A Tale of Two Dreams, Horror and Warning….(trigger warning)

2016-11-19-0001I dream vividly, in great detail and full color. Thus, when I have the very rare nightmare; these, too, are not sparing in detail. I’ve been sick for over three weeks and that makes my dreams even more wild it seems. I had a real doozy last night, the kind of thing you wake from, in a sickening sweat and shaking.

A President sits in the White House – a proven liar, a sexist, a sexual predator, a misogynist, a con man, a cheat, and possibly a traitor in debt to Russians.  This and being sick is not a great combination.  No wonder I had a horrid dream, I told myself, arms around my own knees at 0400 this morning.  But the revulsion still has me feeling nausea – I regret my breakfast attempts.

So, I must put it down on paper, I must pull it out of my head and see it on black and white.  If you are reading it, I found the courage to hit “publish”!  If you are a sexual abuse victim, I warn you not to read further. I am NOT being silly or politically correct — this dream shook ME.

In my dream, I had company – a friend I almost never see as she lives far away.  She had come to visit and brought a woman friend of hers to meet me.  We were having coffee when the doorbell rang.  At the door was an incredible sight, which was rolled into my family room.  The man pushing this wheeled contraption unfurled a paper scroll like some prop from an old “tyrant king” flick — something John of England would have read aloud by minions just before peasants got abused.  He read this absurd looking scroll to us.

It announced that the government had a new crime prevention strategy, since public executions had not drawn the crowds expected.  They wanted ordinary citizens – men and women – to SEE the punishments of crime, so as to properly understand deterrence.  Now, I must describe the horrible thing he rolled into my home.

It had a flat bed atop six or eight wheels.  On it was a nude woman, on her hands and knees – as if she was getting ready to do a yoga pose like “the cat”.  But her knees were strapped in place in a very wide stance, as were her ankles.  Around her waist was another large band tying her to a horizontal cross bar above her back. She could drop her elbows and sag forward, for instance, but her body was more or less locked in the sexual position called “doggy style”.  Behind her was a kneeling pad, as if she was the most obscene prie-dieu ever devised.

The man, rolling up his scroll, announced that he wanted to park this somewhere where all three of us could sit in a row where we could see him and he could see us.  This monstrous thing was too large to turn into my living room, he pushed it through into the den, where a platform bed is a nook in the wall and ordered us to sit on the bed.  He was armed, so we obeyed – dead silent and utterly shocked.

This woman, he told us, was arrested for prostitution.  She needed to be taught better ways and the government was merciful once she had learned, he said.  After all, he said in a confiding, oily sort of voice – he himself had done time for rape, but now was forgiven and given a place in “law enforcement.”  He locked a break on the wheeled hellish “prie-dieu” made of a bound woman’s body and stepped onto it.  “If she wants to fuck outside of proper marriage, she will now BE fucked!” he announced, suddenly undoing his belt and zipper and dropping his pants.  (And his gun belt, as it happens.)  He dropped to his knees and began raping the woman in front of us.  She sagged in her bindings, weeping.

I felt a terrible paralysis.  My friend put her arm around her younger friend, who was whimpering.  I tried to reach for her hand and found I could not move.  I could feel tears on my face, my teeth were clenched and I could taste blood and then my fingers suddenly unfroze and I clenched my friend’s hand briefly.  I couldn’t bear this.   I drew my knees up to my chest, which made the law enforcement rapist turn his head sharply to look at me.  I put my arms round my knees and put my head atop them — this expression of proper fear pacified the rapist and he looked back to his work, grabbed the woman’s hips and pounded on.

Another five seconds passed.  He didn’t look at me again, as I released my clenched fingers and brought both my booted feet forward hard, directly into his hip joint.  He flew off his prie-dieu and bounced off the large heavy brewing table on the other side of the room.  I leapt to my feet, as did my friends.  Before another thing happened, however, I woke – upright and shaking in my bed.  There was blood in my mouth, tears on my face.

DO I expect something so horrific from the Trump Administration?  Is that even sane?  I could never have even envisioned such a thing in my waking life!  It is enough that such a horrible vision could even be suggested; such fear unbound, unleashed, and loose in my head.  My dream, for me, is recognition of the threat embodied by the type of mentalities behind Trump.  My dream warns me not to think there is a low this new President would not sink to, to achieve his own idea of winning.

More than eight years ago, while Bush the Simply Stupid was President, I had a similarly scary dream.  In retrospect, it was so prettily framed compared to my latest nightmare.

I was one of many peasants, harvesting a golden field of grain, by hand.  In the distance there was a golden dais, complete with billowing golden draperies moving in the summer wind.  The huge thing was empty, which in the dream felt reassuring for some odd reason.  Then a sound began, a terrible bellowing, trumpeting with the attendant sounds of screams and crashings.  People dropped their sickles, scythes and other tools and began to run.  I was frozen in place, and into my most distant field of view came a giant elephant, magnificently caparisoned in gold cloth and jewels.  The tusks were ringed with shining brass.  It was rogue and maddened – swinging the massive head and tossing humans, animals, and furnishings before it.  I looked once more and ran, and running, woke.

I thought my imagination had finally just gone nuts; what the fuck does that kind of thing even mean?  The GOP rampant and mad?  Well, hell, they had been there for a while – then calling what was once called “the loyal opposition” treacherous and disloyal for even disagreeing with them.  Now, looking back — I have to wonder with a superstitious chill of the spine, if I saw the Donald; he of gold curtains and an unmitigated ego?

I don’t want to believe in dreams.  But then, I didn’t want to believe Donald Trump would ever inhabit the White House either, did I?

About That True Cross?

This blog’s sub-title is a warning about taking care what you worship.  While I did some weekend grocery shopping this weekend, a chatty man in line in front of us kept talking to me about the stack of sweets he was buying “for Fellowship tomorrow morning”.  He meant Sunday, of course.  I was a bit mystified why he was so cheerily companionably chatty to me – a perfect stranger.  Walking past the jewelry counter on my way out, I caught my own reflection – ah, it was a “failure of attention to detail” I think.  I was wearing a silver necklace from a dear friend in Ireland.

2016-11-19-0001It was made for me by a silversmith there in the “olde country” of Ireland.  A place that knows lots about crosses, crucifixes, and women.  I wear this necklace because as near as I can tell about years of studying, observing, or trying to practice, (and finally running away from at all possible speed) the only ones I can tell you for sure get crucified practically daily ARE women.

If being a Christian means following Christ, some logical constructs would say that means following him to the cross?  Most women’s lives would make them Christian as all get out by that definition.  They suffer, they self-sacrifice, they bear the load for sinning men ALL the time.  I cannot be Christian, I never “found” Jesus.  I found Marian Catholicism and the idea of a nigh divine Female was what lit the candles in my brain.

Soon we will be inundated by stories of Mary’s “submission” to the Divine.  We will be told how perfect she was doing so.  To me, that part of the story always sounded like an abuse of power — I mean, for pity’s sake, even in the old ancient pantheon tales — everyone knew girls who told gods “No” didn’t fare very well.   Women have been being told to submit to presumably more holy dicks <snerk> ever since.  If the “only” divinity still “standing” is male, “Hey Girlie,” you better be f’ing submissive or else.

Women are already being given plenty of messages about how submissive they need to be or else in Trump’s America.  A woman in a headscarf for health reasons, not religion, has her car vandalized in a national park.  No, the misogynistic bigots are not emboldened at all by the election of someone who likely thinks the height of charm is groping you in the elevator.  Every woman in America should wear a headscarf.  There should be a day or a week picked — and every woman should wear a headscarf.  Or maybe it should be utterly random?  What if every American woman just picked two or three days of the month to wear a headscarf?  Would it confuse the bigots, the idiots?  I know pagan women of some goddess-centric traditions who both scarf and veil.  I often wrap my head and neck in one of many scarves I own because of my cold-plagued touchy fused vertibrae.  How long before some jerk tries to put me on his personal cross for doing so?

Well, hey, I’ve got the necklace for that.  And some pointy boots I know how to use.



The “Skies Are Crying” Fall of the Old Year

samhain-walkAs I wrote, to almost nobody last week, I began my new year at the New Moon. Sure, the family had a good meal — one of the rare red meat meals for me and the Minotaur — and lit a fire in the outside drizzle. We passed around a horn and “toasted, boasted, and vowed” in sumbel style.  There were serious conversations and light hearted joking as well.  We farewell’d what we wanted gone and greeted what we wanted to carry forward.  It was merry and bright around the fire.

But I didn’t feel merry or bright. I drank a bit too heavily of the passed horn filled with mead we brewed two years ago….meaning more than one single slim glassful in my booze-lightweight age. Earlier in the afternoon before the utter failing of daylight, you see, I had gone to the Labyrinth for year’s end rites there. No names, merely a tolling of the brass bell – once for every year of the current ongoing, never-ending wars and then a silent walk to the center. And then a walk back out, slowly — the intent being that as many old pagan traditions say — tis the day they dead can come back to join the living for a night and I would lead them back on that pathway wherein I walked them inwards.

Usually, this is a neutral walk — even on the years when I occasionally gruelingly read the entire list of names of Us and Coalition dead in both the Afghan and Iraqi wars.  But this year, every step back outward felt like I was walking from a place of peace into a sort of hell.  I felt laden with grief and despair, my mood blackened as the astrologically “black” moon invisible in its orbit.  That dreadful sense of “something dire coming” possessed me and the helplessness of it made my chest hurt.  “Death inbound” is how I characterize this feeling and I hate it so much.  And in less than a week — yes, five Americans dead in our ongoing foreign adventures.

Attachment-1Do I believe in prescience?  Lets say my experience makes comfortable disbelief impossible.  It is somewhat typical at the end of the year — whether in October or December — to question, to formally doubt, to make new choices and discard what baggage one can leave in the dust.  I’d like to leave this grief, this fear, this dread behind me.  But it follows me like a shadow, a vampiric shadow that feeds on the anxieties and miseries of this election.  It is not just fear of a President who reminds me of Beast Rabban (Harkonnen); it is the utter cruelty of his followers in being perfectly ok with his denigration and diminishment of women, immigrants, people of color, gays, lesbians, disabled people, poor people.  One would think that those people have never met real people in their lives!

I cast about for newness, for purpose, for connections as I feel more hermitic than ever.  The German ladies I left over the casual white privileged callousness of one of them want me back — well, five of them want me back.  Can I go back?  It dawns on me that the majority wants me back because I told off the domineering one; but is that the role I want in a circle I had considered friends?  I tell myself it wouldn’t be my only role, but I still fear just becoming a “novelty” of some sort to women I wanted to be friends with on common basis of work, family, and so forth.  I was too under the weather this year to go on the 2 1/2 hour drive a Day of the Dead party; and stricken to realize how few friends I have and all of them very far away.

And yet I find myself considering cutting more connections even in online life.  I am so angrily sick of the Apple i-Phone nonsense of touch-pad failure and no word on Apple acknowledging or fixing it in ever more impossibly expensive phones, for instance.  Thus, as my phone begins to give me grief, I consider shutting off the account entirely and “bundling” in a old school house phone with the equally hated Comcast/Xfinity.  This means I’d be largely disconnected from all online associations – my aging Mac Mini stutters when I use it, and if/when it fails I may not even replace it.  A whole group of semi-connected associations will fall away like autumnal leaves then, too.  I have found that nobody wants to write old style letters…nobody at all.  For years, I’ve sent fifty or more holiday cards on various holidays and got back fewer than a dozen.  Connection apparently is not allowed to take longer than five seconds or cost even forty five cents?

It troubles me that we have the promises of technology about never being disconnected, but it feels as if as humans, we are more disconnected from each other, more isolated than ever before.  Recent reading has told me I am not the only one to notice this with a sense of despair — Sebastian Junger’s book Tribe attributes this biology/psychology skewing trend with facilitating lasting PTSD, depression, and suicide.  We seem to be forgetting how to be people for each other!  So my end of year does feel very dark as the cold rain falls daily now and colored leaves fall to leave monotone firs looming like wraiths in the gray sky.  I remind myself that gray days mean I must try harder to find something light.

But I feel like embracing the darkness, exploring every shadow and misery is what I really will be doing this month before I put up the lights and decorations for Yule.  I’m not looking for a sunshine enema.  I’m looking for the cause of the darkness, I think.  Just typing that makes me want to slap myself for grandiosity.  But there it is, I just can’t get around the feeling and sensation that, to coin off of Tolkien, one must go through the dark mines of Moria to find light on the other side.

It may take some time.


Birthday Month – Patronizing Much?

rose-cladI discovered something synchronistic this week – this article at Huff Post that I intend to dissect bit by bit over the next week or so.  It is an article about ageism in day to day life.  First thing it has?  The way older women are patronized by popular permission:

 When a waiter asks an older woman, “What can I get for you today, young lady?”

This has never happened to me in a restaurant.  Admittedly, my chiropractor has said it to me, tongue firmly in cheek; but we’ve known each other and joked around for nigh on 20 years now.  (Tho’ he is Republican – he knew I abhorred Geo. Bush the dumber and gave me a roll of toilet paper imprinted sheet after sheet with George’s face!)

I personally don’t know whether to class this as a sub-brand of misogyny instead of mere ageism.  There is the presumption that all women in America want to be “young” ones because no other kind have value.  And don’t get me started on “lady” versus “woman”.  I always felt that “lady”, like “girl” was a bit too limiting a description.  A “lady” would never stand in diaphanous veils by her own garden gate, would she?


And neither would I have done, when I was “young”.  Age has either made me braver, or run me out of “fucks to be given.”  IF a waiter ever says that to me?  I will likely smile back and say “Son?  Go get me the bartender so I can school his young ass in how to make a proper smoky martini.  Because if you can’t tell I’m not a ‘young lady’ I don’t trust you to carry the instructions.”


Birthday Month

artsy pink meMy birthday is this month. I am an official old broad – being over 60. Oddly, personally, I don’t consider over 60 to be really old.  This is likely because when I was very young – say 15 to 22 – I spent a good deal of my time with several women who were really old.  All were past their 80th year!  I adored all of them, too; I did chores, cleaning, shopping, cooking and lots of precious talking with them.  The things they taught me got me through some very tough times and prepared me in advance for other tough times.

So, to celebrate my birthday month, sitting on the doorstep of old age?  Every day this month, I am going to pass on a few things I’ve learned in living 63 years!  Mind you, I don’t know that I have anything as profound to offer as those very aged ladies I was so privileged to know in my youth.

Today?  I want to share a quote not from my personal little old lady icons, but from my favorite novelist, Doris Lessing: “And then, not expecting it, you become middle-aged and anonymous. No one notices you. You achieve a wonderful freedom.”  That is an ideal I have held to since my 50’s.  The idea of age becoming a freedom!  But HecateDemeter is right, there is a dark side and you need to read about it. Be invisible only when and if you like — but never be silenced!

Oh, and those fancy hot packs full of rice or buckwheat husks that you warm up so toastily in the microwave oven?  They are terrific, aren’t they?  I do love them.  However, there is a very old school me who knows that microwaves don’t help much if the power is out.  So, my personal tidbit learned over my life?  Keep an old-style hot water bottle that can be filled with hot water heated on a propane/gas stove!  

P.S. That pink dress?  It is now purple, i.e. you DO NOT have to take things as they come – you can change them!

Grateful for GoFund Me

cup of loveSpecifically, I am grateful people are giving to the fund for the young wife/mother/Army officer was was lit afire by a hateful old male employee.  And yes, since she is Army, her doubtless huge medical costs will be covered.  However, as commenters have pointed out to some very ungracious clueless posters?  Child-care won’t be covered. Bills once covered by HER check, if she is medically discharged won’t be covered.  Family expenses won’t be covered.  And btw, waiting for the military to provide physical aids she might need?  Might take too long so it would be great if that fund covered some of that on the spot.

I’m awaiting payday to donate.  My old Volvo demanded a transmission rebuild this week and so I am broke, broke, broke.  Any Pacific Lutheran grads out there?  She is one of “yours” — so toss some cash in the pot to make her recovery less grueling and worrisome, ok?

The Descent/Ascent of Innana? Part One

Vertical Roses 1It is a popular myth – the Descent of Innana.  It has been interpreted again and again.  I’ve read the story, I’ve read the interpretations, I’ve even read some rather artful re-writes (like Vellum and Ink) of this tale.  They all intrigued and troubled me, like something quivering in my memory and consciousness and not ready to be born yet.  Innana, a goddess of love and sex and beauty, descends into the Underworld ruled by her sister.  She goes through seven gates (note the seven roses  to the left), sacrificing more of her power and self until she is hung (up to dry?) like a corpse.  She is rescued by loyal retainers, in the end — those she entrusted sufficiently.  She sacrifices her husband Damuzi to be freed from the land of the dead.

This myth and that picture have possessed me equally for the last five years.   Innana went to the land of the dead to increase her power.  She did not go, like Orpheus – to recover a lost love.  She was not the first deity “hung up” either – Odin hung nine days upon a tree for wisdom and the magic of runes.  She had the foresight to arrange her own retrieval.  Rank as a goddess has its privileges?

I’ve come to think, now that youth has fled and lonely sleepless nights without crying children no longer distract me, that all women do so descend.  We begin, perhaps goddess-like and yes, putting on mascara/heels/mini-skirts that say “Come, Men, come!”  Or for some of us, “Come, Women, come.”  We begin with a sense of power, a red of the “come and fuck me” variety that is so sure of itself, like that first glorious rose, with blood-hued thorns to back our game!  We take our first (high heeled?) step into love.  We are bold, we believe in our power and invincibility?  We never imagine love demands a sacrifice.

When does that vivid blossom that is “us”, “you”, or “me” first begin to fade?  With a few rejections under our belts?  Or a rape?  Or the rabid reaction of a rejected suitor?  I was tough, I went through a half dozen emotional/sexual entanglements and an abortion without losing a “crown” or a jewel of my self-confidence.  I married a man who plainly stated a month prior that I was not good enough for him — he had a bad case of “the perfect woman” going.  I was woman and ready to roar, sure I would win him over.

And I did.  But.  There is always a but, and that began to bleed the color from my petals.  Married, soon accidentally pregnant – we joked that I got knocked up from a hot look.  As rapidly not pregnant, again by accident — by “miscarriage’, the medical “spontaneous abortion” that meant any plans to have a family might not be as simple as choosing the proper time.  I was told to reproduce while young or risk never succeeding.  I didn’t want children yet, but my husband did. I didn’t want children at all, the world didn’t look fit for people I would love in excess of my own well-being.  But my timetable of if and/or when vanished into urgency.  Coral is a nice color, even if not red, right?

So, children — two in rapid succession.  My plans for a military career hit the rocks.  I had a supervisor who made my life hell, trying to force me out as he felt pregnant (or even married) women had no place in “his” Army.  We women were there for the fucking: married and pregnant chicks were not wanted!  The Army had a lot invested in my linguist/analyst self.  I had a lot invested in my analyst self!  I fought, I won — my supervisor was given the Army equal of a restraining order.

But I was exhausted and the Army itself bleached my dreams next.  They demanded a “parenting plan”… this was a new thing telling me we had to be ready to send our tender progeny to others so both of us simultaneously could be sent to dangerous places.  Neither of us liked our parents.  We didn’t like how we were raised.  I extended my first tour of duty, casting about for solutions or a change of military occupational specialty that might save me.

Every door that would be a solution slammed in my face.  So, they will save a parent’s last son from battle death — but will not consider saving even one of a child’s parents?  I felt so betrayed.  I felt sure if the Women’s Army Corps had not been disbanded and handed to the Regular Army like a gift wrapped present, this never would have been what happened to my career.  My husband was older and had more rank and time in grade.  I left the military and found myself blush pink with dismay at my sudden financial dependency.

The pink faded fast, into ashes of roses in rain.  In “dependent quarters” with other wives for neighbors, I was a bit of a pariah — being a former female soldier, I was told I was “that whore our husbands fuck.”  So much for female solidarity.  I took jobs.  I worked at post libraries, I was a newspaper editor.  An unexpected third pregnancy ended that job, as my fragile (now) middle child came apart on the baby’s birth.  She stole, she lied, she went full-on Electra on her baffled father, she tried to kill her infant brother.  In the newspaper I wrote an article asking why child care workers were paid so poorly.  I was told by the publisher to retract the article. I refused and was told it would not be published, I quit and went home to tend my aching breasts, my troubled daughter, and my delightful surprise baby.  I was not the frightened new mother, I was almost ready to think that life in black and white was better than those splashy colors.  Because motherhood was so much more fun this time, not juggling jobs and other things.

But I really feared the color of hope had bled out of my life when I attempted to use my GI Bill — I had to hurry by the time I got my kids in school.  The Viet Nam Era version said you had ten years after the end term of service.  I had barely three years left to get my Batchelor’s degree.  I applied credits for Army language school, and for EMT training and odd classes grabbed here and there.  I got my Associates degree in one year, “challenging” classes like mad — paying and taking the final for winner take all grades.

But then my husband left the military.  Civilian life was a real shock to his PTSD’d self.  We suddenly needed two really good cars, he needed thou$ands in suits, ties, and civilian shoes.  My daughter was having her school call me several times a day; she would pee her pants rather than stay in school.  Counselors refused to believe there was a problem, we were good parents they said – it would wear off.  But the phone kept ringing.

I rebelliously and resolvedly bought my 22 books for my first semester at Evergreen State University.  I attended my first week of classes.  One of my professors, during an “uptake” interview, after discussing my military time, told me what a “sexy image” it was to think of me leaving the firing range to breast-feed my first son on my lunch break.  I was appalled.  Then they said every other week, there would be no class — that was for research and homework.  In places like libraries in San Francisco.  

My good gods.  Who the hell did they think their students were?  I could barely cover tuition and books with my GI Bill, it had no stipends then.  Childcare came out of a shrunken household budget from my husband’s check.  I got a part time job.  I did volunteer work on weekends.  I was definitely white with exhaustion from ‘having it all’.  And I was in the ER with angina three times in one week.  The doctor signed my “let her go before she dies” order.  The school gave back the GI Bill money so Uncle Sam wouldn’t come after my impoverished, ventricular tachycardia-ing self.  I went home, again.

I had a nervous break-down; my world turned black.  I got up in the morning and made lunches and put kids on buses.  I laid back down in my bed and stared at the ceiling all day long.  I wept.  I would never have a college degree.  I would be financially dependent on a man.  I was ashamed.  I got up  and made dinner on auto-pilot and went back to bed.  My husband didn’t seem to notice.  My kids thought running riot was great.  It took me six months to ascend to the ‘new normal’.  I became functional, but the only red in my life was occasional flashes of fury and rage.  I dressed in black for the consistency.

We remodeled the house.  A ladder broke under me as I worked, dropping me and blowing four of my seven cervical disks out of place in my spine and breaking a rib.  My doctor told me my “rib wasn’t broke, silly girl, and that neck pain is ’cause you carry to much tension in your neck.”  I argued for three years, only after finishing the house job.  My rib would snap and re-break, making me run to the bathroom to vomit in pain and nausea.  But we finished, it was lovely.  It was six months before my exhaustion and depression lifted enough to notice the improvements all actually worked.

I had two spinal surgeries to fuse my neck so I could keep use of my left arm and hand.  I fired my doctor and did without one for about ten years.  I tried a female doctor.  She told me I was “obese” because I weighed 15 pounds more than I did at age 20 when I joined the Army.  Everything, she said, was my own fault for being “an obese American.”  I told her off and left her office.  It was five more years before I sought medical care again.

In the meanwhile, my husband’s PTSD was devouring him.  In 2011 it erupted like the Minoan island of Thera — swamping every bit of our life in hot ashes and tidal waves of emotional chaos.

How much could I keep sacrificing on love’s altar?  Me, the “polydeist pagan” who never even thought about Aphrodite — or Innana?  I was Athena’s and Hekate’s and wanting to run in the woods like Artemis.  What did I believe?  I believed in humanity.  I was a feminist, but not one that would throw a wounded man under the bus for my own pleasure and peace.

So, I retreated, alas not gracefully, to a smaller building on our property.  I barricaded my battered black heart (of innocence?) if not my door.  My husband, who had wanted to be “free as at 18” was shattered by my decamping.  (Note: at 18 he was on his way to Viet Nam with a death wish, scarcely “free.”)  He had a habit of asking for one thing, but inarticulately wanting something completely different.  But I wasn’t concerned with what he wanted, just then.  I was in trouble.  I wanted to run and far and fast.  And there was no place to go.

I was an analyst.  So I analyzed my situation.  I woke in the morning, fed and freed the pet ferrets, who loved the new digs with no doors – just one big crazy room.  I drank coffee, I read.  I stayed up all night and ate midnight mac and cheese.  I ritually burned copies of my marriage certificate.  I sold my wedding bands and bought black leather boots.  I cried.  I laughed.  I shouted and threw things.  I did arts and crafts to send to friends.  I did Netflix binges lasting weeks.  I practiced magical arts.  I let the gardens die, except the roses.

And my back hurt.  Yes, definitely feeling that meat hook through the spine between my shoulders.  I passed, naive and honest, through gates of loss – leaving my own blood on every thorn along the way.  I forgot to tell anyone to come save me.  I am not a goddess, damn it.  A bit more like Odin — I was hanging and nobody else was coming for taking me down.

Part Two of this “entirely too much information” post soon.  But yes, this “Innana” WILL ascend.











Poetry Month – Fourteen – Steeplechase Part 2

(This is taking longer than I thought….)


Steeplechase – Part Two

Running away where does one turn?

Does it matter if Jesus did live and die?

Another godling of promise or accrused demigod?

Like Horus, Hercules or Dionysus?

Or humane messenger like the Buddha,

Speaking of freedom and love like fair Krishna?

Every love and blood-drenched effort foiled,

Message lost, seduced by power and greed?


Into history’s sheltered darkness I fled,

Apostate, heretic, tear-stained seeker,

Solitary yet never quite alone in the night,

Philosophy was my truest companion,

Lighting my way while illuming abattoirs

Of “faith” to un-school my naive heart,

The warmth grew behind my eyes,

Seemingly an invisible hand pushed me onwards.


I sought what went before the Angry Father,

Or any “one true god” to find the idols,

To dust off the Divine Feminine, She

Shrouded in time like an Afghan child-bride,

I traced the softness that became Mary,

Rediscovered fierceness guarded by lionesses,

Reveled like a maenad with bloodied lips,

Killing, in my dreams, both men and monsters!


Restored to myself and crowned with power,

I danced sword in hand, hair rising!

To a new pinnacle I rose to look about me,

My heart breaking, bleeding at the sight —

Women degraded into forging their own chains,

Upholding the “faith” that enslaves all?

Promised pie in the sky to hide the hell that is now?

God their Father made the Father of Lies!

(More, hopefully an end — tomorrow!)