Forgiveness Is For the Egomaniac

Forgiveness.  Sometimes I get tired of hearing this word.  What does it mean to me?  It feels moot; an unnecessary element in the totality of my growth journey.

I’ve learned a great deal about myself through this journey of therapy.  This host who carries these parts of me, she is intelligent and free spirited, kind and giving, thoughtful and strong willed.

These past few years have been a procession of betrayals, subsequent disenchantment rightfully created, and a slow withdrawal into an even tighter state of mistrust.  Yet, this is not the way I thought I was supposed to live.

I watch my cats closely.  I learn a lot from them.  One element of a cat’s personality is the way they are with people.  Rarely does a cat let someone close right away.  It takes time.  They watch.  They wait, observing.  My lack of waiting or accepting the signs that things with certain people were not right, have cost me relationships and a lot of hurt.

Yet still, I work through the process of these hurts and how does forgiveness play a role in it.  I don’t feel forgiving towards certain individuals.  I feel disappointment.  I feel anger.  I feel betrayed and used.

In what way would forgiveness change those emotions and what does that mean?  It feels plastic to me; passive aggressive, a sweep of the hand over the heart and the soft cliche of “I forgive you so that I can heal.”

That’s not how I feel.  To say that would be a line of bullshit.  I don’t forgive anyone who doesn’t have the humble ability to own their behavior.  I don’t expect forgiveness if someone feels I don’t own mine.  I say fuck off, get out of my life, and accept it if someone feels the same about me.

Forgiveness feels overrated and fake most of the time.  It feels like a way to smooth over or make excuses for shitty behavior and give someone a chance to wear the forgiveness crown.

No, I don’t forgive you.  That doesn’t make me bitter.  I’m just keeping it my kind of real in a “please, with sugar on top, fuck off” kind of way.

In the end, life continues on, and I wish no human any harm.  Forgiveness doesn’t hold miracles or healing for me.  I heal because I choose to.  I go forward because I move my feet.

Forgiveness feels as if it is for the ones who enjoy the idea of hanging as a victim on a cross, a personal self built pedestal, so they can announce to the world “forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Forgiveness is for the ego-maniac.

She Died Today

Exactly eight years ago today she died.  I was at work when I got the phone call.  It was expected.  She guilted and ate herself into diabetes and an early death.  She was only 65.  I used to call her Mom, then Mother, and now I call her by her first name.   Maybe it’s my way of disconnecting in the hopes I can get through the rest of this writing journey to expel the rest of the pain.   I woke up this morning feeling tearful, raw, alone inside my soul, and so I start this journey of being blatantly vulnerable through the fear of mockery and judgment.  I wade through this mist splayed open to this journey of vlogging through The Rise.

She Left the Planet

She jumped off a bridge into the middle of traffic in North Seattle this morning. She has lingered in my heart all day. I don’t know her name, what she looked like, if she had children or a husband, family, had ever felt love or had someone hug her.

And that makes me sad.

I see people in stores, brows furrowed in seeming anger, faces down trodden. I smile at strangers. Occasionally its reciprocated. Most times it’s met with a look of confusion.

We’re so disconnected our eyes no longer meet. We don’t share smiles.

I wonder how many people passed her today. I wonder if anyone smiled at her or met her eyes. I wonder if one person had, if she still would have walked to that bridge.

To the woman who left the planet today. I feel your human suffering. I know you’re being loved now.

Girl With a Gun Series # 121

Photography is just as much an expression for me as anything I create. Sometimes my emotion emerges in this way. I don’t want to share too much about my own emotion during the creative process so that viewers can observe from your own perspective. I most often never end up having a plan but just moving in spacial presence with the image as I move with it. My editing process is ruled by emotion, most often I am lucid, discarding multiple photos for that one which speaks to me directly. I don’t create images with other people viewing them in mind. Only when I write does the process of interactive connectivity with my reader become present in me. With art and photography it’s a different process. It’s me and whatever needs to purge, and I enjoy giving it away for however someone wants to interpret it.

Girl With a Gun Series # 121 started tonight. I’ll see where she leads. I’m unsure of “who” is taking the lead on this one. But I do have an inkling of where it is going and why. #outlets

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The Mermaid

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The Mermaid

They said they
Found her drowned
Below the galley
She had
Tried to
Scratch her way
Back to sea

And when they say
“Drowning”
They mean
“Breathing”

They say she
Was homesick
For the quiet
The way the water
Moved things slow
The way the starfish
Danced in the jellyfish glow

She couldn’t float
In this human world
Of capture and
Lack of concern
She could neither bear
The way they hurt
Nor wear the scars
Of so many broken hearts
The deceptions
The misconceptions
The ego and mayhem

Chained, she became
Irrelevant pieces
For the thirsty
Drank from
A well sucked dry
Until her eyes cried
Like a taste of her
Momentary decadence
Could make their pain die

What a farce they created
As her spirit was deflated
Her existence debated
In hookah lounges
By serious hounds

Without a care
They used
Abused
Created confusion
With their illusions
She floundered
Broken gills
She was left alone
To weep and feel

They say she looked
Peacefully asleep
The air moving curls
Once, she’d begged
Never to be
lain to rest in coffins
Or beneath earth
She couldn’t bear
To become dirt

They say they found her
Fingers bent and broken
From holding to the hoping
So long there was
A permanent curve
A bend of the wrist
Left from too much wishing

Still now in the silent dark
She bumps the bows
Reminders that you will
Fail at rowing her sea
And she sings songs
“Of the one who
Never owned me.”
Lilting tunes of bravery
For the Matadors
Who valiantly tried.

They say there rose a tide
The day she died
So powerful
New planets were birthed
As she returned to moon
Escaping earth

And now she watches
From a star beneath the sea
Where coral reefs
Glow geometric algae
She writes stories

Deep diving
She died a thousand
Human deaths
Returning into
Liquid lungs
She explores the depths

v.k poetry
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