The Courageous Debi Jackson

Constance, I am posting here a speech given by Debi Jackson…it speaks for itself very well.  Debi is a woman who loves God, loves people, and has a transgender daughter whom she is championing in a way that I am totally certain makes Mama proud.

Please check it out and let your heart be encouraged that hate can never ever conquer.

Debi…from me my deepest thank you’s and admirations for making a way for your child.

If only…if only…

Love, Charissa

Debi Jackson PFLAG Speech


10 Ways Introverts Interact Differently With The World

tumblr_mk6gwsL4m61rqjv1uo1_50010 Ways Introverts Interact Differently With The World.

My bff and I just had a convo about these things…it is amazing how many of them we touched on.  Thanks DDH!!

Constance, how about it…do you identify?  Even more importantly, do these observations have any implication in terms of how we should then live?

D’Eve vouée ….

O mon vain cœur, mon compagnon de je docile
Avec toi tout en moi, tout semble si facile
Tu es le rire dans mes yeux traversés d’eau
La candeur de ma plume et mon porte drapeau.

Quand la nuit s’étend et que ton sommeil me prend
Tu es dans mes rêves , tu respires mon sang
Veillant sur mes émois, adulant mes stigmates
Même la lune semble aimer tes soies délicates.

Et quand au petit jour, tu lèves mes nuages
Mon ciel paraît plus bleu livrant un doux présage
Une belle journée à charge en marge du temps
Quand en fil conducteur, tu « miracles « le tant.

Je t’aime, tu le sais, comme à nul autre pareil
Je te dois chacun de mes vers couleur vermeil
Je te vois et te sens partout chaque seconde
Pour toi en secret, j’aimerai traverser l’onde.

Parfois tu m’échines à en mourir d’envie
Ironique et fragile aux touches de la vie
Tu ébranles mes pas me rendant orpheline
D’un jamais à moi ta fille de mousseline.

Quand je mêle ta voie pour écrire un poème
Tu susurres que tu es enfant de bohème
Alors je sublime une à une tes absences
Car qui mieux que tes chants connaissent mes silences.

O mon vain cœur, mon compagnon de je docile
Avec toi tout en moi, tout semble si facile
Même si parfois tu fais défaut à mes vœux lourds
Je te suis dévouée depuis toujours,Toi l’Amour……

Le 24 Juin 2011
Ce texte est la propriété de Mystic4Ever Tous droits réservés ©

Why Catcalling Guys And Guys Defending Catcalling Guys Are Wrong

OMG Constance…I have written in the past that we need some males with courage and integrity to begin calling out their own rather than either defending them OR defending their own pathetic selves and thus reserving the “right to slip up” for their own.

Well, this man John is absolutely picking up that ball and running…and he is running hard.

Do yourself a big favor and head over to read his no nonsense, no hate, and no punches pulled writing, that manages to hit what needs it, heal what receives it, and hales whosoeverwill.


john pavlovitz


Hey Catcalling Guy and Guy Defending Catcalling Guy:

You’re wrong.

Your behavior when you see a strange female walk by you on the street isn’t appropriate.

It isn’t complimentary.
It isn’t cute.

It isn’t classy.
It isn’t decent.
It isn’t flattering.
It isn’t the right thing to do.

You want to know why it isn’t any of those things?

Women are telling you it isn’t, that’s why.

Regardless of the intent, or the rationale, or the spin, or whatever twisted justification you want to make about your actions, the actual recipients of these misguided advances are letting you know that it’s frightening.

They’re telling you that it’s intimidating, that it disrupts their lives, that it makes them fear for their safety, that it makes them self-conscious, and in general, that it damages them.

They’re letting you know that the net effect of the remarks you make isn’t attractive; it’s creepy.

Arguing with women when they tell…

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This Ghost Poetic

I wander this world ghost-like
in poetic places, like a phantom
passing thru unseen, unfelt.

I wonder in the presence all around…I see, I feel…
I dwell in mists, resarciate revelation,
in the clear and frosty glow of iridescent knowings
and I vibrate with the rhythms and the meters of forever…

and yet…and yet…and yet I have no body to encounter anything.

How it is that I cannot touch that rock, that tree, that river?
Oh it’s not for lack of trying!  No, it’s not for lack of crying out
until my throat is torn and sundered by the torrents of
poetic whispers midst the thunder booming in the heart beat of the ocean!

Blue and silver tinged in crimson rushing furious from deep
inside my belly and into the deserts stretched around me desolate…
and bleeding wet across the dry rocks stacked in careless ruination
like a giant game of pick-up sticks, I flow…
I water this ground thirsty, this land burnt and deaf and hungry!

I see dwellers in the dust and so I run to them
in glad and eager assignations, to speak waters cold and clear
in dulcet tones delightful…but I’m stunned, disheartened and confused
because my waters glad, my torrents true blue in their striking mercies
simply pass right thru them, as if they were ghostly manes,
mere spirit rivers, haunted waters!

I have no solid being in this non poetic world!
I am eidolic without body! I am eidolon!
And I rush at them in hot frustration, I fly at them with fists poetic
windmilling the haunted air like stinging butterflies and then
I see that glass jaw of untruth just jutting forth in pride,
I see those flabby dull and paunchy souls and rain down blows
like honey bees dive bombing wooly bears below…

and stand and watch in horror as my fists, my quick poetic fists
of thunder-boom and stormy rant

(and lightening laced with baby breath and MamaSong)

just pass right thru…without a trace.
That’s when it hits me, I’m the phantom in this place!

I’m a ghost poetic without body,
save my words which have no presence
save their spectral wraithy breeze
as they pass thru the dwellers in the land of Nod!
And then I weep, and see my tear drops fall straight thru the carmine earth
and out the other side to float in space like stars unhinged from Mama’s eyes.

…But once in a while I hurt my hand!
Because I see that tree, that rock,
that mountain, that sea and I swing
with all my might so desperate
to make contact, connect but glum
expecting that it will be just
another sickening stomach churning
free-fall thru and without touching
anything that makes a difference
and gives me substantial presence
that I yearn for unrequited,
always unrequited…
…Once in a while…BAM!  That tree is THERE!

And oh, that mountain in the air
hits back with all its mountain might
and I break open and pour poetry from knuckles
barked and ripped and dripping bloody meaning.

So I walk, proceed with caution and with people,
careful not to punch with fists, but swing with kisses blown poetic
and with whispers strewn so pretty in the paths of maybe-solid
peace that feet can walk upon and crush the petals
of my life poetic, thus releasing such sweet fragrance
of that Mystery Lurking Beyond Wonders.

And while I walk, I have been wondering…
what if I am not a ghost?  What if I am real, and walk
a world of trees so solid, mountains stark and clouds so soft,
so touchable and trembling singable and trodable
in skies so blue and thick with skin like opal seas?

What if it’s not me the wraith but everything around me
that’s unsound and apparitional, haunted, insubstantial?

What if I’m the solid one and live inside a singing body
solid and substantial in its meter, rhyme and rhythm?

What if I walk a world of ghosts within this body poetic,
and with dactylic soul still singing ever in exquisite
anapestic harmony and twine my song with river-chorus
in the currents of the Milky Way so high and flowing ever
from my Mama’s ruby loving lips?

What if it’s because my fists’ poetic swinging, punching,
on the rocks relentless pounding on the trees
until they gain their being solid and substantial,
bit by bit and flake by swing, whiff by hook they reel
into reality and become present, incarnated to wear atoms
for their royal robes piled high and gold with poems now glorified?

What if my words, passing thru them like the winds wind thru tree branches
leaving something solid, something real that feels good to inhabit,
what if my heart poetry is giving walls and floors and roofs and doors
to enter in and stay and take on body, soul, and spirit?

I am a ghost poetic,
I’m a poem in a ghost world.
I am a song unseen and spectral,
I am heard in opened ears.
I am a difference that I long for
and a solid longed for morsel.
I’m a river in the desert
and a cool cup of sweet water
and a riddle-paradox
of ghost-words become manifest
and incarnated in the bloody
hearts of listeners and hungry
mouths of singers
and the happy souls
of Mama’s children.

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