raven0us

fact. i love the trite mythos of the outlaw. | July 29, 2011


i scare the shit out of men,

male bodied and/or male minded people.

right before or after addiction.

i used to draw during classes.

i draw to focus.

taking every single thought i have a flight of

tunneled and honed them in for one second so i can listen.

i get permission to desire.

i must ask.

but my fire burns hotter so i break rules often.

i break hearts with my flight of thoughts.

there was crows covering the front lawn.

men say i drive them crazy.

but they only want more time with me.

i watched the crows waddle in circles.

like the protagonist in the yellow wallpaper,

i am the cause of the fault line.

i listen to male bodied lovers speak of how i break them.

i am too callous.

i AM too calloused.

i am worn rough by experiences and stories from my fellow female bodied people and my own life.

i am too calloused.

i wake from the bed of a lover and grab coffee in the morning glow.

forms of communication siphon the reality of the spinning plates in the air.

so many.

i no longer get permission to desire.

who’s got the time?

i love writing about relationships and their specifics. like etching history in thought. people need real lives to reference and relate to. and who is our future going to reference? i’ll tell you who; one psychotic and erotically possessed radical mom. that’s who. and they’ll be comforted.  someone will sift through this virtual vault and find these words and some of them will make sense to someone.

Dave tells me my words are empty dramatics. That there is no validity to me. That everything I write is just a “mini-novella”. (Then he asks me to give him specific examples of how I feel he silences me… ummmm ha.)

i am still resistant as ever about the 27 sit. i could let it go. i could just walk away and 27 and dabc would just have another sect of people who wont return in any working capacity. and i would give up.  if i didn’t find this fight fucking pivotal. if you look around at the feedback around the denver scene there is a TON of people with anxiety and interpersonal turmoil, there is a ton of people posting and chatting about wishing there was more in our community surrounding holistic healing and growth. and if the space doing the thick of it isn’t willing to persevere in ways that are growth inducing for the most people. well. i will still be the insect.

i have decided i will make space available through the free school for discussions around interpersonal collapse in “radical” “communities”. i also would like to hold a public discussion with Dave around accountability processes and hegemony in our communal spaces. the last one scares the shit out of me because Dave is like the master of verbally crushing fools but it feels very very necessary for the larger scope of everything.

“Victim? The difference between a criminal and an outlaw is that while criminals frequently are victims, outlaws never are. Indeed, the first step toward becoming a true outlaw is the refusal to be victimized.

“All people who live subject to other people’s laws are victims. People who break laws out of greed, frustration, or vengeance are victims. People who overturn laws in order to replace them with their own laws are victims (I am speaking here of revolutionaries.) We outlaws, however, live beyond the law. We don’t merely live beyond the letter of the law – many businessmen, most politicians, and all cops do that – we live beyond the spirit of the law. In a sense, then, we live beyond society. Have we a common goal, that goal is to turn the tables on the nature of society. When we succeed, we raise the exhilaration content of the universe. We even raise it a little bit when we fail.
“Outlaws, like poets, rearrange the nightmare. It is elating work. The years of the war were the most glorious of my life. I wasn’t risking my skin to protest a war. I risked my skin for fun. For beauty!
“I love the trite mythos of the outlaw. I love the self-conscious romanticism of the outlaw. I love the black wardrobe of the outlaw. I love the fey smile of the outlaw. I love the tequila of the outlaw and the beans of the outlaw. I love the way respectable men sneer and say ‘outlaw.’ I love the way young women palpitate and say ‘outlaw.’ The outlaw boat sails against the flow, and I love it. All outlaws are photogenic, and I love that. ‘When freedom is outlawed, only outlaws will be free’: that’s a graffito seen in Anacortes, and I love that. There are outlaw maps that lead to outlaw treasures, and I love those maps especially. Unwilling to wait for mankind to improve, the outlaw lives as if that day were here, and I love that most of all.”
indeed.tr.indeed.
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2 Comments »

  1. Such is the life of a gypsy pirate. And you don’t scare me.

    Comment by J — July 29, 2011 @ 3:56 pm

  2. Your words here mean a great deal to me. I don’t know what else to do, other than just tell my experience.

    Almost two years ago, I met the most ethereal, intuitive, connected and wild woman I’ve ever known. We shared intimacy and connection and bonded quickly and solidly.

    She communicated to me that she wasn’t into a “relationship” and I concurred. We were radicals, and we were visionaries. I intellectualized, at least, that I didn’t need a commitment from someone to feel loved a safe.

    So we spent time, energy and love together. We shared almost everything about ourselves. Our art, collaborating on gardening projects, greenhouses, beehives, and a bevy of ducks. Ambere F*ye and I were warm and good with one another, enough to share our sleeping and living space, and even to move out of one, a situation of convenience, to a more deliberate collaboration: a place we picked out together, with friends, that captured what we thought some of our aspirations looked like. And the included one another.

    It was a beautiful thing, for a while. On this half acre, we had free-reign to tear up what yard we wanted torn up, the ability to have and house ducks, and the garage and shop space for every project. . . . ever. Motorcycles, beehive construction, turning scraps of wood into furniture, art and function. Mycological projects, and an inside grow space to get a jump on the next year’s garden starts, and the ability to do it ALL ourselves. The space to practice archery, and a sewing/art room, where all manner of wonderful costumes for all manner of parties, engagements, kegger-benefits and ragers. Some for the city, some for the woods.

    I began school for the first time, ever. Going to community college is a drag at times, but intellectually, I was finally stimulated, and I read to Ambere out of my favorite texts before bed, about paleo-biology, about 19th century women’s history in the U.S., the Triangle Shirtwaist fire and strikes, and about Dine creation myths. She read to me from journals and Steiner and McKenna, and together, it all made *perfect* sense.

    When we weren’t looking, I fell into a pattern of monogamy. I gave lip service to her openness at my exploration, sexually speaking. But I never tried intimacy with anyone. I expressed, with words, that I was alright with her exploration in the same way, however, the energy emanating from my constricting stomach at the thought of her sharing intimacy with another over shadowed my words, and even my denials of those feelings.

    After a year and a half, she tried to express herself and her dissatisfaction. I did, too. We hurt together as best as we knew how. We shared that, too. We tried to survive, oh Christ, we tried so hard to feel our way out of that, but we were lost. Lost in toxic arguments, lost in sour collaborations that weren’t gaining traction anymore and lost in an emotional, hurt, sexless cloud of cold that lacked intimacy unless we were empathizing with one another’s pain. It was not healthy, and we spoke more of what to do.

    “Let’s sublet our room, and take off for the summer”, she’d say.

    “What about the ducks, and the garden? Plus, I enrolled for school. . . . . . ”

    “Oh”, she’d say. “When will your break be?”

    Not soon enough, Ambere. Not soon enough.

    Ambere, I’m so sorry. I could have led us out of this, and I could have let you lead us out of this, and we could have walked together, equally yoked on our path, but I hadn’t felt my pain yet around this. Me, being adopted at birth, my abandonment issues, my childhood abuse, and my being a male-bodied creature simultaneously subject to, and reaping privilege from, patriarchy. Grasping at what I think may be control in the midst of uncertainty caused those knots in my stomach that you felt so palpably, in response to honest questions, that could have had honest answers. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do.

    I still am not sure what to do, but I know I love you now more than I did before, and that that will be true tomorrow as well. I know that I love others more fully for feeling my pain around these things, these issues that you dealt with, but had nothing to do with you. I dealt with some of yours, too, but I think the onus was on you, in this culture at least, to “stick with me” and “help” heal me. I’m sorry for that. That’s my job. Not yours.

    I know that when you came home from your weekend away in July, telling me you had spent intimate time with someone else, I’m sorry that you had to be steeled-up, and duly prepared for me to be angry, and to say hurtful things, and I’m even more sorry your preparation wasn’t in vain.

    Your love helped me to love myself more fully. Your love helped me to get through the week following, when you didn’t come home. And your love helped me break up with you in a way I’ve never broken up with anyone before, out of love. And when you showed up with your new lover, and he waited out in the van for you to come back out, it was your love that gave me the strength to go speak to him, to shake his hand, and to ask him to stay with us, while we untangled our lives from the two wonderful years previous. I needed you here for that. And you needed him here for that. And then you needed to go to Austin with him. And it was okay. Even good.

    Lesley’s blog spoke for you when you couldn’t anymore. Lesley’s blog spoke for you when I couldn’t hear through the pain, and it still speaks to me.

    Ambere, you’ll probably never read this, I’m sure, but if you do, I want you to know that I love you more now, than I did when we were “together”, and that I can feel my freedom so fully, and my love so fully, and my new lovers, fighters, projects and actions coming on so fully that when you see me, I want you to notice yourself in it. I want you to see your love, boundless. in me. Because I see my love in you and with you everyday.

    Relationships don’t define love, and they sure as hell can’t confine love, either. And I’d like to think that you taught me that, and helped me to learn about myself in such a new, radical way.

    And thank you Lesley for giving me this space to do this. I hadn’t done it yet. And thanks for your words, and your kindness and your unapologetic nature for your loves, desires and needs. This particular entry spoke to me at a time when I really needed its content, and to resonate with its meaning, in the fullness of my pain, to come out the other side.

    I hope to see you on that other side someday, Ambere. Enjoy Austin. Lesley, we’re already here together. Thank you for being there.

    Comment by Danny — August 11, 2011 @ 6:42 pm


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