Journal #05.11.15

When I was about eleven years old, my passions were stirred by the boys and girls my age. I guess I can say looking back I was inherently bi -- my attraction to boys was equally as strong as my attraction to girls. I had a girlfriend whom I mostly saw in school, and we would cut classes to go get swedish fish at the candystore just outside the perimeter of the fields. We would sit on the hill under the oak trees above the courts and sometimes touch. Our mouths were candy red and stained our lips like lipstick. She had clear and intelligent eyes rarely looked in one direction for long. Her bangs cut short and sharp against her pudgy cheeks, her skin softer and whiter than mine. We were both tall for our age. I cannot recollect why she liked me, but we would go adventure after school and find places to makeout. Other girls had actually taught me to french kiss in the freestanding garage next to the house I grew up in. And under the stairs on a bet in one of the latchkey kid's homes while listening to Tainted Love. The year was 1984. I shared Sylvia Plath's hometown (long before I knew she grew up there), a suburb of Boston, and I wore a navy blue jacket on cool spring and autumn days, with red felt lettering across the back. Boston Red Sox. Yaz was King at Fenway. Clemens was still a boy in Texas. An author named Samuel. The boys I knew not from school but from the neighborhood, and we grew up together already. Our gang would be dissolved over late night cocktail talk and mulling over choices and final decisions to send some of us to boarding or semi-boarding schools. We were in bed. The public school system was pretty good but not good enough. In my town, this was true of almost everything. People, places, things. Rare was contentment. The boys were loyal friends of mine. And I had long summer dances with them up and over the sloping hills. On either side of the tracks. Curfews were solidly enforced, and I rarely challenged my parents. I guess I was a good kid. But not behind their backs. I would fight with the boys, and it was playful. They were intent on sports. Their sisters were intent on yogurt and soaps. We watched serial horror in installments on film. We skated the ponds in the winter. Rare was contentment. In our home town. But back then, being a kid was glorious freedom from all the narrow-mindedness. They called us rascals as though we were getting away with something. Maybe we were getting away from something. We found content in small places, and exploited it for all it was worth.

Redhead Rebirth: Part II/II Reversal Of Rain

Next morning

i undo them.

the weaves

mixed with henna.

I feel whole

enchilada!

I feel so damn

unique!

fresh is my context.

empowered

to seek!

I level myself to

the woman before me,

my self and myself

and

myselflessness

the core me

In body

undressing

my spirit

i show her...

She careful-like

dresses

all wounds

of my

self

Like spirit

like mind

like feeling

and thought

let waves

of my tresses

let go

 Find

what i lost

           i lost

               lost?

All wisdom
traditions
long survived
hold great value.
But mine was
somewhat inaccessible,
descended from the
Huguenots of France.
One of the largest exodus
the world has ever known,
that of the Hugeunots
out of France and Europe.
Much is lost and needs
re-placement in the history,
I would imagine,
under the circumstance of
flight and exodus...

I knew very little of my
heritage, as a result,
so this was not unusual to
be in a place of unknown.
What had my people lost?
What had i lost?

Alll i knew is i took up easily
the Eastern traditions, Mahayana
Buddhism came natural to
learn, and astrology and
mysticism were areas of
great interest and inquiry
to me. I felt at home with mystics,
psychics, astrologists and

numerologists, intuitives. Voodoo 

priestesses. 

I found myself having to defend

the 6th sense type practices and 

practitioners often, in my conversations

with Western subscribers to religion

and medicine. I rather publicly 

hoped that being a redhead (of the 

henna variety) might help me better

defend and teach those who came off

ignorant. Rarely had i luck as a blonde.

If we are any of us to speak,

let then speak all the rest! is the basic
feeling i have about learning. Keep an
open mind and embrace aliens of any
kind (to you). Non-judgment was a
difficult stance to carry. But i tried.

I knew my redhead self and I
must also come to terms...
me and other, me and her...


Move out of
opposition.
Like planets come direct,
a confrontational
condition!

Recline in lace
decline in latin
we carry mace
we pace
our homeland...
our iphones
they connect us
to one another
in waves of codecs
by candlelight
reading tarot decks
by high definitions
by low end theories
overstocked inventories
online reviews
identity theft stories.

Recycling
multitasking
substituting
vices for habits
and habits for
friendships
and friendships
for laptops
recovered
by webcam shots
taken of thieves
who lost pace
to technological
defensive strategic
mind weaves.

I now know
the worth of life
I now know
her cost

i feel calm
i feel scared
i feel...
i care

Still
so still
set to dry
windowsill

My hair
through hands
the strands
I ran

so hot
things ran.
the cold
so
forgotten

Tonight i tried
real hard
to change

they dyed
my hair
felt good
though strange

this night
i cried....
old moon
outside

my tears
they rose!
into the air...
and
 froze

The forces
that B?
got lost in
reverses.
Gravitational musings,
centrifugal
reveries.

How to help the sycophants?
Might some day these same
ones be sold out to
corporate sincerity?


I often thought up little
weak prophecies to pass the time.
Soon extant-phants
residuals
shall reside, born of lies,.
with purpose replete,
to make amends, kiss some
ass, and be oh so sweet.


Tonight
i died
i lost
my self
again and again
for
this heavy heart
weighs
me down so.

If only my heart
i could cry...
like my tears that once fell skybound, atmospheric, like
a reverse sort of rain sometimes and will again...
in so being light as lightness may be!

Soon
 i believe that soon
Instead of washing
we may rinse
only rinse

The red i may rinse of its henna
imprint the self i may rinse of the
red like a memory recalled, felt again,
and surrendered.

Soon ...
j'espere, yes i hope i can find,
some way that my heart may devote and essay, to
render me selfless again in all my affairs.
To color with courage these opulent fears.

Fin




Afterthoughts:

Being a blonde was no simple life,

unless being discounted 

is just what you like. I had my opinions 

and wanted them heard. To expect one

to listen than discount their statements and views,

well thats no equality and real frustrating!

Like being held hostage

or feeling all fenced in. 

Yeah some attention comes quicker to blondes, 

when beautys on topic or fashion the song.

But id trade it all quickly for a political voice, 

so the redhead experience might highlight this 

choice.

The redhead quality gave me great hope,

as redheads stand out from the average, due to 

the attention calling nature of the color red, and

the smaller percentage of the population born

red. 

Moral highground was such an insidious affair,

in the States. Ethical standards devised by schools 

and institutions, could alienate someone with 

alternative type thinking. I had been victim to this

sort of alienation based on my ideas i expressed,

and I often found myself standing up for those with

similar values to myself. 

Simultaneously found myself searching for the 

place i might belong...

High ground places distance

from common ground held.

Is not this type faction 

supposed to unite all believers?

how can believers believe? 

looking up? the strain on the neck, hey,

enough is enough. 

The atheists,

pagans, agnostics.

The goddess lovers

and huguenots,

muslims, Sufis

and Jewish.

Kaballah. Catholic.

Hindus, the sects,

Confuscians and Protestants.

Buddhists. The Taoists

and Llamas... the end.