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