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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