That so called "risk taking"
Left us with an unofficial transient
Settle? Is that okay?
Fear, uncomfortable with
But then missing it all the same
That so called "sense of home"
Is developing more meaning.
Home within myself
Within a physical space
I have acquired skills in
Then escaping it only for a time
To return, to feel home again.
I think I am still searching...
TW | Rape, Sexual Assault, Death Imagery
This is one of the most personal, vulnerable poems I have ever shared. I am sharing it for two reasons. The first is that it is therapeutic for me. The second is that I feel like a part of the aftermath of rape that isn’t addressed enough is the disconnect many victims feel from between the person they were before and the person they are after. It is a bizarre, unsettling feeling. To feel so deeply, violently altered that your own memories feel like they don’t belong to you anymore. But I am here to remind you—and myself—that we are still ourselves. Our bodies and minds are still our own. Altered, perhaps permanently, but still capable of embodying and creating beauty. Still capable of holding light. My DM’s are always open if anyone ever wants to talk. 🌿
#selfportrait after 14 straight hours of teacher training and prep today, and four weekend intensives overall (so far). This is good work. This is hard work. I'm really tired. But it's an honor and a privilege to get to do this work, and do it with a bunch of truly amazing and courageous humans. Feeling thankful (and like sleeping for about 18 hours 😉😴). #365daysofgratitude
Pablo Picasso (Spanish painter, 1881-1973)
"Cubism is not a reality you can take in your hand. It's more like a perfume, in front of you, behind you, to the sides, the scent is everywhere but you don't quite know where it comes from."
This is a man's world...This is a man's world...But it would be nothing, nothing...Without a woman or a girl... -- ▶️ James Brown . . . (Re-edit of a shot from awhile back. Current mood😊 -- Happy Weekend My People. One Love...One Heart ✌🏽❤
In the early 90’s I was on tour in Hong Kong I went to the night markets and had my future told by the birds. A tourist novelty.
The birds are invited to look at you and whichever one apparently has your number will jump up and down. The man then opens up the cage and the feathered soothsayer cocks its head, takes a moment to look you into the eye, then hops over to a pile of cards, flicks through them with his beak and chooses one. They are small birds, like wrens. Only one seemed to get excited by my incredibly successful and glittering future. Clever little bird I thought.
Luckily I was with a friend who translated as the old man only spoke Cantonese. My card told about a poor fisherman who became so obsessed by the moon that one night he thought he could actually have it for all for himself. Leaning out of the boat at a precarious angle his fingers touched the surface of the water and he thought that he had finally captured his beloved moon, but as soon as he had touched it, it was gone in a wave of tiny ripples and he fell into the water and promptly drowned. End of story.
I really had wanted the name, phone number and address of the man I was going to marry, the doomed fisherman was not what I was after. Alas, I was given this story, which at the time painted a pretty bleak future, or even worse suggested that I was naïve, gullible, shallow and, let's face it, stupid. I knew what was real and what was not, I told my 21 yr old self – humph! I remember tromping off through the markets thinking not too kind thoughts about that little fowl pipsqueak and how crap it was at tarot cards, and that I would just buy me some cheap ass clothes instead.
As I get older though I think about that little bird and the card it chose. How often over the years I have reached towards something only to find it a tawdry facsimile, or just a reflection of me reaching toward something, like being in an Escher work.
This image reminds me of that little bird.