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I saw that ages ago, and again on Friday. I paraphrased a little, classed it all up (smirk)

“Ain’t no woman born who can make me jealous over a man whose face I have already sat on.”

Jesus I wish I had written that.

Been saying it a lot lately.

God is reusing extras in the movie of my life.

Leading man is back. Which is spectacular (the way Kevin Spacey says it).

It’s the fucking cameos by recently passed players that are punching holes in the plot.

Bobby didn’t die, the last year was just a dream. Come on. Seriously?
Resurrections galore. Some glorious and some gross.
Ghost stories are just fine, I do love a good haunting, but zombies are mindless rotting things that ought to stay down.

I don’t do jealousy. I also don’t cheat, steal or lie. I used to, so I know how that ends, not happily ever after at all. More like tied up and twisted.

Naked and free over here. I just love.

“Do what thou wilt and that shall be the whole of the law.” Aleister Crowley

I also don’t double dip.

Oh, I will open my arms, legs and mouth to receive my love, no matter where he has been nor how long he was gone. My heart doesn’t wander, she has found home and stays. My body however, has been known to scratch at the door wanting out and then in again and then out and then in.
The same lips that kiss and taste me are the ones that whisper ‘run’, the hands that hold me together are the same ones that open the door. He knows me and my intentions.

What I meant is I will never touch a man one of my girls has been touched by. Doesn’t matter if it was her heart or her body, a resounding ‘not mine’ and he quickly resembles a Ken doll in my head, nothing there.

Some days its hard being the sister of all women.
But then I remember how it felt to have an interloper in my marriage, someone I called friend.
And I cannae.

Case and point.

I had a couple of nice hang outs with a cute boy, he wrote me a poem, had a wicked grin, lovely vocabulary and made me smile. But, somewhere between playing drunken pool and sitting down for sober coffee I realized I had heard his stories before. Different perspective, same tales. Oh sweet baby Jesus. He belonged to my soul sister. Immediate shut down. I gotta go. I kept the poem though, it was lovely. I told him why and we parted ways. No great loss.

She is my moon and stars. Nothing is more important than her.

That being said, I will shut things down with any man over women I have never met.

The world is too big and beautiful to cut the grass of others. I don’t even like manicured lawns, they reek of domestication and chemicals, give me a meadow full of purple cosmos and wild weeds. I will play there.

Last week I had a date planned with a pretty boy who loves to talk about the universe. Messages me 3 hours before we are supposed to go out with a ‘dilemma’. I was thinking he hadn’t made resos for dinner. Turns out he had been out with a girl while I was away and wasn’t sure how she/I would feel about him hanging out with me. I commended his honesty, told him if he was worried about losing her he shouldn’t be going out with me. Suggested he talk to her about it, see where they were at. I recently made a daring escape from Relationshipland, no rush.

I figured he would cave if she said ‘just us’, wished him well. He messaged me today. They had the talk, she isn’t pushing exclusivity. This one wins the instant karma prize for good behavior. Dinner and dates with 2 girls he likes because he didn’t try to lie to either.

Then there is the bad, not the big bad, but pretty fucking bad.

Twice now I have had my hand forced by a mouth full of lies.
“I don’t really date much.” Except he was dating someone already, her name is Christine. She found out about me and dumped him a week after I knew about her. I had already walked away.
What pisses me off now is that now he is single and I can’t go near him because he lies.
Still,no great loss.

The last one was a tangled web of yuck. I have sent apologies and condolences to his not-exactly-just-a-room-mate-you-lying-fuck. He is now going for round two with another girl I know. She came to me looking for blessings or forgiveness or I don’t even know what, over explaining herself to the point I knew she was lying too.

Have at you sister. Enjoy the ride (he was a damn fine ride, crazy usually is).
My only advice? Don’t tell him where you live.
I lost sleep over that one, lost my sense of safety and my sanity a little bit. How did I swallow so many lies? I wasn’t alone, he had a lot of people fooled. It’s alright now.

I am done. I really am.

3 days later…

I was having Korean with a new friend, same circles, tons of mutual friends. It was some much needed me and her time. Eating kim-chi and yammering on about jobs, clothes, life, haircuts and of course, boys.

Innocent comment over some incense and I realize one of my old wants to be her new. Herein lies a dilemma…keep my mouth shut or give him a glowing recommendation? I told her how lovely he is but alas, she doesn’t double dip either.

I am not territorial. I spent 7 years defending what I thought was mine when I was married. The smarter thing would have been to walk the first time she left her marks on him and the bedroom wall. Lesson learned and carved into my bones in big deep letters. “RUN” and don’t look back. Also, we don’t own anyone ever.

I have slept with men that it would be a sin to not share with the world. My people are empaths and should feel the bliss of fucking their own kind.

I want to belong WITH someone, not to them. I want a love that comes to me out of wishes and wants.

I love this way, always.
I expect it in return.

My heart and soul are monogamous, my body is not.

Roam if you want to my love, my heart always be home.

This is the war and not the warning ~ 54-40

The pen is the sword ~ Unknown

Yellow doesn’t look good on me. Orange neither, especially not when it’s Orange Alert. That’s the color right before Red, means the hand is on the button, ready to drop bombs. Let it not come to that. Yellow, the color of cowardice, jaundice meaning the body is being toxified. Orange, reminds me of Agent Orange, someone in the war machine decided to poison everything so they could fight better. There is a sickness and a cancer here and it must be cut out before it spreads.

Let this end with a trade embargo. I ain’t buying your shit.

I tell all of my man-friends “Please don’t stick your dick in crazy”. And when they stick their dicks in the crazy chicks and it ends badly, which it always does, I am here to listen and console. I keep my “I told you so’s.” to a bare minimum.
Thankful for that because, ‘hey boys I let crazy stick it’s dick in me.’

Please don’t judge, just come get me.

Rally the troops.

I am in harm’s way.

I did the thing I warn against and got sucked into a riptide. Trying to roll with it but I am tired and I am scared. Life preserver please. Over there, to the left.

Scared isn’t a big enough word. Terror, yes, that one. I am terrified.

What am I new?

“What manner of man is this?” Bram Stoker’s Dracula

I love you Sarah, all of you.

You lead I follow.

Don’t change.

(All the things I wanted to hear)

(Then)

I’m going to need you to give up sleep, routines, job, any semblance of peace and normalcy in exchange for drama and feeding my ego. The only way I can feel any worth is to watch you change for me right in front of me.

Oh, “you can keep writing but only about me”.

Don’t talk to him or about him.

(All the things I have heard before)

No.

I have been down that road so many times the locals call me by name. “Come inside, have a cup of tea, meet the Missus” (Labyrinth). But there is no castle here, no goblin king, and no imaginary army of lovable misfits. Just poisoned fruit, control issues and this road just leads to purgatory. Spent years there, trying to farm in a desert and make a life with another Gemini who had no idea who I am, what I require, just wanted me on lockdown. Mine mine mine. Me me me.

No no no.

Never again.

The streets are lined with red flags. The words “You’re everything to me”, “You’re all I have” stitched into them. And the worst one, written in neon flashing lights colouring everything he said “You must continually prove to me that I am good enough for you by carving pieces off yourself, I’ll give you the knife.” (And another knife, and some brass knuckles and a baton)

Please let this be a cautionary tale.

If something sounds like it’s out of a movie. It probably is. If things don’t add up, it’s because the math is bad and you are trying to smell the number nine. Something rotten in Denmark? Get the fuck outta Denmark, retreat to a safe distance. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. Go home and lock the door, then add chain locks and get yourself on the fast-track transfer list. Stay with a friend. Duck and cover. Stop drop roll and tell an adult.

If he yells, he will yell again. If he uses your words against you he will do it again. If he lies he will lie again and again and again.

Run. Watch your six and run.

One month, everything escalated so quickly I didn’t see it. Standing in the forest missing the trees. Sucked into the dribbles of drama not realizing I was drowning in an ocean of it.

All of my energy systematically pulled out of me until I was actually physically sick from it. My body rebelling, my molecules needing me to stop. So I did.

The repercussions are immense.

I have to move.

Home is not safe right now.

Change my work schedule.

Change my number.

Change my life over letting the wrong man in my bed/life/house.

Mission accomplished, gold star. He made me change, just not the way he wanted.

Had to call a cop friend and suffer the embarrassment of a 41 year old woman who has been down this road before and spill it. “You know how I come across as this fairly intelligent woman with her shit together…well I am not.” I did the thing again. 15 years later. The whole ugly story. Sounds so ridiculous coming out of my mouth in a lump like that. But I swallowed the entire elephant, one fucking bite at a time. I didn’t realize what I was eating washing it down with crocodile tears.

I have my pride, but survival is more important. I threw up the elephant and swallowed said pride.
Said out loud “I really fucked up and I really need help.”

Oh the irony, that is all I was trying to do, was help. Now I need it.

“How many times are we going to do this Sarah?” This is the second. The first time ended as badly as anything could end. With police reports and court. Bruises and hospitals. Rape and break-ins. At least I know better now, mostly. I got out in time.

My boys came, reinforced doorways added locks to keep me safe(r). Screenshots, collected printed and sent to safe places. Photographs of weapons I never wanted, archived. Gathering Intel only. Recon in hopes I don’t have to go to war. Forces on standby. Foxholes dug, plans made. Harbours in the tempest. Usually my job to be the warm, safe place. I have many and I am grateful for my small army, the army of me.

Brothers and sisters. I don’t wanna preach today.
(of course I do, have we met?)

We seem to have lost the art of forgiveness. We seem to want to hold on to pain and grudges like they are something worth having. Beating ourselves up about the past and laying blame is the new black. Or grey, maybe its grey. 48 shades of colorblindness.

Forgiveness it the key to letting go, and letting go is glorious.

I feel like when you cannot let the past go, you end up like Gollum.

In the dark, focused on something that is gone.

Can I tell you a secret?
The thing when you had it? It was sucking the life out of you, had you hiding in the dark, talking to yourself, missing everything that was going on in the world and eating raw fish.

Don’t get me wrong, sushi is awesome. But let your precious go.

That was never your precious to keep.

Kill it with fire and rejoin the living.

Every time I say fuck it, like really FUCK IT to something I cannot change. Something better comes along. Less prone to evil and more sparkly.

P.S Fuck it. (Emphatically)

I have realized that in walking around this planet for 42 years I have lost a lot of things. Pets, car keys, my favorite (precious) ring from my mother, journals, half my shit in a divorce, thousands upon thousands of dollars and an equal amount of bobby pins. People that meant the world to me and yet here I am. Alive and well.

Sometimes when we lose things, they come back. I have lost a watch on the beach just to have it pulled from the sand 2 days later, I still have that watch.

It’s different with people. If you lose a watch you pout and go buy a new one.
When it’s a person we have to fill the void in our life that they left or keep tripping into the hole they left. This emptiness stems from one of two things, either you lost yourself in loving them or you found yourself there.

I was lost.

Once upon a time I didn’t understand love.

I said the words, not lying, but not understanding them either. Then we would break up.

I left them behind for a reason. I didn’t like myself very much and I made some pretty shitty choices.

I forgive myself.

Those absences were easy, after the initial shock of loss I found myself with all this glorious room to rebuild and I’d come back to myself.
Mind you, back then I would just repeat the whole process, find myself just to trip into feelings and get lost again.

I am much better now.

Someone has come waltzing out of my past.

Left my mouth agape with his return.

Acts 3:15 You killed the author of life, but God raised him from the dead. We are witnesses of this.

He is important to me, left a huge void because for the first time ever with a man I became MORE myself. He dug into my psyche and pulled out pieces of me I thought were lost and gone forever.
And when he left I found myself fighting ferociously to keep those things he resurrected in me. The things he reminded me of and breathed life into were integral parts of who I am.
And those dear readers are my precious.

With his encouragement, I sloughed off the ideas of what I should be and began enjoying what I am.

I’m back.

I no longer feel the need to pad my life with warm bodies. If you are here it’s because I care about you and I value you. Loving someone is actively participating in their happiness. Encouraging them to be themselves and celebrating that with them.

I had that, lost it and found it again. But I didn’t lose myself in the process.

If he wanders off again (and he might) I’ll keep what he helped uncover.

Men bearing bouquets of toxic love and the tenacity of strong women can be lethal combined.
We, as women, think we can heal and soothe. They seek to cage and tame.
It stops being love and starts being war.

She is all spirit and he tried to crush her.

Love is compromise, but only between two people who adore each other as is so much compromise is nothing more than Thai food when the other is really craving Chinese.

She tried with him, I watched her. Everything she built, he undermined and it collapsed.

I have been that girl.

We’re out now.

She said: If there is a man in my life I want him to never think badly of me, to always be understanding

To see my flaws and childishness as elements of something he loves and adores as a whole. I watched Good Will Hunting the other day. I want to be loved like Robin Williams loved his wife.
Or nothing at all

I said: I love everything about that movie

She said: The way you talk about love, I want to be loved

I said: I realized that (love) was possible when I met you Leah

I did.

I realized if she and I could love each other this much, flaws and all…someone else could too.
I started not accepting anything less.

My idea of love has evolved to absolute simplicity. I just do.

I don’t need you with me, I just need to know you exist.

Love does not covet or crush. Love is free will and choice. Love is acceptance or it isn’t love.

I said: I’m starting to believe more and more that the more ‘us’ we become and the more we accept what we are the better people come to us.

This is the truth.

I know what I am, I love what I am and have found her, him, them.

Once upon a time I thought I had to be perfect to be loved.

The problem with that is everyone’s idea of perfect is different and I lost myself seeking to be their ideals.

I had to come forward as myself, be forced out actually to see I was worth loving as is.

And even then I almost lost him before I realized he just wants me. ME and the weird little world that comes with me.

I am so far from perfect. I have strange, wanton wishes and wants and cravings that I have to obey. I want to be slutty as fuck one minute and adored and snuggled the next. I swear like a truck stop hooker. My moods swing far and wide. Sometimes I get so caught up in writing, or sadness or some stupid TV show I lose hours and days. I forget to eat on purpose, my muse speaks when my belly is empty. I love my sleep and my friends and cannot live happily without either.

I abhor drama, manipulation and control.

I accept everyone at face value. I want the same.

I am a decade older than her. I have walked this road, been dragged down it by my hair, been left to die on the side of it and I recognize the scenery now. I don’t want to go back. Lost in the idea of what some man thinks I should be, what I think I should be.

You don’t know about real loss, ’cause that only occurs when you’ve loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much. Good Will Hunting

I have dared to love like this, I love like this again. It is my way. It’s the only way.

I am what I am and I love how I love.

As much as I want to impart my wisdom, some lessons must be passed through and endured to learn.

At the very end of her mess I stepped into some shit of my own. She and I tend to run parallel.

What took her a year to learn I was in and out of in a month.

That first glimpse of “you have to change to make me happy” and I was out the door.

I held onto my love for her and hers for me as a life preserver and I didn’t drown. She was my map out of that place. And I hers.

This year we will have our adventures.

We may very well end up old women, sitting on a porch swing, cackling about the good old days, drinking sun tea and smiling.
Nothing but these memories of love and loss and each other for company.

Prisons are built with stones of Law,

Brothels with bricks of Religion.

The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.

The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.

The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.

The nakedness of woman is the work of God.

Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.

The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.

William Blake, The Marriage of HEAVEN and HELL

These are some of the most beautiful words ever written.

I think the worst word in the English language is ‘ew’.

I didn’t realize how much it scared me until I met a man who asked to hear all of my depravity.
I braced for the inevitable ‘ew’. But he loved me even more when I told him every fucking thing.

Shame is a prison. He is the key.

I have always been an overtly sexual creature. I just am.

I tried to hide it, had it beat out of me, had it explored tentatively, had it ignored until it almost atrophied.

None of those things served me.

All of the sex stories I told him from my youth started with ‘it was ungodly hot’.

Because it was.

I grew up in a cottage town. To keep any semblance of privacy I could only find satisfaction with summer boys. I didn’t drive, I had to wait until they came to me and they did. On sand covered blankets, in alleys and cedar groves, fire escapes and front lawns.

I had anonymity this way, the freedom to ask for what I wanted without repercussions. If they said ‘ew’ I wandered off. No great loss.

I lost that somewhere. When I finally moved away and found myself in relationships.

No, that’s not right.

In my 20’s I was brave.

I had 2 relationships wherein I could ask for what I wanted and receive it, mostly. For the simple reason they wanted things from me that were outside the norm and I played along. Why wouldn’t I?

Then came a series of unfortunate events, my marriage being one of them.

Who marries a succubus and then doesn’t fuck her? And what kind of nymph stays in a relationship where she gets laid once a month on a good month?

I do have a friend in this jail right now, and I know why she is there and I know her pain. We edit each other’s erotica and find comfort in each other’s existence. I know a few women like me now, not exactly like me but similar shades of what I am. My sisters.

I left my marriage and should’ve endeth my purgatory. But I tripped into more sexual limbo with another.

I left him too. But somewhere I stopped trusting myself and my new lovers to accommodate when I said more, more, more.

I had an awakening last summer.

A few things happened.

It amazes me how alive and well the porn industry is, and yet when faced with the reality of those airbrushed actors and contrived storylines everyone flinches labels it ‘dirty’ and ‘wrong’.
No what is dirty and wrong is you are buying it and then judging others for doing what you really want to be doing.

I was sitting at my old dining room table in my girl’s new house. Catching up with friends. Talking about sex and how people peek in bedrooms and judge what they see. WHY YOU FUCKING LOOKING?
A man told a story of a girl he knew who was just trying to get under a prude’s skin. She said her one regret before getting married is that she hadn’t scratched ‘gang bang’ off her bucket list. The prude in question kinda blustered a ‘well, I don’t think that is very ladylike’, she replied (without skipping a beat) ‘well then you can’t come to my gang bang.’ I howled.

She instantly became my power animal.

Then the Ashely Madison hack interview wherein a cougar became my other power animal. When she said she had an account for the sole purpose of wanting to get fucked by two 20 somethings at once somewhere between spin class and picking up the kids at hockey practice.

Lined up with the man who wanted to hear my stories and asked for more, more, more.

Epiphany, it is alright to be me.

He added ‘mine, mine, mine’.

This isn’t about jealousy, it is about choice and belonging.

https://www.facebook.com/MICHAELXAVIERAUTHOR/photos/pb.113476372020447.-2207520000.1454342264./1096621587039249/?type=3&theater

When combined with

https://www.facebook.com/MICHAELXAVIERAUTHOR/photos/pb.113476372020447.-2207520000.1454342268./1092732314094843/?type=3&theater

This becomes my truth.

I want to hunt. I want to come home. And I want and be loved.

I want to be dirty and depraved, examined and explored, pulled apart and then held together by the same arms that held the door open for me and let me out.

I know it is a lot to ask. But nothing is as satisfying as being absolutely what I am and to be chosen over and over for it.

Ex hubby told me in a threatening tone that all I was going to end up with was nothing but memories and stories of lovers past.

“Do you promise?”

Those memories are among my favorite things. I covet them, I write them down, I dream of them at night and wake up happy and craving more. Why would I do something so amazing if I didn’t want to remember it? Touch, taste and smell, visceral firing of synapses bringing me right back there.

And what if I could find someone who loved my stories so much he left me wild to make more? Bring them home and share with him. Show and tell. Someone who lets me journey to the edge of madness just to be waiting for me to come back to him. Who pushes me to push my own boundaries and wants to know every detail of where I have been.

There are things I have yet to try out of fear of the all terrible ‘ew’. But I will, it’s my body to do with as I please.
The idea that another human being could not just accept me afterwards but rejoice in it is bliss. The stuff of dreams.

Everything you can imagine is real. Picasso

If I exist so must my opposite and my equal.

If I end up with nothing but stories, so be it.

I’ll write them down in graphic detail and sell them to the people who call me names.
They can watch me from afar while they hide in prisons of their own making.

I have my key.

Within the Bachman Books by Stephen King there lies a story, one of my favorites. Simple premise. Young men compete for the ultimate prize by walking. Last one standing wins. If they sit down or fall down too often, they are shot. They just have to keep walking as long as they can. America places bets, it’s a national event. The winner celebrated is usually rendered mildly insane.

Mercury Retrograde feels like that. This long arduous walk. 20 days and 20 nights of trying not to fall down or get shot. Coming out the other side a little crazier than when I started.

In the end of the story, the boy who wins, finds the strength to run.

That’s me right now.

Walking out of one hot mess after the other. Coming out fairly clean, a little bumped and bruised, but always the wiser. I am always learning. By the grace of God, good, luck and a little foresight. Mostly just tenacity, I don’t know how to stop moving forward. If I have learned anything in this life it’s that you never know what is coming next. Seeds long buried bear beautiful fruit when given time, water, air and room to grow.

Truck is now sold, period is now over, relationship mess finished, the last of his things in a bag, dropped off in neutral territory. Sickness abating. Kidlet finding his own way in the world again.

Wings want to fly.

I saw that and howled. I want exactly that.

I am not some slip of a girl, clinging to some idea of a man I made up in my head. I am a woman, soft and kind. But also wise. I don’t ask of others that I cannot myself provide. I don’t want to lose myself in anyone except in those blissful moments of little death. I have no ego about this. I am what I am and he is what he is. All I ask for is free will. He will always be my choice. I, his.

Too many trips across the border rescuing women who ran to ‘him’. An aboveground railroad smuggling my friends out of their own messes. Facebook has been kind to me in that I can travel almost anywhere and have an open door, a home-cooked meal and a soft place to sleep waiting. I share this privilege and connect others in need then go get my girls.

It’s my 42^nd turn around the sun. 1/12 into it and I know I wasn’t wrong predicting great change, beautiful upheaval. Everything is lining up in the most obvious ways.

20 years ago I would have just up and r-u-n-n-o-f-t at the drop of a hat, a kind word, a promise or just because.

2 years ago I landed in Phoenix Arizona and was driven into the desert by my best girl, to Joshua Tree for dinner and soul food. Then bundled back into her car and I woke up in Los Angeles.

I found my bliss there, on Venice Beach. In her uncle’s apartment. Long drives up the coast. Everything there just felt better, like coming home. 24 hours in and I knew my way around, more than was reasonable anyways. The air felt right in my lungs. The sun kissing and caressing my skin. My whole body simply content.

Last year I wanted to go back, but it wasn’t time yet.

Now I am fixin’ to wander off because my soul says so. Heart too, vagina is on board, psyche, ego, body, logic all ‘ayes’.

Laying the groundwork. A full bank account isn’t enough. I need independence, income, structure and discipline.

I was given an opportunity 6 months ago to have just that, manifesting money with my laptop and Wi-Fi making anywhere I want to be, home.

I have learned there is beauty in the phrase “I fucked up.”

As long as it’s followed by, “I want to try again.”

I did fuck up. And I do want to try again.

The other non-magical ingredient is ‘action’. You must do the thing.

We talked. The rose colored glasses I had on about my current profession turning mucky green. What once was home and sanctuary has become hostile territory. The love I had for dancing dissipating quickly. That isn’t the kind of attention I want anymore. That is not the way I want to be chosen over and over. I have seen a better way and I want to work towards that.

Ever since I was little I wanted to write.

I have found my niche writing hard core erotica. I am good at it, it is viable/portable income.

And as soon as Sunday night football was over I said this to him. Not a mentor, but my muse. Corporeal at last. These things he gave me are tangible.

He offered advice, encouragement and connections.

Someday soon I’ll wander west. Pack up some dresses and my tiny dog, hit the road. Long meandering drive to the coast, stopping to visit my people along the way. Enjoying the journey. Destination being a little apartment somewhere not too far from the beach in the city of angels. Money trickling and then flowing in manifested by the words I write and the adventures I have.

This is the way. No need, only want.  And in this, I have found the strength to run.

We all have a desire to be learned.
In both meanings of the word, to know things and be known.
To understand and be understood.

If we find someone who wishes to learn us and celebrates what they find in you, and you rejoice in the things you uncover in them, what do you call that?

We call that bliss.

I am still learning ~ Michelangelo (age 88)

I am still learning him. I made mistakes in the past, been punished for his past unknowingly. Spent time apart regrouping, recovering and somehow always finding our way back to each other.

Loving him is like navigating a minefield, through an orchard laden with the sweetest fruit, on the way to Valhalla.

I want what is on the other side.

I started the journey knowing I would be sated and sustained in the meantime.

Knowing there are mines.

The first time I got a quarter of the way in. I walked willingly. Thinking I knew what I was getting into. Trepidatious at first. Baby steps. Nothing detonated, so I got a little cocky, stopped watching my step and BOOM.

Its looking like a limb torn off.*

I froze. Paralyzed. Just stood there unable to move forward, not wanting to go back. Suspended animation.

I kept a log of my journey, I could tell you exactly how long I stood there. Close to a year. I stripped the closest tree bare and I was starving. Seasons changed. The leaves fell from the trees and I saw what was on the other side. Shimmering castle.

A voice came on the wind. “Try again” it whispered in dulcet tones. I have a history with voices, they never lead me astray. I acquiesced. Stood up, straightened my dress and took a step.

Long palavers into the night with his voice. Giving me the strength to keep going. Words weaving body armor, and giving me a metal detector of sorts. Still learning, soaking up every bit I was given. Gleaning at lightning speed.

There were storms, I weathered them. I don’t mind getting wet, not one bit. I prefer it. As does he.

I ventured further in, long confident strides, passed the point of no return. Truth be told, that first step taken years ago was already my point of no return. I have never had any desire to turn back. This is my path, my future. I was made for this.

I walked on, dodging the occasional sniper bullet with fluid grace, almost to the other side.

And then, oh and then…

Plastic explosives, buried deep underground, but I triggered it. I didn’t see it or sense it. No time to brace. Just another earth shattering ka-boom.

This one knocked the wind out of me, left a hole in the earth I had no idea how to climb out of. I was struck dumb and blind. Buried, bruised and hurt beyond what I thought possible. And I stayed. Crushed under the weight of displaced dirt. Stunned.

I took a great whooping breath, and then another and another. Pain shooting across my diaphragm with the effort of it. Assessing the damage to my body. It was bad.

Six months this time. Half a year to recover. Clean myself up, heal, climb out.

I sat on the edge of that cavernous crater.

“You can move mountains standing still.” Sara Lord

I stood, at the edge of the precipice. Unmoving, unyielding. Waiting.

And then it came.

X’s and O’s written.

Somehow I found the strength to run.

Towards him.

I stayed soft and yielding through all of this. It’s the only way, and it’s my way.

I have been building as I have been walking, creating trust out of nothing. Holding my ground, moving mountains standing still. Coming forward when called and never retreating. I don’t want safe distance. I want arm’s length.

And that’s how this ends.

It is hard to show him what I am with all of this distance and time between us. But I try, good god I try.

I am waiting for the final call, for him to tell me it’s time, and I’ll fly.

The last leg of this journey will be through the air, soft landing.

Arm’s length, looking up at him. Letting him explore my eyes with his.

Showing him all the treasures I carried with me, love, lust, longing, wanting, truth, kindness, softness and strength.

Ready to learn lessons, hands on. Understand and explore each other without space or time between us.

Finally being gathered into his arms. Resting my head on the empire in his chest.

(*No One’s Gonna Love You (more than I do). ~ Band of Horses)

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As wolves we have wandered among the sheep. (Unknown)

I read that in the 2000^th year of Our Lord, on a t-shirt in a parking lot in Florida. Worn by some holdover from the 90’s grunge era who had yet to evolve. Long hair, flannel tied around his waist. Hand painted letters across his chest. It wasn’t the wearer that got my attention, it was the words. They struck me as if I was standing inside the Liberty Bell at high noon, ringing and reverberating through my chest. Altering me to my core. I felt liberated.

I didn’t understand it at the time, I simply knew it was important.

Now I know.

I saw this yesterday and the same sensation occurred. The truth sounds like music to me, and lies like discord. This sounds like all the choirs of angels. “Believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.” (Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Letters to a Young Poet”)

Tomorrow is the Wolf Moon.

I saw that and howled.

Someone explained to me once that we are made of so much water the moon has the power to move the oceans, therefore it must move us too. I concur.
Native Americans called this the Wolf Moon and I must adhere to their wisdom as well. The words of the old ones coming from a long standing connection with the earth and sky. They are my people.

These are not my people…Luke 10:3 Go your ways: behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves.

Never been terribly fond of sheep, nor do I want to be a shepherd. Mindless things look for ways to fuck themselves up, all rescuing and no reward.

We are warned early and often of wolves in sheep’s clothing, I see nothing to fear in them. I have said before I prefer mine naked and free. But I can always recognize my kind, regardless of guise.
However, those sheep masquerading as wolves, what vile low creatures they be. It means they have skinned a wolf, taken his life to pretend it’s their own. I cannot abide.

Everyone has an animus inside of them, not exactly in the Jungian definition, although that holds true also. More in the Latin root of the word. Spirit, and wrath. Call it a spirit animal, call it instinct and survival, call it wild. Call it whatever you want it’s there. In anyone worth knowing it is there. I can feel it, draw it out, feed it and love it.
In a world that wants men to be civilized sheep I feel it’s my job to nurture them in all their bestial glory. Let his wild out and love him for it. Be wild with him. Beside him.

My women call me WolfMama, there are a few of us, and a few of them.
Pulled in by some gravitational force they howl at me. I feed them, pet them, accept the barking and inevitable bites, bare my throat and my teeth in intervals and show them it’s alright to be them. Then I let them run. They are wolves after all, that is what they do.
My psyche is equally drawn to men with wolves in their chests. But one in particular. My beautifully broken wolf poet.
He came back to me the day 5 planets aligned. Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Mars and Jupiter. Mine and his on either end with love, wisdom and war in between. Exactly this.

He laughs at me when I speak of the planets like they have some kind of influence. And I let him. I let him do whatever he wishes. This is how I love. I just love, wander if you will, I stay. Steadfast, unwavering, watching the stars and waiting.

When I rescued horses I would turn them into the field. Let them run. Find water and where the hay and shelter was on their own. Sometimes leave them for a day or a few. Watching from safe distance. Both for them and for me. And when it felt right I would grab a pack of smokes, a bottle of water, a thermos of coffee and a book and go sit in the field. Just sit. Leaned up against a tree or a fence post. The other horses knew I had carrots and apples in my pockets and would come take theirs. Sometimes trying to knock me over for my secret stash before getting bored and going on about their horsey days.

Eventually the new one would come, to see what I was. Who is this girl that saw something in them worth saving. Who brought them here just to let them run. Sometimes in the first few minutes, once a few weeks. But I would sit and wait. Become part of the field and wait. I was always rewarded with good horses who trusted me and knew me. I never broke them, I didn’t want to. Free will is paramount. They were with me because they wanted to be.

But what happens when it isn’t a horse. It’s a wolf in man’s clothing, and I wait in the woods for months. Foraging on my own and coming up wanting. What do I bring him?

My patience and flesh apparently. Eventually he will trust. I know I will lose some of myself in the process. It’s alright.

One of my WolfMamas told me to bring whiskey on the full moon. Yes. This.

He wanders and I wait. He apologizes and I tell him it’s alright. I have no other words for him, everything is always alright. I am always right here. I will always choose him over everything and everyone.

The last statement isn’t exactly true. He brings forth all my words, the good ones that drip with honey and sin. But they are his and his alone. As am I.