Need Not Love Weird, Just Me

my Piano Man (showing the photo of a bottle): “Do you approve?”

me (squealing like a delighted maniac): “I want that bottle!”

my Piano Man: “Dead Guy Ale.”

me (half-choking on exclamation marks): “I want it!!!”

A few hours later, my Piano Man came home with two empty bottles of Dead Guy Ale for me to moon over. One of said bottles now resides next to my typewriter. I can glance at it while I’m writing. Every time I look at the skeleton, I grin… remembering the silly exchange that made it mine, basking in the bliss of having a love who knows exactly how to love me.

My sweet Piano Man is not a lover of creepy things (aside from me, that is). But our home is full of what many would probably think of as rather weird—bones, thorns, ashes that used to be alive, enough skulls to make you wonder if “skull fetish” shouldn’t be a thing, hammers, axes, random sticks… and my Piano Man never makes them feel unwelcome.

Some time ago, while I assisted in a Coming of Age dance ritual, the crone leading it (waves at Yudelis), said, “May your weird find a weird to love and be loved by”. I remember thinking, That’s freaking brilliant.

Years later, after I have lived and love and loved and loved… I believe in those wise words more than ever: the success of a relationship doesn’t depend on how similar or different those involved are from each other, but on how well they can love one another while remaining who they are (or, perhaps, while growing together into what they want to be).

he honors my heart
with treasures stripped of all meat,
thoughts of weird be damned

…with Heart-Bits in It

I have always felt deeply (perhaps even peculiarly) attracted to trees and dirt and frogs and bones. Growing up in a farming village filled my soul (and brain *thank goodness for that*) with a sense of respect for the land (you truly appreciate Nature and her ways, if her moods directly dictate what you get to eat, where you get to go). In my childhood, no ritual was as natural or as important as those attached to the harvest of rice, coffee, and cacao beans.

In those now gone summers and autumns, I didn’t think of what we did as ritualistic. It was just living. We cooked the first cauldron of rice in the field (the growers always ate the first bite). We danced and sang as we roasted coffee beans (dancing and singing and laughter enriched the taste of the brew, the Old used to say). We did witchy things without calling it witchery. I didn’t use the term “witch” to describe how I relate to nature and her gifts, until I felt the need to help others understand what I did. Saying, “I’m a wild witchy woman” is much easier (okay, simpler) than calling myself a lover of trees and dirt and rain and Dark Moon nights and sex and dance and words and smiles that come from the gut and life…

I love sharing things in ways we can all understand what I mean (well, I try). This is one of the reasons why I changed my blog’s tagline from “Poetry, fiction, and other Dark bits with Bright in them” to “Poetry and fiction with heart-bits in it”. I’m not dropping the dark and bright tag because I think my writing isn’t exactly that… Not at all. I’m choosing heart-bits because the phrase does a better job at describing what I write.

Other Bits

– The delightfully bastardish Facebook idiotic Team keeps on marking most of the links I share (from my blog) as spam. I have asked about it, and it was suggested that people who follow me (or who follow others who follow me) are labeling my blog links as spam. This makes no sense to me… Why would anyone follow a person whose work they don’t want to see? I mean, just stop following me. Or, unfriend me. Or, ask whoever might be sharing my posts with you to stop doing it. I will continue dealing with it (for a bit). Any advice?

– If we are friends on Instagram, you might’ve noticed that I’ve changed my URL from @magalyguerreroindarkerwords to @wordsbymagalyguerrero. This shouldn’t affect our interaction, but I wanted to tell you anyway… I’m feeling rather rambly (and adverby).

– If you’ve yet to help me choose the direction in which “This Lingering Maybe” will go, please visit the 55-word tale and choose 1 of 3 paths. I’ll write the next chapter tomorrow.

bits I’ve shared on Instagram
because… why not, right?

My id is a poet
in love with strange.

Love understands wild,
weird and me.

bee, the one
keeping things blooming
bright and wild

Power in Play and Ink

Brendan, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, invited us to “write a poem about power in [our lives] and the world… about power or creativity or instinct… heavenly or earthly powers…” I don’t know of anyone who’s heavenlier or earthier or modest(ier) than moi. So, as you might’ve predicted, I birthed a wee poem about things that feed my power:

.
There is power in mind-kissing
words and wit, which quickens
hips and heart-bits.

There is power in dancing
to well-fingered tunes, which kindles
brain and groin.

I find power in song and story…
in loving play… in lusty ink…

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a wee note…
– It seems that I also find power in ellipses… *cough, cough… cough*
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden and Poets United.

“…dancing, and seeing into the darkness…”
The Craft, by Patricia Ariel