dreams, love, psychology, relationships

in need of some fussing and some nursing


I wanna fight for my own strength
cracking through the pavement
bones of harmony
and flesh learning to see

My skeleton of stone
my heart of burning bone
my rapturous tone
my aching for home

My dance upon my tomb
my butterfly wings i’ve sewn
my aching for home


ā€” Burning Bone (feat. Kyrstyn Pixton)
from On the Horizon by LYNX


[photo credit] Raphaƫl Goetter
[photo credit] Raphaƫl Goetter
Last nite IĀ dreamed a child was born. An angry, powerful girl child meant for battle. A child somehow prophesied and meant to act as a weapon, a tool for humanity. I did not give birth to this child, IĀ simply kept my distance and observed as all the wise men and women sought to coax her and train her. They staged miniature bouts between the child and those who thought themselves strong enough to get within striking distance. No one could and those who tried were thrown back from the child’s fiery, protective field, a red bubble, a halo of light that would build and erupt and push the intruder away as the child sounded with an ear-piercing cry.

I watched the warriors come and go and paced and thought and drew close to the child and gently removed the clutch of her handler from her tiny shoulder. I was well within range to destroy the child meant for service and greatness or murder and annihilation but IĀ gathered the child instead to my barren breast which suddenly gave milk and comfort. I looked to the handler who nodded and closed his eyes and took the child with me for a walk through a field, which led us down a dirt road whereĀ Iboarded a bus where a man sat beside me with open sea-green eyes and a gentle countenance. He put his arm about my shoulders and held us both and the child looked up at me and smiled.

Noā€”it is not a longing for children. I am instead longing to soothe that angry, sad untempered part of me who has taken some damage lately and lashes out at all the wrong people, in all the wrong dimensions, and with wildly inordinate scales of heat.

I am listening to my dream language and IĀ know what IĀ must do. It involves some self-mothering. And some fussing and some nursing. To be sure.

death, drinking, music, photography

Cry To Me

hey look! i'm a picasso!
hey look! i’m a picasso!

“Nothing could be sadder, than a glass of wine, all alone.” ā€” Solomon Burke, Cry To Me

Beg to differ honey, but i’ll miss your music…

Solomon Burke, Cry To Me


Phoenix Rising

There are few things more precious than handmade cards, more endearing than hearfelt, honest words of encouragement and well-wishing, or more accurate than the thoughtful gift sent by a friend or lover who truly understands your taste & style and shows attentive interest in the things that interest you.

Dominique, sent me a print of my most favorite and famously representative red elfin female – “Ember – The Fire Sprite ” by Ruth Thompson. Matted.

and . . . SIGNED, by the artist, to ME!

She also sent a hilarious card that brought the realm of friendship down to earth (yes, we must go to that place some day, plenty of beers and people for ridicule)

But it was the deeply buried card that i almost overlooked that struck something in me. A handwritten card with red & blue-accented artful text, well-placed stamps and a quote from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman that made me think of the places i’ve been. The strange and personal suffering i’ve felt. The quiet undertow of sadness that at times, burst and burned full to misplaced anger.

Only the Phoenix arises and does not descend,
And everything changes. And nothing is truly lost

Of course, we all know the myth of the Phoenix well . . . it represents eternal life, grace, beauty, good luck, the Empress, female energy, and the southern direction. Dominique, hailing from Georgia and bringing all this goodness and light to me, you are an Empress of the highest order from the southern direction.

And you have reminded me that i am loved, respected, thought of, supported, believed in, and a friend – in all this spirit, despite having never met in the flesh.

“Life’s like an hourglass glued to the table,” says folk singer Anna Nalick and “endurance makes one divine,” says the wisdom of death-metal band Morbid Angel. And i have to deeply agree with both . . .

For as the Phoenix, though we are not immortal, we endure a cycle of self-immolation and resurrection, tiny tragedies, minor catastrophies, and sometimes – major hurt, heartache & loss and the sand keeps slipping. All of it is a burning, and from our own ashes we are able to emerge in a new flame, a new life spread out before us, bearing feathers of red and gold.