November 2, 2016
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I prefer to pee outside where there is no toilet.

Someone once said to me,  ‘I remember you.  When I met you,  mid conversation,  you squated down and lifted your skirt slightly,  began peeing and continued your conversation of welcome.’


Welcome to an abandoned expanse of settler children.  They play all day with their resentment of their forefathers and how the mines wealth never produced much love nor continuity of family.  With an inheritance of broken oaths to succession, they tell you how their parents abandoned them and how they’re building a culture from nothing. They intuite our species has gained little from repeated thirsty penetration of the earth to quicken our progress or development or betterment of each individual human beyond all other species. The children have seen how our hurry spills over and leaks from the piercings of the deepest caverns of our planet. Residents, families, all the generations of our nature witness and ingest.

Four bear’ers fancied a proclivity to garden.

I prefer wild food.  She isn’t so trapped in other’s owner ship sailing across land bases then. But I rarely eat it.

Preference becomes meaningless when all one can define in a civilization is their own containment. Boundary hungry. I say I prefer to eat wild foods but more I mean I am inclined to meet the needs of my species.  I mean I long to bear with our adaption through time. So though I prefer to eat wild, I tend to eat shit as in dead industrial over processed food which is the fruit of settler legacy, empty of nutrition and nurturing.

Don’t worry.

The gardens were and are innately all places one walks so there is no need for containment or identity or pristige.

You see,  many identify themselves as defending the land.

Some call it a country.

But either way there is a vertical claiming of an individual defense of the earth and her cycles.

When really the land is defending us and we are defending our individual participation within the ecosystems as a species. We are defending our knowledge and ability to be in rhythm with other genus.

We are defending our role of reciprocation to all peices of our whole globe.

We do not have nor need the ability to defend the land. Nor do we have or need boundaries or borders.

We need each other.

We need each other’s reflection to know our place in the entire scheme.

We are the land and in turn her cycles defend and tend us.

Remember always,

The land defends us.



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December 11, 2015
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They found her back in a corner.

Poor girl.

kinda like on a bookshelfs dirty corner.

but it was more like that spot underneath all those branches where the duff looks immaculate like even a chuckies feet hadn’t graced it since the pine needles made a fluff of it. That spot you can’t get to cause there’s too many pokey branches in the way.

they found her there.

‘cept it wasn’t there either.

she slipped out of any manifestation of time.

do you think when there was matriarchs, men rose up in liberation of dignity, biligerent?

You think this is all still a ripple of that?


is gender an assault chamber?

is it that we’re destined to war for picking a side?


thats actually where you’ll find her. Behind that question in your brain.

& you’ll miss her like you miss him.

She, though, sits behind each of your doubts as he sits before each of your anticipations of belief.

she & he still exist even when we move past them.


that girl though.

do you remember her… that smile you saw once turning you caught it like a ray of son.

werent you a prism then?

speaking of possibility.


remember that time you thought you could believe in that person forever. No matter who they came to be?

remember when you thought you could do that for everyone and never assume anyone was anything but light?


little, weren’t you once?

love, they made an incling to when they saw you as ripe for eating.



i know you still exist though you feel like you can’t between us.

man, girl.

its tough.

How do you be the perfect ratio of gender to not be assaulted.

this evolution.

is a dance on the battle field.

Front lines everywhere,

but very few backs

pirohuetting in the face of it,

she said she didn’t mind the corner

“fuck visibility!” She said.

“I won’t be a target. She muttered as she rocked.



i never felt like I fit a gender, she evaded.

heavy on the feminine.

off a cliff.

who’s with me?


she was alone in the duff  beneath the branches

& she was safe there


No story to be told.


in the corner of your brain.

alert & guarded.


little, werent you once?

now, still?

ain’t the fear all an act before all your natural swagger?

arent you there my friend?


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The shmuck <3

August 1, 2015
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Oh mountains, Oh shadows.

casting on hill sides.

When people hear the military

they think of weapons & training.

I think of projections of empty puffy chests.

Minerals in mountain crests

being fought over

with whack wizard tricks

homie don’t witch like that.

magics for the all of us.

trust in the dust that’s makin cracks outside & inside of us.

don’t be scared of this breaking open

here’s to hopin momma’s got your back


don’t demand it of her


Military trucks everywhere,

occupation creeping over us again & again.

& telepathic witches

fill the ditches with the undergrowth

beaver weaver’s side step misogynists like it’s just a joke.

Stick & poke acupuncture gets it out of there

my gosh is it a lot to share

dare to know each other’s oddities

& glitches

sweet deer eyes

holding fear instead of weilding it

Shielding is temporary shelter

orbiting the terror & come down

“Bring ’em all home.” They chant in a murmur.

Oh yea?

Who’s house will they sleep over

as the truth slaughters their body

as their spirit seizures in gaudy

incrimination of participation in

a national ego not thought through.

Nobody’s winning friend nobody’s winning.

Little boy temper tantrums everywhere.

Therapists can’t deal with it.


We must be counsel to each other.


Protection in this madness.

The front line is everywhere I step.

“Not a combat veteran” my ass.

Everyone is a combat veteran.

Yes, I said it.

Blame it on the concrete

in our concepts.

Blowing up damned water & emotions

seems toxic for a moment

all the rubble seems troubling

& you reach for your comfort.

front lines everywhere.

lines in which we front for safety.

genocide in access & excess

middle class is the m16 you sleep beside.

I won’t stop & make you go through this with me.

I will not.

You hear me?

I get why you desire such things.

The possibility of such beautiful healing.

I have seen the trust sparkling in my loved one’s eyes.

A hope that sprouts from thoughts like,

“You’ve made it this far & you’re doing great!”

Thanks, bud.

Yes & this hate must be contained,

like nuclear fallout.

I am a planet of a metaphor spinning.

& I’ve tried to settle the orbit of that entanglement.

the daughter of too much birthing a son.

My movements are an attempt at simplicity

of the violence within me implicitly

Move. Make medicine. Send it to elders and decedents.

Cultivate health.

There is no need to stop & focus on my implosion.

Rape culture is blatant everywhere.

Choose your dose & integrate.

No one needs to eat everything on my plate

& yet we all have to

however we can figure out.

It is a lot to move.

So keep moving, meeting seeds & planting.

I have become hyper aware & hyper sensitive

& that is no one’s problem.

Just is.

A swallowing.

No. Not a politician.

I’m a living exhibition

of something that needs to be looked at,

rape culture

is present.

& seems to build with repression.

Feel your body right now.

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The violent narrative of property.

August 1, 2015
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Gather, folks muse, gather.

It takes a place to gather.

& places are policed.

not by those in uniform alone,

but by manners & customs

of righteousness and entitlement.

As is property goes to the richest

weakest white man.

& his parameters of comfort.

No matter how inhumane or inconsiderate.

it comes so subtly & sharp

a huff

a comment about something missing from the fridge or a mess

when really no ill offense had occurred

but the tension raises.

generally in relation to how the most jello like white is receiving attention.

hyper-awareness of how the one most accustomed to wielding power is having their affection needs met.

The violence of property is relative to habits of desire.

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Love through addictions.

August 1, 2015
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We all exist within a culture of addiction.

I am watching my friend kill himself.

I don’t blame him & sometimes that’s called love.

He says he drinks to be happy

& I see that.

He is a great lover in so many ways.

& then there are days,

where he drinks until his guts swell and his brains hurt.

& he’s not sure what stimulation is…

Nevermind, it’s not for me to conclude on.

& I feel him.

there are a lot of punches in the gut happening.

I see my body’s pain in him

& I see hope & trust.

& I understand they are dying.

in each of us.

then death & purging.

I can’t ignore it surging in you.

We’re all here together.

inverse always, I know.

climax stagecraft

I witness you writhing

purging dramaturgy

sweating in toxins

breathe friend.


Help us not block this out anymore.

all of it.

tear jerking vehicle

What do you mean?!

& where are you at in this amnesia?!


Sometimes when I begin a book

it takes a couple chapters to orient narrative

love through addictions

it’s hard to see you slipping

from your body

I understand you can’t really hear what is happening

through the tunnel of inhebriation

Deer love.

I see you through the fog.

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August 1, 2015
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Poetry a must. Have to. Just comes.

Something says I have to say it.

Something says I have to salvage it.

Something forces this lens down my throat again and again.

This mother I love, she meditates & spend so much head space seeing the other’s perspective.

She muses on seeing the bright side.

She apologizes and understands and makes space for men.

As they take space from her.

It’s that dichotomous.

Mother, child.

But I am father too.

And there is a mother in you, full spectrum.

So here is a poem bout some things I see.

Here box on a screen, take these things:

I became unsafe to you

because your comfort needed too much.

You called it safety & health,

but really it was your ego & wealth.

It was never unsafe to reflect me.

Intellect has hindered us.

The cinder was there to resource each other & increase quality time.

But what is the quality of your isolation?

Cleavers (the plant) are like sifters,

sifting gunk,

our goals are junk frankly.

We keep reinventing the same process for security.

Almost like each eye is looking to the other.

wondering how to jump in line,

act like ya know.

& they’ll follow.

swallow hopes of anything different.

& take your bitters with breakfast lunch & dinner.

Cause this is what is happening,


& actually it’s not a terrible symphony.

It’s lyrical & melodic and it carries itself.

It’s what they’re all looking for in them programs.

It’s what the body is tired of looking away from.

Your guts can’t take it anymore.

It’s wrenching. Monkies. Mycelium.

Cilium is hair, synonymous with feeler, split end healers.

I see your body & points don’t matter anymore.

You’re hurting in front of me.

& I, you.

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The visibility of the black figure in Durango, Colorado

July 26, 2015

I am writing this while on shared and/or contested Nuchu, Diné, Pueblo & Apache territory, using modern settler terminology.

I am a 30 year old female assigned gender fluid white person.

Throughout my life I have been sought for figure modeling. From New York to Texas, Mississippi, Alabama to South Carolina to California & Oregon, I have been found profitable & consumable. I have long legs & small breasts & I’m white. Throughout my life I have been questioned by strangers about if I have an eating disorder publicly. I have modeled for very prestigious men & I have been courted with luxury. I have rarely found female identified artists to work with and even less female identified artists who work with figures. Galleries for my own art have been thrown at me though I have used trash and not archaic mediums. Much of the work offered to me includes me displaying myself with the artist with the work. Throughout my life I have been sought to be a doll of white supremacy in the form of figure modeling.

The focus of my life work is learning to cultivate & participate in liberated community that is in relationship with the earth. I utilize art as a sacred gift & paint when I need to, not when a product is needed. I utilize art as a transaction of humility & worship.


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“This mother I crawled back to see. She is a lover to me.” WRFF Report back.

July 20, 2015
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Report back,

Report back,

Do you hear me?

Am I here?

You hear this… settling?

Diverting waves of privilege.

My body. This image.

This treason of flesh.

So many conversations…

are the transactions of my cunt.

My spirit.

& folks bewilder it’s my making.

Like if I saw it different…

this wouldn’t be my truth.

Acknowledge the breakdown y’all

& remember the humility.

As blind as you are, you can see why this all is,

if you just look at the movement of your own desires.

With this cyclical explaining,

I grow faded, less potent.

This constant returning to the white man’s slight discomfort.

It’s the choking of the fertilizer on the bare soil.

It’s the gendering of marijuana.

We ritualize the plants to our own division

& orchestrate the perpetual nature of it.

Our innate genius is nauseating in the theater of reason.

Logic is a goat slaughter with too much beef sitting, rotting in the freezer from food stamps.

The most threatening thing you can ask of middle class white culture is to ask for integrity in the words spoken. It is literally a death sentence of treason to expect allyship/accomplice-ment or at least it is the setting of an ever present guillotine. That is where each NGO & governing body ceases to function. The entire socialization of white middle class culture is the negation of substance & continuity. It is programed that we resent more than we represent ourselves. Suspicion is considered wisdom to middle class white culture. Snitching is neighborhood watch to middle class white culture. Speaking for your values and worth is bullying in middle class white culture. Owning property is community to middle class white culture.

Today I finished carrying out the last of the things from Wild Roots Feral Futures. We were up Bear Creek.

I traveled from Eastern Oregon down the west coast & over from Bakersville, CA to be here on Ute land. It was a pretty uncharacteristic trip for me to make. For years I have been cultivating my relationship with the Pacific North West, primarily on Karuk & Yurok land. I have been managing ::military sexual trauma{MST}::(bum bum bum), self guided for about 6 years. Managing this deeply embedded cultural trauma has been made of many parts. Some parts “rewilding” (Which, for me means prioritizing listening to the land, her cycles & guiding my pace & intention from that place.), some parts screaming & crying & smashing, some parts learning plants, some parts making & giving medicine, some parts learning to plant back, some parts giving my lovers existential crisis so large that all their castles fall… generally on me, lots & lots of parts walking (FOREVER) with lots of weight, some parts coming to terms with the reality that my biological family is not a sanctuary and can not offer me understanding or neutral witness & that intentional family can feel like going to Walmart portrait studio expecting a classy, au natural product & well, you’ve seen those glam shots.

It has also been made of lotsa parts of:

Realizing that I have not chosen the assault that I have experienced.

I did not “make” these things happen to me.

I do not “make” these things happen to me.

& reminding myself that I am brave, loving & gracious.

Over & over & over again.

& more parts walking a lot.

Walking is a huge part of my experience because the complexities of marginalization can not be digested in the current landscape of priorities. Gotta walk it out.

What the heck does any of this have to do with Wild Roots Feral Futures? One may be asking…

Earlier I said, “Managing this deeply embedded cultural trauma”, I was “owning my experience” & speaking to the pillar metaphor in my life that is a concentrated reference for this entire life experience of being co modified & consumed. I wonder sometimes if I am privileged in a sense for having a single life event that impacted me so pivotally that there was no confusion of the roots of so much injustice. Sometimes when I see my friends shutting down & disassociating or numbing out, I think, “Gosh, it must be hard to pin point from the convoluted stimulation & transgressions that flow over a person everyday.”

This is like my fifth feral. I’m not a festi, never been to burning man. I attend faggot sanctuary gatherings to save my spirit & lick my wounds(or have someone lick them for me ;)). I attend feral because I care about a place & I fell in love with a group of people. I found love in a group of people. I care about a group of people. I long for continuity with a group of people. I attend feral futures because years ago I found some people that stumbled on each other in someone else’s woods & simultaneously expressed, “Shit. We come from a shallow people. We live in a culture of death. We are a shallow people with very little ability to be there for each other, yet, we have no where we can be.” There were also shouts & sobs of “The earth is being killed!” & “The government is toxic.” There were conversations about how we are settlers & devotions of subverting that power mongering. There has been indigenous folks that gifted patience & indigenous folks that said, “E-fucking-nough, middle class white kids.”

& also, there were plans made & adventures sought.

Of coarse, immediately (which you will find with nearly all social projects) there was efforts to buy land & there was more land occupied & gentrified.

There were radical parenting families formed & networks of plant wisdom & harvest cycles collected. There was another gathering that branched off from this gathering.

Lots of food stored, liberated & shared horizontally.

Hella primi skills lalala.

Wingnut woo conspiracies.

Also, from that group of people I fell for, several different efforts towards decolonization & defense of the land have unraveled.

I didn’t know then how deeply the habits were lodged in us.

This greed.

I held a discussion on wild crafting, transience & colonization on the second day I was at the encampment.

In so many ways, I had no right to do so.

I led that talk because I had to.

I can “become feral” anytime. I can sink back into listening on my own time & by golly I do.

But to gather about it. To gather about the celebration of each being’s wild roots and the limitless horizons of feral futures… To me, much of the reason we gather is to collectively deconstruct our white culture habits, mannerisms & entitlements. To have a place to return each year to dig deeper, as repetitive & trivial & confusing as a “bunch of adults” unknotting a species’ propensity for domination & exploitation is… well as far as I’m concerned it’s worth some tries, if not several lifetimes & generations.

At one point I shared a section of a recent poem:

“We pathologize to civilize. We civilize to commodify. We commodify to consume.”

This feral had many discussions on identity politics. A topic that I am pretty sure makes most people want to vomit or at least hermit or maybe just panic, for one reason or another. Identity politics did not come to be to start a party. Identity politics came from human beings evolving a system of formulaic domination in order for the chance that a few people someday would be able to be lazy and not die because of it (See: Agriculture/Arrrggghh-riculture). Identity politics arose from people realizing how many people had to die for that dream, from realizing who dies because of that dream, who becomes slaves to that dream. Identity politics is a discussion about how that dream of one day laziness built on lifetimes of genocide amounts to a really boring, sad world. Identity politics is conversations of shifting the trajectory of that played out culture. It is another layer of the veil being lifted.

The discussion I led had very little structure to it. I began by stating that I do not value professionalism or manners. Honestly, all I really had to give community was some lyrical, too rehearsed, pretty disassociated anger & deep regret. It came out as slightly righteous, unprepared for exposure. It may have come out as though I might know something. I’m pretty sure it came out in a language very few can even decipher, perhaps only actually audible to folks who could relate… singing to the choir.

Really, I was just tired & begging to be re-enchanted.

Capitalism is reinforced by systematic pathology. It remains standing on predetermined roles. This can & has been said infinitely; “White women are crazy,” “Black & brown people are dangerous,” “Trans folks are perverted,” “Men are oblivious.” I feel like I am bludgeoning myself by laying this out yet again.

The thing is, as I write this, my friend & her child’s stuff is packed in a room. My son & I’s belongings have been rationed between the “new women” that have taken my place. We are the mothers, an intentional family was built around us. We are as thoroughly used & forgotten as one can be while still getting by.

Most of those people that started a family with us are traveling abroad or have a sick old toyota with a cap on the back. Many have hook ups on organic farms & seasonal money as frosting on their own parents continued support. Most of them play string instruments reeeeeeaaaaalllllyyyy well. Many of them are “on a healing path away from victimhood.” Most of them are also white, come from a “well off” background, sexy & between the ages 20 & 30. A bunch of them also have goats, some horses, and pockets full of chickens.

These piles of forgotten mothers are stacking up. One can not lay claim to a plot of land, develop it and use for one’s own profit anymore. Radical friends, you can not use your peers that are mothers as projection boards for your parental trauma anymore. Non-traditional friends, one need not be mated to a cis-hetero male assigned person in order to raise a child. Matter of fact, it’s pretty clear that to raise a child in a nuclear dynamic (‘mother+father+child’ package) ingrains the very habits of consumption we long to/must grow out of.

The most ravishing part of Wild Roots Feral Futures this year, for me, was watching the femme/the nurturing parent in all of us that has been battered, spit on and disgraced stand up from the swamp of entitlement with each person’s self worth intact and foundational.

We are crawling to each other from a pit of rot. Most tactics have been defused & we are still trying.

Despite all of those with oppression-sourced comfort that have climbed the privilege ladder to the height of forgetting their humility. Despite those folks, some of us come together because we know that we need to know how to need each other. We return humble.

Humbly, we crawl to each other like valiant heroes of trust in ourselves.

As a mom with several piles of medicine, food & fabulous life scattered in a network of survival, I crawl to this other mom I know & relate to. It’s a hard beacon to find in a landscape of deeply scared parents. There are few people who grew little beings and fight to give them space, to listen, and learn of their own wild hearts in rhythm with this great planet.

There are so many people that dream of seeing white mother’s resist their programming. So many people that speak of how their mother’s complied & looked away & didn’t take responsibility for these habits. Yet as a mother that tries with all of me to make space for my offspring to be complex & aware & open hearted, there is so little support & so much chosen blindness. There is so much embedded resentment of mothers.

I returned from the forest & I spoke on the interweb with a long lost lover, someone who collaborated on parenting with me, who is now in a super hip dirty punk entourage in Europe. For weeks this person has been saying that they have been trying to call me to make sure I am ok. There has been stumbling blips in my fb messages all like, “Im trying to get a phone card. I promise to call!” Meanwhile he messages eclectic women on his fb about the latest hip European cabin & pictures come up of him in paradise after paradise with fancy liqueur in hand. This person, who sends me epics of astral romance & fated love & unending devotion, sent a fella all the way from Norway to Feral Futures. He was busking songs & sharing story. He did not share story of me or my son, though the person he sent was a waldorf teacher. No. To be cool or perhaps just out of unintentional blindness & a lack of scripts, he told the Norwegian traveler about an abandoned mining town in Nor Cal & that traveler came to the states, became friends with the charismatic wild dude that beat the shit out of me for months because I would not let him own me. Then the Norwegian, who was very kind, traveled to feral. More white boy joy rides to what end?

I returned from the forest & I spoke to my ex husband who is leadership in the U.S. Army. I wanted to check in with my son & I had to borrow some dollars to not oblige the home I was in & to get me through the 4th of July without too deep terror. He was doing a pilot of a program he is building for officers. He was working with a military psychologist to add more awareness to how one invades a town. They did training in Oklahoma as though they were in “theatre” or the war zone. He was the first person I spoke to on the phone upon returning to town. He told me of what the training included. It was a performance about bringing aid to a town & I can’t even document what the “reality” of that training looked like. On one hand, I am thankful to know my son’s fathers day to day life & on the other, his story felt like the penetration of my spirit. His retelling like a knife through the center of all of me. He said, “Hey friend, I don’t tell our son what I do.” He felt the impact in my voice. He said, “It’s the hard reality of it.”

I said, “Our child is made of your cells & my cells. He knows all we are and all we do. He feels you everyday and learns from how you hold yourself & what you stand for.”

He said, “I know you don’t like when I speak of these things.”

I said, “No. It is not that I do not like to hear what you do. I greatly appreciate your bravery to fill me in despite knowing I disagree. What you hear in my voice is the heavy historically & scientifically documented destruction of the land & her people from your work. It hurts my body tangibly. I know you are attempting to seek justice & liberation but I feel & am aware of how much must be destroyed to validate your ways.”

We are each crawling to each other from pits of rot. Each time we shed or grow, it is death culture that falls from us. Few have the endurance to crawl out. Many refuse to crawl due to having “choices”, as in the choice to elevate oneself while invisibilizing and stomping on others.

My son’s father makes payments on a Harley Davidson while I am homeless & without relevant medical support.

This constant return to the white man’s slight discomfort.

An old hip book rolled around the sitting places of wild roots, “How Non-Violence Protects the State(1).” It reminded me of the days I went to left hand books, an anarchist book store that used to be in Boulder. Left hand books, where they sold bumper stickers & posters of supporting veterans who resist. I thought of all the white boy manarchists that had their rhetoric tight about supporting radical mom’s & veterans. I remember all the pleas & bemoanings of how they were my accomplice. I thought of rewriting the book & calling it, “How White Women Protect the State.” I thought of the chapter “Sexual Violence as a Tool of Genocide” from the book “Conquest(2)” & I pictured all the women I have compersed(3) over through the years. The women who entered my intimate relationships even though I was not allowed to be intimate with anyone of any gender because of the fragile character & lack of gumption of the white boy. Yet I welcomed these women, acknowledging that it is systematic that we be pitted against each other over resources/men & that we give men & capitalism that power by fighting. But making space for these women did not guarantee affinity. Most of these women felt hyper entitled to not only take & invisibilize any of my work, they also just straight robbed me & told the men that I was abusive & undeserving. While trying to flee a trust fund green anarchist’s violence, a female assigned person that I had tried my best to be in relationship with, came back to this white boys cabin to protect him from me, even though I had not beaten him repeatedly. Even though I had not caused his body to be so sore it could not move. Even though I had not stolen his resources as he had mine & she told me to go live on the streets even though she had plenty of space and was living in a hip cabin with all of my books, clothes & son’s belongings. White female assigned women are socialized to throw each other under the bus when we need to gain access to resources.

There was this place at feral called Awesome Camp. It was a space for trans folk & female assigned beings. It was a place we could pick our pace & tell our stories within a group that did not need as much explaining as the average shmo. It is one of the few places I have found that I could actually speak of my life experience & not be pathologized. Like the “identity politics,” this space sorta made some folks want to vomit. There is an inherent exclusion to it on purpose. Most of my adult life I have thought, “Gosh, can’t male assigned & socialized folks just support each other so this excessive need stops falling on their lovers & communal mothers?!” But each time I spoke to that, my male assigned friends said, “Yea, that would be really cool. Thanks for the suggestion. I just don’t think any other dudes would. I can’t really get ’em to, you know? Plus, you are everything I need really. Sooo I could just own you instead & you can give me lifetimes of counseling even though I never give you any credit for it or ever stand up for you publicly & I could leave you for luxury when you need me the most?”

So to me Awesome Camp was a way of saying, “We aren’t waiting for you to organize yourself anymore and we are creating a place that is at least safe enough that we can rest without one eye open.”

& I rested there. It was amazing for me because there were times when I was at the communal fire and male socialized person after male socialized person filled my view & speaking space & talked over me to the point where I started losing my focus & purpose. They were “great ones,” really wonderful people truthfully. But without having to be harsh with them I was able to retreat to awesome camp & slowly share my experience & skills with people who often don’t get access to learning of the earth. I had space to remember that my skills don’t have to be funneled straight to the most dominant. I had space to see the people that are systematically hidden & attacked. Awesome camp also had space for QTPOC, which in some absence of dominant voices & habits, I was able to see within myself how I am habituated to be racist & transmisogynist & just plain misogynist. I saw the light within QTPOC’s ebb & flow in both spaces. Simultaneously, white boys in buck skin clothes assumed the vipassana position in discussion circles & moved with abundance & light naivety. I felt the habits of space taking & intellectual dominance penetrate me but also was able to witness that I have more armor of privilege. I say stupid shit like assumptions that come from a white girl. I spoke with entitlement about my presumptions in life & I spoke over people. I was birthed onto a pedestal of white supremacy & it takes awareness in every interaction to self reflect & hold myself to some systematic bullshit. I was gifted patience from those who capitalism teaches me I can step on with no remorse. I was again taught grace & resilience when there was no obligation to teach me.

In a conversation on Decolonization, this fella that is hella down with “one love” sentiments and like “everybody can choose to be happy” guy that smokes all day e’ryday says, “Well sure, there’s oppression, but like I don’t wanna be feeling like I’m walking on eggshells.”

I think I said something like, “so there is “one love” & supposing that is true, that would mean that we all carry the pain & injury of power dynamics. So if someone gains awareness of this pain and embodies or empathizes with the struggle of other’s, then the feeling of walking on eggshells is actually the sharing of the tension of oppression, not one person’s tally of what is politically correct over the other.”

This person did not hear me. This person felt offended and found ways to retaliate over the remainder of the gathering. At the end he screamed as he carted away his stone pipe making bench, “You are the worst outcast of this entire species! You are horrible!”

In no way do I declare I am decolonized or rewilded. Rewriting how we distribute power & value is generations of clumsy, belligerent collaboration.

I realize too that I am a shmuck crawling out of a pit of rot, begging for mercy.

Still, I value the magic of the marginalized, the resilience.

This mother I crawled back to see. She is a lover to me. We became lovers from loving & being dominated & trying to parent with the same male socialized dude. She moved through violence with that person and with each person with a penis she has engaged with, with grace, patience & calm awareness. She took it all on with as little judgement as she could. She spoke to the strengths of these people as they neglected her & abused her patience. I have traveled a different road about it all, the whole parenting in grotesque misogyny. I yelled and screamed and hollered, “Excuse, I don’t mean to be rude, just give me that mic lemme do what I do” about it. I told everyone about how I have been treated and I judged those who had wronged me.

Both of us ended up with our belongings in a pile in collective houses with the rad kids talking about how we didn’t do it right. “She should have spoke up,” they think. “I should have shut up,” they think.

& of coarse, they also think, “Cool. Just tell me what to do & I’ll do it. Just tell me.”

But I don’t. Cause we can’t.

Because we don’t believe we can parent & nurture each other.

& I don’t intend to spell doubt. Yet there is this deafening of dominance, there is a building of cages around mothers, especially mothers that are free.

More so, many don’t know how to receive.

How do you receive parenting? It has to do with how you relate to the earth.

It has a lot to do with how you attach to lovers & what you expect of them.

This constant return to the white culture’s slight discomfort.

My son’s father, actually one of my best friends of my life despite all disagreement, said,

“Are you saying that the way you were raped anally by your patient in the military has do with how we consume food & resources as a culture?”

Yes. I do.

I write this trying to report back on the way we gather. It feels dangerous to write my experience, to know what is relevant.

There was a conflict transformation team. Three words that represent how far we have gotten in being there for each other. There are more hands raised each year to volunteer to transform conflict. More people stand each year to face all of it. This year some of the themes I witnessed are suicide, lymph cleansing & being present in one’s body. That is inspiring to me. The team was called on pretty little for interpersonal conflict. People found ways to be there for each other. Many new creative ways. A lot of friends found support from the basic weeds growing around us.

I attempted to bring some technologies I know to the table. Things that creatively support people in looking at how we each work & love & live together. I ended up not being able to share them. One community technology is called “Zegg Forum” & another is “Holistic peer counseling”. My heart was too heavy to share. It has been six years of hearing peers with privilege talk about how they want to show up to the continuity of community yet so few have returned to each other with tangible resources to move in health filled ways. It felt deeply sad to think that I am the one bringing resources around this stuff. Leading from the center is depleting & fucking dangerous.

I came to hear in my head, “I ain’t your guru, bro. I’m just tryin to thrive through so many layers of death.”

(1) How Nonviolence Protects the State – http://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/peter-gelderloos-how-nonviolence-protects-the-state
(2) Conquest by Andrea Smith – https://www.dukeupress.edu/Conquest
(3) Compersion – http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Compersion

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The quickening genus of us.

July 10, 2015
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Even when some rush in.

Calm your body

& build comfort within you to gift to the soil.

Sweet wild onions in a vase.

Roots shed their skins on plates.

dirt is slow.

going to our cells.

everyone means well

but few tensions include the perspective of the edges.

Can you scan beyond your own experience?

Empathetic meeting point

seeding in the earthen joint.

I give the land the patience I hope to find in my fellow species.

Hallow is one’s exhuastion in the quickening genus of us.

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“You should write a book!”

July 10, 2015
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I have this book that I carry around.

It’s old now, maybe two years.

I wrote it.

Just stories of the day like this.

People tell me to write books about my experience,

& I do.

I write epics & I read minutes.

The book I carry is made of an epsom salt carton

from when community meant scabies

& a transmutation of the flesh.

The paper inside is bacon paper

from the butcher we perhaps never did convince to like us.

The first page reads,

“Bacon paper, this is my grief.”

& the book is an epic of grief,

from the experience of a queer, white, partially deconstructed, veteran, witch, crust super model

& her attempts to listen to the land

& guide her parenting from that place.

Sounds hot, right?

Well, each poem is a neurological rupture

& I am left to tend and midwife an entire transformation.

From one poem.

In every person that hears.

Energy happens & moves & who is responsible?

That’s trauma.

So these books are vaults of experience.

I have been years in waiting to express myself & it is too much.

When will the middle class culture ever be able to hear it

& trust their own fucking agency in it.

I got stag boots from a medicine woman

& a medicine bag from a wintu man in an antique shop as a spontaneous gift.

I am told it means nothing

& that I am a dumb white bitch.

But it means everything.

Is a story & is not a story at the same time.

That’s the difference presently,

I own my value.

I dreamt I was digging in the earth

calmly for my dignity…

it seemed a clear ball of energy

I was unearthing & handing

behind me, to my son,

who was carrying my dignity.

He was saying,


these people that hurt us,

we have to tell them we hate them.”

& I remained in rhythm,

re-assuring him that we are digging,


fidelity with this planet.

& the yellow signs lay face down in the forest

partially digested by duff,

soon the forest service will remember.

her signs are naturally in place,

her guidance innate.

There’s your topographic map.

Go ahead & touch it.

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