my tiny silver hammer, and well… you get the idea, don’t you? I got crafty and set pain aside to starve for attention.

By the time the sun decided to sleep, I had gone all wildly crafty on 5 blackouts. I enjoyed the completed work for a while, grinning… not caring all that much that my hands were stiff and shaky. And yes, I laughed raucously after that. Like I said to a friend, who pointed out that I make a lot of jokes when my body is being a bastard, “Laughter confuses the Reaper.” Art does the same for pain—it won’t stop the hurt, but it lets pain know that it can’t take my choices.

I chose to keep one of the blackouts for myself (see below). Because looking at it makes me smile… with lots of teeth and because I’m quite greedy. The others joined a growing wee pile that plans to become an online shop… sometime before Midsummer… I’m grinning again.

I also gave myself a cute skully angel brought to sweet and creepy life by Marfi, of Incipient Wings. It was love at first grin. She looks perfect next to my blackout.

So, my Wicked Luvs, what do you do when pain hurts like a royal bastard?

Self Bloomed Rainbows

This holiday season, I am hosting flesh and bones bursting with unwanted guests. Mistress Nausea brought Sir Hurl. They arrived almost two weeks ago, accompanied by Lady Fever—an insufferable harlot who refuses to take three steps without her good-for-nothing boy toys, Dizziness and Fatigue.

And I can’t even think of throwing them out, since they are best friends with Mr. Pill, and he is the only one keeping Lord Crohn’s from puncturing my pipes and letting all sorts of crap leak who knows where. I haven’t been able to pretend that the undesirable horde is not constantly around. But most days, sipping tea and nibbling on pomegranate seeds dulls the effects of their visit a considerable bit.

When their presence gets so loud that it threatens to crack my skull, I sip on words and tell myself stories to quiet them out. Some days (nights?), I share the stories with you. And you add your bits to my bits… Our united bits say, “We aren’t alone in this. We are awesomely strong. And goodness, we are so freaking modest! In fact, our modesty can only be surpassed by our extreme hotness.”

So, there you have it, my Wicked Luvs: when my bones and gut hurt so much that I must squint to see my screen properly, I write things that make me grin. And I turn to friends who morph said grins into laughter. Then I wait for magic to happen… in the company of self bloomed rainbows.

“Bloom a Rainbow”

If winter blues
ever fray my edges,
I shall bloom
a rainbow…
and fill my-Self
with spring.
self-bloomed-rainbows