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Losing the world with grace. [Oct. 14th, 2014|12:36 am]
No
[mood |Covered in ants]
[music |Seabear]

I don't remember how to write.

I am not myself. I am not whole, today.

I wane with the moon, approaching newness steadily - in spite of my resistance or eagerness, nothing can quicken or slow the process.

And what when I enter the dark? Can I burn this self away for a new one?

Here.

You can have my life, I don't think I want it anymore; I'll find a new one. Ithinkthat'showitworks.
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Contemporary Nonfiction. Part III [Jun. 12th, 2014|04:56 pm]
No
The past few days exhausted me in a way only performing, new exercises, sleeping in unexpected places, long drives, lifting heavy things, and being surrounded constantly by large groups of people can. Which is to say, a combination of many of the most tiring things I can think of all conveniently packed into a two day frenzied span. I am clutching onto the memories that still play vividly in my imagination, pleading to my mind that they stay there, fresh forever, bright and real as all my senses can sustain.

This is not a poem, I am taking notes for my memoir.


In the rush after performing and the blur of taking down our circus rigging, loading the long aluminum poles into the van with dew-wet palms, two at a time in the darkness, a Faerie King hands me a silver chalice of tequila and urges me to stay. Eat the faerie food, stay in faerieland; it's actually that simple.

Not thirty minutes later I'm stripped of my sailor's costume, save the small shining anchor around my neck, in a hottub poised at the edge of the lush landscaping, purveying from this slightly elevated corner the cooly-lit swimming pool, which periodically explodes in a splash of skinnydipping faeries, or an elf or two, shrieking and giggling at the cold. Across the pool, there's a bright victorian-wallpapered photo booth where ladies in ballgowns, with ships-in-bottles, bird's-nests and china tea cups in their giant white & pastel pink Marie-Antoinette-styled-wigs pose for bawdy pictures together.

Alongside the pool, a lush lawn converted into a dance floor by a truss with LED spotlights in an array of complex programed patterns, paper and glass lanterns, a fog machine, and speakers with tiny altars built on top of them, bass-buzzing statues of Hindi gods dancing with the hum. Here faeries and elves in varying states of finery and disrobe clutch bottles of champagne and dance euphorically, not an insecure creature in sight. Sparkling jewels and tattered lace stockings, with elaborate headdresses and nothing but skin in between, dotted with sweat or liquor or lingering water from the pool. Everyone is laughing and dancing and singing.

In the hot-tub, song-voiced quick witted mermaids exchange stories and ask me questions; mostly about the circus. Some with pink hair, turquoise, or purple, all drenched in glitter with dangerously attentive eyes, pupils wide in the moonlight & lamplight, catch me at a loss for words.

I've been here before, and in my most casual Peter Pan candor I exist in my most masculine state. I'm halfway between falling over in love with delight, and being a just little too calm - surprised by nothing; it is like returning home to a place very few people dream actually exists. It does exist, and none leave unchanged by it.

Looking back, it could have been a very fancy, very well dressed, very opulent party like any other engagement put together on a high enough budget - but I've seen hundreds of very expensive parties, and none of them are anything like this. Partially made sacred by it's removal from civilisation, the venue was over an hour's journey from its freeway exit, winding through frighteningly narrow cliffside mountain roads that glimpse into untouched wilderness; this oasis is alone in the wild. Strikingly, all but three of the forty faeries are female. The gender-ratio of the event is profoundly unique, and assuredly is a huge part of why the space feels so deliciously safe and body-positive. Yet beyond those features, the most intangible, obvious, all-permeating delight that seems to burst from every corner is not a characteristic of extravagant beauty, isolation, or safety alone; it is the bold and unquestioning love with which these faeries express devotion to each other and their extended community that is intoxicating.

Everyone listens. Everyone asks. Everyone speaks truthfully and openly. No gentle touch is withheld. Each glance from a new friend carries the intensity and intimacy of locking eyes with a lover. Differences of opinion become matters of laughter, rather than debate. No article is beyond sharing, no judgement is passed. When you have arrived, really arrived, when you are welcomed as family into the faerie court, there is nothing but the seductiveness of feeling wholly loved and accepted by these magical, very powerful creatures.
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At the bottom of my vessel, at the end of my day. [Jun. 3rd, 2014|11:32 pm]
No
Lets watch stories about people watching stories go by through the dim light of a screen
like the dim light of the screen that
gives the sweet glow of a window that
washes the face that craves the sun,
gently blue in the stillness of being alone.

I want to listen to the crisp sound of shoes walking
from texture to texture
and fingers talking, building up the courage to say things
that lips could not muster the courage to speak
even in the stillness of being alone.

I want to tell you that all this sadness and exhaustion
is just the hangover from elation,
a waver like the flicker in any candle's flame
as breath pushes it, and pulls it,
let your body be fueled and not extinguished,
as you steady that fire, in the stillness of being alone.
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What is the nature of wanting, then? [May. 20th, 2014|12:21 am]
No
[music |Beware the Friendly Stranger (Boards of Canada)]

In a word -
Eagerness.
Can I speak contentment when your scent is near my mind?
While your name coaxes me, will I find my blood calm any place besides your arms?

There is a howling wind that plows down trees and pulls me up like a lost
kite-string
a wild whistle escaping through every cracked window,
if I am not very carefully
deliberately
shut
its gnawing haunting songs only swell
and screech, filling my home -
that echo-chamber of selfish desires.

And like all woodwinds would insist, are these sounds amplified by their restraint?
If we were opened wide
could a breeze that tempts my aperture so ferociously,
truly lift me skyward?

Hurricane, answer me, are you imaginary?
How much of this wanting is kindled by have-nots,
and how much is truly you?
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Written, hoping you will find me - [May. 1st, 2014|01:19 am]
No
[Current Location |Revitalised with want.]
[mood |whenIhavenothingtosaytoyou]
[music |but sigh, oh I sigh so.]

- And then knowing you will not.

You are a dream.

You are the scent of impatience, the voice which narrates my inner whispers - wanderlust,
begging me to break free.

Never again will I yield to the will of one man, and blot out the world. You are so much of my world. You remind me what wanting is
on days when I have forgotten.
How could I forget?

Be not too content, friend. Can I return the favor? Let me entice you awake from your chapters of sleep, we are still young. Life is ripe for us, and commitments are made too easily.
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Coals. [Apr. 24th, 2014|02:04 pm]
No
[Current Location |But stray! I felt you could prove me wrong in all my experience.]
[mood |I am hunger.]
[music |Never before have I so mourned the steadying of a relationship.]

[Give me some other subject matter besides obsession - I am worn down by this.]

Sweet Torment,

In waning, in changing, I find our lust in love will not ascend further - as two pairs of hands must pull lines to sail, and mine are ready & quick, but yours seem quietly content to drift where the gale pushes, and calms. If you will not let me in, if you will not climb further, then I will find my heart's epic elsewhere, eventually.

Someone who will write poems back, someone who will dance with me, who will run through fire. I have been shown passion the likes of which I previously had not known, and now it lays me down.

If you could feel the way I feel, and reach beyond your inhibitions; to let such overwhelming wants drive you. I cannot fathom the implications of our romance as it could be, where it might take us, where it might reinvent us. I suspect I will not.

The more I have you unafraid and uninspired, the more you, beautiful friend whom I do love, become so much like the others in my eye, and less the one who broke every rule for something transcending. I don't want to remember you like this, I want to remember you always as that pinnacle of desire, of fury and heartache, of the figure in my dreams; without comparison, and as lost in thoughts of me and stolen glances as I am so intoxicated with you, hearts racing. Will you meet me there, a while? Can we play in dreams & linger longer before stepping down into the place where mortality denies all ever and after? How can I open your heart?
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In a coffee cup. [Apr. 24th, 2014|01:35 pm]
No
[Current Location |Will it help me grow?]
[mood |Pray I learn to keep secrets.]
[music |Do I want to keep you?]

I am my words I am my words I am my words, a sum of graphite crumbs, rolled ink and pressed keys.
But, I will undo old intentions, for an "About the Author" photograph. I relent.
30f3a0e8cbec11e3bb780002c950ce66_8
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Please circle one. [Apr. 21st, 2014|11:54 pm]
No
Poll #1965429 I'm half crazy

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do...

she loves me
1(25.0%)
she loves me not
0(0.0%)
she loves me
1(25.0%)
she loves me not
1(25.0%)
she loves me
1(25.0%)
she loves me not
0(0.0%)
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Grander, Still [Apr. 21st, 2014|11:51 pm]
No
[music |Massive Attack: Paradise Circus]

The mind of a person
experiencing the physical sensations we call

f
a
l
l
i
n
g

in love
resembles
that of an
obsessive-compulsive;
whose thoughts circle
the point of their fixation.
Marked with anxiety
and fluctuations
in serotonin,
punctuated
with
joy.

You are my euphoria,
a rising bridge-cable to walk,
[we funambulists]
wind whipping from heights we
must not fear to approach,
and the view as we
          d
        n
      e
   c
 s
a
seduces like the edge of a knife -
calling our names unto nowhere.
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Tresspassing. [Apr. 20th, 2014|08:54 pm]
No
Let me feel your teeth with my tongue,
and roll around your warm bed sheets, breathing deeply -
my every vacancy eager as boiling water that craves tea,
for saturation long withheld.
My fingers knit to yours as the friction between us
starts fires that do not differentiate between consumption and destruction but
engulf us, slowly.
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