When the World Starts Stinking this Much, We Must Art Ourselves Some Potpourri

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.” ~ Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence

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I had an interesting conversation with a friend, who wanted to know why my writing has “gone from blood and guts and dead things to love, love, love, and sexy things.” He is not complaining about the change. He has been reading my words since before I shared them with anyone else, from when they were wee scribblings on the margins of schoolwork… He’s just surprised that in a time of much turmoil, I’ve “chosen to go freaky sweet.”

He’s not the only one asking. In the last couple of weeks, some of you have messaged me with similar inquiries: “Your writing’s so sexual lately. What’s going on?” And, “I wish I was getting some of what you’re getting. All I do is watch the news and scream bloody murder. Share, dammit!” And my favorite, “Why aren’t you writing about dismembering things? Dismemberment feels adequate. You haven’t gone romantic? Don’t scare me.”

My answer to these questions is short: I’m a child of balance, a soul who believes that what we feed grows. Right now, I believe we must feed what makes us feel good.

You see, my Wicked Luvs, I delight in writing that is passionate, that heats up the blood, that makes muscle want to move bone, writing that digs deep, deep, deep… and makes the mind feel things (or, at least, that’s my intention *cough*). Tales that are sexy, dark, and bloody have always been my favorite to write and read. They touch all the right spots in my brain. Writing them into the world makes my darkness deliciously bright. I love it.

But…

…right now, the world is a raging mess—people are drowning in the results of climate change, nations are being led by dangerous idiots, groups are feeding monsters we hoped dead, people around the world (and the Web) are dismembering each other’s hopes.

But (thank goodness)…

…there are also people trying to spread pretty spells, individuals trying to feed emotions that relax the body, that nudge the brain to release serotonin, oxytocin… and other happy hormones that conjure up smiles… even, if for just a bit.

I can’t go to the streets and rally against injustice and bigotry. I can’t donate millions to help those who need it most (I’ve done my wee monetary bit, but it’s not enough). There is so much I can’t do. But I can write of happy, happy, happy love in lust. And share it.

I will spell lusty words, let them feed on what burns in my flesh and bones, infuse them with love (the way I know it), and then send them into the world.  As I said to my dearest Rommy, on a post she shared on Facebook (about a man whose beliefs should make most people a bit sick), “when the world starts stinking this much, we must art ourselves some potpourri… if we can.” And I can. So, I will write sex… in love.

Making Bright Out of Shadows

In darkness, away from leaf-song and rain-scented soil, hearts wilt and die. In the light, where words speak halved thoughts and poetry kisses riddles, stories will die. I hear it. I think it… Then, that something that binds us (do you know what it is?), that thing made of mud, daydreams and wild bits of you and me, fills my bones with chants of Maybe… and I know better—stories only die if you let them and hearts always live if we read.

Making bright
out of the shadows,
the soul smiles…
while I remember
the power of ink.

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the (not so) wee notes…
– Last Sunday, I wasn’t having the best of days. I was feeling a bit gloomy, out of sorts… So, I put on my super-power skirt (everybody should have something—in their closet, bookcase, wallet…—that instantly fills them with good memories. I wore the skirt in question, for the first time, during a dance while I was a junior in high school, the same night I figured out that life was freaking weird, but since I was weird, too, then life was yummy). Anyhoo, I put on brown combat boots and my super-power skirt and a dear friend and I went thrifting. The thrift shop was closed when we got there, so we laughed a tad madly, went to the grocery store and bought two pies (I got peach!), and life was yummy. When I saw this rather dark picture (below), taken on the bus on our way back from pie shopping, I noticed how my smile shines through the gloom (I have super-power teeth, too), and I thought, Yep, life is yummy and then some.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

Of Pigeons and Perverts and Other Complexities

Most of you know of my love—I’m-going-to-pull-every-single-one-of-your-freaking-feathers-you-thieving-bastard relationship with certain blue jay. Well, I guess, this is truer for those of you who follow me on Facebook, where I do much of my ranting.

My blue jay fiend hasn’t been around lately. I’m sort of worried about him. I wonder if he has been finally put in his place by a mad pigeon who has already claimed some of his head feathers. To think of it, the pigeon has also been MIA. The bees, too…

I wouldn’t mind it too much, if the blue jay finds another urban garden to terrorize. But I would miss the cooing of the pigeons. And if they leave, I would miss out on some gifts—the bloom below was dropped into one of my pots by one of them.

Lately, I’ve had issues with certain people (a few men and a couple of women) who felt it necessary to share some of their rather inappropriate and somewhat disgusting romantic feelings towards me, which they say were inspired by my words. Since none can control how art affects others, I’ve done my best to ignore these things. Some of the reactions are quite humorous (goodness knows Emma has a blast comforting me).

But the more disturbing ones were starting to get to me. So much so, that I almost considered rethinking some of the topics that feed my poetry and prose… Then, an Instagram friend said, “Your words have been getting me through a TOUGH week, lady. My grandma passed away last week and my family on that side can be cold. It’s been tough but your words and posts have really helped THANK YOU.”

I know grief. I’ve felt it crack my rib cage open, leaving my heart exposed. Hearing that I’ve helped soothe some of that pain for another, convinced me not to change a thing about the writing I post online. For I, who has kissed loss on the mouth, have also danced with hope… and hope is a delightful thing to spread, to feed into poems.
from “Loving You through the Veil

The bean, which I accidently on purpose planted in my Montauk daisy pot, is about to offer a harvest. Go on, laugh. You are allowed. I giggle wildly every time I look at the pods… mostly because I completely plan to cook the three beans growing in it.

One of my friends and I have been discussing the nature of relationships—that wild dance of give and take, which would never work if those involved don’t respect and understand each other’s wants and needs. Remnants of those conversations were in my mind, while I crafted the blackout below. I believe in those words. When passion is mixed with thinking and loving and compromise, the horrors that tend to destroy relationships become conquered monsters to laugh at, topics of which to say, “Look at what we can do together, baby. Let’s do more.”

the heights of passion
will destroy ego, Honey.
there’s nothing sexier.

The gift from the pigeon (or from some other bird) has just bloomed. I used to think that it was a sunflower. But it’s very tiny (the size of a silver dollar) so I’m no longer sure. But it doesn’t matter much… You see, my Wicked Luvs, I believe that when it comes to feathered thieves and to art and to relationships and to life’s little (and big) surprises, the nature of the thing isn’t as important as what the thing makes us feel.

I’m feeling good, good, great…

…and you?