Edge effects.

July 10, 2015
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To shift the pace of a culture.

To move from white sugar to raw,

fermentation produces less.

You have no right to hoard her.

We are partners in witness.

Haven’t you found yourself a perpetrator while defending your space?

You witness it’s not physical combat anymore.

We are sore from our docility in it.

The bottom of the sea.

The roots.

This bird song is cosmic.

Stars singing an unfamiliar tune.

I tune my banjo

& hide my grief.

Listening to the land through the heli-cop-ters.

Banjo players tune their grief to the vibration of the land.

You once said to me,

“You are divine & I have your back homie.”

Then it came time to have it

& you realize we are backed against a wall.

(Something the marginalized knew the whole time.)

Edge Effects

Tending the edges of comprehension & awareness.

That’s where my half hearted smile came from.

I know your open heart is reinforced by the legacy of capital.

Who heals where & who dies?

Witness me trying to bridge it.

I see you too.


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elders & hip kids: white people problems

November 4, 2014
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I have been thinking of what maturity means…

Picking nails & stacking tales,


this capitol exchange creates swindlers of us, the barter of something, a symbol holding so much weight, so much harm, so much violence, so much experience.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, are we ready for you?

Smoke, puugghhhh…



The trigger is pulled by the pointer finger.

The lovers were shot in bed.

At the gate of the underworld, at the temple of birth and death triggers were pulled.

Shots cumming forth.

Picking nails to pin it down,

stacking tales to lay it out.

Tending our hides & what our hides keep hidden

like our tail bones & the bones of our tales.

Smoke pugh & mirrors.

There is a terrible pain.

That of the whore standing up.

That of the harlot tree growing from the earth up through the babelonian tower.

That insurrection of nature through civilization.

That battle cry through all  of the air waves to the womp womp of the eternal womb.

Back straight, shoulders back, heart open.

What do you think of the way a doe fears?

The way the eyes and the ears work together to express concern.

Heads up, frozen muscles, deep breath.

I am aware of a sensation in my body around money, time & property.

There is a clasping around my heart and a shorting out feeling flooding my skin

when I think

where can I rest my head?

Perhaps, like a doe presuming she is tip toeing through an earth,

a doe who instead turns a corner and finds a dunkin donuts.

I am confused like that.

Like, can’t everyone feel the emptiness of these buildings?

Can’t everyone feel how fast we are going and how much we are expected to pack into each moment?!

Money, time & property to a doe.

Is that deer immature for not taking these things seriously?

Money, time and property to a doe,

when instead she thinks, madrone, pine, cypress tree and snow.

 There was a lot that the 20 to 35ish range folks learned from the radicalism of our older generations. There was a lot of space we were given, intentionally and unintentionally, to explore our truths. There is a lot of wisdom handed down to us & we’re bright and brave. We are able to find health and reinvent strength.

The recent generations above us 20 something to 30 somethings, our settler elders… well, in the north west of this land we are actually sorta lucky, in a way & in another way we’re paralyzed by a generation that gave up. A generation of radicalism that said, “Nah, never-mind, we gotta work with capitalism and how it kills us.” A generation of feminism that was drowned by the second wave and won’t go down with any further attempts. “Just let it go.” I hear.

There are a hand full that are still open.

I also hear, “This generation is so entitled.”  This youth so lazy.  This species so lost.

Elders and hip kids. Hangin out all the time and yet so far from each other.

There is this culture of whiteness. It has been called capitalism, professionalism, middle class moralism, white people madness, success, etc. It’s that keeping up with the jones’s or better yet, take ’em for all they got. It is important to really expand on what white culture is because it is rancid and in every citizen’s pantry… tis worse than the contagion of moth balls. White culture consumes and we are consumed by it. It is that thing that makes us unable to see guests as equal beings not inconveniences to one’s success. It is that thing that makes cops kill for the rich. It is that thing that when marginalized people are in the room or the group, there are egg shells that are blamed on the marginalized. It is that rushing around, that never stop moving, that scoff on the climb up the ladder of society. It’s realizing that the forest service is selling the last wilderness. Still. Still. It is forgetting.

Entitled. Efforts towards listening to the land now fall under an umbrella of entitlement & of coarse it has all been entitlement since this land was colonized. I hear our elders say we are entitled because we do not work enough to sustain ourselves and we do not respect time. So our elders resent us and our culture is fragmented with a discontinuity.

& we resent them for encouraging us to jump in the crocodile’s mouth that we watched squeeze every drop of life and creativity out of them. Their demands and guidance sound like the tic of the clock to Captain Hook.  The curmudgeon thrashings of a Neverland that never was our land. The frustration of  never fully being able to dominate, own & control to a point where consumption is limitless.  The spite of living an entire life of planned obsolescence rather than fluid integration into the regenerating cycles of this planet. The anguish of attempting to survive on a land base that our settler forefathers did not have the time to listen to. Genetic perceived scarcity embedded in our veins.

This intergenerational resentment sustains civilization. It is our platform of violence & haste.

Imagine the first time the top soil was turned to plant seeds so that hunters and gatherers did not have to walk in those hoops so far anymore. Imagine that gash and forced pregnancy. I wonder if those folks felt the cacophony of agriculture thrashing  through all life from that first cut.  I wonder if they knew innately then that act was rape. From that rape, settler colonialism was birthed. To think one species knew better than an entire interdependent planet.

There are screams in the streets again. People thinking this could be the one, the great revolution! “Movement!”, they shout.

A revolution. One full cycle.

Agriculture: control of one cycle of the life of a plant in mass.

The earth is our akashic record & we are only listening, reading & mapping one book & it’s a played out story. Agriculture.  & we show up to life like the plants that we tend. A cabbage plant in a garden of resistance. Right now, St.Louis has a garden where us cabbages reside. Urban gardening, one plant bed expected to feed the whole world. Egypt, Greece, Oakland, St. Louis, we are mono cropping our resistance. Comodifying it and traveling to it, rather than tending the land we are on, listening and having relevant understanding of it for when the police state comes to the neck of the woods we are in.

“A” revolution, people want. One. One revolution and then we all go home to that (one) plot of land we each own. Like clocking out of the 9 to 5.

But like I said, we settlers have (some) elders that understand the imminence of this. They see, at least slightly, how this all ties into class, race & gender. They knew we had to slow down so they homesteaded and handed us mythology of the great collapse. As they breast fed us in business suits they told us bed time stories of government conspiracies. With glazed antidepressant eyes and aerosoled clown hair, they spoon fed us subliminal pleas for insurrection. They thoroughly & brilliantly reflected on that one cycle/revolution of agriculture. They found all the flaws and laid them out. They took a big step for us.

They taught us to remember it is not all one revolution. That our health is wrapped in the endurance of knowing the cycles never end and that is where wisdom is. The struggle.  One after the other as infinite as the stars.

Wealth, true wealth, is the ability to slow enough to listen to the land. Not our gardens of control but the land beyond our control. Listen to the feminine beyond your control. Listen to people of color beyond our control & fear. We are directly blocked from that wealth by a culture of whiteness… All of us.

Hip kids, those 20 to 30 something’s hip to this notion, those with the “land projects”. Hip kids are settlers, though some are 2nd or 3rd generation earth listeners. The wisdom is a little muffled with the concrete gags in her mouth.

We are blocked by a culture of whiteness because to have access to land and time to listen takes money & privilege. It takes entitlement, an innate entitlement. But we don’t know what innate entitlement looks like. It is a harmony and homeostasis we have lost touch with though it is in our blood. So we, hip kids, default to the entitlement of capitalism most consistently.  This looks like us not trusting the consistancy of each of our cycles, us not trusting our ability to return to each other. Us not being willing to realiZe that white people/settler problems are the white people/settler’s problem and we must cultivate each other to move past appropriating and assimilating everything. The only way to stop consuming insatiably is to nurture each other and meet each other’s true needs. I say true needs because we as hip kids are packed with a whole suburbs of taught needs. We are so deeply sheltered that we think our needs for affluent abundance are righteous enough to have our own individual everything & we expect others to have their own individual everything & even though we know that is impossibly unsustainable we isolate others that can not keep up. This is a place our elders are not guiding us. Our elders encourage us to make these divids of isolation. It was too deep for them to witness, the depths of our collective domination. The humility too saturating. & they’d like their retirement now from a life of activism. They forgot it wasn’t a career, that movement, it was a shift in how we be, from consumptive to cyclicly reciprocal. & this is how our elders teach us to be white supremacist. To believe we are supreme enough to deserve a shelter and consistent rest and a shower AND a mac, a smart phone & coconut water. To deserve so much comfort that we have analyzed our entire genetic predispositions and we tell friends we don’t have room by our fire because we have to have an enima of ghi so that our chi is buzzing.

So yes, schizophrenia is your problem settler kids & elders, working through the victimhood of white girls and supporting them to like themselves beyond their image is our problem, juggelos are our problem, feather heads are our problem, sold out hippie’s buying up hella native land is our problem, realizing our whiteness is what hooked us up with that land project and that hip collective house is our problem. Digesting the anger of poc’s only having place in cities where cops kill them is our problem. Heteronormative patriarchy on steroids in every single place is our problem.

& not like, show up at other’s protests and have a photoshoot. Our problem, as in follow through with each other and hold each other to a standard of not feeding the machine, not individualizing because you’re stressed, not saying “that drama” ain’t your problem. Work on each other so we stop spewing onto other cultures.

We hip kids walk this tight rope from our industriously civilized elders to our indigenous decendants. Cry all you want but the beauty is it’s not getting any easier and agriculture taught us that the short cuts aren’t worth it.

This never land never was our land and we must face that humbly each moment.

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weapons down. spirits up.

February 1, 2014
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ImageImageImageImageImageImageImage          ImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImage

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Tending the Wild Within

August 14, 2013
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Chapter 1

Violence, Anger and passive aggression

Clearing our brush.


You could have it all, my empire of dirt.”

-johny cash


(I begin with anger because the tops of pine trees told me to.)


Anger is neutral. It is not good or bad. It just exists. We can not dismiss it. We can only allow it to move through us.

We need to be encouraged to express anger. Anger is fire. In the wild the forest overgrows. We bipeds are creatures connected to the process of balance in nature. As symbiotic beings, we are the fire tenders. We are like mushrooms who are the filters and decomposers of the world or ants who pick up all creatures scraps and performs alchemy changing scraps to fine soil. We tend forests overgrowth. That is how we add to the cycle of life. It is how we add abundance to the homoeostasis of the earth instead of overconsumption. We yield fire and use it to burn back bushes. In similar ways we tend our intellect. We burn back tension stored in our body through anger. We burn back ill intentions through aggression. We burn back anxiety and nightmares by crying out in resentment. We throw out our malicious or temperamental thoughts attempting to see what is valid and what is ego based. We burn the brush or ego based responses revealing constructive truths. If we are able to face conflict as maintenance of the forest of our psyche, we can build capacity and endurance to hold each other through pain and differences. We can build abundance. Our anger is then balanced over many smaller interactions instead of spontaneous, overwhelming bouts of aggression, compulsion or perversion.

We are encouraged to express anger because we then can display to our fellow folks that we feel deeply all things. We breathe out anger lifting veils to the people closest to us clearing the forest of the psyche, opening up trails. It gives us an opportunity to follow through with people’s responses to our anger and from there it becomes communication. It gives us an opportunity. It is a gift to see how our friends respond to trauma. We can see the defense tactics our loved ones utilize and how we can help them empower themselves. Expressing anger shows us our own behavioral patterns because those who are willing to engage with us will reflect ways we could communicate better. We gain experience with how to remain aware and present in future conflict. We burn paths of clarity. We are responsible for the harm our anger manifests because anger like fire burns things. Many of us want to be prepared for them. We want to work with fire like the element within in us it is. There is no world where fire and anger do not exist. We take lessons from anger like we learn lessons from working with fire. For example, when you burn certain bushes like mock orange down to the roots in the fall they will regrow the following year much more plentiful. This technique is called coppicing. Intuition tells me this was discovered by a relationship built with the bush. A person paid attention to the bush and became familiar with its tendencies. They observed the bush through fire, seeing the ways it suffered and persevered. We could follow this example by holding each other through our anger, by observing the ways we suffer and persevere. We can continue relationships with those our anger burns, see their whole position and consider why your chemistry was or continues to be volatile, our egos overgrown. We can continue the relationship by seeing our friends whole position within the context of the moment. We have the opportunity to be patient and anticipate the fruits and abundance of being able to process unhelpful patterns and validate helpful ones. Sometimes we only have to burn back small segments of our intellectual veils to see more clearly, sometimes it is more fruitful to burn back an entire bush for abundance further in the future. To know the intensity of the fire we must burn, we can remain aware of the patterns of our own and other’s anger. We can speak up about ways we relate to each other’s anger and ways we do not. We can form commonalities.

But we have to continue to show up to ourselves and the forest. We have to observe. We have to be patient and remain present. We have to listen and learn.

“So the point is to make the decision to take one’s life back in its totality, a decision that requires just the sort of ferocity that will be necessary to demolish this society. And such a decision will transform all one’s relationships, demanding a clarity that will leave no room for submission to the demands of social protocol, disrespectful tolerance or pity for those who fear the energy of unchanneled desire more than its suppression. In making this decision (and the decision is only truly made as one acts to realize it), one is completely rejecting the logic of submission that dominates most relationships.”-Wolfi Landstreicher


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get weird.

October 26, 2012
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Orion steps from the clouds, through the assumption that she is a he due to her acute marksmanship, through veils of stratosphere, to her mother the earth.

I hunt for Artemis in the eyes of my lovers. The deeper they submerge themselves in erotic fog and musky rain; the more their eyes, the gates confining my love, appear able to be picked.”

Orion’s fate is spent mating with Artemis and birthing stars and stories, biting them free to merge into celestial bodies. To seduce individuals into her temple, Orion was able to glimpse her partner’s thoughts. At the moment of genuine eye contact, the huntress could see into their hunger. Only on earth’s surface could she facilitate her powers. From the stars, she was mandated with loving force to reflect on her creations. Most nights were spent thankful for her routine. It saved time for baths and masturbating over the memory of her surrender.

The first couple of elves she witnessed in the astral realm were the Draus. They had just subverted their ruling authority and were sampling their lootings. The four leading Draus; Calico, Aberforth, Metexu and Estarion squatted the king’s wing of the palace.

Orion recognized Calico as a reflection of her wanting self. Calico believed that her tattoos counted as clothing and draped herself in lace leotard ripped to show tattoos and accessible places. She was finally free of image. She had space to show her heat and swollen corners. Orion felt thrown off and at a draw with the Draus. She worried if she was transparent with her intuition… would Calico meet her out there or leave her to hang like the energy in light bulbs. In ways, she did not trust her wanting self. Yet, she met eyes with Calico and saw affirmation and support, a reflection of her confidence.

Orion woke to her lover leaving her bed. Her head felt heavy and sore, she heard echoes of her friends in the kitchen. She was scared being away from dream world, the place where her intuition had Imageweight. She wanted to stop Bran and whisper in his ear. To say,

Please lick my pussy like you would a tear from my cheek. Please drink me into the morning, help me have a different start…”

But she woke to him too late, he was beyond awake, gone onto the day, and she had to be who she was; a cold back and a heavy head. It was time to move on but they probably wouldn’t, on the road that is. She focused on the positives of her travel unit, her nomadic family. She thought of little things like walking for hours each day until her legs hummed through the night, coming home to beautiful men’s bare backs, massages with the finest oils, glistening tight muscles making up pristine tattoo canvases. She thought of the way they all literally frolicked through forests and capitalist jungles. They pick fruit straight from branches and milk goats they new. They would wake and remember to remind each other to brush their teeth. Orion slid layer after layer onto her thighs; lace, fishnet, nylon, wool. She thought of calico and glimpsed her spread on the silver throne. Her legs transformed into fawn’s haunches and hooves, but it was Orion’s gateway to her womb, her sweet flesh open in the king’s chamber; a mockery of logic, chaos in the castle.

Orion sipped coffee over breakfast viewing the world through yellow wallpaper lenses. She thought of Artemis, her goddess, her huntress, her shape shifter. Can I have you to myself for one moment without asking you to be mine? Oh! Delicious burgundy lips, moss beside Hawthorne berry and pricks, your body is a forest my fingers long to walk your paths and find medicine in your crevices. Burgundy lips and sparkling eyes I piece my Artemis from fragments, piecemeal. I spend some of my light, my life reflecting on the collage of my love. I wonder which scraps are made from the yellow wallpaper. Flesh of mustard across our third eye, can we see through the layers of female fles, rubber cemented epilogues of history?


We use paper-mache to build our love.

This is where I start my day.”

Orion walks through worlds tantalizing men and women, teasing the players in her world to follow. Saying, “cum.” A harmless offering. She speaks with the voice of many women. Her words feel heavy like a conversation with a crowd, a field of observers harmonizing in an ancient tune. Orion asks people to speak to the tribe she carries in her cells.

This is where I start my day.”

Sometimes when talk is empty space is not. Orion rolls her ball, her crystal of affect into the traffic of the day. She is a lightbulb hanging from the sky. She contains a universe in a capsule. She is contained, paper-mached.

I want to break.” She whispers to herself as she glides across the sidewalk. She has no energy reserved to make eye contact and dive into someone’s hunger.

I want to unplug.”

She glances at the store fronts identifying them as part of her packaging, as padding to keep her lightbulb intact. Her access to her source of power is mediated. She feels a hyper erotic surge to dismantle her packaging, to be unrobed. She sees the tagged objects as a piece of her jail walls to be purchased as profit. Each object to be purchased not to dismantle her cage but to be property to hold space from her, to transgress against. Her wild spaces have less room to exist, space commoditized. Her erotic heat turns manic and she is filled with anxiety. She must move the objects without letting them produce profit. She must liberate space and utilize the object. Orion enters a boutique. The cord from her light bulb becomes entangled in the door chime. The room is yellowed and antiqued by her wallpaper lenses. She is clumsy yet appears unnoticed. Stored, packaged, manufactured energy is common place; disoriented female energy is comforting. Under the cloak of normality, Orion searches for the most expensive object. She searches for those things kept far from her through class and she slides them into her bulb, acclimating them to her orb. She leaves the boutique with a profit loss and slightly less able to prostrate her. On her way out, she bumps into her friends. They appear as though they have also been dismantling the empire through all its pompous packaging. They glow with an ability to manifest space, to utilize objects and they warm Orion. She feels her body glow too. She imagines being able to smash her bulb and let her universe ooze out and surround her crew. She wanted each of them to be able to speak their true desires and she wanted to be able to help facilitate them. She made eye contact with Juniper who looked away frantically as to not offend. But she saw him beyond his control. She saw him warm under fluffy comforters, alone and naked. Her thought opened the door to his room and caught him, Aberforth, hard. She was flooded with his intent. She became who he needed, she smelled of his need. His eyes lit up in a sense of completion. She was unplugged and he wanted her as his port. His veins throbbed in his throat.

In a blink, Orion returned to the moment. Juniper offered her a cigarette and she felt suspended in his lust. She intended to meet him in his dreams and nurture him from her source in the sky.

The group decided to walk back to the cabin together to share a spliff by the fire. On the floor of the cabin they spread out all their gear and food they had liberated, harvested and picked from the industrial jungle. As the room warmed, each of them shed their clothes, their camouflage, and their packages. Undone and high they cuddled their clammy bodies to a sauna like mist. Orion faded into dream world in the arms of friends. Aberforth awaited her at the gates of the king’s chamber. She could still feel the warmth of her family’s arms and bellies against her in the cabin though she was walking a marble hallway in the astral realm. As she recognized the marble, she saw a hologram of stars. Aberforth squealed, “Wait til you see our adjustments!”

The black blocked Draus, the subvertive elves had transformed the chamber that had been metallic into an underground forest. They had injected spores into the stone masonry and mushrooms were fruiting plentifully. Trees and vines grew behind the throne. “We are preparing for a ceremony, “Aberforth yelled through a smile. “We are going to ask the green woman to come and guide our actions. We have used all of our magical resources to prepare!”

The Draus were assembled in a circle with the silver throne at the head of them. Calico was positioned in the throne in the same way Orion had seen her in her vision. She felt compelled to join Calico, to sink into her body and merge worlds. She trusted her ability to join her wanting self; her reflection. Orion felt weightless without her bulb. About an inch from her body she felt her outer self. Her universe washed over the room and she heard a serenade of women’s voices. She couldn’t remember, in that moment, how a package felt. Her essense merged with Calico and she felt her own thighs transforming, her toes forming hooves. Her own swollen flesh met the throb of Calico. The draus knelt to receive their sacrament. They drank of the universe of women, united and unpackaged. They welcomed the green woman by harmonizing their voices. Orion and Calico as one felt surges through their stomachs, they felt an ache to be filled. Opening their eyes, they felt oak leaves sprouting from their lashes, growing over their head in branches. The women opened their eyes to Artemis standing before them. The goddess had grown 3 cocks that were hard and hungry. The green woman on the throne reunited with her nurturer, rejoined her complete desire, Artemis. The Draus had transformed to the women’s primal hunger, to be filled with lust and want. There was no instruction necessary. Artemis penetrated the women in both entrances and slide her third cock over their clitoris. Their bodies merged together but maintained the tension of warm places. The green woman, Orion, Calico felt the unity and the expression of interconnected souls. They felt as though they were choking on the hearts of generations but enjoyed the flavor. The Draus the astral representation of her waking life friends made love to her. They were complete and satiated.

Orion woke with a heavy head on the cabin floor. Around her were naked bodies and cum covered sheets.

This is where I start my day.” She thought. 

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my fuck you resume.

September 14, 2012

This morning I woke from a dream to my son being ecstatic to go back to Japan with his Daddy. I couldn’t remember the dream so I groggily choked back tears of the coming moments and got Jordan in the bath. I began washing his hair and laid him back in the tub to get his hair wet. As his head went under and his eyes closed he became startled and jumped back up to sitting closing his eyes and opening them over and over.

He said,”Mommy! I can see my third eye! It’s green. Bright green with a dark black pupil!”

And suddenly my mind played back my dream. I was holding Jordan in my lap by the fire rocking him and looking into his eyes when I realized that Jordan had contacts in. His eyes were blood shot and the contacts were drying to his eyes. I became frantic worrying that his eyes were being hurt and wondering where the contacts came from. As I peeled the contacts back bright green eyes were revealed beneath! I was shocked and wondered how I had never known that my son’s eyes were green. I asked him where they came from and he smiled and said, “My Daddy has me wear contacts. It’s ok mommy.”

My husband came and picked up Jordan this morning. They are heading back to Japan.

My partner says green is the color of the heart charkra. My family sees through it’s heart chakra.

A couple days ago i dreamt that I was on a boat with Jordan, two of my sisters and my sister’s husband. One of my sisters is a RN, her husband is a police officer and my other sister is a CPA. In the dream, my sister that is an RN had her hair colored orange and yellow like the littleton shooter. At one point in a storm the boat flipped and we were all dumped into a very irritated sea. We got back in the boat somehow and realized Jordan was not in the boat. My sister’s husband and I jumped in the water and began searching for Jordan in murky, tumultuous waters. I could see nothing and I could only feel empty mud slip through my fingers. I thrashed about chanting mantras and begging all forces to help me. We resurfaced and my sister’s husband began explaining to me that it was too late, we might as well give up. We’d only find an empty body. I jumped back into the sea without a second’s hesitation. I swam as deep as I could and I charged my body. Suddenly a light shimmered through the water and shone directly on my son at the bottom. He wriggled and flapped with his face in the dirt. He appeared a bottom feeder and was breathing underwater. I raced to him and scooped him from the depths, from the weight, from the suffocation. He stared.


I haven’t received a certificate in years. I have no papers or bank accounts proving my worth. Most days I am far filthier than a job would allow. My insides are far far more clean than my mouth. I am far away from building a resume.

“So here’s to you, Mrs.  Robinson
People love you  more, oh nevermind, oh nevermind
In fucking fact, Mrs. Robinson
The world won’t care whether you live or die, live or die
In fucking  fact, Mrs. Robinson,
They probably hate to see your stupid face, your stupid  face
So here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson,

You live in an unforgiving place.”

Some would say I have nothing to give. A wasted little twit is what we’ve been called living this way.

But I can build you a shelter with my hands and bring you warmth. I know how to feel other humans and I have my dreams. I can sense when my body or your body is out of balance and I am receptive to balancing it. I am brave and I am strong. I seek opportunities to heal the people who surround me. I spend most of my nights touching this earth and feeling it surge through my body. I love. I want no thing(except maybe a better sleeping bag) and I am free. I am free to gain possessions and lose possessions. I am free to support the people I love with all my capasity. I am free to take time to grieve this broken heart and broken body. I bring my son to experiences he will never forget.

I have moved through so many worlds these past couple years and I know what ownership looks like. I dissolve ownership. In communities I see people come to give and be there for each other and I watch every single person lose everything. I watch those who have carriers and build empires and lose everything.

Can we please start celebrating this inevitability and stop grieving it?

Can we look at these objects that surround us and say, “That is not me and I exist after it is gone.”?

Can we stop valuing objects and comforts and start breaking the crust that is drying on our souls?

Can we own ourselves and our desires alone? alone.

Can we take the light feeling and seek what nourishes us? With every muscle.

Can we use our muscles?

I recently signed a letter to a friend:

“Good bye possessions, hello forest.

Stay strong and be weak in good company.”



A friend of mine lost her courage. She was searching for it in the murky depths of the sea. Emptiness slipped through her fingers and she said she was hoping to find her courage.

I said, “Courage, unlike money, grows on trees.”

Don’t let it bring you down. It’s only castles burning.


I can’t remember the end of my dream. I can’t remember if we got on the boat or just went swimming for shore.

Back to life.Image

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double lives of the many selves.

September 12, 2012
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A rupture.
…a pop in my seams.
it seems a fault, someone’s.
A vault of compressed,
“It doesn’t really matters.”
a smile. a nod.
It’s code is constructed of innocent hunger for growth.
But how do you speak of dissent seeped in thankfulness and gratitude?
Frames slow and space out.
Memories fragment in stages.
We walk through each others lives like routine.
We walk through each other’s bodies.
Oil painting picturesque moments flash behind eyes as we attempt to stay cordial.
Cordial conjugal visit hugs attempt to say everything.
Hugs fail in their inability to last forever.
I am not there for you.
I am away in old moments that tapped something.
So short and so forced but somehow full.
So full I choke on the leftovers.
I cut myself in peices.
Compartmentalized selves are more sustainable.
If there is no time for grief how could we possibly expect to find time to love as deep as we hunger for.
Love takes time.
The time to dig thumbs in back muscles working tension from our bones.

I am not there for you.
I am deeply sorry.

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osha flavored lips spill toxins on the breathing, sweating pines.

July 28, 2012
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From June 16th to 24th, I attended Wild Roots Feral Futures along Los Piños in the Weminuche Wilderness area of Colorado. I have attended this encampment the last two years and had been desperately waiting for just this flavor of release. Over the last two years the wilderness in the San Juan National forest has become my family. Hiking into the forest has come to feel like returning to meet the Grandparents I never knew.

My son was set to arrive on the 14th and he was equally excited to rewild with his friends and family; flora, fauna and feral folks alike. He is 5 and last year he lead his own thorough bug walk (promising to even offer zebras if he could conjure them up). There was a significant amount of trouble with his flights and it was projected that he would return Wednesday the 20th instead. His absence was a difficult reality for me to swallow. He had been in Japan with his father since the previous year’s WWFF and many of us were eager for his return. I was met by those who knew my son and I with compassionate loving arms. Many, though unsure how, were ready to support me through the extra days without my little animal.

Then I saw the young folk, so many more than last year! There was even a 3 month old bundle of wild. It was like in 80’s movies when one person comes around the corner at the big climax and then slowly after a whole group shows up with raging music and your blood flows, except instead of cheesy clothes and absent-minded culture there were pine tress and our youth in the least polluted environment most of us have ever seen!

Over the first few days I oscillated between immense joy, stimulation and complexity and heart-crushing longing, feeling as though my womb was empty and sick and paranoia that I was not relatable. I arrived after reading books on the pervasiveness of it all(oppression, repression and pollution) and feeling it sticky on my one on one interactions.  I walk through each day wondering how resisting or at least deconstructing this culture isn’t the norm. I wonder how and why I feel pressured to glorify the military or buy things or eat junk. When each societal honorable action leaves guilt prints on my dreams I can’t look my loved ones in the eyes anymore. The forest does it’s best to back me/us. I found some balance beside the hodge-podge tribe that was coming to fruition around me. In an attempt to resciprocate the balance, I spent much of my time and energy attempting to support infrastructure. There is always dish buckets to change out, grey water holes and poopers to dig and miscellaneous trash to pick up. I missed many of the practical workshops because my heart was all but absent. Many times I just sat and stared at the tops of the old pine trees. They swayed in a rhythm native to my homeostasis. They rocked me and mothered me.

Wednesday morning when the time came to get my son, I suddenly realized I was not alone in my oscillation. People I knew well and hearts I had grown close to quickly were also side tracked. There seemed a universal distraction and inability to focus or feel in step despite all the magic flowing through us. I thought of the fires raging all around us and I wondered if we could all feel the discomfort of the burn, the inability to self regulate. I wondered if we were personifying the forest or just finally, partially back in tune with the extended pieces of our bodies, this earth. On the way to the river for our daily group jumps into the cool, crisp river my eyes rolled in boiling seas of heat. I closed them to douse the fire but I couldn’t. Rage seeped from me and I cried, helpless. I wanted my son and I wanted him to know this land. Somewhere in me I already knew his flight had not worked out. I felt the distance from him in my bones and my body ached. Three friends very dear to me were at the river bank beside me. One offered me a piece of Osha and said, “Here. Chew this. This is what the bears eat when they wake from hibernation. It clears the fog.” I chewed it and returned to the city to hear the news. I was right, Jordan was still in Japan.

On the way back into the forest I hiked alone. I nearly jogged and let my eyes drain down my cheeks. My pace met the gait of the rocks. I chased the sun set trying to make it to the women’s circle scheduled at sundown. Along the way I acknowledged that being fully present for the remainder of the week was the best I could do for my son and myself. My lungs began to feel more full and I arrived back to the clearing. Some already knew my son was not with me, they met me with hugs, sincerity and optimism. In a world that has forgotten how to value mothering, I had been braced for heavy judgement. There was none.

Since WRFF is an autonomous gathering dependent on initiative, there was a circle every morning to add a little form to function. This year many of the circles contained the internalized fire’s unpredictability. Continuity of intent among the group seemed rare but relevant. Some wanted the meetings to speed up while others felt silenced by the rush. The group decided on designating the main camp fire area a sober space. There was no drinking and no smoking in the circle. This created a new campfire dynamic and some were given the opportunity to relearn how to socialize without vice.s There were several amazing skill shares and plant walks that came up each day.

There was also discussions, discussions that almost never have space in our common lives. There was a radical parenting talk that created commonalities and regrounded many including myself. Things I had been reiterating in my community that made me feel like a broken record were brought up by other parents without me voicing them. It made me feel more sane but the universal nature of the concerns also made them feel more heavy. I was having trouble putting these commonalities together. It felt necessary, more so past due, to map a plan or create helpful hints for communities of resistance to not only include younger folks in holistic ways but also make space to take their lead more to have them part of decision making.  There was one family who had a lot of positive experiential allyship to tell about. I listened and wondered how much I was not letting support in or if the fact that they had both of the parents on the same page helped. I acknowledged that no matter what them talking positively of their support group actively made their support network more strong. I thought of the balance between optimism and criticism, between satiety and desire.

I found a lot of personal space for intimate conversations around open relationships. I connected with others who were struggling to decode liberated sexuality. I haven’t found the words for the pieces yet but I am little bit closer.

Then there was chaos day.

After feral decision-making, it was decided that solstice was to be chaos day. To me, it was shocking and a bit refreshing that such a decision was reached. After all of the theory and process that accumulates in radical culture it sometimes feels necessary to pull the rug out and see what intuition has to say, to trust ourselves. It was a bit of a challenge that chaos day also fell on the day we processed two goats as well as set up a ritual to celebrate the solstice.

I feel as though this resynched our steps or at least mine. Solstice happened. Ritual and chaos happened. Offense happened beside growth. Fear met dialogue.

The next day we reconvened around what it means to transgress and fail and how many different people’s healing can happen beside each other.

There was a group talk about how some duties with the goat and the rituals went well and how some could have been seen as disrespectful.

It was decided that there would be a people of color fish bowl (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fishbowl_(conversation)). For me, this was one of the most profound discussions of the week. People of color sat in the center and were the only ones allowed to speak until they felt ready to open the circle for discussion. From living in Denver for a couple of years, this was not a totally new experience for me but I have rarely seen such a discussion feel respectful. The facilitation of this dialogue was heart-felt and empowering. The discussion was long but did not feel overdone in any sense. Color, race, ethnicity is one of our most programmed divides. It is so pervasively unconscious at this point in our culture and it takes a lot to face ourselves in these conversations. It is hard to keep the courage to stay motivated to continue the conversation. Colonization ties the topic to our land bases, rights and resources. Genocide can be tasted just bringing the topic up. I sat and listened, fully present and endlessly thankful for the voices speaking. I felt almost unjustifiably honored to hear the testimonies and the strength. I felt torn inside as I always do in these fish bowls. Beside voices of praxis and excitement, voices of selfishness and insecurity spoke up in my head screaming, “Wait, no. I am not who you are talking about. I am not racist. I do x,y and z to make sure. You aren’t seeing my whole self!” I stopped in my head at “whole self” and I thought of how often the people in the circle get to be seen as a whole self. I ruminated on the turmoil inside of my stomach and I wondered how much each of them felt their identities being shoved back down their throat. We all know the feeling at least a little, but it is far out of balance. My guilt disintegrated in a way because I saw a new way I could own my part. I could feel that with them for a moment and truly listen. Like all cycles of renewal, it was my time to feel it, to maybe balance the weight just a little. We discussed some of the offenses of the ritual and I realized that my path of healing is going to rub rough against people with different backgrounds, ancestors and upbringings but that I can’t stop trying my best. I can be conscious and accountable and move forward in new ways.

We talked a lot about allyship. I thought about how people ally with me as a single mother/communal mother. I thought about the times I could have been more thankful for people’s efforts. Wild Roots Feral Futures is the most allyship I have felt as a single mother, hands down. Allyship is extremely situational and we have to all be open to receive it and open to failing when we give it. When we are criticized in our attempts, we have to be ready to say, “I hear you” and mean it. We have to be ready to try again.

The wilderness let us in to reunite with our wild. To inspire us to rejoin it. It wasn’t asking me to protect it as much as it was asking me to heal to be strong to fight beside all of the interconnected pieces of it. All effective action stems from solid affinity. Affinity grows through allyship. Resistance is often compiled of theory and propaganda, rarely is it so personal and palpable as what unfolded during this week.

Since the encampment I have been viewing through a finer tuned lens. I have traveled this country a lot over the last couple years and I have not found a group of peers like the friendships I have built in the forest. The environment, sparkling in the dust of the heat, interacted in our process by shedding a couple of layers of built up anxiety. I return to the city and each year I feel the grease of industrialism building up on my gears. I feel my heart and mind dulling under the routine. I have a comparison of relief to contrast my tension and I resent the destruction of our healing spaces more.

No compromise.

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erotica dismantles tyranny.

July 3, 2012
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I hesitate to write.

Intimacy feels untouchable.

Interaction is thick with melting tongues in silent mouths.

Octives fill veins and smiles stretch across faces like sleeping bags down stair cases.

Tangible memory warms my insides.


He says he likes things simple. She fills in the blanks on “simple” complicating it. Saturdays seep in slowly like any other day when you take to collaging time like scraps, rummaging opportunity, creating, and she wonders what he means by simple. (more…)

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“in the pregnant hour between false and true dawn…”

May 29, 2012

I contemplated my triggers again.

People talk of triggers… at least in Denver and other touchy feel-y cities. I have been identifying and cataloging my triggers on this roller coaster of healing like a prison inmate picks trash off the side of a highway. It’s one of those first step type things. Therapists and advocates encourage all people to journal such things and in that moment of advice it feels easy and helpful. Like the inmate picking up the trash again, one would think, “Ahh nice, a break from the jail… let my mind wander a bit… fresh air and contemplation.”  Then the individual picks the first piece of trash with their strange trash poking or grappling item and realizes the trash is endless. It’s just one after the other down an endless highway! Dirt and smut and disapproving glares!


That’s how veteran’s holidays feel to me.

Initially I would respond to this by staying in the house on holidays and document the ways I was/am triggered. Memorial Day, 4th of July, Presidents day, Labor Day, Flag day, Veteran’s day! I have no where to pack that much anxiety.

I realized I wanted a monument to represent the war I have survived. I say fuck the elitism of  “combat veterans” because there is no front line on this bullshit and any and all of the trauma combat veterans ingest is ALWAYS vomited back out on to all of us which we then vomit out on to each other. Which is not to say this is the combat veteran’s fault or that they don’t deserve to vomit. By all means, combat veterans, vomit, but do so acknowledging that we are all carrying and processing this toxicity.

So, out of respect for all of us, with no hierarchy of pain or trauma, I made myself into a war memorial. I dressed as the spirit in white draped in all white lace from head to toe. I stood with a sign in front of me that said:

“Memorial Day Memorial

While serving 7 years in the US Army as a soldier and mental health counselor I was raped by a fellow soldier. I stand here as a ghost of the violence perpetuated by the military industrial complex. I am not a rare case. As a mother and veteran I am jobless and some days nearly homeless. This is also an invocation of the spirit in white. Throughout fairytale and legend, the spirit in white is the guide, the one with innate and gentle knowing. Donations can be made to support the communal mental health recovery of folks with post traumatic stress. Thank you for your time.”

I did not speak. I stood still. I have very little ability to communicate these days. Even blogging to a world of people that rarely read, listen or care, I feel inarticulate, irrelevant and dumb. I rarely maintain relationships for long, though I find this true for most folks so I try to see the positive in it.

But I knew/know I had/have to resist this feeling. This crushing silencing.

I did what I could. I pointed out a different perspective in the sea of arbitrary patriotic shirts hailing to an unknown Hitler “for our freedom”.  I stood on a chair behind the sign with my knees shaking in my combat boots.

I watched the faces through the holes in the lace. Each face transformed in similar ways. Starting with an “Oh god. Dumb. What is this?” look, then each cocky smile would melt slowly as they read.

Oh. Oh.

At times I would have between 50 and 100 folks circled around reading and transforming. 3 females stopped to tell me that the memorial I created is too their memorial. They each told me at 3 different times in a 3 hour period that they were also raped in the military. Each of them told me where and when and how and that they each tried to tell their chain of command(the people above them that are responsible for helping them seek justice and be their advocates). Each woman told me that they were told to keep their mouths shut and that their concerns had nothing to do with the mission. Two of the women had their children with them and said that since they have been unable to keep a job and have been struggling through life. They said that the VA does not consider their trouble anything worth compensating.

3 women with the same story in 3 hours on a random street corner.

I am not alone and they are not alone.

Then when I was re-taping my sign to my chair an older man about 70 came up to me and said, “Do you make this lace?”

I said, “No, I am my own war memorial.”

He took a moment to read my sign and said,”This is my fight too. I have been surviving PTSD for 30 years and I still feel alone a lot. The VA has never helped me. They didn’t even know what my DD214 was. I am proud of you for taking this into your own hands and making it more real for everyone here. I love you for this.”

I had a younger boy steal a dollar from my pot and run. Another younger boy just stood in front of me for about ten minutes making ridiculously silly faces while his mom shopped. I loved him. I made faces back.

Some women would just stand in front of me and hold hands and lament. A moment for tears.

I had multiple groups of natives translate my sign to Spanish aloud for their group. These people thanked me for everything I was acknowledging and thanked me for calling on the spirits for guidance.

In each spot I stood I had a different person ask me to move. The first place I stopped Planned Parenthood asked me to leave because they had researched which corner would be the most lucrative to canvas and that I was blocking their plans. I asked them to think about what they were saying and I did not move. Then the male canvasser stood directly in front of my sign so it could not be read and attempted to stop people from that position. Others told him he was being rude and eventually he left. Later I moved to a more central position at the mouth of this festival. And by festival I mean people using memorial day as a day to sell useless things from tents… because that’s how we remember and reflect? A woman stopped me and said that for the sake of her customers comfort she would like to move. I told her, ” I acknowledge your concern and I am choosing not to move.” 15ish minutes later I was approached by an undercover police officer in front of a large crowd and asked to get down and come to the side so he could have a couple words with me. I told him to feel free to have his couple words in front of the crowd. He continued to let me know that where I was standing was specifically leased for vendors and that I could stand anywhere else on the mall without worry. He told me that he appreciated what I was doing. I then turned to see he was backed by 7 other police in uniform.

There was a handful of “tween” girls with bodies so thin and lanky that their “grown up” purses hung to their knobby knees. They would read with their fresh fancy make up on and their adorable outfits. Their faces held some of the most sincere expressions, like they knew they had no choice but to enter the war I was memorializing and empathized with me. They would take the time to get their glitter covered change purses out and share some of their money. Most of them would take a moment to tell me I was beautiful.

All of this I did in solitude. I did not know anyone who approached me and I did not ask anyone to join me in support. On the walk down to the mall I thought of Chicago and all of the protests and public demonstrations in Denver. Thinking of these people and things I felt inadequate and useless. I thought of all the veterans I see on corners staring blankly and I commiserated with their desperation. I felt as though attempting to work or organize along the side of anyone I love would only lead to disappointing them as I have in the past. I thought of the soldiers at the NATO protests that threw back their combat awards, fearless and proud. I felt as though I would not fit in there. I attempted to work with a couple veterans involved with IVAW and Veterans Green Jobs and I left that circle feeling ashamed of my gender and dismantled through sexual harassment just like while serving.

I wonder if this is all my fault. If I conjure these feelings and create my own isolation. If I have not made the most of the opportunities and support given to me.

This memorial day though, I found the people who walk a similar road. I started the day spiraling into panic attacks and finished the day feeling relate-able and fresh, a little less afraid.

I am caring for myself and not burdening anyone else. I might not be able to spin a bunch of plates and change legislation or the world in anyway but I am a little less cumbersome. I can care for my old rickety home and cook and commune with folks who love me with a bit of a lighter heart.

The ghost of the spirit in white has ruptured in to a lot of psyches too. The ghost of violence that haunts me will haunt others too, perhaps to the point of understanding.

Maybe I invoked some guidance for all of us.


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