florence

I wonder at the bravery of people in North Carolina who are standing down and not leaving in their voluntary evacuation. 1.5 million people? How the hell? What the hell?

Are we planning on building ocean deep brakers to cut incoming water surges? Imagine the number of lives saved. Property saved.

They’re saying power will be lost for “weeks” and the Mayor of the small town being hit the hardest has an attitude of “get out now and don’t blame me if you…”  I’ve friends on both poles who say, “yeah, right, go dude!” and then Quakerlike peeps who cringe at the assumption of bad will.

Hurricane Florence.

I had originally set out to write a brilliantly woven story or blog about the storm, set in particular people’s lives and how it manifests into multivarious outcomes and climaxes and sad points, if any at all, but here I sit with a fever from the Flu.

And yet, even so, I wonder now about my mortality. Am I dying? At this age. My age.

I have had a good life but a short one. A mere half century and some change. I have yet to walk Machu Picchu and the Great Wall (my mother’s unmet goal), and I’d like to see either the South or North Pole. Leningrad, Moscow, Poland. Train in during winter. See it like Jack Reed and Louise Bryant did before Lenin in ’17.

I want to revisit Bourdeaux where my parents and Florence (my sister) was born in 1960. Visit Alcocer with the thick white walls and cold interior lit by only the wood burning firepits they cook on there. See Toledo and have picnics in the foothills with the cactus and the pine trees and it smells like cedar. Wake up only with light beside Beloved and walk fifty feet for hot crispy oily sweet churro’s to dip and eat with cafe con leche.

I have yet to scale up the webbed care network and health home that is replicable.

I’m too young to die yet. My woman to love. My woman to love me.

Were my sister Florence actually sitting here with me she would be languid and assured, smiling as she cradles a cup of coffee and I would be touched.

 

 

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calm down

When my mother was dying from cancer in 2008, my dad told me that there were 22 others living on Trailwood Avenue who were positive for some type of cancer concurrently. “There’s a lawsuit,” I told my dad. We were driving and it was warm outside and the air smells like Central California does in the Fall. Fog, basically.  There is no mystery that most probably embedded land subdivisions were watered by wells driven by the local growers and irrigation seepage will occur. Their water is screwed, no less. Now more than ever with the heat that will not stop and wells are drying. People are stealing their neighbor’s water in California.

My mother died in ’08 and my only sibling died from cancer at 53 years old in ’12 (also in November).

And so at my age, I have superseded the mortality for both, my biofamily and that of the <25 year early morbidity for people living with an SPMI who have received continuous US Community Public Mental Health services for at least 25 -30 years.

Which is worse? Cancer or the US Public Community Mental Health System? I’m laughing because I’m really not joking.

This writing’s intent is to at least touch upon the notion of how disease, chronic illnesses and malhealth – when not self-managed or self-cared for – will manifest physically and you will die sooner than later, probably.

Things to practice then:

  • Mindfulness.
  • Intentionality.
  • Carefully discerning that which takes your concern(s).
  • Be Kind to yourself and to others.
  • Love.
  • Be loved.
  • Adore.
  • Be adored.
  • Get that energy of others that is hurtful away from you.
  • Work your body out.
  • Practice Releasing.
  • Live gentler.
  • Walk with all of your senses as often as you can.
  • Get REM Sleep.
  • It’s okay to let yourself dream.
  • Walk in water.
  • Talk with your best friend.
  • Live.
  • Breathe.
  • Learn.
  • Teach.
  • The day is short. The night is shorter. Mind your time.
  • Harm no others.
  • Protect yourself and what’s yours.
  • Run. Run. Run.
  • Strength.
  • Power.
  • Know that you are immortal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

long, slow deep kissing

There always has been a strange cultural divide with certain kind of women my entire life. There was the case of Kelly, a tall-leggy just flat out hot blonde whose goal was to make $26,000 a year and she figured she had it all planned. That may have been 1985, as far as I can recall.

la-dolce-vita-still-1

And artists. Artists are wild. They are individualistic typically. Highly intelligent. Very introverted usually. Autonomous. Not great communicators. Theirs and their alone “family” networks of others like themselves borders on the hip, chic, exclusive and well, not very open to the rest of us. Women artists I have known were largely bisexual and fucked up about it. We were young.

The woman I know now, is acclaimed and well known, on exhibit throughout the Southern US region and doubly famous, respected for her work. She’s a tough cookie and hard to follow with any other woman and I regret at the soul level having run out of her already, or maybe it was the other way around. I adore her loveliness and her body makes me dream of the forevers I was told were there and had never before ever laid palms and hands and fingers and mouth on.

The one who got away is embedded in my memory and painful to allow out and to float down the river and into white water, famously wild and divergent maybe of all intention, all wants, all needs, any expectation, any Love that there may have been.

Long, langorous hot Atlanta Fall nights (Indian Summer and Yellow Moons) met for long, deep slow kissing during any film festival spent in her bed forgetting time and all memories other than this one now. She was lovely and my lousy picker picked her winding legs, small ass, long lean muscled arms and with all tangly limbs in the night, mouths and throats howling, howling.

As impossible as it may seem, to move forward and mindful prayer and loving intentions may help the blessed alone. Bless me, bless me. God bless this bruised heart.

White Privilege Systemic Eradication of the Other

clouds overhead in atlanta sept 1 - Copy

I missed my trauma therapy appointment for the 3rd week in a row today and it’s showing through the cracks of my face, my hands, my mouth, my eyes, my voice… is cracking.

My primary diagnosis nowadays is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and so I wondered that my experienced childhood trauma has been exceeded by the adult trauma experienced living in the US as an out Gender Queer, polarized and profiled resistant, non risk averse woman of color raised on Queer Nation, ACT UP and fuck you bitch, stand beside me or step the fuck aside in yo face since my 20s.

Systemic White Privileged oppression, abuses, discrimination and hatefulness toward eradicating otherness based on race, culture, gender identity and/or presentation, color of skin and reversed discrimination of fair skinned people in a predominantly Black region (Atlanta, Georgia) pisses me off. It pisses me the fuck off, actually.

I often tell people that No, I do not believe in the premise and inherently false US Community Public Mental Health System, nor will I admit Mental Illness exists. The disease versus pussy recovery oriented system of care is the very basis of my work around behavioral health integration, mental diversity, substance use, isolationist first responder mobile crisis intervention (MH/SA) and finally, how I categorically espouse for  US Peer Workforce.

The hate I feel towards me when I walk into a predominantly white or BLACK environment in Atlanta is so thick, I can cut it with a brand new X-Acto Blade and leave marks, cuts of blood so deep it won’t bleed.

I listen to “Penthouse Floor” a lot and will rebel yell Resist, Fight, Fuck You in your face with my co-horts but to be reversed discriminated against because of my Queerness and because I’m not Black puts me into a position of being hated, feared, dismissed. My education, class, verbal upper class White Yankee, nay, Surfer Dude confuses, I admit.

We either work together against the real scourge of hate in 2017 or we don’t.

You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, either.

I dare you to walk your talk. Be transparent. Authentic. Speak your truth.

It’s now or never.

Step up or step aside.

christmas 18

29 days until Christmas Eve (again)

28 more sleeps till She is Home (again)

a month of turning, tides, solstice wintering again

She is a soft lovely beauty

i’m taken to her folly and her lands of delight and of dreaming

her left eye is the dreamiest

in the last it was the right

with Her i look East and to the Southerner lands and levees and water

for turtles, for blue fish in aqua waters warm, for Mexico

“Get your passport in case you need to escape,” is no joke

 

 

 

 

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