Queen

Latin:  Regina

I carry around a lot of anger.  I have just realized that it is not there to serve my needs. 

I cannot be for my own peace; I cannot make myself be happy; I cannot change; I cannot let go; I cannot be what  is strong; nor can I make myself hopeful with this anger seething inside like a bag full of lava in my chest.

There is no pain in being loving; there is no foolishness in being happy; there is no hatred in being free.  I simply cannot apply my energy in a satisfactory way with this anger there.

I hate my anger.  Maybe if you would help me not be stupid about it, I would be able to locate its source and be strong enough to make it a non-threatening presence so that I am not only an expression of its force.

Direction:  I must let people know that I did not make my anger part of my being.  I refuse to make it my reason to be.  I am here for the love that will emerge when I am able to put this anger in perspective.

This is not a question of any kind of constructive emotion.  It is not constructive in any way.  I am not Achilles, able to destroy my enemies -- whoever they may be -- because of it.  I am not George Patton, I am not any sort of military or political or spiritual or cultural leader as a result of this anger.  It is totally misplaced or displaced within me from some place I must treat as never having been properly noted or addressed.

Since I have this anger, I must believe that I have been scathed with some fire sometime in my life that I have not learned to remember fully enough to bring to the surface. 

There is cruelty in having to be the place this emotion rests. 

I used to believe this anger had something to do with me or my transsexuality.  Now I think it is something alien and destructive that I am not responsible for except to remove its power over me.

Please if you wish, I hope to allow this desperate attachment to dissipate and to be no more.

It has nothing to do with friends; it has nothing to do with being Julia; it has to do with a death of my own reasons for being happy.

I safely ask that I love myself and not be afraid to recognize the door to my liberation.

Laughter will be beautiful.

Poise is Drums: notes for a life storyrevision I

Openness was trite
Math was foolish

This need to teach was low

I wrote much for crack

Allah was feminine

I did too much roman trust (I made love to be a crook)

I was dreaming of my own feelings, which were a part that was emperial.

This girlfriend of fear wrought womanhood for neither love nor strength but for shame.

I (my) goal was elevating my life to be cruel so that I would be peaceful in my security at the expense of others.

Death was needed for its finality and its imperialist dreams.

I sought a way that was pain and fear so that I would become a rock of -- teach!-- change.

There is love and I know that I can make life beautiful in its creativity by asking for happiness (peace, love, strength, and change)

Ouch.  I am working like I'm a writer of family wishes and hopes.  Family is a word which pertains to those I loved and who loved me.  I know that not everyone will understand the beliefs in peace (life, safety, love) that I have had, but perhaps they will know that She is beautiful.

Continue reading this over time, and there will be more.

I feel like calling the above 1995.

Now it is 2013!

You see, what I could do is write a conventional narrative for one page and on the opposing page write passages full of the vocabulary and usages that have an inner source and resonance for me.  Nobody would read it.  It's okay.  I'm in charge of what I write until the brain police attach the requisite electrodes to keep me from writing what I want or alternatively writing anything at all.

Back to the notes ...

Empire:  Need to [margins: a lot of piggyness is part of needing good things like money and strong (free angry flow) (almonds) (glowing) (mustard)] believe in life for its (caving in on my freedom is a woman's need to be laugh/girlie/my roman image) teachers.  I am the one who knows that everyone has a possibility of being a (lot of rosiness here/cruel/murderous/cruel and peaceful) l(over(gruel interesting cruelty is boring as a way to sexualize itself as ... lamplight of roman death is crack))(estrogen) oner.

Clocks.  I was needed to like the production regime in which clocks/time/structure enveloped the subjects/inhabitants with anxiety/fear/expectation.  I now know that I did not and did not want to be a laborer.  By laborer I mean the opposite.  By the opposite I mean the polarity.  By the polarity I mean the relationship.  By the relationship I mean the freedom of being good to hope.  By hope I mean drastic anger toward everyone who was the only ... crack ... imperialist need for love. 

I certainly made someone try to help me.

As you know, when you are stupid because of money (and I mean the kind of money that is not from being free, but from being a legitimate poem of apparitions with need) there is more cruelty than there is freedom.

I dreamed that when I pursued my own goals (more at some other venue) I would become happy because of my own qualities of creativity and strength.  Little did I know how much those depended on the presence and good will of others in the triple I was a part of.  Now I am aware that my individuality is only the surface of an n-dimensional mess.

You who read this may in fact have already imagined and estimated the growth of these tendrils of description/examination that lead me back to my striking out in more ways than one on my own.

I gave people what I wanted to remember myself for:  a freewheeling yet often rigid because hyperfocused/obsessed template/example of individuality that was both a critique and a door to possibilities of expansion to the realms that inspired me, i.e., literature, philosophy and politics.  Little did I know or care to know, for it pained me, that others may have already absorbed and taken into account everything I offered, and that I needed as much or more from them in the way of making changes in myself that would allow myself to be tolerable as a human being in a tense and social environment that I made more tense and less social.

To be honest, I doubt that I will ever know the impact I had from the point of view of others.  Impact is a heterosexist goal anyway.  Perhaps if you ever read this over for what it is, you will find it to be (good enough) a lot of confused (say it, etc.) rhetoric concealing an emotional instability and an isolation that was in part a refusal to admit human commonality as present in me.

This urge to disrespect certainly was at the root of some fear.  The fear of being misapprehended by others also led me to not communicate the simple emotions I had of being out of place, of being afraid of my own dreams, of needing people with a lot of kindness and strength.  I suppose I wanted infinite understanding without offering it in return.  

And then there was trying to find someone to love.

Hahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!

I will begin this with an anecdote.  I paid myself with openness and with (aggression always present) interest in mentoring a fake (someone who would understand me for my grievances, my tastes, my needs, my infirmities).  With Sylvia I was myself, what others might perceive as a small, childish, needy fragment of a personality who needed comfort and protection to function.  As all may remember, I was the same person who gave myself (Julia) a lot of (clap) pressure to be a towering source of strength.

More soon.

Death is always there.
Beauteous and fair.

My life is folding.
In time for molding.

What is pain,
Driving slain?.

Illness is war.
Passion is door.

Will to  death,
Dream of breath.

Nature wants the Beast.
I do cry at least.

Memories to share:
Does argument care?

I tensed with pain.
Cloven in twain.



TO BE REVISED AND CONTINUED
FOR YOUR PLEASURE

Pain and Peace

I will not pass pain to those who have not earned my contempt.

I despise people who do not respect my needs.

I despise people who are foolish.

I am not the drunk who made life me.

I was a crook.

You and I are the only failures who believe that no one is roman.

This dream of making freedom the nature of life is making me foolish.

I wish that I could write something that would make you understand that I have been stupid.

I am trying to say that men were alive because they want people to be free.

This is the way of people who cannot like the only place that is hopeful:  life.

Many times it occurs to me that what I write about others equally applies to me.




I can work when there is thankfulness.  I can find thankfulness in love.

So, if you care, then I will be happy.



Yours,

Julia

Alma Mansion

I write to listen to the beauty of writing.

This circularity, this endless loop, needs peace.

Therefore I will every time be taped.

My mind tapes me for future reference.

I dislike that feeling.

It's time to elaborate on my maker.

She who works on being peaceful is also working on leaving pain to the faces of those with race and peace.

This makes me a racist.

I despise anger.  I despise taste.  I despise men.

All this is a way to utter, "sap!", which is what Sylvia called me, the sappiest of the sappy.

Laughter.

I now must feel that all which I make is a fearful mess that does not make me peaceful.

I must stop resenting those who took money from me without thanking me.

I chose to be lord of paganism.  I chose to be another pop.

This is the only freedom that means roman fascism.

I like money.  It makes me worry about that fake openness that is the hall mark of radical hate.

I now am classist.

I am a fool to write what makes me feel cruel and shit.

I am losing this anger because it is low and hateful.

Please be what is kind and strong.

I must let go of hate.  Now I am a moment for change.

Illness does not mean crack, or pain, or failure.  It is that which is fearful.

I never had love for my happiness.  My father was always watchful that happiness did not emerge near him as noise or playfulness or enjoyment.  My mother was a little closed to anything which was a failure.

I am so cruel.  I am so cruel.  I am cruel and foolish.

I thought of my mother as a failure because she didn't love her own pain.  I thought life was about loving pain.  That is how I was turned against myself.

She is what I believe is strength.

Today I give you my nasty orgasmic anger.  I am local for stupidity and crass piggish pain.

Within the pain, which is from being another human with fear, I am home as a lying creep.

Leap for dreams.

Julia

Sacking my life is due belief in love.

Moment of beauty.

To be grateful

My mother bought a ton of food yesterday, to which I contributed a hundred dollars.
I subscribed to Poetry magazine for twenty dollars for eleven issues.
I sent 50 dollars to the International Action Center for their 20th Anniv. Gala, and will receive a book in return.
I told Calvin that I would treat myself with respect.

I was able to eat way too much yesterday, but I did not collapse.

I have most of the day left to redistribute misplaced and "unclean" possessions.

I may be able to read a few pages of prose/poetry.

I feel free to choose what to do.

I am not afraid to be strong.

When I work I have hope.

Laughter is for me not against me.

I will be able to pay off some of my medical and computer debt this month.  My mother is paying nearly 1400 dollars toward a hospital bill I incurred in October.  That is "phenomenal."

I will be able to be peaceful and happy sufficiently for my needs.

I have the goal of publishing some of my poetry in the next year, which I told Carol, my friend in Wyoming.

There is a dream that when illness has its pain met with peace that it will be free of anger and poisonous foolishness.

I have been met with peace.

I am grateful.

Now to make a maverick -- me -- patient.

Free

Wild Arrogance. Failure. Loss.

I am what I am.

Poems that read needs create hate.

Love your needs?

How do you write a poem for that?

What I am full of --

Asa Buchanan
Tracy Quartermain

Efforts to be low because of empires for a change of age.
I.E., Escape from womanhood (flips and embers -- hairflips and hopeful lives)

I know what I tried as myself (Julia Murray) to accomplish.

That was a moment of estrogen. 

Now, I was dreaming faces.  They grated on me.  I was worried about this argument.  I now have a boss.  She knows angels.  I hate her trying to be  a nothing.

Slap is where I eke answers.

("eke" is Middle English for "also.")

Possibly I gave a lot of moments when that was apples.

I was Johnny Appleseed in my mind.
I was girlfriend.
I was a reason for simplicity.

That was good (to arrive at).

Home is where life is people.