The quick and the red

HATE GOES BEFORE

I brought a war,
Made up its banners;

Sipped drinks
Beneath the sun.

The Goddess knows
I fought her will:

And now I must
Be strong.

Her patient hand
Within myself,

Will wring me
but soon.

My life of sickness
Ends by quickness.

And I go a loon.

Crashing God not the way to fold the gray

ART FLEES TO SEAS

I write this poem,
With beauty's stitch,

That in passion,
Sailors hitch.

Focus, Losing Focus, Fear of Losing Focus

The One Witch I Remember

Safety, Freedom, Power and Family: Notes.


Hassles and ...

Love

Queer moments in which honesty and beauty become feelings.

I thought of art as the appearance in life of safety.  This odd formulation derives from the fear that anything which resembles peace is also cruel.  I suppose -- here we go -- that IN MY FAMILY advocates of peace, such as the hippies, the progressive middle class, etc., did not particularly respect priorities that involve change, but rather respect the continuance of dominance by subterfuge, by self-nomination, by laughter at the expense of us.

So, what is this "us"?  I wish I had the peace of knowing that anyone alive also knew that reasonable treatment of feelings that make love peaceful also brings good, being what is home.

The comforts of home require those who free themselves to love those with safety.

I suppose that there is an implicit threat that if the safe do not love back, that their safety will disappear.

Now it is obvious to me that when I thought of myself as sharing good things such as hopes for peace, I was making thought a fear of anger.

Why in the world would I fear the anger of the secure?  I do not like knowing that anybody who has power can eliminate my ability to provide for my own safety, happiness and well-being at will.

There seems to be a complete upside-downness to this way of the world.

I feel that those who care about power also like strength.  I have been very ambivalent about even my own strength.  I have felt that meritoriousness belongs to me on the basis of my ability to carry out tasks that contribute to the functions of an enterprise.

Strength and hatred of strength are presently a ground of much conflict, at least from what I observe and think and feel.

Law and change are in relationship.  Different groups of people alter their allegiances to each according to their needs.  Is this ethical or justifiable?

Antics that result in pain for me or for others have brought me to distrust my own impulses, which have led to these antics.

Shall I name these impulses for you?  I try to know for myself what the constituents of community are, and contribute to their creation and maintenance.  Is this my job?  Can anyone achieve such a task?  I don't know.  Other impulses:  causes of life/origins of the sacred.  These are certainly identical in their beginnings.

I think that when others don't like my way of making strong assertions, it is because these assertions appear not to allow for the interests of others.  I partially take exception.  Though I have not yet learned to speak for myself only, I believe that similarities among individual relations to powerful institutions exist, by virtue of the choices of those who have created those institutions.  For example, jails, mental institutions and workplaces are ALL places which purportedly inculcate conformity and obedience to higher-ups.

This is getting boring.

Suffice it to say that when there is an artistic impulse or an impulse in the direction of protecting or fulfilling the needs of another, that I hope that friendship and accordance will provide a basis for fulfilling such impulses.

Impulse A:  Am reading laughter as if I were a lost life/personality/woman.

Impulse B:  Can I start with memory?

Impulse C:   Threats to peace often originate with cruelty.

Impulse D:  I was foolish and cruel because I projected onto the knowledge that I learned in school such attributes as fame and coldness.  I suppose that often those are the motivations of people with so-called greatness.

Impulse E:  I love people for their beliefs in laughter.

Impulse F:  Pain is from reading that love does not make reason happiness.

Impulse G:  Lesson is to be home and be strong.

Okeedoke.

Losing my sense of Humor (don't read to enjoy)

Ha.

Life no one didn't dream of.
I resembled when small a cruel rogue.
Oh, that's now.

I know when you cry, you are taking love.
No, that's when I laugh at you.

These lines are poems.
I remember the life that I created.
I ran toward pain.

Life isn't money but that's beside the point.
I can live for money for racism.
Then make myself poor to be literature.

I can live for God to be Julia.
Then make myself a baby arsonist
Like my rogue pig cruel flower.

I have chased this pain for no one but
The failure that made me a jest.

That failure was drugged, baloney, lack of will.

You who prefer me to like my own creation, which is
My love for strong happy loving believing people
Also must glean this patience that needs laughter.

Mother was here for her life.
I need to live and give her hope.

I know what you can't remember about womanhood
For the hopeful.

It is death that works itself as bored.

I know that's my easy rant of bothering
Laughter with God.

Pain is the answer for no one.

Illness begins with home.  I am
Where pain was the only grave.

I am where laughter comes from
Sin.

The sin is for life to be love and mommy.

Guilt is the Goddess of love.

Guilt is the knowledge of my own warrior
For belief.

Actresses need empresses to make them
Be men.

I golden baloney for the Goddess.

She knows it is bought for her laughter.

I throw myself to her lake.
I was that moss on the stone.

Now I am the wistful slap to my
Champion.

Demonstrations make you wish for
Dreaming and belief.

I am darkness and not roman land.

Will you let me be hopeful?

I know many times that I thought of
Myself for the mantra that was a poem.

Razing Goddesses was the anger
That money created home.

Elevator music will now lead to
Rank.

Ha.

Join with the lame, the believers, the takers,
The millers, the women, the simple cream.

And make this pain a sin for cruelty.

When is this going to be reasonable?
I am a feeling for rich creeps.

Like Emerson, Thoreau, Melville, Whitman,

Who fought against owning people
By wanting to own people.




Men don't call me lover.
Women don't call me safe.

I am dreaming that I lost my sense of humor
When I thought of crack as poor.

It is baloney to know rain to bring documents.

I will not confuse myself with a lump.
I will not confuse myself with a dream.

I am peaceful and I am cunt.

Issues of being reasonable are:
Illness this gives need ill belief in asterisks.

My place in history:
I bought my dream to be Julia

For a flag.

Haha.

Say No More. (Nudge Nudge Wink Wink)

Haha
Haha

The Unexpected

Not now
Not now

Now!

Forgot something?

This model of what happens when I have an aha moment was in response to a neural analysis of the same which I partly read in Poets & Writers magazine.

Aha!

There is nothing unexpected but what possesses grounding and substance independently of the writer and, probably, the reader.

Possession is a relationship between entities which relationship may or may not be contained/containing or parasitic or symbiotic or engendering/engendering.

For instance, and as an example of a more general procrastination, I might write that almond-eating daisies shoot out of the mouth of a cannon for the reason that New Year's requires champagne and shallots.  Now where is the originality or at least singularity of this sentence arise?  Could it possibly be the result of a LOT of self-training in living by the associative faculties?  Could it be that I possess particular faculties whose origin is in the granting of a blessing/curse via the medium of Chelsea/Rusty/others by the Goddess -- may I ever rest in her bosom? [NOPE] Could it be that devotion is part of the equation? [NOT, APPARENTLY, MINE]

Now, the sentence, you may note, though vivid in certain respects, is not really poetic.  I would have to insert "lineation," exercise "condensation," focus on relations between particular and general and totally rework the sentence in some such way as what I may or may not be able to write below:

Almond eating daisies
Shoot from the mouth

Of a cannon:

New Year' requires champagne
and shallots.

Now this is a piss-poor versification of the prose I wrote.  Even I recognize that.  Let me keep trying.

Any New Year's Eve,
Cannon-shot daisies
Eat almonds

To bring
Champagne
and shallots.




I don't know why anyone would write that.


Unity of construction, intent and language is probably beyond me here, yet I keep trying.


Cannon-shot daisies
Eat almonds

For the reason that
New Year's

May have champagne
And shallots.




Drag daisies from the cannon's mouth:
The almonds they eat

Bring New Year's
Champagne and shallots.



A la sameness:

Bright daisies shoot from cannon,
Eating almonds

For New Year's
Champagne with shallots.



Further:

Elements of mortal fire
Shoot daisies mouthing almonds

For the benefit of
New Year's champagne and shallots.



So, what have I discovered:  that uniqueness is not the same as originality or sense.

Aha!

Morning requires a beveled glass;
Evening supplies a cashiered ass.



Is there literature inside a
post-op?

Ah, still sticking to anatomic class.




Aspiration sucks perspiration's lucks.

It's okay.  bragging with roman clouds is foolish.

Hai-ku
Greece flew.



I work enough for this list.  Gotta excel the parameters, or cry.



Answers are vigorous.
Writing is rigorous.

Eminences

Am bugging budgies

I said a rock is money.

I said baloney.

I said read.

Laughter growls the needs of its urgency.




Four was the lousiest player.


I cannot make the Goddess weird.

I am a vampire of larches.

Be what is needed by your people.

What is needed by my people is rent.

I was poor; now I am a black egg.

That will be my omen.

Awl for inches.

This is my sanka.





Dreams:

I red with nothing at the nothing for my mother's roman dream of love and whores.
Der

ALock

Family is love.

Give yourself a munching.







Plenty of womanhood is alive.






NOTE:  An edit.

Injuries that make rice are people who are free.

I know that I was lashing my knowledge to a rock.

Please effort is home.

I remain beak.

Flowers important, when drama reaches a bird-ie.

Lake clamber hash ring



Round and round she goes...

Where she knows is laces'  woes.


A Fagin.





AN ADDITION:

Illness bosses were one.
I bitch for the
[choosing a word]
ik that argument was ipressed.

Languor war abel laf
I lai-f near your reasons
As a loss dreams of a mother's
lo-re/mond/f/goddess/massive openness of roast being.



Daffodil

Ride up the hill with your belief in dill
Go down the dale as mother's mail.

Easy to like a benevolent pipe;
Girl, you work like another one's sail.

Hacking and cracking, I see in the fist
A flaming staff that plays on a tryst.




You narrowly matter

I clame the tall hill; she answers with flowers

I read the blind frill; he gazes my hours.

That pond where there's wroth darkens the world
I still work the dengeon that woman is knurled.

Lastly may you wear your flames here
I dream of direction, peaceful and queer.




While wholeness aches oak

I left behind a reasonable change
I know for her I am odd and strange.

You leopard that left out the
Traveller's old story

Im a fabulous resting
wintry bold quarry.



Books that I knowwhich  are simply grand.

I read some words that laughed for the sand.
Digression and expression sometimes are panned.

Here I give this hopeful appeal:

Don't make me be your last meal.




Moment is here to give you the steer:
I laughed at night and now I'm clear.

Lenses

Families, as a word picked in thin air, bring a post-op ...

I wrote the previous post and I think some of it is garbage.  I tend to write early in the morning, when I have no sense of well being, and analysis and verbiage seem to take on their own momentum in my need to seem intelligent/intellectual and all-knowing.  I can't say it's not true in any respect.  I can however say that the situation/facts are not so extreme that I was ONLY a solipsism rotating in her own self-made universe making lousy decisions  that reflected nothing of a considered reality.

I'm sure you'll say this is backtracking.  But I don't want to run the risk of making myself somekind of inhuman monolith just to make a point:  that no one self is the source of divinity/existence.  I suppose that I could run this down to the ground like I do everything else, but I won't.  There is a multiplicity to life.  I have known for myself, contradicting everything I have written, that there is an all powerful Goddess who has created this multiplicity, not to hide behind it, but to exhibit life, perhaps as her will alone.

I am not about to reconcile all I have written here.  I'll try again tomorrow.

Abracadabra,

Ms. Hightower

View My Ass

Crude but counterproductive?

Law belongs to the best that life lets create peace.

This begs the question, what is the best?

All people have a right to evaluate, choose, dismiss, and petition their lawmakers at will.

I had a sex change so that OTHER PEOPLE would be able to say, "this is my friend."

This desire to fit in with the norms of others was a powerful determinant of practically everything I did.

I now can say that I am going to address the aspects of this change that involve personal self-acceptance.  I must say I thought I had already done this years and years ago. 

A.  I made my life worse by not being free as a martyr.  I made myself worse by being a martyr, period.

B.  I thought that knowing how to be feminine was the only freedom that I would have, so I made myself the only believer in myself as lover, as woman, as dreamer and creatrix of dreams, as peace"bringer" and authority and, as limited, as free, as self-maker, as self-judge, as powerholder, as happy, active, directed, decisionmaking and as social existent.  No one else might believe in me, or might not believe in me, as might be:  I was the outer limit of myself -- a final manifestation of solipsism I had learned from the philosophies of Hegel and Sartre.

C.  I remember that I was loved by others.  I remember that no one forced my decision.  I know that I was happy in my decision in the immediate aftermath of my "emergence," largely because I could "at last" recognize myself visually and in my somatic and erotic self-perception.  However, I had not distinguished between my being and the knowledge of self that others brought me.  Solipsism had no independence, ironically, to make decisions, because I did not have any boundaries except those which seemed part of ME.  I had decided that I was a woman.  I had decided to have a sex change.  But I did that within the absolutism of the ill-defined/absorbed emotional and mental infancy of myself.  I had intimations of myself as an individual over the course of years, having had my attention drawn to the necessity of self-acceptance by others, but it is only now that I can say for myself, that this is Julia Brigid Murray, who is due such and such rights and must act accordingly.

D.

Don't think that I am cruel.  I only wish to make you see that no one can ever be the only source of self, whether divine or mundane.  I answer to life.  I answer to myself.  I answer to those who care for me.  I do not love my belief in peace BECAUSE it has made me foolish.

E.  Everything that is beautiful is also free.  Everything that is free is also beautiful -- I believe I must add.  Make threads of love and kindness, not disdain and cruelty.

F.  Past the need for money, I know that there is humanity, which money will never express or contain.  Maximum of money is death!

G.  Poetics must dream beautiful and troubled existences.  I resemble yet do not create my own hopes.  They are present for me yet are dependent upon a makeup of myself that I cannot say is entirely self-willed.  There is will of myself.  It is not an absolute self, except to the part of me that needs to believe in patience (possibly the best part of me).

H.  Having read this, please offer an accommodation to the reality of others, whomsoever and howsoever you may choose to do so.

I.  Laughter will begin.

J.  Jests, Jesters, Kings, Queens, Whores and Knaves are bringing about the new dispensation, which is also the old dispensation.

K.  Thank you.

My Assignment

My Ass... some would say.

It's on the line, I might believe.

It's presumptuous to think that I can assign my life a task, some might say.

What is clear?

Clear is when anger becomes pain.

When pain blinds by removing the sufferer from the life of the human race.

Why I didn't think that was possible. 

It is.

Slattern decides that baloney doesn't make strength happiness.

Fusion of the parts of life doesn't work peacefully, as the hydrogen bomb shoes.  (No, that wasn't deliberte -- nor was that -- but I'm leaving it.)

I hate failure.  I hate retirement.  I hate races of pain.

Illness has returned.
(With the penultimate sentence.)


Clams

Omens

I remember that I wanted to reorganize myself in this post.

But first --

I can't believe for others.  I can't know martyrdom and be strong.

My dream of rising for peace was what was the grand sturm und drang of feelings I possessed 20 years ago.  These feelings were:  anger, foolish (loss of security/certainty) laughter at my mind for being free (in an unfree body/circumstance).   What  does any of this have to do with "peace"?

I thought that if there was one way to be free, that anyone could embrace MY hope.  I passionately needed to show the way.  This was wrong and probably is now too.  No one that greets the day/night with happiness is going to like reading without believing that it is beauty and freedom that is where the Goddess gives the hope to be human with oneself.

I know where this is.  I am worried that no one will ever strongly grieve this rose (i.e., me.)

I wanted to make an impression -- leave a mark.

Now, why?

I lived in a family where there was right and wrong, as brought to awareness by father in accordance with the principles of America.  Now I have found in my mother a peculiar bigotry based on defensiveness about what other people think about us.  She asked me whether I thought that the Taliban were rejoicing about what happened in Connecticut.  This was unbelievable to me, but made me think about the lacks she had faced in her life that kept her from being aware of the realities of other peoples.  I am worried that I will never be strong enough to be happy.  The reason happiness requires strength is that no one created love.  It's there for all to choose.  I will that reason is strong.  I will that softness is loving.

This will of mine may mark me as "different" from women. And men.  I don't know.

Laughter because of loss is my own opening to myself being in the world.  I hate that I cannot be "appropriate," but FUCK YOU for demanding it of me.

I need to move somewhere soon.  I cannot stand being where I'm lonely.  Death is beginning to be cruel.  I am flying around my own existence thinking that when I remember peace a la a certain locale in Brooklyn, that I will have lost freedom.

I wish someone would physically embrace me.  Freely.  I miss that.

Chelsea, Rusty, Susan, Randy, LEYNDA, Antonia, I need belief.

Maybe I will change by peaceful kindness.

I was going to call this moosepile on the dog.  I think I will end by trying to make this change where many people created thoughtful free dreams (embers of culture and knowledge) that involve and are life that is -- pretty?-- not pretty but sublimely free.

That knowledge of hope is there to remember and maybe act on.

To Treitner

Grammr Hammr

Loff Bluff Droff Shoff in Stuff.

Laboratory wayne dries grain.

Now how sow crow low.


Tenner and a kemmer

Hop shop is bop.



Meals for Steels

A literal transcription of a conversation between myself and the bedroom carpet

I wanted to share my life with my friends.  I wanted to give them beauty.  I wanted to say, "this is for you."

But I didn't.

Bucket List

Some of this is fanciful, some of it is doable.  Of course, being psychotic, I can't tell the difference.  Maybe you will help.

Lifespan:  I wish to live longer than my mother, long enough to learn and transmit what I learn to others, but not so long that I am either a) alone or b) a helpless invalid.

Mindwise:  I wish to organize my thoughts and emotions in a way so that I can be beneficial to others.  I wish to be able to support people in their endeavors when I can, and at least not interfere in other people's activities unless they are obviously hurting themselves.  Obviously this requires knowing the difference between harm and not harm.  This is one of the more difficult distinctions for me.  I wish to be able to say with evidence that I have accumulated in my own life what makes me happy, what helps me live with myself and others, what is good for me and others, and what is not.  I wish to be able to know the relationship among justice, happiness, good and being true to yourself and also honest. 

Intellectually:  I would like to be able to contribute at some feasible level to the practice and knowledge of a) literature, b) politics and society (in a way that fosters change for transsexuals, the mentally ill, the poor ) -- meaning knowing what change is and involves, which I am not sure is ever going to happen, c) philosophy.

Spiritually:  I would like to be aware of matters of the spirit and how to cultivate it within me, without being totally self-absorbed in navel-gazing.  This is also a "challenge," (sorry to use that word) for me.  Know what love under will means.

Peoplewise:  I would like not to be disturbing, unless it's not in a destructive way.  Sometimes I feel that people learn from me when I am outrageous, or morose or manic.  I don't know.  Maybe I'll never know, since no one ever bothers to tell me.  I would like friends I can rely on who can rely on me who understand that just because I may have disagreements with them and say so doesn't mean that I hate their guts, but only that I am trying to be honest or I am simply trying to convey positions or ideals that make sense to me, even though they may not make sense to others.  I am trying to know what life is all about, and sometimes I have made mistakes.  Not be a racist.  Not be a sexist.  Not hate authority just because it's there, but not turn to mindless appeasement/co-operation.  Find and give love.

Books in general:  Read all of the books I have.  Understand the changes of culture that have taken place around the world over the last 5,000 years.  Understand the precursors of the modern, the modern, and what is happening contemporarily.

Music:  Go to a concert somewhere sometime.  Write a song.  Listen to music and remember the words. 

Emotions:  Become more or less stable and aware of the kindness that others have shown me.

Languages:  Learn a language.

Places:  Go to Europe again.  Visit Ireland and England.  Maybe study/travel, if possible.  Visit New England, the Northwest.

Parachuting:  Not.

Guns:  Not.

Cars:  Have one.

Relatives:  Visit those who may be supportive.  Know my own culture and why it's so different from other people's, so part of the formerly normal culture without being entirely identical to it.  Write about that.  Write about my immediate family, about growing up in the military in Arizona.

Writing:  Write something more extensive and better and more grounded intellectually, spiritually and emotionally than I have up to now.

Housing:  Have my own place.

Orgasms.  Have one again.

Health and Drugs.  Not hurt myself or anyone else.  Possibly means total abstinence.

Politics:  Not be in a cocoon.  But know that without love (under will) 'tis but the tinkling of a bell.
Write about women in "socialism."  Communicate working class values without hating myself.

Pets:  I'd love them.

Food:  Try new food. 

Work:  Find work that doesn't kill me that I don't kill.

Friends:  Ditto.  ("Kill" being a figure of speech.)

Show respect, live accordingly.  Follow my bliss OUT of the dark mire.

Learn, practice magic.  Believe.

Love NYC.

Poetry, strength, freedom, beauty, are everywhere.  Remember that.  Act accordingly.

Okay, enough for now.  I grow tired.

Drama

Morte

While loud masses reach my separated life,
I claim a single grain for you.

My importance is nakedness before it.

So, as horses meet and jest in the forest
On ground stolen by men in this house,

Lambs do feed the fame of many epistles, bringing
This painful peace.

Now you may laugh with your family
Without drawing the small-hearted.

As lakes reek, this ultimate year,
Please lift me, for Asherah near.

Man makes reason friends

Beth knew what I loved.  She was a lantern in my dreams.  I carried her knowledge into the realm of beauty.  I loved, for this which I am now, mingus the armorer.

I crowd around a vortex, seeing the memories  I have possessed sink into life.  I can deal with money.  I must like that which is peace when peace is rutted with the ways of openness.

That knowledge spelled it out:  Crass needs seek crap to like.

Materialism is weather as land.



Oh, none of this is even intelligible to someone who knows me very well.  Let me restate it so that it makes sense to those with an interest in a poet:

Allah drove his men to anger.
I ran toward his great wind (in the desert, natch).

Lambs of the Goddess same as its own rent.

I draw this woman's need -- That orgasmic argument(okay, I) tried to fail in order to achieve impetigo..




I know what happened.  That knowledge which knew it as fake was my rest in clan.  I saved my body for its rest.  This is the angry part of why I know a check (receive disability).

Cryptic means I am dreaming of hands (someone's).

You know where this has made another yergin.




Liberal presented as radical.

Daniel Yergin.

First paper at Stanford regarded energy policy!!!

Now you know.  Pink Pack Poem Makes brace.

Ow.




jaoiuweoirjkdcl;ejhwroiwehrf;kjdf;lkajheroiwehrikjfdl;akjer;oiwehrfkjd;ljnao;eirhoeijn

a;kdjhfeihrkjdf;kajfroiehrhadfl;ajhde;oihroeiih

a;edhrehrfahf;aksdhfoeihrfherjhfdkjheroiihehfha;kdhfoeieoi[[[

Lamp is no one's gain.


Omalampreyouarenestingasrogue.

blood sucking eel.

That's me.


In a few million years I will be flack to a hope.


I apologize for the most dreadful tone of this.  I can only refer you to the fact that I have been somewhere realizing that I am a sick dreamer of marching to lesbian orphans.

Anguish is money with fancy taxis.

You were so loving.  You were so strong.  Now you grieve your body and your life.

I am you as rich rich rich fit proud natural finch.

Rich man goes to law to be lazy.

Hand over the dream and I will become an intrigue.,

Offenses made me fuck like a slinky.

I will now fall downstairs like a good spiral.

Home

Iteration 0.

Cancel dream.

Or fool yourself with a drug (orgasm).

I deal in dreams...

Laugh so you will make a thread of life.

I know to like me as a pampered rogue.

Gift:  name.



Iteration eggative omen.












Lock your life in face.

Rats, I was a post-op.

Today the world began

Again.

I miss the good things about peace.  I benefited from it mightily.  Did I contribute in any way to its furtherance and preservation?

I was taught life is being.

I know that when you have people who are strong in their freedom that you (one) can make it (dreams of love) strong also. 

That hope of making myself the only family in evidence is/was rude and degenerative/destructive.

I am writing here of that commune of dear memory.  Even though I rode roughshod over others, I still knew that I needed that freedom to "express myself."  My mistake was not knowing patience as beauty.

You and you and you and you and...seriatim:  made hopes that no one person or set of people might excel.

Sylvia, Chelsea, Rusty, Celia, Nathan, all the beautiful ones, all of the kind ones, all of the strong ones, brought love into being and life into love.  I will never know what thoughts and emotions that made straw into r-e-v-o-l-u-t-i-o-n, but I know that kindness sought itself in hope, that everybody brought peace in the bringing of their selves and that I coldly fought it in order to make life creative instead of simply happy.

I was on a mission, in other words.

But you can't isolate creativity from the liberation of individual people.

That's good to remember.

Marilyn, Susan, Kristianna, Jasmine, Tasha, Joseph, Cindy, all... I'll always struggle to believe that answers are freedom to be what you need to be, that I made terrible anger from my own pain.

Let it be.

Sensitivity and compassion

I just read a post from nearly four years ago.  Damn, I sound intelligent.  I only wish that I had known that my uncertainties would turn into an obsessive inner search for life when it was going on all around me.  I wrote a comment under "Steamopoeia" Jan. 2009.

Flow

I've escaped one stereotyped existence only to inhabit another.

This blog is null and void.

Clamors and hopes for mother belong to a black artist.

Lentils.

March!

I read people's lives.  I need to disentangle myself from this habit.

What I have found is that I am not only a hustler of being, I am a reader of hope.

Reading hope gives you this much:  I read the only lover that ever gave me back to me.

She (Sylvia Rivera) thought that no one would ever deal with her laughter.

I don't recall her laughter very well.

She loved good ones.

I know she dreamed that she had happiness.  She knew that it would be grueling for her to make others change.

I know that people who knew her did care about her love for peace and revolution.

These, even to me, are not separate.

I know she cared about many lives.  She believed in strong freedoms such as the freedom to make any sexuality that people possess a creative way to be loving.

I sought her life in the good things she made with her beauty.  For example, she knew what it was to believe in her sisters, who were beautiful, to me, so that no one would make them try to make pain the main axis of the universe(s).

I can only account for the disjunction in the last sentence by noting that many kindnesses involve life.

By life I mean openness to one's own love.

I know that no one really cares about what I have done, since I have done so little since Sylvia died that was not directly destructive or self-destructive.  Part of this, especially early on, was a way to stick it to her in my memory, to not let her legacy be my main concern so that I could live my own life -- be my own person.  It turns out that she never made anyone be something that they did not need to be.  So I am here as I am -- in Arizona, with my mother, with no friends in a town of nearly 50,000, with a series of lousy, angry relationships with those close to me, and with a very strong knowledge of why people have made themselves needed for their own happiness.

That which I know is also there to struggle with as a set of underpinnings for the rest of my life about which I am profoundly ambivalent -- because that is the way I have treated myself and others.

Lessons in Karma are multitudinous, almost literally a crowd in my consciousness.

Hopefully anyone who knows what made anger the only part of me that I knew would bring attention to myself will eventually allow the fogs of hostility and conflict to evaporate and see me for what I was and am, a loud crass drunk who preferred my own company and my own dreams to those of others.

Lastly, I am hopeful also that when you (Rusty, Chelsea, etc.) bring me to the destination for which I am fit, that I will have been alive with the Goddess' pleasure in herself.

You will be happy and you will feel good about what strengths your places in the communities to which you belong have accomplished.

Everyone does what they need in their own way.

A reader.

Who's Joe King?

I'm just sitting here knowing that I am doing nothing but relying on others to provide for me.

That's why I sought this way of baking the tribes (as in firing pottery to harden it and make it strong -- the tribes being those who needed a lot of chances).

I knew that when I think that somehow I become no one.

This is the voice of no one.

I can have a rhyme.
There is never grime.

Otters malign my gravity.

You know that when you can make grief into something grave that sorrel makes a woman need ostriches.

That dwindling power to reason my way through interesting illnesses is becoming a crime.

Memory was here.

I now want to buy flasks with casks.

Elysian Moment:

As niceness makes wisdom ride, so niceness makes my laughter change frames to reasons.

Lester

Leased wars to be a cap.

Why is womanliness cruel for that rambling that is pretty?

Because the rambling would prefer to be succinct.  I remember working as a way to be home. 

That was my way of freedom.

Lenses dreamed that illness had one rent.

I now remember where I faded:  there was my own life; there was another way of being called being a crest running toward men; there was a never place called reason.

I can deal with this:  I was championed to be mentored and then made famous to be flowers.

Sylvia was one person with one happy ground:  the way that She created a life (mine) that has nasty rambling gold (me, this).

How lame when my own drowning is joking.

Ever matching markers and marsha -- one who I am not.

I devoured Sylvia's knowledge.  She knew I paid failure to be a lantern.

This hatred for my life was there to make my grievances heard.

I remember you (Susan) liking my laughter of narcissism.

Ha.
Ha?
Maw.

The whole thing was a bunch of crap

The whole thing was heifer (me) likes to be happy [therefore] make me happy.

This may make change peaceful.

I hope you (Chelsea) will make this fester so that it will become alive as a reason for visions of art.

your entrance to life is free.

Julia Murray

I support Bradley Manning

Let him go.

Birthday journal

O wow, death doesn't change people; death makes us free of a reagan.  Reagan means one who takes money to be a brown black frack dream.  This is a way of making myself the only one who knows priests.

Priests give themselves brains to live for.  I know what I know about what I feel.  I can love without cheating the goddess of her pain.  Her pain is the lesson failing its own dream.  That lesson was being woman gave itself mother.  The dream was moments of knowledge for life.

Lastly, I resemble one person creeping toward no one.  I have made life great in the ways of being rude and flat.

Susan is here.  Nowhere is there.  I am where that reagan dreamed change was life.

I know that you think this is terrible angry bitter psychotic expression of hatred for my own life.

Really it is love for seeking where the only word that was and was not went to when the goddess said, "Good."

Thank you for knowing what it is to be one who knows feelings.

Death is not a monitor; death is not a  slim family; I am where people are when no one -- ride Julia ride -- writes of raymond.

Dear raymond:  you who blasted this Goddess swearing to be nice always sexualized my hopes for my agonies.

I said what I needed to.  You may read what you wish to believe. 

Note:  I have tried to be people in books that I read, but I am not.
Note2:  Vassals, you have failed me!

Either women have belief or they are me.

loss of belief derived from hating negative roses (people who were living to feel love).

In other words, my address goddess loud stay.

You are my address in Ecstasy.

Help me be hopeful.  I need to live or not.  I am not this good.  I am afraid to give love that needs pigs.

I am bitter and feel it is not to the good.  Flaws made in marx.  Flaws made in freedom.

Varieties of ignorance and stupidity

Sometimes there's a difference between "free writing" and writing freely.  In many cases, when I just let out whatever is there, what comes out is not very focused on subjects about which I have strong opinions or feelings and which I believe are important.  I suppose this indicates some sort of disjunction between my intellectual expectations of myself and the mediocrity that is actually there.

I say mediocrity because I don't wish anyone to attack me for presuming otherwise.  The worse problem in my case appears to be the stark negativity with which I view myself and others.  So, stupidity:  Why is it that when it hurts to be nice to people (because I am letting myself feel, and be, myself, and that is apparently inherently a presentation of something that deserves attack by most others), that I don't care about when or whether there is peace?  I suppose it is the response of anger that leads to abandoning this need for peace.  I believe that peace is the dream of home, of how (if you are lucky, and I believe I was) it felt to be in a gently cared-for environment as a child.  So, when you're stupid, and you don't understand -- and this often leads to destruction -- that there is no guarantee of love from particular persons -- though love is everywhere -- usually no one thinks there is a need to remediate this elementary misconception.  Everyone has a life that they may be struggling with in their own way.

This kind of lack of understanding, or density to reality, in my case, seems to have proceeded from fear and from cruelty that was originally my way of trying to imitate the people who were so intent upon cruelty in that they preferred to like anger (from me) than to be strong enough to give hope.  But how can a child give another child of the same age hope?

I am trying to understand what it is that makes others think that if I am poor that they can act like they are people of hope, grace, gifts, and that I am not.  I suppose this is turnabout is fair play.

As I have become aware no one is cruel without being made to be aware that justice makes a lot of pain.  Painmaking justice to me is not what human beings can or ought live with.

I know I love Susan and that somehow she will understand that I can be safe because I am home.

Now I wish to teach what is hopeful.  This is done by elucidating for people the necessity of life for good.  Good comes from life, not the other way around.  I hope someone will understand that no one is afraid of themselves because of happiness.  Rather, it is because of  making things such as anger and failure the measure of peace.

Be well,

Yours,

Julia 

What there is

Now was what one (a rock) made.

I like my own empress -- illness of poesy.

Estrogen gravely makes art.



Today there's joy; where laughter fails, omens of peace give you dreams.

Glad to ride With you.  Know your love to know your softness.

I have thought that you would take me to softness.  I know you are where my grains dried.


Laughter was nice.  I now ride because of the grave.

You here and you are my goddess.


I remember letting you say your belief was your trial.
It was that which was a life.

A belief

My object as a writer is to tell people what there is, and then listen to them tell me what I am.

Hollow Land II

I rain lightning and blood as
God's potence orbits in a dark sky.

Hollow Land

God's vagina floats above, raining lightning and blood as
The martyrs of a chosen land rise to view.

Hookers, businessmen, failures, haters, dancers, jokers walk to
Payday Advance outlets as flowers shake with insect intrusions.

Omens without laughter slide down twisted faces and
Automobiles crash into losers.

Powerless before musics of hatred, love and greed
Disappear while children cry for compassion.
.
Fearing the gigantic explosion of mucked sewers
And deadly fields of carrots and cows, I cover my face..

Bolts of cloth wrap pillars of golden pain as
God's potence orbits under a dark sky.

I won't change anyone

I am not a "dirty cunt."

I am not a pig.

I made myself ill.

Why?

I did NOT give anyone freedom from being angry.

I pressed everyone to be what was my idea of free, i.e., troubled and shamed.

How could I think that meant freedom?

Because no one said that anyone can be their own negativity.

I remember being good at life.  I thought making others safe was possible.  I cannot make anyone believe in my reasons for being this answer to my needs.

I will never know why those who may be reading this ever thought I was happy.  I was a lot of fear and pain.

Please give me freedom.

You are who you are.  I cannot change any of you.  Goodbye.

I am not that thriving or beautiful or strong.




Heck is fat.
Never listen to offers of art from a dreamer.

She gave me a dried rose

Famous

Rich women are

Best.

I don't want my own life as mine to

make a failure.

Dance with my arguments.

No argument:  Marsha was a person dreaming of life.

Casts:

Omen:

Ray Loved My Patience.

Now I don't love my reasons for being drunk as dense and loud.

I know that I am not a lot of marsha.

Andrea dealt life as lessoned with reasons.  I am roman as a rock.

Oral basing crimes in my crease (edited with fame)






Topics for further discussion:

John Brown
Southern violent

Less people are not treating themselves as needing a chaste bore.








I wish that I knew what I might write that would be something for men.  They are flowers with pain.

I know what nothing is.  I know what reasons dream of -- life and love with my own hopes.




Laughter is not the same when no one gives people life.


I don't know where I am.  I don't know what I do.  I don't know why there's my fear of a rock.

I paid my life as brown with no chafing.

These sentences are all INSIPID jokes to me.  No attached reality; only death in its cruelty needs peace.

The whole world prefers hatred.  Maybe that's me.

I rise where an urgency talked to a lump.

The lump never knew itself as a dreamer of a better life for all.

Answer:  ab
                c
                d  e f

etc.

Lack of moment is from my pain.

The pain is my knowing that crack was what made thought a failure.

I know your interest has flagged.  Perhaps if I stand on my head and say:  You were the only tribe that was me.

Collective representation -- the appearance of all in each one -- revealing that death drags pain where need is change.

I made my own failings.

As for Marilyn, you may change life, and I may make failure a mark.

Help is not where andrea sought freedom.  I remember her strength in knowing that she was placed in  pimps who preferred drugs to God.  I was making a narc into a failure.

I prefer drugs to God.

I hope She will love my life.



THIS moment's failure is from knowing woman bakes a  powerful need to be tarzan (that which knows itself as hope but not strength).

Loud is not rite.

In my mind, I have created a rite called life.  I carry out its features each and every day.

Please release me, O Goddess from my aching hatred for a raymond womanly goals.


Subsidiary to these reflections are names, being good, and being free.

Today I wrote a woman a note that made her happy; she gave me a dried rose.

Death Is Not Life To Me

Men and Women change where they live.

They make it knowledge that there is freedom.

I say that no one makes love strong: love is everywhere. making strength is being one with life.

I have what I have.  I do not need strong men to make me love them.

I am not the cruel fool that wanted change to be hopeful.

I am steeped in life.  I have found that there is beauty where life gives you a mind to love.

So, there are some problems in my thinking and in me and in what I have written.

Listen for the reasons that others have for not being free.

They don't need to be safe from laughter; they are where fear and hate give them pain.  The pain is rising in their being.  Their being needs safety so they can be loathed.

To be loathed brings peace, because it makes failure the world.

I do not want pain, or things that hurt.

Guilt brings anger.  Guilt makes everything fearful.  This is the creative life that makes anger painful.

I do not need this fear of my own life.

I take one cool rogue (me).

You are gold if you love lessons.  You are girlie if you love life.

I need to stop making these distinctions.  They are killing me.

Laughter began this wary pain.  I thought sharing love was the beauty of hope.  I have nobody to say, be true to your own being.

My being gives me peace.

Let yourself have what you believe is yours.

I believe I may have peace.

Part of me thinks joy is people giving things that are pain.  I think of the ways that my life began.

Taste and fear were the beginning of my sharing.

I loved my own plastic flames.  I wanted it there.  I wanted running for the embers of laughter.

Crack was the belief in bodies.

I did not know that anybody thought of God as strength.  I believed that no one had belief.

Safety and love are not the only needs.

Please be safe and kind.

Have your own blazing happiness.

Sex and guilt are not entrances to riches (which I call lace).

The Goddess knows my own life is here since I have been rude and cruel, I am alone.

I have good in me.  I know that if I stay here that no one will be peaceful because I am what is there for change.

This is my pathetic existence:  thinking I am needed for change to occur.  I built my pain on being away from life.  Now I have land in rest.

Ownership is taking reason away from people who are in old places.

Elder money is also cruel.

Now I am going to free this reflection.  You may read it now. 

Laughter was where I was safe, in childhood.  Now I make you love your own place, unless you would prefer to be justification for your own cruelty.

Allah, Jehovah, Yahway:  meth is flowers of their rule.  I guess you can't blame God for everything.

Hahahahahahahaha

The reason this is all so disturbing is that I felt like making myself failure because it would make anyone believe in peace.  Peace to me begins with knowledge of the pain that is teaching freedom in exchange for love.  What you get for teaching freedom is not love, it is celebration, envy and savage violence sublimated as change.

Orgasm loose math chastity.

Passion identity home.

Illness doesn't work (bring about happiness).

Sui Generis

Yes I like many measly raises
There's pain in womanliness.

I scammed referees for money.

That's my goddess, another bomb
with pope.

Illness says, gave laughter.

I say, money.



The Life

My obsessions
Tend to restate themselves
Interminably

No matter what
Venue or mode I
Employ.

So I will let go
Once again by
Peaceably writing them here:

Tension, Mazes, Likeness,
Strength, Money, Roads

Death, Cold, Blind,
Rags, Pain, Dreams

Bodies, Running, Drugs,
Failure, Softness, Masses

Of which, by my reckoning
Only these matter:

Love, Remaining Hopeful, Taste,
Mathematical People, Roses, Airships.

Blossoming with our lives,
Bringing art to mixed mantras,
We shall, with patience,

Keep memory happy
And ourselves freely willing peace.

Suggestion

Dean

Myself

I like luck.

Change.

These being maybe ill I write them that way to free my friendship as greenness allied with beck and feeling.

Chaste moments of blaming ross for their giving happiness to my father and his mother's womanliness.

I remember that if I give myself the thankfulness that I remember badly.

Decoupling intention and result:  Why strongly live for my own changes?

I need to deal with the suggestions that continually pour into me from reservoirs of the needs of other people as collected in the past which make me mother to softness without feeling.

That knowledge gave me good; now, I have pain from knowledge.  Read that as the loss that I have to give.

Chores:

I remember for myself the good things that felt like hope.  I know that when I say that anybody is who I know that they will believe that it is freely made a mess, that is to say, logged as blame.

I am apparently trying to give.

I was here to be my own laughter.  I like that.  Now it is the lambent love of rest and poetic fabulous positivity becoming easy that reaches toward my illness.

Lack of rest is not friendly.

Tie my pain to glamorous hopes running toward veils covering my tests, with the object of making love peaceful.
                                                        *       *       *
                                      [This is where I get to what I'm saying]
           


I have shouted and screamed and wept and collapsed into my own bones, not knowing that I can not feel what the Goddess made -- loved, pale, rosy, cruel, and failed -- with her champion, as home.  She did make my moment free.

Craning toward the morality I cried about, I see that it was nothing for flesh and nothing for love.

It was all about safety within my own shamanistic craft, i.e., glamor.

You can like my flame or you can like my pain.  The rest of my striving for life is here because I made it feel foreign in that I could not both be good for my love of peace (naked hate of strength and stability and change; and anger) and my desire for freedom.  No savior of my mother is able to bring beauty or art to freedom.

Apparently, once again, it is I who have made it difficult to love me.

Momentarily, a lack of being is not changing my injury.  It is knowledge, peace, and cancer that are my effort.

You are what you desire.

I desire justice.  Life is my yearning for happiness.

Loudly where justice is, I drive for change and peace.



This way is being.

Lies are looks.




I have to admit that when I write I do not always understand at the beginning where I will say. 
I have to start somehow and somewhere and I prefer flatly recording what I have relied on to start with even without explanation or a description of whatever extension or resonance these plain words may have for me to being true to what are perhaps better organized redrafts.  I think the reader can tell what is important and coherent without my drawing all the threads together.  If not, then I will simply have to return to the subject from another direction and do so at that time because I do not wish to pretend these words did not happen in this way and at this time.

I would like to know how to incorporate what are important bases of my thinking into what I have to say, without dismembering and replacing and repositioning what came to me into a smooth facsimile of what I in reality brought forth or felt was there to say.

I am not a sarcastic thug, but I'm stewing like a maniac

Today I work here in this the room I spent six years before leaving home. 

Lesbian efforts

Distance

My own changes.

I like raymond.

I told myself and others I would write a book about Janice Raymond and her atrocious stance against us transsexuals.  I believe that that which is my own is also the remnant of my wish to become strong, specifically, AGAINST her.

That is not that great.  I also know that when I made my own life the benchmark for others to follow (in my mind at least) that I caused a lot of error and useless disfunctionality for me and my friends.

That said, I wish that there was a dream that I could ask would be my own.  I don't know what is nice.  I don't know what is love.  I wish that I had my people as my life.

I don't know what is good.  If you or anyone else ever believe in somebody or something, I wish to become a way to love what it is to be a feeling.

Now obsessing with feelings has become my business, since I have no one to talk to about the matters that interested me, since I have become flattened mentally and emotionally.

Good homes make strong offspring.

Yes, I am nuts.

Emanating reasons to like rain, I am,

Julia Murray

P.S., reading this over, I know that there was a time when few of these disturbing claims were true for me.

Plum

Rusty taught what she thought was good:  that needs change life and to deny them is a painful trap.

A few needs of today:

Land, Poem, Bus.

I overidealize the past and underemphasize what has to happen now for there to be a viable future.

Vanity is a star.

Last to know, First to go

I failed "Book."

I am not "Book."

I cannnot do what "Book," the all-demanding deity demands.  There was a similar deity on Star Trek, I'm sure you remember -- something to do with smashing melons.

Therefore I will leave life safe with itself.

Love,

Julia

GOOD NEWS

My most recent CAT scan shows I have no pulmonary emboli!!!!   I am grateful and hopeful.

Love,

Julia X. (Galatea)

It was good to feel hopeful because I needed to.

I'm the one who has to take care of my body

It's better to be happy than not. 

Maybe life has being.

I feel hopeful.

Perhaps you will be strong. 

Be safe.

Lesson ten

God died because she thought men were martyrs.

I know that I cannot believe these words, because I am not a man.

Mommy, I am not kind.  I used to love myself for being happy.

Now I just want to make the world dense with blood clots.

However, you will not know anyone who will have any blood clots.

I don't understand my decision to continue smoking last spring when something told me my friends would beg me to stop.  I think I put cruelty ahead of my body.

This sucks.

Cash is not bones.  Laughter is not money.  I am not you.

Give me life or I will be another mess.

Tacky man is afraid of loss.

It's coming one way or another.

Route pain.

Secondly, I am going to have to wear a ton of makeup and possibly a wig if I want to get by as a woman.  I am thinking I want to continue using the women's bathroom, dressing room, etc.

These concerns show that I am freaking out.

I still want to get high once I'm off the Coumadin, if I'm alive.  Though from what has happened thus far, the karmic cost would be even higher than I've faced so far.

If this is about anger and cruelty and lack of acceptance, I see I will be embroiled in plenty of that.

You know it is difficult not to be sedated by estrogen.  I am becoming more unstable and angry.

Now I have to be happy because if I'm not, who will be?

These reflections show that there is a lot of tension in me.

I'm afraid of not being able to finish all my books or at least take some classes or work part time or do anything but put my "affairs" in order.

Luckily I do not have anybody as a partner or any pets or much property to dispose of.

Being distraught and in pain and losing life is not something to look forward to.

I have become maudlin, disbelieving and atrocious.

I have eaten like a pig today.  I cannot smoke or really drink.  I wish someone, e.g., my mother, would hug me, but I think my behavior is making her angry and uncomfortable. 

I have tried to understand why I am not able to properly enact feelings I know are there.  It makes me nervous to do so. 

Please just have peace.  And maybe I will find it too.

Give your loved ones love.

Even if there is no intellectual justification or rationalization supporting it, even if you cannot see the end of what you do.  Even though you will die yourself.

Do not be heavy in your thoughts or actions. 

"We are individuals!"  as they say in the Life of Brian.

Good thing there's sex. 

Rhymes that make Limes

Get Serious

Manna narc crawls to
Law's Champion.

I live next to
My cave.




Chance Occurrence

Last moment is
Green



Tapping the Man

He sick --
Tried

Revealing
Clothes

As
Cake.




Mao

The Chinese choose leaders
By acclamation.

I remember that moment when you got that brat
With her feelings.

Destiny was here;
Passing every day with

Napoleon, Hitler,
Stalin, Alexander,
Caesar.

Jinghiz Khan.

Oral vintage
makes

All verbal
play

Rape.






Sick Sex

I trundle toward the mountains
In a donkey cart.

I observe the squeaking
wooden wheels.

The crows pause
Perching

To see laughter
Graze in a peaceful mantel

Which nods its 
White racks.

Emblem-full-of-fire
Trapped in a hip dress.




Orpheus

Eurydice said,
"Don't look back."

Intercession.

Paragraph is not yes:
Stanza is dirt.

Imprecations always
Where you launched

Yourself moodily
To Babbling.

Wilson knew his Bitch.





Goat bawls in fear:
Check.




I apologize profusely to my readers for every word
that was less than art.

Four Troys to Wrap

Troy

O moment of peace,

Illness sought its languor
Momentarily
Crying for You.

I razed the villages
Making your food.

I dreamed the battles
That slaughtered your people.

As I read this note to memories,
I make good on the family.




Troy

Memories feel here
A nook where bones

Life bars grime

Dread things of
Pain

Grow where

You strike.




Troy

Or Mars

Wills his needs
Where

Zeus'
trilogies

Slap God.



Troy

Lame man
Voyaging here

Sees his Dry Life

Sinking into the Sea.




Boy

Take your place
Where you are

Chased.





I reason with you

Graft makes grooming
love mastery of bargains.

Hokey Allah


Allergan, Sinusitis, Building
Maybe I take roses to my mother's pain.

I david's best s/ex.




Craft

Allah Moans Happily
To Him where

Goats tangle lovingly;
Treated roses jar-
gon.

Maybe I love Her
Poem.

I hear it's her
God that makes me think.



Wrap

Present arms to
the Sergeant.

He knows his
Army.

Family is
Case of Grain.

Lace

Halls of Oaf

Dragging down the lives
(Maybe that's grief)
That Try bogging

The sensibility of a bogdweller

Creep.

William my Aunt Resting here.

Stapling my freedom to a laughter
Running for a rockkk.

Now, climbing the lives on each side
of the hall:

Lambert is his own moose.






Oaf Ran Her Pockets

Guilty with tears,
I ran her pain.

Tethered with race
She growled at me.

I called her
List.

Didn't you remember
The Clams that remembered
Lace?






Roses

Dread Roses,
When Your Peace
Gives Death, I
Will Build Moments.





Slip out of your mess.

You, beautiful one,
Where your veil
Lifts its dreams

To My boredom

I weird you with
crayons.

Oh my God! More "writing"!

I try to make sense of what is reason.

My message to Rusty was:

"You're not nice, you're a fool!"

It turns out I'm my own anger.

I am not my own anger.  You cannot BE an emotion.

Therefore I have made a lot of cruelty because there was stupidity that I did not like in myself.  This was fear.  I feared justice.  I knew that I had much love.  I knew I had freedom.  I did not treat myself as a woman because I was angry.  I thought no one was peaceful.

Now I can see that everyone needs hope.

I thought I was gay.  I thought I was what I was. 

Now I have my own feelings called, reasoning.

I identify my grief (fear of my own life) with love.

Hahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!


This means that I have to like my own strength, which is me.

I have thought that there was so much to love in me.  I did not believe aye sucked ass.  I thought that was good because it was love for my own pleasure.

Now comes happy life in making peace.


Now you can live with my openness.  Or is it me who can do so?

Many thrashings were my own actions.


I hope you can be "home" where peace and love reside.


Okay, I was exactly a brat.

Laughter about why I have taken so much time and space to say this.

Good.

You believe in what you had when you had happiness.  I also believe in what was beautiful.

I hope that there will somewhere be spirits that are beautiful as happiness.

Will dreams.

Thank you.


Pottery is love.

Contempt for women

Hell was the pain that orgies treat.
I remember that when there was God that I was another bard.

Today I know that I changed my grief from cluelessness to art in order to be dead.

I am threatening nothing:  I am referring to killing my own vision of hope.

This Goddess said to her pain:  I am your roast.

Contempt for women:  I made life a rough place because I laughed at my mother's imperfections from a sexist pt. of view.  She had little confidence (when I was still at home) apparently and did not dress with panache or as a voluptuary.

Capital is the art of paying justice to make pain fold.  In other words, using money to make the problem go away.

Boss:  I ran to Rusty and to Chelsea to make them be the ones who would be my life.  I needed to preserve this way of love -- my own changes, personality, sensibility internal and external.

Abdicate your art:  If you are making yourself the Goddess who makes you young.

Omen:  Allah sought roman craze for lessons.  What is God to those who make pain run to omens?

Answer:  Pope.

Next time I will tell you what is good for my plastic reasons.

You must not be here if you are here to be a star.

I must not be here if I am here to be a moment (of fame/power).

Death gives a rose face.

Rat trick cloud whore


I HAVE TO SAY THINGS THAT MAKE SENSE:  I CAN BE A WOMAN!

Fear I might change

There was a road where people stop to have a draught of dreams.
This road is a woman's place if there is memory.

I know that a lot of beauty is messy.  For instance, I in my dreams might say, "You are strong" to my family.  The family I know is peace.  I know that I created a way I might be so that there would be a lot of laughter.

You did like my trust.  I liked to like your praise.

That was needed in order for there to be life.

I sought your love; I sought your dream.

Your love and your dream are yours, not mine.

I give you peace.  I hope you will like a woman with her beauty.




Craft:

Gifts that are alive with beauty and freedom.

I gave a lot of myth.  For instance, I am womanly; I am drowning; I am nerd.

Down inside, I need to say what is being.  It is beauty.

Craft:





I wish to change through doing what I enjoy.  I want to read the classics of many cultures, ancient and modern and relate them to the life I know as an individual in this society that denies the usefulness of learning.  Out here there is gold.  Out here there is peace.  Out here there is need.




Love,

Julia

Peace and Religion

Life and death; death and life.

No one believes that trash can be loving.
I have known to believe that darkness cries its own moments.
These moments include:  tape (as in a mental tape or script), failings of loud bowls.

I have shrieked the need to be Her orgasm.

I am in fact a lot of effort to be rock (crack).

I am so insane in my identifying myself with what I desire.

This Goddess who knew a possible dream was loving and happy.
    
Yes I try to be a moment.  I am not.  I am here to fail a nabired (a flock of caves -- you see I use parts to personify or represent a whole -- people that may anatomically contain something which enters them).

Emperor Issues:  I need to be safe.  I am being to my own capital.

This analysis of people dealing creepiness is over.

Portion of famine.  No gruel.  No peace.  Sensible.

I read this gnome as round.  I rest here for a temporary bop.

Peace and Religion

Kindness requires love.

A Request to Richard

 I humbly beseech ye, save thy servant from the mortal pains of this transient existence; bring succour that she may not suffer unduly the rigours of punishment for the misdeeds with which, as you know, she has filled the lives of her friends and family; and allow her to retire peacefully together with the spirits and guardians of all directions at the places of reconciliation and loving kindness so graciously provided to the travellers of these planes. Anoint thy sister, Me, that at thy pleasure the Ones whom receive graciously your devotion may direct and guide her in the ways of peace, love and humanity to which from this moment she wishes to accustom herself and practise with an unguarded and pleasing dedication to the welfare of all. So Mote It Be. Julia Murray.

A Letter for Understanding and Communion

While I can scarcely claim to be a "good" writer in the sense of communicating clearly and simply with consideration for the reader meaning, feeling, event, etc., I believe that I do leave the reader with an impression that reveals my state of being along with occasionally an "entrance" into the nature of the subject matter and the universe that I and the reader in fact share.

Many times I fail to make clear that I do not feel strong; that I (often literally) am shambling around trying to find a definite place within myself to which I can commit energy, will, effort, affectionate (often an undeveloped quality) attention. 

I really really just want you who read this to know that I am writing as if I were in my final hour.  This is what I decided to do with this "final hour":  write a letter.

That said, I was trying to believe that maybe there will be one way of freedom.  I wanted that because I was wondering for a long time why it is that no one is interested in loving a pig.  I have to love a pig because that is what I am.  At least two other people who shall remain nameless have referred to me as a pig in my presence.  What effect does having the self-concept of being a pig have on me?  I feel that I do not like it.  I feel that I cannot believe that anyone would want to like me.  I really have no words for it.  Somehow you will have to know that if you consider yourself a pig then it has deleterious effects on your relationships with real people. 

To return to my question of why no one is interested in loving a pig, I can see that firstly I would give off an air, so to speak, of unapproachability because of slovenly habits.  You can certainly admit I have those.  Secondly a pig appears greedy and without sympathetic emotion.  You know that pigs feed constantly from a trough whatever they are fed.  This causes contempt in humans. 

These facts led me to consider there being one way of freedom because then I'd feel that no one had freedom.  I wished to deny others freedom.  I didn't care because no one I knew thought that freedom was anything but getting your own way.

People who are not happy are also not interested in what the stupidity of life makes hostile.  I did not have to be hostile.  I might have, for instance, decided that no one was particularly satisfied, but then that would have interfered with my personal pursuit of satisfaction.  Not that I thought that through but I certainly needed to believe that I could be whatever I wanted to be.

No one is free if I have all these feelings that I have.  I know that I need to release this pain.

Okay, so there's happiness, there's pain, there's being a pig.  I saw this as my own problem.  Now I need to make sure that no one feels afraid that I am trying to be another Process.  (I used to reduce everything to the process of production a la Marx).

This now takes a turn toward what it is that I want.  I want hope, freedom and love.

I am a child of the Goddess and of a mother who was gentle in her ways much of the time.

Now, in my mind I am making this whole letter a matter of whether there is anything that I can do to be changed.  And the only way I can see that happening is if I have love. 

The problem is that I often do not feel love when it is there, and I often do not give myself love.

I really hope that you who are reading this will say happiness is what is peaceful.  I suppose that is tangential. 

I wanted to make the people with whom I co-existed in a kind of exploitative fashion for eight years at transie house my priests, my being the superior being.  This does not include Rusty and Chelsea:  I was in relation to them as a cruel predator of thought and feeling.

This is love:  I said men are a goddess because I wanted to be loving to my boss:  Jack.

Now I know where this is coming from.  I am trying to make everyone know that my father dreamed that I was his  reason to be.  He could not conceive that his pain did not apply to everyone.  He had pain about his failures and his mother dying young, and no doubt was angry at the universe for no reason that I will ever fathom except he needed his place in a world that is free.

Now I will say because of this fact, I love family as a way to be a moron, i.e., dreamy, free, studious, good, adolescent.  I changed my own life without knowing that I had to be my answer. 

This is getting into philosophical territory.  I cannot be an answer to myself.  I have already said there are no answers.  So, what does this mean?  I really think that I feel like creativity makes this world safe.

I can only be creative in this moment by knowing that the Goddess has a lot of love.

Her will is:  (My will must be):  girl, be free.

Plea is for patience.  I am learning this is what is strong.  I also must know hope.  (Not because I want to must I, but because it's part of the life I chose.)

Maybe this letter is simply a way to begin understanding that someone ((Me:Julia)) is a hallowed rope of womanhood.  That is:  I capitalized on drugs.

Money and patience are not peaceful when made into shame and cruelty.

I guess this is all:  shadow self/bright self.  My bright self  made me know my own freedom; my shadow self made freedom know me.

I love this dream.

I am what I am because there's streams that carry people's lives and I am facing the wrong way.

Does anyone still have a boat to merrily row?

Hallow, Home,
Tallow, Loam.

That's my being.

Happiness Death Pain Rusty Rose

I have never thought that there was beauty that felt groovy like a base called omens.

Omens remember what poems are.  I have so much foolish anger.  I don't know why I think of feelings as safe.  I have been crazy and that is so painful.

This is what I have been making hopeful:  a lot of reasoning (rationalizing), peace (numbness), and cruelty(fear).

I was poor when I knew change.  I was cold when I felt peace.  This coldness is hate of my dreams, which are:  love, laughter, and peace.  I hate these because I am a woman who is:  fearful of my own needs, which are:  beauty, softness, hope, (what am I suppressing?) (what is life?) home (strength to grieve my life).

I never thought that I was good to people because I was not pain.  I WAS happy when I was 4.  Other kids were to me rough and dangerous and caused fear and embarrassment and a knowledge of contemptuousness in me.  People seemed to me determined to prove their fearless desire to destroy barriers to their own pride.  Now I am the person that I felt was cruel.  I hate it.  I need to make this place hopeful.  You can not OWN bodies.

I love the way that home is the only way to be what is strong.  I suppose I need protection.  I would also like to give protection.  These knowledges only make me want to give love to that strength which needed my beauty.  Who was that?  The one who was cheating my feelings of love by giving life to my failure.  Who?  That is my estrogen (girl, you are trying to be stupid).  You are poem of hope.  By "my failure" I am trying to say that I am below the place that I was when I thought I was free.  This is hurting me because I am truthfully hopeful.

Please just tell me what it is that made your li(v)es safe?  And mine hateful?  I am not the only one with hope.  I am not the only one who is changing.

I retract my assertion that I am life to anyone without being strong for my feelings.  These are:  I am chasing pain because it is the only way to be creepy to my friend.  I am tired of this.  I am not the only strong (not strong) failure that ever existed.  I thought you were the person who would be safe.  I am cruel because of my own hatred for blustering peace (netherworld dreams of failure are the only way to be safe if you want to make others die for their actions.)  I am not interested in doing what was the only argument that was anger:  my need to be a failed pagan.

You who are reading this must know that I was your failure.  I failed you and myself because I was wrong about that woman who is that hopeful person with good in her life.  She is a free person.  I am sorry I thought otherwise.  I was the only person who would be cold because of that cruelty of being  mothered for my laughter.  I knew what Goddesses are.

Let it be:  I am girlie in a way that is peaceful.

You are safe.

This is nearly unreadable.  I apologize.  This is how I make myself alive.  Perhaps ha! I will return to it later and make it understandable.

It hurts to be bored.

Depression in Writing

 Write some happy words:

Morph, Crust, Open
Wizard, Round, Party

Gambling, Moments, Claps

Aphrodite, Afterhours, Affiliated


Happy Three.

Obatala

Oshun

Osiris

It's sex that changes urgency to happiness.

I remember when I wondered what love was.

I need to be the person who cares that I have been looking for.

I have given this my home.







How world draws openness:

By grieving its answers.





This pain was raised to feel good.
I taught life it was needed to be happy.

I have loved reading.  I have loved brass.

The tension is:   What does the openness please?

I saw I in you.

I saw you in I.

Love is when there is dream book (not true) entitled:  death gives [blank]

I want to change books.  The grave is known.  The drugs are cruel.

Laughter does itself with change, answer becomes fun.

I lived to take my argument (death) to plug it in its ra??

Drag it here.  I'm a rap called r??e.

Tell me why.

I run to my life as a mess.  I run to my life as a chapel of marsha.

I wanted that jargon to be effortless.

Lay my poem in the trees.





Illness just wants peace.  Illness is the anger toward my princess.


I want a lover who believes in me to say, "Yes, you are beautiful," and live.

Ovary comb gore drawer change is  making dreams live.

I will never know why I love my reasons for feeling home.

They are:  grief, peace, trees, soft craft.

Floors dream like champions crave feelings.
I take feelings by making myself feel.

I feel glad of my reason:

What would it be like to let go?

Popping the cracking change with laughter.

thank you for making my self easy.

I am having fun torturing all this out of me.

Can I please stop?

Lesbian girls change race to reagan.

Orgasmic life is needed.  I remember that rambling groan.

Words:'

Lore, Mother, Craving, Us, Move, Dream, Chase, Pope And Grieve.

I hereby abjure any love that is fear.

Metastasis

Hello,

Alone.

Mecklenburg.

Land is free (now).

Okay.

You with your beasts; me with my places.

I ordered you to God (he knows his base is act)

Crack was not yes to order.

I resemble the love I have made.

You are men with reasons.  All people are men if only because men are truthful.

Delusional anger is toward my own memory.

Lady.

I am not a lady.

Goddess:  Below is As Above.

Supernumerary alterations are feelings of peace.  I remember that you and I have thought of what had hope.  Such were open and free.

I can write if I only let go of my poesy.

Dread the remembrance of crack.  I do not like it.  I do not need it. 

These words do not capture the pain that was known to me as:  I crawled for my rug.  I cried for my leaf.

Leaves, branches, roots, stems, bark, canopy, woods, forests, copses, and then a meadow filled with
grasses of various appearance.

You know when you are a pasta:  You eat rice.

This means that everyone is what they hope for.

That is my logic.

Activism

Meth of ground rice;
Element of past.

Flow is marsha's pain.

I remember that Sylvia thought:
(Illusion is mark.)

Delaying my freedom is not
Helping to listen for failure.

This tone towards my own life does not become my sparkling character.

I have an "uncomfortable lightness of being."

Write:  Write:  Write:

Gift from my mother:
I hear her saying,
"You are first ... embers have home."

Dat was not a lot of beauty.

Kind words for a sour mama.

I remember you (myself) are the mama I am referring to.

You, I, We, They, Me, That, This, His, Her:

Sex with hoses are naturally painful.

Woman laugh;
Laugh My Ass Off:  Clouds war flask is full.

Illness.

I thought that I knew what you did.
I thought that I knew what I was.

I thought that there was laughter
In cream.

Lesbian dream is to make left.

inches

Orphans
Rowdies

Payment
Femininity

Gandalf
Round

Blame
Loom




Energy that I expend on wistfulness is beginning to feel loud (stale, occluding, old).

I know that you are good for oceanic pampering.

William go to your place.
You are bossing a gram.

I have known that your pain makes rinsing off love cruel.


Central House -- bathtub in the winter -- steam rising from heated water.




There is no writhing here of water vapor lest it be from a pan or a cup.  It doesn't get cold enough.





I race the plaster ring.



Home began that epoch when Love was trapped in its own lope toward people's remnant of molting.






I have a few clues.

There is a place where our lives take me as trauma.

I reject life making me a plaster rope.



This knowledge makes me seek trees.
I know that certain words are recurring -- trees, e.g., -- these words are strengthening or focal in one way or another to my life.  I must unravel their relationship to the broader set of expressions so that they are not so compact that they are opaque.

Thank you very much -- I love expository prose.

Poet:

Floral hopes resemble dream
Which leads to rendering play free.

I am nowhere near giving my strength the dream of blessing.

I know:  dream, tree, amber.

The dream of the amber tree
Proceeded from the abeyance of self-censorship.

You who read this loud body of western strength:
Try to need your place.

At: Go(ld)al

Trash it for its dream of slipping on the mentor.

As far as it goes I read way too loudly.

You have made this goddess lace.

I am not the goddess, therefore, I plead with you to let go of blond fiend.


Priests gild the anger with placation.
I know you are far.

Down with oafs.
Up with sons.

You know this is going toward a reciprocal laughter -- I can pay you to justify your grappling with trees.

These discoveries of my unethical grounding/development scare me.

I was in the hospital again last night.
My chest pains were not serious enough to keep me past this morning.

I have been taking too much blood thinner.

I hate my doctor's lack of careful treatment.

So now I list open lore.

Moment here is moment's lever.
I laugh because I say floss is mental.


Drag your plane across the runway
I will be at the gate, soterior (what does that word mean?) reason for your poem.

Grant that moments make up life.


May all the force of Sandy expend itself without damage to my friends.

Algorithm for algae:  Glass.

Surface reflections

Law
Custom
Ritual
Belief


Now that I've taken care of those...


Ethics


The Imperial Chinese political and social arrangements were certainly as valid as those of Medieval and Renaissance Europe, at least as far as I can tell from reading half a book about the Chinese empire.  There were expected ways of carrying on life by the elite that relied heavily on artistic and intellectual achievement, which I of course have always favored; and these ways compare favorably with the cobbling together of "universal" law as a glue for societies divided and impoverished by the loss of the unity (of a kind) that the Romans provided.

I write this only to demonstrate that when American and other politicians go on about the sanctity of the rule of law, they know very well that they are asserting only a very partial understanding of the varied ways in which human societies have often very successfully worked.  The place of the individual, of ethics, belief, ritual and custom, are made abstract thereby contributing to the ever-present confusion about the relations of people to the government and to each other.  Is there a valid human justification for this?  I don't know.  All I know is that there is more than one way to skin a cat.

Now for the inchoate personal stuff.

I have found myself wondering what I can do about my life at this possibly late stage.  I wish to tell each and every one of my friends that I love them.  I do not know how to become better than I am.  I am sorry.



Important attributes that are hustling a rose:

Me.


I wish to engage my life with freedom, devotion, happiness.

May all your steampunk endeavors yield brassy fruit.

And maybe all your life will be free.

Love,

Julia




someone with dreams of safety is real.

A mound of shite, glazed.

remnants of racism

Land of shopping

Res judicata

Dragging life into this city.

After knowledge

Hindsight.

Laughter at my lantern:  I proceeded like Diogenes, not seeing the beauty in me.

There is good that I raided.  There is good that made crack gross.

I talk a lot about what is free.  I say that when being hopeful is strong (when it is strong in you -- a person) that it is strong because of the people who have strength.

I give love short shrift -- I don't trust my own love.  I don't believe that when people claim they have a lover that it is me they are talking about.

Laugh here.

Lesbians who are trans are teaching this laughter.

I remember that it is all life.  Death is life.  Life is life.  There is no nothing.

Limp of plague I do read.

My mother and those who have made me separate (not necessarily my mother or with their knowledge, inclination or approval; i.e., those whom I have used to separate myself) are strong.  I give myself the complicit approval of dreams.

Life is flowing away from me, I believe.

Toward me flows a lot of love.

Maybe you will understand.

I continue.

The knowledge that I had of myself was that I had prior standing (before the members of MGN) EVEN though I was a closed fleece.

This was because I had been where the life of my friends was life.  I thus (apparently) never did think that the rules applied to me.

This was both fortunate and very very unfortunate.  The friends I had were beautiful.  The friends I made were beautiful.  I have lost all of them by keeping two separate categories.

One is:  "I dream therefore I live"

Two is:  "Goddess stayed with her mick."

Slamslamslamslam.

Those are doors in my mind shutting down in stark horror.

This feeling that no one understood me was a way of disguising and excusing a lack of reasonableness.

I rest because I have said what was so frustrating:  I knew freedom of behavior, but not of belief.

You may now be necessary.  I shall be lock.

Chelsea, you are what began the art.  Should I live, I bequeath you dream -- chastity.

Now I am recessive.