The Pretty Corpses of Flowers

I was about to post a rant about some woman who wanted to sell posters of one of my blackouts… without paying me. But as I reread what I wrote, my blood began to boil… So, I deleted the whole thing, and opened my “Awesome Things My Love Says” folder.

My sexy Piano Man has a way with words that reach my heart and my funny bone. The other day, he texted me after a show, to say, “Warning! I’m bringing home some flower corpses.” He knows I don’t much care for flowers that have been cut just for decoration, and he also knows that if the poor things were already mutilated, I wouldn’t want their sacrifice to be for nothing. I do my best to find a way to show them some love.

It was a big bouquet. Some of the flowers are still drying. But the roses, carnations, and some greenery and fillers (whose name I don’t know), have dried quite prettily.

I used a rose petal on this stitched poem. Some of the outer petals I offered to the moon, now sit by my typewriter in view of the window. I put together a bouquet I can glimpse while I’m writing. The leaves and other greenery went in a jar until the muse thinks of something. The fillers are in a wee bowl, in front of a sculpture of Old Man Death (you know how much the grinning Reaper loves his flowers).

By the time I was done, I was grinning as toothily as… well, as toothily as me. Playing with nature (even mildly dead nature) is good therapy, picturing the bloody things my muse thinks should happen to those who want to steal our mind-babies… not so much.

Sexuality Is in the Head

“You cannot divide creative juices from human juices. And as long as juicy women are equated with bad women, we will err on the side of being bad.” ~ Erica Jong

.
None can know
me, what drives me wild
in the mind,
what speaks to the swells
of my hips and breasts…
the way I do.

Hands I allow
on me are a gift,
a pleasure partnership.

Hands and fingers and thought
tracing skin, feeling muscle and bone
ruled by said skin’s own brain
need no partner for joy—
gifts are good, entitlements are better.

Sexiness begins in your head—
touch your mind deeply,
love your body often.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” sexuality
is in my head (and in yours
if you want).
To celebrate it,
take your body and soul
and make yourself yours.

.
the (not so) wee notes…
– Since Beltane—a witchy holiday that brings sexuality to my mind—was in, um… my mind, I asked the members of a private Crohn’s disease forum I belong to about their sex life. Many answered that their sex life was just fine, thank you very much, and can we talk about our ileums and rectums now? Others said that the illness has affected their sex life, but they have adjusted accordingly. The most prevalent answer was a variation of, “I’m single”. So, I added, “What about sex with yourself?” Some people (all right, a whole lot of people) left the session without typing another word.

Those of us who stayed on the forum spent some time discussing sexuality, morality, and the relationship between body and mind when it comes to physical pleasure. It was an enlightening conversation. I was puzzled by the number of mature adults who confessed to have never masturbated—not because of religious taboo, but because they are married or because the idea of touching their own bodies makes them feel dirty. I left the forum hoping for minds freed of nonsense that pushes people to believe that physical self-love is filthy behavior or something to be ashamed of.

Keeping that (and other juicy wonders) in mind, this Beltane, or May Day, or on this 1st Monday of the 5th month of the calendar year, I wish you lots and lots and lots of physical love (if you want it), especially from you to you. Be human, enjoy your Self.

– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

The blackout that fed the poem…

…and a flower that seems to be rather proud of her sexuality
(yep, the Thunbergia mysorensis is most definitely a girl)

Of Skulls, Wild Blessings, Pain and Ink

I got out of bed counting skulls. I always find healing in the act of counting blessings. If you know me a bit, you aren’t wondering about my use of the words skulls and blessings in the same paragraph—I love skulls, and recalling the tales of how they got to me is quite soothing.

Take the skull in the photo below, as an example. It’s a gift from my friend Lynne, mistress of the Insomniac’s Attic. She gave it to me during her last visit to New York City… in which we delighted in old books, got lost looking for an antique shop that insisted on hiding behind a delivery truck, and witnessed a rather irresponsible New Age seller tell a customer that onyx stones would give her telepathic powers.
Weeks later, the outrage I felt towards the seller’s statement (and the amusement my reaction brought to Lynne’s face) makes me laugh like a maniac. Laughter heals. The same is true of rituals and symbols. That’s the idea behind the grouping in the image: a frog from Stacy, a skull from Lynne, rosemary from Gina, and a mini-book from Emma, every piece sitting on a stone and a shell that holds its own tale. Even the black ribbon has a story, and telling myself all those tales (and laughing) pushes the aches away. Yes, it’s magic.

After saying goodbye to the frog, skull, rosemary and book, I started breakfast and made my bed. The quilt filled me with warm grins. It’s a handfasting present from my Mother-in-Law. As my not-so-perfect picture shows, the squares make an M or a W (for Magaly & William). And yes, the stitching forms lovely hearts. How cool is that, my Wicked Luvs? How could pain and exhaustion ever compete against the love put into such thought-filled gift?

Some gifts are unexpected treasures. The memories of when I first saw them always rush through me like a wave of ecstatically surprised endorphins. Yep, I’m referring to the bee kissing crabapple blossoms in the photo below. I was gifted this glimpse into Nature’s crafty magic, right after having spent a couple of hours searching for mushrooms. The search was a total fiasco… So, I was justifiably disappointed. Then I saw the bee… and the blooms… and I was delighted. Oh yes, I’m grinning like a lunatic, just thinking about it.

I’m writing this post while my heat pad does its magic on the pain that kicks my back. And “Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!” I’m smiling, as I think of gifts… of friends… of spring… of skulls… of wild magic… of every experience life has inked into my blood… and of how lucky I am to have the strength to craft them into poems and stories to share with you.

Do you count personal blessings? If so, do tell me of a wee blessing that brings all sorts of gigantic smiles to your face. Yummy grows yummier when spread. Really. 😉