The rain is folding in waves against the windows. I close my eyes into moments of lull. In the intricate weaving of life, a flow emerges. Remain steady. Stand ready. I am swaying on cusps, seeing into futures, and I delight at the hope before me. This choice I have been given, to live a life of noticing the smallest things, is the most precious gem I hold. My gold is woven in possibilities and endless patterns of emerging change. Sunsets have no ends nor sunrise beginnings. It is an infinite timelessness merging days into slow minutes. Everything can change in an instant. Tides turn as I row with the ebb and flow. This sea is more vast than I can see. Endlessness is filled with rhythm and hope. I am home no matter where I roam because life is always surging. I was born with portals for DNA, and so I travel the waves through distance. This is my time.
Babies are born to mothers
Who smother their faces
With kisses so in later years
They can reminisce about
The times they were loved,
Smile at pictures and haircuts
Remember what is; what was.
This distant, unknown feeling,
A Daughter to a host,
I cannot connect my soul,
Never recall the soft
Loving arms of her; she is
Fog wisps blowing distant
Narcissistic and wounded.
Not everything on this terrain
Is born and grown the same.
We were children being hurt,
Seen and not heard,
Dissociated to white clouds,
Horses and song birds but
We never heard the words.
No encouragement, you see
We were the scourge of earth,
Sinners and whores and
The bearer of scars from
Battles and wars with
The worst of humanity.
When you have seen
With the eyes the way
A spirit can die slowly
You never view this place
The same; in a way
The Loved observe.
Soft, the colors speak
In languages, singing,
And suddenly the layers fade
Nothing matters, not the
Tatters of Aftermath or
The worn out Disasters;
Life is lived floating
Inside the hoping like
Plasma and Jasmine
Swaying in the winds.
Sometimes things in life make me pause and focus on redirection. Being a creative and a passionate Pisces, I can easily become side tracked into projects which aren’t necessarily meant for me.
I can be like a hound dog, occasionally distracted by attractive scents, sniffing successfully until something redirects me.
Technology has changed me. It has created a false sense of urgency which has distracted me. Each time I sign into my brand, there are influxes of posts telling me how important it is for me to be present, every day! And if I can’t, I should be figuring out HOW or I will FAIL, FAIL, FAIL!! 😳
There’s pressure to figure out what day I should post; what content I should present, exactly what time to attract as many “likes” or “retweets” as possible, who my target audience should be, how to search for them, and if I can’t succeed in THAT, I should consider paying someone to do it for me.
I am rebelling. I am redirecting. I am watching the doers. The truth is, that for someone like me, nothing is more important than focusing on my creativity. Those who love me and support me will be waiting in the wings when I emerge from periods of hibernation.
I feel a great sense of urgency to redirect; to deeply travel the pathways into myself on a more intense level. I rise the highest when I am free of influence and distractions.
Having full control of my mind and my rhythm is crucial to feeding my soul. In these times, I call upon assistance and hand her my phone. I go dormant into the cave to do the work which must be done.
Redirection is pertinant to my current existence. Not everything is meant to be. It is up to me to discern these paths; to choose the best route and weed out that which is not contributing to my mission.
Somewhere in the corner of a cafe, a table awaits a girl whose fingers are ready to pound keys and tell the rest of her story.
It is indeed a time of revealing. In an instant, the nastiest, most profane and viral parts of the human unearth themselves. Like blasts of mire sucked from the swamps of their dark hearts, humanoid mouths remove their masks as tongues are stripped of the ability of restraint. We send to you the strongest ones to break open their spells.
The battles become shorter and shorter; the wins quicker. The seeking ceases, as clearly, the screens play out truth in high definition. Complacent and fearful, the followers shiver, hoping to keep what small sliver of a controlled voice they believe themselves to have.
Oh, dear ones, you are free. No one owns your integrity or ethics. No one owns your creative well. You DO own the choice to be a warrior for what is right, or the sleeper who chooses not to fight. Whichever side in which you partake, the war is imminent.
The vanquishing sucked out air of the wicked screams as it fights to maintain breath. Death sits quietly awaiting to absorb the absence of their souls. Ash to ash. Dust to dust. When evil runs amuck, good must blend it into its boot heel with a powerful grind. The strong of mind survive.
Wounds are rabid. Humans in the habit of wishing and trying to become others, blend into the lashings of the warring Ones who have cloaked themselves in armor, thick and repelling of the stench of the dying.
Give way to the Rising.
“No, you don’t understand.” I explained through the phone. “I witnessed abuse; cruel, verbal abuse.”
Well, you know,” the lady on the other end replied, “some people can be a bit harsh.”
Harsh, that’s what my mother’s generation called verbal abuse. Harshness. Harsh meant you could be spoken to however an adult wished. Harsh meant you were a pain in the ass, always fucking up, couldn’t do anything right, controlled, sequestered, gossiped about, and all the while your abuser feigning to the outside world that they are a good person.
Too many times than I care to count, I have heard how wonderful and kind my mother was. Yes, it was hard to watch my mother be nice to other people for the sake of appearances. My mother’s abuse was subtle. She could pinch you on your upper arm to shut you the hell up while smiling at the stranger she was speaking with.
Harsh. This woman I was speaking with had just called blatant verbal abuse “a bit harsh.” I knew in that moment, that none of this was worth my energy. It was futile to even try anymore, so I said, “Well, I love you.” Because I do. I have love for her existence and the gifts I’ve seen her display.
Then she laughed at me, as if the statement of “I love you” was ridiculous. She actually outright laughed at me. I was momentarily stunned.
“Well, I wouldn’t say THAT. That’s not something we just throw around.” She retorted.
I realized even more, that this is the problem. Lady, your generation didn’t tell us you loved us. You didn’t “throw around” love when we needed it, and you still don’t. You throw denial. You throw self service, because “who is going to do this and that for you because you didn’t keep up with age of technology?” You don’t throw out, “I’m sorry you had to witness that. This is not okay. I understand why you ethically wouldn’t want to be associated with that kind of behavior.”
Instead, I received defense statements which melded into victim blaming as if we are over-exaggerating; as if our feelings and observations and hurt don’t matter. As if we don’t understand your blurred line between “Harshness”and blatant Abuse.
“Well, I say I love you to people I appreciate, so know you’re loved.” I reply. I realize it doesn’t matter. I can feel love for whomever I wish. If she chooses to mock it, that is for her to feel, not me.
I don’t have the where with all to associate myself with these kinds of apathetic mentalities. They are damning and counter-productive. They are petty and cruel. They are lacking depths of self-accountability, and there is not healing within those confounds.
There is a generational gap where the strong are over taking the weak. I feel a sense of empathy for the dying. A Generation of Sociopaths created a grave problem in our societal construct, spent the next fifty years studying these self-created problems, used their children as test subjects for their abuse and study and wrote mass books about it; books which contain no “on the ground” solutions. Regurgitation is not for our generation.
I feel empathy for the waning because they will never know how good it is to heal, to love, to stand in truth instead of denial, to call moments for what they are, to own their own behaviors and make a choice to change them; to speak truth no matter who throws stones, instead of running on passive aggression. They’ll never what it’s like not to care what others think of them or not base their worth on another’s opinion. That’s rather sad, yet that energy is a dense weight on this rising Earth, needing to be healed or dispelled.
When a person is hanging on the edge of a cliff, there comes a moment, their hands become weak. They know that death is inevitable. Yet still, they grasp onto that rock with all of their might. Finally, they take that last breath, and free fall into the inevitable destiny of change. Welcome to a new era of letting go and flying.
“The Consciousness of Being Human: Self Portrait” by Vennie Kocsis
I never / consented to this / to be a / part of parts / never asked / for the / broken hearts / the laden road / of being human / I am consuming / energy for air / ripping in half / to leave the / density here / to arrive there / so much to / leave behind / misunderstanding / mistrust / the degeneration / of being human / flat the feel / change the emotion / like ocean waves / this realm will / disengage and / the rage becomes / the sum of the numb / too sequestered / to remember / so they die / fire by fire by fire / and some / we love / memories become / teardrops / and scars / run my fingertip / over the / raised bars / hearing music / there is / no other way / injected through earth / plastic cups which / held my birth / death returns / when it / burns and burns and burns / regrowth the flowers / skin ashen / from flames / renamed and / reclaimed / shine the laughter / in aftermath / sees deeper than seas / trickery / treachery / manipulation / lower dimension / in fifth / long for seven / homeward bound / all your theories / are overthinking / flat or round / beginning or end / real or pretend / free or fenced / cages and rages / self created invasions / float away / against the seam / this is / a nightmare / not a dream / if they can’t / hear the / screams and wails / of innocent souls / this is / no place to / call home / I never / said yes / I’ll be the test / for traumas and / altered DNA / it was never / okay / when their / experiments / get to / intelligent / and layers / become invisible / they march in pairs / watching / from distances / invisibly obvious / mundane / this life / ordinary and / strained / drained by leeches / disguised as / preachers / politicians / the mouthpiece / of the wicked / people / so feeble / co-dependent slaves / cave easily / cracking brittle / can’t learn / from trees to / flow and release / shoot the moon / stage the craft / going back / through time portals / I told you / I am immortal / when this skin / becomes hollow / will I / remember / the aches / of this life / will I / look back / to understand why / floating in / the respite I / daydream of / colored plasma / encased / sleeping / m7
Growing up in Sam Fife’s Move of God cult, reading material on the Delta Junction, Alaska, compound was very censored. Magazines had pages, pictures and sections removed, all deemed by the cult leaders to be “bad for our minds.”
One girl managed to sneak in The Chronicles of Narnia, The Borrowers and Stuart Little, which she let me borrow, quickly read and give back to her with the promise I wouldn’t tell anyone she had them.
One of my cherished possessions was a box set of The Little House On the Prairie series which I found in the clothing bank, a community room where we could rummage through all the personal belongings other people gave over to the cult. I read and re-read those books until the pages were falling out.
In my post-cult teenage life, at the age of fourteen, one of my first introductions to television would be Little House On the Prairie series starring Melissa Gilbert. I would weep hysterically when Mary went blind.
These books were a comfort to me in the cult. So much about Laura’s life was familiar; the isolation, the hard work, the struggles of growing up in a primitive and patriarchal world.
I received a sweet random act of kindness the other evening when my brother stopped by to give me a “never been used” color version set of the Little House on the Prairie series he’d found. It warmed me to hold these books in my hands again. He is always thoughtful with gifts.
I was momentarily swept back to how often I fell into books, reading them over and over. Watership Down, the tales of Laura Wilder and the many pieces of literature that got me through, let me escape the trauma and somehow made me feel less alone.
Books are treasures. They are a place where many of us kids jumped to escape the traumatic surroundings we so desperately hoped to one day be brave enough to run from. We must preserve them and encourage children to read, taking a break away from technology.