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09.06.88~12.13.14

First Motherfucking Love (FML), 26, of Michael and Sarah (Kincardine, Ontario), passed away on December 13, 2014 kicking and screaming in the library of her home in Narnia and in the cab of his truck in the middle of the Prairies, while on the phone for the last time.
FML was strangled by the ties that bind, and then severed with words after 20+ years of severe heartsickness.

The funeral service won’t be held as their bodies still walk and talk and exist, baffling scientists and poets alike.

Visitation will be held at Our Lady of Lust and Grace (.com) whenever she feels like it, she is feeling like it less and less as the wounds are closing. Burial will not be necessary as a funeral pyre was lit ages ago when the moon was in the right place at the right time to really really really let go. Proceeded by the fire of 2002 wherein his girl Paula burned everything she ever sent.

Funeral arrangements are … being handled badly.

FML was born in Kincardine Ontario on September 6^th 1988. Like any child born with his/her heart outside of their body, the prognosis was grim. Again, baffling scientists and poets, FML continued to survive and thrive in its early years. Late night collect phone calls from juevie, water fights in the backyard of his home, stolen moments at parties. FML never really drew breath on its own except on August 6^th 1990, that moment is survived by the t-shirt she left at his house, he still has it.

Despite facing self-made, crippling adversity, FML was tenacious, enduring and real and almost came to fruition in the spring of 2001 but was bludgeoned into a coma by stubbornness and fear where it remained on life support, coming out of the coma once, to save her life, and again last year, twice.

She worked as a stripper for more than 15 years. He was a lumberjack before working on the oil pipeline out west. They both dated various other people who were always vexed by not being in full possession of the person they were with. Both halves of FML were fascinated by the life of the other, but always from a distance.

FML enjoyed long walks on the beach, sitting on rooftops, teasing the shit out of each other and never lost the magic that is late night phone calls.

FML is survived by their 3 children, by other baby mamas/daddy.

FML was fostered shortly after birth by Mr. Ciavaglia and his penchant for pairing them up in grade 9 drama class. FML was borne witness to and nurtured by various brothers and sisters for the last 26 years, most recently Natalie and her kitteny-kitten face, she paid dearly for her involvement with FML. His actual brother has promised to find her if anything happens, but she knows she will know.

In lieu of flowers, wait, I want flowers. Flowers can be sent anytime, I like flowers.
Alternately donations can be made to Free Mali the lonely elephant.

(Happy Birthday Honey)

When I got dumped there was a disturbance in the force, like a million voices crying out, or just mine, Really loud. Earth shattering ka-boom.

I said my heart sometimes makes whale noises, that low series of clicks, creaks, and baritone moans that carry across oceans.

The call was answered. Sunday, St. Anthony, Young Un, Body Pillow, the Archangel Gabriel and Jesus messaged me from Berlin of all places. I half expected High School Sweetheart to break his vow of silence (he didn’t). They quickly formed a protective circle, like musk ox, shoulder to shoulder, horns pointed out at the invisible enemy, me safely tucked in the middle.

Like fathers flocking when someone touches the thermostat. I am the thermostat.

I posted a meme on my Facebook page. Found it on Wormwood.

There was a grand fussing and clucking of tongues. “No No” they cried.

Ya Ya. I say.

On a long enough timeline anything can be assessed for what it really was and old hurts can fall away, if you let them. Your mind really is a garden, you reap what you sow. Stop feeding the weeds. There were flowers and fruit there once, when you loved someone…find those.

Twice I have been in the desert when it comes to being with someone. Just a sandy void. Wasn’t there a kid’s movie with the Desert of Fogettingness or some such shit? To +Google…nope the “Deadly Desert” from Return to Oz. Yes this, and the Swamp of Sadness from Neverending Story. Nothing good grows there.

Case and point, most recent actual ex. St. Ant calls him “Budget George Bush”, he has been referred to by me, in here as Pimp Daddy. I wrote this whole long, rather clever resume detailing all the shitty shit he did.

I started it with the quote “Your resentment is delicious”. (Glee)

Two things.

1. Jena needs pompoms. I promised something positive and that weren’t it.
2. He is gone. So who is resenting who? Revenge is a dish best served by the gods, and just living well is actually enough. He is like oatmeal, it’ll go cold and congeal on its own. I don’t want to be resented. I don’t want to think of him nor be thought of, by him, at all. There is no love there. There never was. So where there is no love, no hate can grow either.

So whose resentment tastes like what now?

Convoluted like melty ice cream. You can’t undo melted ice cream.

Fuck it. I’ll just wash my hands and buy another ice cream.

Anger is an energy. By fighting against something you give it power. Use your powers wisely and don’t water the desert, even Hercules wouldn’t have accepted that as a task.

I know why I did what I did, by dating him I mean. The Angel of the Lord was right, my pendulum swings to extremes, often past the fulcrum, never landing anywhere near the middle. Fuck it, I am a wrecking ball, if Stephen King wrote a story involving a possessed piece of demolition equipment instead of a 1958 Plymouth Fury. I went from drowning in the passion I felt for St. Anthony, to the driest place I could find. There was nothing there. Just killing time.

‘Killing time’ can be read two ways. One, a bland wasteland the other implies fury and wrath, time to die.

My musky, muscly, horned wall of masculine protection. I love them. There may have been times when I thought I didn’t, but I do. That love isn’t what it started as, I no longer covet as a rule, but I think I learned that from them. No good comes from coveting.

I don’t know if it’s just a higher level of consciousness or my well-honed logic that dictates, I let these men into my bed, into my life. I must have seen something good in them once, it wasn’t hard to see it again once my eyes relaxed. Oh look a sailboat.

We need more words for love. My love for them means I want them to be happy wherever they are and that if I hear their whalesong, I will come, wings spread and fiery sword at the ready to defend them and a first aid kit full of kindness to bandage their wounds. Except for Body Pillow, we have a Luke and Leia kinda love, awkward sexual tension but he’s my funk soul brotha.

I need to find somewhere in the middle, in the fertile land of passionately understood, ferociously safe, protective & protected.

It should be abundantly clear by now that I don’t attend church.

I make my own days of worship and ritual.

Wednesdays. Mercurial, as am I. Perfectly quick-silvery day to celebrate, communicate and commune with my tricksy Gods of yore. Have my voice heard and rejoice. Lord hear our prayer. “Edie gave me this telephone, she says I can talk to God.” (Crispin Glover, The Doors)

Thursdays, I still reverently sit and listen to the sermons of Rob Brezny’ Freewill Astrology delivered as horoscopes.
Interpret the words of God, bend them to my will.

Fridays, ruled by Venus. 17 years ago I lived with my 2 weird sisters (the maiden and the crone). We dubbed Friday *Love Day*. If you could call ‘bumping into’ that boy, peeling him off the bar, pouring him into a cab then bumping into him, less dressed, in his twin bed “lucky” or “love”. T’was neither.

That was a million years ago.

Not ready to wander back there. But here we go…

Two days ago I played pinball with the Archangel Gabriel.

Luke 1:26-30 And the angel Gabriel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.
And when she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her mind what manner of salutation this should be.
And the angel said unto her, “Fear not for thou hast found favour with God.”

I feared anyways, I was a scared little thing back then.

Years later I saw the movie ‘Legion’, and realized who he was. They even look alike.
The ecstasy of perfect recognition (Stephen King)

I was a known squanderer of blessing and messages. I left him and hurt him, this angel. Traded him in for a foot in the ass at 4 am, scrounging for my clothes in the dark, one-handed as I had a fist jammed in my mouth to keep from crying until I reached the door. That 4 block walk home, tranny hookers clucking their tongues in pity…every Friday for a year. Save a few when I was saved, but I always found my way back to hell. I had a map and a death wish.

I turned my back on Jesus for him too.
We’re just gonna go ahead and call that a low point.
Not the lowest I have ever been, but fucking loooooow.

We’ve come a long way baby. Amen.

By making Sunday the global day of (y)Our Lord. What we are really doing is worshipping the Sun. Paying homage at the very least.

I’m a Sun Eater (among other things) its part of a nutritious breakfast, a source of 7 essential vitamins and minerals. My Nana pointed out years ago, the more side dishes pictured in the commercial, the less healthy the cereal was. Metaphor.

I watched “The Road” (Cormac McCarthy). That is my definition of hell, I have never been so horrified by anything as I was by the idea of a world without light.

“It didn’t matter when <you> left, it was only as if the sun had gone out of the world.” Susan Carroll

Way back when, Sunday’s meant Limelight. 3^rd floor, all us children of the night dressed in our Black Sunday best, dancing to Bauhaus, Sisters of Mercy, NIN et al. Goth Mecca. It’s where I met the angel Gabriel and found temporary sanctuary.

Sunday is my favorite day again. (Silver Linings Playbook)

The rituals for this holiest of days have changed and evolved for me, but the sanctity remains.

I drink the Blood of Christ, body temperature coffee while the sun is up (and Manhattan’s when the sun goes down).

The plants get (holy) watered.

I light incense, for Buddha.

I post confession on this blog.

Change the sheets so they are clean and fresh for when I crawl home anything but.

I shower and dress in my Sunday best.

I sing choir in my car.

Sunday school, as of late has been playing pinball and discussing mythology with Gabriel.

After we part ways, I get anointed with oil in the form of a deep tissue massage.

Then off to dinner with Sunday where the body of Christ looks more like steak tartare at a place called Union.

“She tells me Worship in the bedroom.
The only heaven I’ll be sent to is when I’m alone with you…
“Only then I am human. Only then I am clean.”
Hozier ‘Take me to Church’

It is just like heaven.

“Tara Thornton: My mama, when she thought somethin’ was too good to be true, sh-she’d say, “Satan in a Sunday hat.” That’s exactly what this is.
Eggs: You know it took me a long time to stop looking over my shoulder, too. But there are good people in this world. Sometimes, good shit happens.” (True Blood)

When is a metaphor not a metaphor?

When I don’t know how to end this.

And lo there was a blinding light and a BIG ba-da boom.
And there appeared unto the girl an Angel of the Lord, bearing good tidings and shit. In a great booming voice he spoketh unto her and this is what he said…

“Hey Dummy, whatcha readin’?”

“’Salem’s Lot”, she replied, and lit another cigarette.

“Again?” he inquired.

“Yep. You gonna fold your wings and stay awhile? Want some coffee?”

“No thanks Mama, you are almost out of milk”. He folded his wings and sat on the couch. “That ‘alone’ quote has been making the rounds again I see”.

“Seriously, you Angels sit around and look at Facebook?” she marked her place and chuckled into her coffee.

Wim Wenders had it right in Wings of Desire, we watch, it’s what we do. All y’all just made it easier. Mark Zuckerberg gets preferential treatment once he makes it up here. How does it make you feel?”

“Mark Zuckerberg…I dunno, kinda go human go. Or did you mean being watched? A little creeped out, but safe I guess. Welcome to my juxtaposition, I live here.”

“No, No, the quote Dummy.” He rolled his eyes.

“Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.”― Stephen King
(sourced via https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/90835-alone-yes-that-s-the-key-word-the-most-awful-word )

“I rarely argue with the King. But honestly…I don’t agree.
I’ve been to hell and I wasn’t alone. I dunno, been alone for over a year now, for all intents and purposes. S’okay I guess, except for the times I feel trapped and abandoned. That’s my hell, ‘trapped’. Abandoned isn’t great either but I am pretty sure if someone walks it’s not my fault. Alone is okay, I got this.”

And the Angel of the Lord cleared his throat (which sounded like a symphony by the way)

“To quote George Bluth ‘you’re just a turd out there.*’ We can’t watch this anymore, you are fucking flailing. You survived, you made your point, now stop being so fucking stubborn. You are not now, nor were you ever meant to be a cat lady. Look at you for fuck sake’s. When was the last time you had a meal that wasn’t cake or a sandwich or another cup of coffee and a smoke? I bet if I go look in the dryer it’s full of sweatpants, and not the cute ones neither. You are on this shitty loop, looking like Ada Monroe in Cold Mountain, crying in bed, hands stained with ink, waiting…if Ada Monroe had jogging pants.”

She rolled her eyes in grand frustration tinged with embarrassment. “So it’s back to settling then is it? Got another meat puppet lined up to suck the life outta me with his lack of imagination and bland sex, did that, never going back again. I want magic.”

The eye rolling competition heated up, “What is it with you? Why does your pendulum only swing to the extremes? Look, I brought you something. You will just know it when you see it. Now, do what thou wilt, but don’t be a dummy Dummy, mmmm’kay?”

And lo, what doth appear in her inbox? A Biker Body Pillow.

For a girl who stripped as long as I did, I met like 3 and a half bikers, Ever. Everything I know about bikers I learned from Sons of Anarchy, which I took with a box of salt, since it’s fucking fiction.

One of the 3.5 messaged me a few weeks ago. Off to lunch we went, had nachos. Why is it always nachos? Nachos are my jumping off point.

So we chatted. He was having some love troubles, we hadn’t seen each other or spoken in 6 years except a random run in 10 towns away last year. And as if by some magic, the night after my heart broke, he came to check on me, and stayed the night.

No sex, just up all night talking and taking turns being the big spoon.

Operation Human Shield.
“If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?”
Snow Patrol ~ Chasing Cars

Giant Tattooed self aware bikers make the most wonderful blankets. Especially giant tattooed self aware bikers who just had their hearts stomped on too. it’s funny this feeling of being absolutely devastated and feeling lucky as fuck simultaneously, never felt this way, or anything close to it. It’s beyond strange but so am I.

I wish I could patent this shit, I really do. Every girl who ‘cannot even’ needs one of these.
6’4” tattooed and snuggly. He reminds me to eat, bathe, get out of the house, slow dances with me in the library. I feed him cookies and scrambled eggs and notice when he has been to the gym. We watch movies and talk on the phone like teenagers. He is having a hard time too, so we say the things that can’t be said, about they who will not be named. Yin and Yang. I give him girl eyes and he gives me man logic. Win fucking win.

I have never had any luck getting over someone by getting under someone else, I just get crushed again, I need to be weightless.
But having someone beside me, is a gift from God.

* from Arrested Development. I really wanted to use this quote to describe someone else, not me. But if the shitty shoe fits…

I feel like Jacob Two Two meets the Hooded Bill Murray on Groundhog Day part two, the fucking sequel.

I already know what is going to happen.

Oh Saturn, you Titanic re-hasher of lessons.

Cronus, father to all the gods I know and love.
The devourer of children, mostly his own.

He is the Lord of History (Repeating).

Fuck it, he is the King.

Lord hear our prayer.

Saturn Return, as I was taught, occurs in your 29th year and every 29 years until you die. Saturns re-enters your sign and stays for 7 years. This occurrence heralds a new life phase, but first, all lessons re-hashed, re-learned, re-taught, returned and repeated.

“Poor old Michael Finnegan begin again”.

I spent the 7 years I should have been in school hiding out in the damn Bell Jar/Thunderdome that was the farm. Crying, fighting, throwing tantrums, skipping class to get high, A.D.D. to the enth degree. Might as well have been Helen Keller, the early years, wildling child. “you aren’t just blind, you are deliberately blind.” American Horror Story, Coven

And on the 7th year, I left.

None the wiser.

Just like Mr. Thompson, my grade 9 math teacher, who watched me flail, Mr. Saturn took pity on us and passed me with a marginal grade. Pity or pride that I managed to cling to the mortal coil. Who knows.

“Good job honey, you sorta made it. See you in 4 years.”

The second part was written in a language I had yet to learn called ‘the future’. I got mired down in every shitty moment unaware of the passage of time.

The past serves a purpose, but I think we misuse it. We carry way too much baggage that belongs to others. It’s really not your fault you got treated that way, except you let them. So don’t let them.  I allowed myself to fall apart so I could be rebuilt, better, faster, stronger. I made a firm decision to be myself. I was struggling to find some divine purpose, some (astro) logical reason for this mess, this stress, picking the stars apart looking for hope.
“I wonder if the stars regret me, I’m sure they’d like me if they only met me.” Kate Rusby

Precedents are set to be broken and bent.
There is so much more than we can imagine.

Saturn is in trine and transit. Going direct and retrograde with alarming frequency. November 2nd 2014 until 2017. Sounds about right.

When researching for this article I learned Saturn is exalted in Libra and Gemini has no exaltation. I beg to differ, I am exal-fucking-tation incarnate.

Globally we have lessons coming in double time, being alive right now seems hauntingly familiar. If you live with ghosts, they are boogeying right out of the closet. Dance with them, ask them what they want, M.Night Shamaylan got that right. Our karma is of the instant variety and epiphanies are feeling like rumble strips, reminding us that we are indeed on the road and to slow the fuck down.

It’s déjà vu, all over again.

But I don’t like this loop, I want a new one. I want back on my rollercoaster, this carousel sucks.

Tell me teacher what’s my lesson. ~ Tears for Fears

If I needed help remembering, well I got that too. There was a dress rehearsal and I blew my lines.

I get a chance to do it again, the curtain will go up, all will be well. I know this.

“Never underestimate the power of blind faith. It can manifest in ways that bend the laws of physics or break them entirely.” (True Blood)

‘Strange how we decorate pain.’ ~ Margaret Atwood

(put a bird on it ~ Portlandia)

My internal dialog is a funny thing.

There is a prevalent southern twang I can’t explain. Scooby Doo, Martha Stewart, Dr. Evil, Morgan Freeman all knights at the round table/round-a-bout that is my train (switchyard) of thought.

I am incapable of thinking the words ‘shenanigans’ and okay without a dash of South Park entering into it.
‘Okay’ has forever metamorphisised into mmmm’kay.
Mmmmmm ‘kay?

So. Once upon a time. I was sitting on a concrete parking divider in a pretty pair of panties and an exquisite pair of stilettos. Every time the breeze blew by it carried the smoke from my cigarette away along with a soft cascade of gold sparkles shed from the Mardi Gras mask perched precariously on my head, holding my hair back.

I was enjoying the moment, watching the seagulls play fighter pilots, just feeling the sun on my skin.

To my left (always to the left)

“Mmmmm’kay, this chicka is about to step off the edge into a full blown panic attack, what us gonna do?”

She was one chunk of concrete over from me. I could just make out her tiny, pleading mumbles over the whir of the a/c unit.

I didn’t have to hear her, panic was coming off her in waves and hitting me in the chest. I felt sick and sad and scared for her.

She caught me peeking at her, the shaking and rocking started, like my acknowledgement had allowed the floodgates to be breached.
Fuck, here we go mmmmm’kay.

I nurture.

It’s what I do.

I see any Being in pain and I try to fix it.

Can’t help it. It’s literally a compulsion. Even the most vehement, well-deserved hatred cannot trump it.

No matter how many times I get shredded, betrayed, assaulted, used, abused for it. Cannot shake it.

I don’t want to.

Call me nice like it’s a bad thing again, fucker.

“…the kindness I’ve lavished on strangers is more than I can explain” ~ Ani Difranco

Someday I will kill someone with my kindness, I know this.
That someone will probably be me. S’okay.

I am also a homing beacon for the lost. They find me, magnetic phenomenon, Stella Polaris. I get asked for directions in places I have never been. I am a safe house, or one of them priests in a box, tell me all your shitty shit and I will make it all better.

Back to the sad stripper in the sunshine.

She mumbled something about a bad experience on Halloween, the mask was a trigger.

“What’s worse than rape?”
“When you find that out you’ll have all the answers.”
~The General’s Daughter

I didn’t want the answers.

Someone told me a story about how they lost a tooth and split their lip open, my mouth hurt for days after, not just my mouth, my psyche as well. I’m an empath and my heart does get broken with the things that break the heart of God, often.
I have got to stop asking about scars. I fucking know better.

I turned to her and said, in my best authoritative teacher voice “Honey, I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t want to know and you don’t want to tell me. Whatever it was, it isn’t happening anymore. I need you to leave wherever you are in your head and be HERE, with me, safe on this curb. GET OVER HERE (Scorpion, Mortal Combat).”

She opened her mouth to protest. That’s the thing about the sad, sometimes rock bottom gets comfortable and they wanna stay there. She didn’t.

This wave of calm washed over me, and then her.

She didn’t say a word, just picked up the mask and walked inside.

A week later, she sought me out, asked me to go out for a smoke with her.
She said thank you, grateful that I hadn’t asked her to rehash her pain.
She said I was the first girl who hadn’t tried to pry the truth out of her.

She said she had been through years of therapy, self-help, self-medicating, prescribed meds et. al. trying to kill the thing that was trying to kill her and the most at peace she had felt in years was that moment in the sun with me.

Ask me again why I am so nice.
I have been her.
Scared, lost, caught in loops, bound by the past, I am just no longer a prisoner of my ghosts.

http://seraph777.deviantart.com/art/Harpy-441907086

Children have to go through a period of going crazy. I mean, of course, you don’t want it to end in DEATH (laughs). That’s kind of the limit, death. I don’t want it to go THAT far. ~ Mick Jagger

I read that when I was 13, in Seventeen magazine. I cut it out, still have it.

I felt like he was giving me permission. I was already crazy and trying to stifle it.
Moods swinging like an out of control wrecking ball in wide unpredictable arches, smashing into anything and everything and I couldn’t stop it.
‘Sorry about that so sorry’,
Erratic swing, smash.
‘Oh dear sorry about that’.
Except there were periods, mid swing when I wasn’t sorry, I was angry and viciously enjoying the free fall and destruction. Then the guilt set in and I was inconsolable, for a minute, and then back to being a vengeance demon.

Imagine Chicken Little, if Chicken Little was a mythical Screaming Harpy. 5’8”, 96-140 pounds of sharpened claws, deafening screeches, beating random villagers to death with her wings.
‘The sky is falling guys, can’t you see it.
Seriously, guys, the sky.
FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK ALL Y’ALL THE FUCKING SKY IS FUCKING FALLING’.
Cue the rage.

Then, as if by some monkey magic. It’s over. Almost like the selective amnesia nature provides after childbirth. Pain threshold breached and then some…then forgotten. My body and minds way of protecting me, knowing it was going to happen again and I would probably kill myself from the memory of what I had done and how I felt.

The devil, you know?

The ‘they’ thought I was crazy, fuck, I thought I was crazy. The ‘they’ thought I was bi-polar. I had no reason to believe otherwise, the only thing more horrifying than I when I get like that is that feeling of chemical induced numbness. I had a prescription, I pretended to take it. There but by the grace of Susan go I.

Basically for 3-7 days a month I lose my shit. I feel like I am in a “glass case of emotion”. I get paranoid and angry, I feel persecuted, like a huge failure and the negative thoughts just keep on coming, it snowballs. I have crippling panic attacks wherein I have no control over my body and huge feelings of sadness that crash into me like waves. I cannot get happy, I drown in it. I want to be alone, but I feel abandoned, I want a hug, but I can’t be touched. It is a nightmare. Angry outburst for NO reason, irrational behaviour, low self-esteem and insecurities caused by a lot of guilt over behaviour I cannot control. It was/is the most evil of conundrums.

The clincher? I sometimes go months between episodes. I never know when it’s gonna hit until I am drowning.

I reached out once in 2011, after 90 days of literally staying hidden. I put myself on lock down and rained down fire and brimstone on anyone who dared breach my sanctuary. I wrote a thing on Facebook basically claiming I was a total piece of shit and deserved none of the well wishes and encouragement people were giving me.

“If I don’t get some shelter oh ya I’m going to fade away” ~ Rolling Stones

This woman messaged me and said “hey Sarah, I have been watching you, keeping track and I think you have this thing”. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premenstrual_dysphoric_disorder

I have the thing.

5/12 gets you a diagnosis. I have 11/12, my anorexia trumps the binge eating.

I now know too that certain things can keep it at bay, sunshine, B12 injections, swimming, dancing, laughing, sex and just knowing, you know?

“I’m-a make a deal with the bad wolf so the bad wolf don’t bite no more” ~ AWOL Nation

This devil, I know.

Oh, just for more funsies add to that crippling evil death actual PMS.

Cramps, what a mild and mediocre word for the sensation of being sawed in half. My ‘lady pains’ get so bad I recently fell to my knees in a thrift shop, there but by the grace of some second-hand curtains I avoided smashing my knees on the floor.

Oh, one more thing. I have always suffered from regular depression as well. ‘Regular’ depression? That came out wrong.
What I mean to say is I have always felt everything on a very deep level, I have always been withdrawn, insecure, unsure, scared, misunderstood and angry about it, but guilty about being angry. I feel a weight crushing my chest, keeping me from breathing and eating, sometimes even getting out of bed. ‘Normal’ activities terrify me to the point of non-involvement.

I make Mordor out of a molehill.

The last 4 years of my life have been this fucked up journey out. Starting with Susan reaching out from Tuscon Arizona and giving a shit about me. Culminating with St. Anthony’s insistence that I get my ass in therapy or he wouldn’t take me back.
(“How ‘bout them transcendent dangling carrots” ~ Alanis Morrisette.)

I went. I sat in a conference room, in a chair across from this earthy-horse girl who glowed with kindness, and I found myself saying things to this stranger, just letting the words come. And every time she answered ‘well that wasn’t right’ or ‘that is totally normal, its okay’, I believed her. 10 more sessions and the thing I remember the most is her saying…

“Everything you are is a house, any kind of house you want, you built it. Inside the house are all of these rooms filled with things you love and things that you are. What happens is, starting when you are little, you show rooms to people, they react negatively and you shut the door to that room.”

I was living in my foyer, all the other doors had been shut. She encouraged me to open them and explore.

“I am the key to the lock in my house” (Radiohead)

I opened the doors and let myself out.

(written a year ago, today)

It’s such an odd sensation to look back at my life thus far and see with absolute clarity why certain phrases, words, movie moments, lyrics resonated in me so hard they shook me to my core before I had any idea or context of what they would end up meaning to me.

I am not sure if I am ready for This, but This is really wants out, so I will let it.

“Show me show me show me how you do that trick”~ The Cure

“I can’t” she laughed. “It will make you scream” she said.

“Seriously Sarah, You do NOT want to be able to do this.”

Okay.

Its 7 years later maybe, give or take, Skrillex ‘Bangarang’ blaring in the library, “I’m eating Fun Dip right now not giving a fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck”

I don’t even like dubstep.

In front of a mirror. Never watched myself before. (Weird right?)

Wiggle wiggle wiggle … Pop.

Jesus Fucking Christ what the Actual Fuck did I just do?

Do it again.

                           I
just

                   dislocated
my hips.

                      wOw.

#girlswhogetsmashedupincarwrecksandgetbackonstageandowntheirshit.

She was in a car wreck too, busted pelvis, stubborn… like me.

I told you I fell and I got up… on stage in platform stilettos, under black lights with a brass pole in my hand HOLDING myself up.

She mega-twerked to Counting Bodies like Sheep ~ Perfect Circle before there was a word for it. I always stopped what I was doing to watch, I cannot hear that song without thinking of her.

Songs hit my memory hard.

Me: “Did we just fuck to Somewhere Over the Rainbow?”
Him: “Yes my love.”
That was just the once.
The soundtrack to that relationship was Wintersleep, “Oh have you seen my ghost” (ya, I let him into my bed, sorry about that).

“I will (not) follow (that one) into the dark.” ~ Death Cab for Cutie.
Heard that song and dumped a boy, because no, I would not, I wouldn’t even follow him to the place where he lit himself on fire so I could watch him burn.

“Wake up dead man, can’t you see I’m starving” ~ Holly McNarland held my hand in the year of Dan, whilst I was Numb.

Jesus was “Pepper” ~ Butthole Surfers, I could taste him on my lips and smell him in my clothes, at least once a week, he used to come to work and get dances before he decided to fully cheat on his woman with me. Baby steps.

St. Anthony were walking down the street one day early in our relationship, he hands me his ear buds, “I want to (fucking) tear you apart” ~She Wants Revenge. Really honey? That makes you think of me huh, I am touched and terrified in equal amounts.
Hey, I stayed, and a week later we stumbled on Keane, “Is It Any Wonder”. Oh my god I loved that song. He let me play it 100 times in a row. Years later I actually listened to the lyrics…

Seriously, this was our theme song.

I, I always thought that I knew
I’d always have the right to
Be living in the kingdom of the good and true
And so on, but now I think I was wrong
And you were laughing along
And now I look a fool for thinking you were on, my side

Is it any wonder I’m tired?
Is it any wonder that I feel uptight?
Is it any wonder I don’t know what’s right?

Sometimes
It’s hard to know where I stand
It’s hard to know where I am
Well maybe it’s a puzzle I don’t understand

…

Ya, that happened. 7 years of Exactly That.

Sisterwife and I took turns being Dolly then Jolene, then Dolly then Jolene.

Young Un was the singer for one of those death/black/crazy growling metal bands. Sexy as fuck once I wrapped my head around it. But get this, we were eating nachos on our first date and both started bar stool dancing to ‘I got my mind set on you’ ~Travelling Wilburys. That may have been the moment this kitten got smitten. Yes this.

Lana Del Rey was peddling her breathy crony dirty love junk to my ears then too. I meant to sue her for making me fully fucking retarded, high on nothing, worrying about forever. She gets her own post.

The recovery period OST was primarily Daughter namely the songs Youth, Candles and Landfill. ‘I’ve lost it all on just our silhouettes’, ‘you’re too old to be so shy he says to me so I stayed the night’. But mainly ‘this is torture…this is dangerous, I want you so much but I hate your guts.’

Soundtrack to Sunday? The first time we fucked was to Rumors ~ Fleetwood Mac. Oh ya, the ultimate break up album of all time. It fits, sorta. ‘When times go bad, when times go rough won’t you lay me down in the grass and let me do my stuff’. Yup.

I was practicing dancing in the library because I am going back to work. I fucking miss it like mad. My heart hurts, time to get whole and strong again.

I chose my music with great care, based on mood, crowd and energy level. And if no one is around shit gets weird …”Shake Senora” ~ Harry Belafonte, or sometimes “Brenda Stubbert” ~ Ashley MacIsaac, my favorite “Worlock(ed)” ~ Skinny Puppy, now with extra Charles Manson.

I have severe, chronic lizstomania. Part of the reason I love being a stripper, there is always music in the air.

I miss that feeling of “holy shit, I just fucking nailed that”. My Cheshire grin that comes with getting away with it…  and it’s fun for me. I escape for 12 minutes at a time, become the Angel Of Small Death  ~ Hozier (shoulda worshiped her sooner)

I know I’ll shake when I climb back on stage, like it’s my first time, hence dance practice. I am back up to 95% flexibility, spending a week with the Queen of pole tricks, finally going for that Thai massage to re-tear ligaments. I think this last triumphant return of mine will be triumphant.There are a few songs I simply must dance to and I need this, it’s the Monster Hospital where I nurse my wounds.

I was always a snake charmer, now I am a snake girl “So shed your skin and let’s get started”~ Hunters and Collectors.

I can unhinge my hips I’ll swallow you whole.

We will just add that to the list of my super powers, “I slithered here from Eden” ~Hozier, after all.

I am watching season 4 of True Blood and daydreaming of amnesia.

It is such an odd sensation to covet what you fear the most.
Except I don’t want to forget.
I just want to be clean.

Tabula Rasa Tabula Rasa Tabula Rasa

I always liked old chalkboards, the ghosts of old words making accidental poetry. But, there is magic to be found being the first to make your mark somewhere, the possibilities are…all.

“All is possible”. ~ Eric

I suffered substantial memory loss after the car accident. Bad. Lost words, worlds, days.

I wasn’t making good memories anyways, so s’okay.
And I get to watch a bunch of movies and TV shows over again like it’s the first time, so that’s pretty cool.

I retained one conversation with kidlet and Baby Who and another friend. We had fetched an X-mas tree so the apartment had that sharp pine smell, we were drinking tea and belly laughing whilst they tried to explain the plotline of “Lost” to me… a polar bear, really? I still think the show is one big intelligent joke, like Scientology.

Weird (not weird) I managed to, a year later, lose 10 folders of all corresponding photos to the gap in my brain. If that ain’t the Universe screaming out “let it go”, I don’t know what is. That one was a big ol’ lit up Vegas marquee, it said “RUN”.

But that was back in a time when I was deaf dumb and blind to the signs. I stayed put and suffered for it.

I have since taught myself to read.
Quieted my mind so I can hear.
Cried my eyes out until I had new eyes, all the better to see you my dear.

March 20^th 2015 the ultimate cosmic reboot. Solar eclipse on a New Moon on the cusp of the astrological New Year and Spring Equinox.

Tabula Rasa Tabula Rasa Tabula Rasa

I have always been superstitious about how I spend New Year’s. Whatever I am doing at midnight is a reflection of the year to come. Always seemed finite, set in stone. Nothing is.

I did a Wikipedia search, keywords New Year’s.
Vernal Equinox, the day the days start getting longer
White People Sparkle Hat Drunky Eve
Epiphany
Tibetan/Vietnamese/Chinese Lunar New Year
The Quickening
Babylonian, Assyrian et cetera et cetera.

Basically, if it suits me (and it suits me just fucking fine) I have a myriad of days between December 21^st and June 21^st I get varying degrees of do-overs, with some new moons thrown in for good measure.

But this, this was a big un.

There was a war between old me and new me. I was torn in two.
Fuck it, that wasn’t the only war, but the other one has become unspeakable.

The Great Conjunction.
What was sundered and undone,
Shall be whole,
The two made one.

The Dark Crystal

I have seen the future.
I remember as much of the past as I need to.
History repeats.
I know what is going to happen.

“Tell her I was born the night she found me.” ~ Eric