oh the swing of cords carries me suspended throughout time - I am simultaneously one end and another and all the betweenness

singing like an extension of the energy within - oh the galaxies we both are and share///oh the gravitational pull of it

yes there is so much space and unending orbit///we are all without control drawing towards and back and forth, our

four dimensional selves form ellipses we cannot see, and thus it all seems so ridiculous, laughable, and whether or 

not I laugh is not even up to me but everything and if I am everything it is still not up to me since there is no control

only surrender and nothing can determine if I will laugh or not laugh, the way space is like space and clusters - oh,

a laugh cluster happening by, there is no way to know for sure if we’ll collide - I am open. I force nothing. I

am a force the way everything is and nothing is and it’s ridiculous and beautiful and so easy to feel confused

and like I am “making” a decision, when rather, the decision finds me, we fall in line with each other, we

continue and blissfully feel our overlap until it is no more and everything is and is not and circling self and home.

There is the liveliness of the fountains and the overhanging vines with their fluttering leaves that create a dappled light.

[[Thermal Delight

thehotmessiest:

cupcakesnotbombs:

plantingourdead:

uncutting:

lizardtakesflight:

Warning: biologically accurate illustrations

I’ll admit the hymen is one aspect of the vulva’s anatomy I was never very familiar with, but I found this to be a very interesting read.

This was a useful read because let’s be serious, nobody learns about this in health class.

fyi

ok but this ACTUALLY blew my mind. WHY DO I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT MY VAGINA???

earlyfrost:

We flame the river
to keep the boat paths open
your eyes eat my shadow
at the light line
touchless
completing each other’s need
to yearn
to settle into hunger
faceless
a waning moon.

Plucking desire
from my palms
like the firehairs of a cactus
I know this appetite
the greed of a poet
or an empty woman
trying to touch
what matters.

I am not so much filled with, as a vessel

for, a tremendous rain spring of sadness.

Flow through me, sour tinctures. Rest deep

and be renewed and then you may return

unto my precious carapace, loins

like lungs, I crave you

and the rain spring

longings

endure deep my toes, seeping

skin, lost boys’ distractions

tracing beauty losing sight.

Chickens and trickles and a 

man holding a toddler’s hand—

they crouch in the

shattered porcelain, looking

down and around—

I’m looking down and around

and I feel it sinking

wonder what’ll be left.

gethustle:

notrobertpollard:

Comatricha nigra, a slime mold, Portola Redwoods State Park, San Mateo Co., CA, USA

San Mateo Represent!

darlings and footsteps, bare breaths

and hard breasts and full

crescendo till your cold fingertips

tickle

We speak into boxes of our parents’ voices

focused full

not

long term

HALLELUJAH! May every angel flit in

harmony with the seven billion human

breaths, infinite other life forms,

lives, dances, leaves

Undulate into me, richshaw boy. Tell me

forsooth and sought after and

I’m sorry

but that doesn’t mean I know how to stop moving

even sitting and sideways,

something is running

there’s a dance

My good morning glory applesauce

cheeks warm slippy hair bodies

wrapping unwrapping naked not naked naked

turning over building disappearing

a smile shatters heavenly bell morning

good morning

amen

The General Strike began seven minutes ago, supposedly. Or, at least, the rally at Sproul plaza, if not the strike. It is 11:07 am. I woke up around 10 am and found it so difficult to get out of bed, everything in me was pushed horizontal, pulled down, how could I move? (Is it starting again? The exhaustion that lasts for days? Weeks?)

This is when, as a younger person, I would get out of bed for the four seconds it would take to get into my parent’s bed. Their bed was always comfier and their sheets cooler than my bed. It would hold me like a refreshing cloud. I could watch my mom get dressed, or she would leave the door open to her bathroom so I could watch her blowdry and makeup. Or I would make eye contact with myself in the mirror sliding doors of their closet, until I felt ready, or someone coddled me into getting up.

This morning I just wanted to fall back asleep. Mishka jumped all over me, humphing and gruntpurs and meows. She was ready to go in the backyard, or eat breakfast, enough of this foodless bedroom and fleas. I pushed myself up finally. Let Mishka outside while I heated up her food. Breakfast for me, Jack showed me how to make his amazing oatmeal (heat margarine, toast the flakes, add soymilk. I used quinoa flakes and almond milk), Gigie made us coffee, and now I’m sitting here. Eating, writing. 11:12 am. I wonder what’s happening on campus, but I’m afraid to go.

Crowds are so intimidating when you already feel low energy. And they are marching, and I don’t have time to march. I don’t like marches, but even if I did, could I just blow off Polish Literature (a class of 10 people) when I accidentally didn’t go on Friday because I was tired and forgot (another day like today, my tummy hurt, I didn’t know why)? Well, I could skip it, I didn’t do the reading anyway. But I also have this writing, and one more response that I should have sent last night, and then this workshop. And Bharati wrote back she wants these printed out. Okay.

I feel like I’m standing on a rocking stool, grasping at people’s shoulders to help me balance, and I can’t see their faces, they keep walking away, they want to do different things. Kind of like in my dream last night, I didn’t have any friends, and people were chasing me. There were some magical parts…I could fly at certain times. But I also had to hide. I hid underwater in a pool. I joined a game of kickball. I was in danger, but I wasn’t scared, each action flowed into the next. It felt like I was watching myself from outside of myself.

Where am I, really? Am I even in this chair in my bedroom? Am I in the clouds? Am I underground? How do I do everything I’m supposed to do? Am I supposed to do these things?

It is 11:20. Tyler is at the rally, I found out from Jack. Jack doesn’t want to go. I have no idea what to do with this sense of obligation to join in, and my tired, and my classwork, and just wanting to make artwork with groups of people. I might just get back in bed. I might go for a walk around the block, try to wake up. I’ll probably start crying if something doesn’t shake off soon. I want to apologize. I want to fly. Maybe I’ll just go smoke pot in the attic and wait. No, I need to write a response to Kelly’s piece, and read a novel before 2 pm, and read an essay before 3 pm, and march, and meditate, and draw, and cry, and gather power, and spread love, and, and, and

I am afraid I’m not making any sense.

***

I ended up trying to sleep, eating more food, going for a walk, then trying to read for Polish Lit. The book was all about this guy trying to kill himself. I decided not to keep reading, not to go to class. I picked up a new book called The Spiral Dance, describing modern witchcraft. I created an energy circle around the room and asked it to protect me. Immediately, the room felt safer, like it was holding me. I started to go through love letters I’ve written to Woody that he keeps in a little folder I made him. Eventually I stood up and went to campus to print this out, and it didn’t work, so I got a chance to write this part.

Coming home from workshop, I saw Woody, Gigie, and Jack in the backyard. Woody held me and I think this made Gigie and Jack feel weird, so they went inside. Woody and I went in our bedroom and I was clearly sad, and Woody tried to cheer me up. “You’re great” he said. Ugh.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Yes you do.”

“No, I really don’t.” I could tell this made Woody feel sad, he didn’t know how to talk to me anymore, so I thought really hard about what I meant. Why did him saying I am great suck so much? I thought of how my old boyfriend used to say that to me online, and how I didn’t know what it meant that. I thought about how it treats me like I’m something separate. Like I’m this great thing that is separate and different from him.

I don’t want to be separate. I don’t see myself as separate. This is why it is weird to be called great by the person you love. Or by anyone. It is being told how you are, as a separate being from that person. I don’t want to know how I am, separate from you. I want to know what I reveal to you about yourself. I want to know what we are together. What we can be together. What it is that is already changing.

Good morning! (it’s 10:46 pm) I thought I heard some loud clap like a gunshot, but I’m 97 percent sure it wasn’t actually a gunshot. Am I lucky to believe such a thing, or do I believe it just because I am trusting? Is 97 percent trusting?

(The layers might just be sludging off of me now.  I think I might be seeing something. Yet I am so aware of my audience, typing in this little text box, I can’t believe myself before hearing somebody else’s voice reading my words, not fully understanding. The crap surrounding me almost got moved away, but then it came back and mushed around, the snow gets darker. But now I’ve switched to a neutral box, not on the website, but in a standard textedit document. A quiet, calm place. Trusting? Oh, these gray measured lines have been with me my whole childhood, marking out the inches of my words, the beats of my speech! It’s like a musical score. SCORE! Here is my crESCENDO!!!

Typing can be fun. I’m pretty sure I started typing at age three or four, a game would make a happy noise if you typed in the alphabet really fast. My brothers and I would see who could go fastest. That got me. The keys became a new voice. Especially in fifth grade, when Mr. Geer (or Gere?) would have us do typing practice all the time, I remember getting faster and faster, everyone in the class trying to be the best. As I waited for the computer to turn on, I would type “I went to the store to buy a loaf of bread, they asked me what my name was, and this is what I said I went to the store to buy a loaf of bread, they asked me what my name was and this is what I said I went to the store….”Something like that over and over again. For years.

Now it’s my passwords that stick with me, the one I use for everything is from a cartoon I used to watch with my little brother, a character we both thought it was funny to idolize, so we idolized him. Other passwords, bygone screennames are threads of who I used to be, what I used to find funny, important, satisfying. “Pgoesmoo” “Mipapahasnoteeth” “Train2heaven666” “Train2heaven777” “LegallyRed44” “ThirdHoffman” “iloveyourwords” “hannahbeebop” “han.lee.hof”

I just tried really hard to find a trace of Mr. Geer (or Gere) online. The pictures that come up when I image search his name make me laugh. They all look so ridiculous compared to my mental picture of the straight-faced, wise man. I searched his differently spelled names combined with my school and the, oh I found something! I hadn’t actually combined his name with both the school and the city, but I just did, and his name came up attached with a house on the block I know he lived on. So it is spelled John Geer. I also found a Classmates.com ad for a John Geer, graduate of Roosevelt Elementary (my elementary school), and I made a fake classmates.com profile (my name is Mamma Mia) so I could try to see a picture of him. See if I remembered right. No such luck, no pictures, he has posted nothing. For all of my typing excellence, Mr. Geer, I cannot find you in this computer world, just a vague property history. But I won’t forget your button ups, your white scruffy hair, your wry smile. I think you empowered my nerdity. Or at least my comfort, my ease with this computer voice, lens of light and finger taps, information wires, gazing eyes. Perhaps the power, the energy I’ve been feeling in my hands connects with typing, with writing, weaving with all of these hand dances. Perhaps I should just let my hands dance, and dance, and dance. My mind can soar and soar. The wind will blow. Music will spill from computers, we can soften harsh lights with pretty scarves, the window will rock in its frame. Good night.