delicate pink porcelain
in steel cold and smooth.
my heart recoils in sorrow…
and I sheath them in velvet
red and lined with gold brocade,
those porcelain abilities
trapped in cruel grey steel.
a monolithic aggregate
of standards, expectations
and end results I cannot meet
no matter how I try
it’s never good enough!
If I do miracles and magic,
nurture hearts and raise morale
in stony grounds and ice cold hearts
it’s just what is expected from me,
normal, uncommented on
and there I languish, emptied
and so hollow in the birth.
And the Bible tells me one thing
but the world flat contradicts Them
and my weary heart befuddled
goes to Stockholm for a moment
and agrees with the accuser
and I’m falling then, I’m tumbling,
falling, turning in the dark and formless void.
of himself, that is…
and I wonder why he did
what he did and left other things
across my neck,
a splash of blood from
blasted nose, a shove severe
and skidding down
on skint and bruised knees…why stop there?
If it was mere control
it might make him look
like…what?like the man with loaded gun
and empty heart
and heartless soul
who blasted her
out of her shoes
and into her grave?
like the man who
bashed her face
to bloody mush
and flicked his bic
and burned the pile
of gender trash
transgressive?the lost control excuse
the panic and murder alibi
these abusive rampages
verbal, physical, psychic
feel justified to them,
morally acceptable, defensible,
any reason good enough.
Any reason good enough
they conflate the two
and we continue
to die like flies.
In this Lent, Spring
threatens with her breakthru
of new life amidst showers,
but in these moments
I am mindful
of a different
a journey with Jesus
into the wilderness,
a place not unfamiliar
and yet each time I venture there
I am surprised by places that seem
so known to me and yet are not familiar
darted into my soul with ink invisible.
I want to rush thru the wilderness
to get to the other side and done
but am compelled to burrow deeper…
into deaths and deprivations
like the Shepherd did when He took nothing with Him
in that desiccated place.
in this wilderness of unmet needs,
what shall I do?
Where will I turn?
I dig deep for water but tap only the dust.
I seek to meet my howling needs in my own time and place
but all my clever methods only blow up in my face
and once again this journey ends
beneath that shadow long, that mark,
beneath the cross that stands so tall, so stark,
it can’t be circumvented or avoided,
it cannot be escaped, or null and voided
it’s the entrance and the exit all at once.
and once again anew I realize
that the suffering of the wilderness
transforms us, shapes, delivers us
sometimes people speak with mouths
while I am listening with heart
and heralds ringing in my ears
and golden trumpet blasts from spheres
and from those mouths comes noises
that I do not understand
as gravity pulls down
distorts the klaxxon soundsand it is then I realize
I live in a different place
where angels watching over me
and chariots swing low
and I must follow drinking gourds
and look for railroads underground
and throw off shackles every day
while people make their sounds…my ears hear different frequencies
they swoon with soft harmonics
and songs swift, supersonic
and way beyond the boom.
But not to worry, people
I learned to lip read early
and watch non verbals busy
and nod a lot and smile
…that this coming to terms is not a one time, one way journey that once arrived in destination full is done and there to be on vacation forever…
…it is a daily choice, a moment by moment meeting with sanity, with choosing life and not death…
it takes courage to continue when the feelings fail to follow through and you are left alone with nothing but your own resolve to live and not die, especially when all around you is declaring that you either are dead already or should have the good graces to lay down and stop moving.
people in my life get discouraged and frustrated with me because the next day is sometimes worse than the day before after 3 days of steadily increasing life and hope…
…i don’t think they really get it that my brain/body disconnect is a really big deal existentially and that it isolates me terribly, a stranger in a strange land…
“how shall we sing, sing the Lord’s song, in a foreign land?”
that is from the psalms, and it is also a lyric from Godspell…the first time I heard this song I cried for days. Literally.
I am crying now.
Oh Mama…how long!!????!!!!
I wept as I read this…for all the long lost years of my own life…and for those found, saved years that Zay has ahead.
Blessings, Crawfords, and good on Ya!!
Faith: the substance of things hoped for
(not wished for, God Forbid!)
the evidence of things not seen.
Those were words that controlled us,
an electric fence to wandering minds
and to our quaking bodies.
a theology that’s bold enough
to voice a serious objection
to the status quo of fear
and to the slavery it breeds.
We took our crowbars optimistic
to that verse, we treated it
as if it pertained just to us,
jarred loose so juicy from its story
and community in history.Once loose, we used it as a tool
to pry history from its flesh,
from its life pained, pulsing in time.
We used that verse
like a two dollar whore,
distorted it, individualized it
into half truth to keep ourselves
from considering anything less,
or contemplating anything more.
more slot machine than Sovereign,
each prayer a greedy pull
upon Their Heart but for our lust
and we there, fake, beatific as if
answers were dependant on our shining phony faces
smiling dutifully in Canaan but saddened by the selfishness
that haunted in our hollows.
we needed a miracle
that would erase life
as it had become,
misshapen and ungainly
our gaudy costume faces
we needed a death
that would restore us
a healing to deliver us
and language that was steady
not the dodgy bob and weaving
of a fickle weak theology
of self and self fulfilmentit was the language of lament that cut us open swift and true,
gave us honest prayers and angry prayers
grief stricken, low and lowly and we, finally laid low by loss
at last found the road Beautiful,
the road bloody and difficult,
the way of just the Cross.
Our confidently spoken truths
were just too good by half
and thus just mere half truths
that couldn’t go one pace beyond
into the place of fiery testing.
Thank God we got delivered
by gradual and sudden
loss that transforms everything
and quickly sobers up the dreamers
drunk upon communion wine.
We got our invitation and
we broke past that temptation
just to tarry in the safe and feast
on fat and easy answers…
we pressed straight thru to honesty
and wrestling with the mystery
of our Christ Crucified and big enough for everyone,
finally became big enough to die to self
and small enough to live here now
in stark repudiation
of our youthful indiscretions
so full and yet so empty.
We dwell now midst the paradox
of Living, Reigning Savior
in this woeful place of dying
we set our dark face like flint to walk
in living faith straight into ever after…
Oh Wisdom, who partners You?
Age? Experience? Who dances with You true?
In youth I blundered into loss and felt it sharp and keen,
knew the meaning of a promise in its status shattered, broken,
in its secret name left mute, loudly unspoken
except by shadows cast in pain and lonely loss.
And Wisdom came to me, to walk amidst my ruins.
Experience resulted in a somewhat measured gain
mixed freely in the world’s follies, and pleasures and pain
and while I received understanding tasting bittersweet
the bitter chased and nipped and bit my fleeing bloody feet
and Wisdom ran with me amidst those ruddy copper stains.
As time has passed my bones grow thin and brittle, so washed out,
bleached white beneath a blazing sun gone tharn and super-nova,
my heart has been ripped out and tossed into the fragrant clover
and that hole gasps and gapes like some ridiculous lost fool
and Wisdom came to fill it with Her Resurrection Jewel.
It is not age that counts, it’s not white hair or callow youth,
all must pass beneath Her Sceptre stretched, bright Golden Truth
and tarry in Her purifying white hot crucibles
and suffer all consuming losses cruel and terrible
to gain Her Presence constant, deep and rich and sweet and full.
For you science geeks…the biology of the brain is real, and its existence far more relevant to gender than plumbing.
It’s a bit dry to me…but the first time thru these things for me?? WOW! Eye opening.
But best of all, it rebuts the notions of those who think that I have a mental problem, a spiritual oppression, or a newly emerged proclivity.
Sigh…few things are more discouraging than the so called supporter who (ignorantly) says to me “Hey, if that is what it takes for you to be happy, then I don’t care what you do, be happy!”
“…the self-awareness, inner resolve, and resilience a successful transition requires, the way in which it both evinces a desire for authenticity and is inseparable from such desire in other aspects of one’s life, is a relatively reliable predictor of an extraordinary person.
Being trans doesn’t make you strong, or gleam, but it is one hell of a crucible to forged in.”
Quote by “SmartAssJen”, a transwoman of extraordinary intelligence and substance
I saw this shortly after Dissolution Day…
It marked me forever. I was 6 years old, and I cried through the entire movie as I watched the most beautiful, wonderful amazing thing I had seen up to that point in my life.
I wanted to be Maria…the most amazing person I had encountered.
I still watch it, every time it is on. I still cry…and the song “Something Good” was, is, and will be one of the deepest hymns of commitment in my life. It has been whatever “something good” happened somewhere, somehow, that has pulled me through, and someday I will know what it is.
On that Someday.
Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer celebrate the 50th anniversary of The Sound of Music on the newest issue of Vanity Fair.
Greys, silvers soft and tinged with gold
and washed out pinks bleed from my heart
as I sit on the dock and look out on the lake
in longing, in lingering longing.
I wash across the sky so blue,
soft blue, robin’s egg unbreakable
and endless in blue, endless in echo
of my longing soul, lingering.
yeah, that’s me,
and always has been.
on the edges sitting,
living inside my longing
bleeding, rising, blossoming.I cannot fly like birds
so instead I send me up up
tinging, coloring, rising
grey and silver and pink
against blue, and over blue too.
The edge of sky and land,
the edge of land and water,
the edge of water and sky,
it is at this nexus that I sit…I.
Without wings, without boats.
But I have my inner cello,
strings taut and tuned just so,
I have my song of greys and pinks
sprung from my silver bow.
So I will sit, here in this meeting
of sky and lake, land and song,
and play my tune across bright waters
that glow and glisten under skies
of blue tinged silver, shot with grey
and gleaming pink into the glowing night.
Constance, this is an important review. It pulls the funhouse mirror mask off of one of the most deceptive, disturbing, despicable pieces of pop culture phenomena that has washed up on the shores of our collective zeitgeist in quite some time.
I want to warn those with more sensitive reactions to harsh language that there is a liberal sprinkling of swearing and scatalogical vocabulary, but I think it is appropriate to the force of the emotion this writer is expressing.
It also helped me know why I had that huge shudder and check in my heart over this whole thing, and as I have said earlier I did know about this way back when it was a serialized fan fiction story placed in forums.
The issue is not the sexuality.
The issue is not whether anyone is “openminded” or “a prude” if they approve or disapprove of the production. As I have laid out in 2 posts, I look at sexuality markedly different than seems to be the majority view, but then again I look at most things a bit different anyway.
No…the issue is that this piece of unbridled domestic violence is able to take its place in the hearts of so many millions of people as something to aspire to, something that a truly whole and balanced woman should be able to deal with…
…and it is that lie that I have always been revolted by, felt my spirit buck and shy away from.
It is tragic that Domestic Violence has even the smokescreen of legitimacy that it can hide behind, tuck in and draft off of…until it is back inside the 4 walls of some isolated domicile where the mask comes off and the monster comes out to feed.
Give this review a read, Constance…and then have the courage to know that somethings are just not necessary to accept just because they exist.