Sunday, December 27, 2015

This is the draft of my memoir called This Remarkable Life. The blog entries above are from past journals, the chapters to the right are current.


This blog contains material that may be sensitive to some. Please be aware the writing includes dissertations on sexual abuse and rape as well as methods of healing involving erotica. 



A song for a girl who lives for the future
A song of the Freeman camps near the river
After the fall - before the Beginning
We build the watchfire every night.

We control the water flow
We control the power from fusion
Reactor #12

The Walls of the city crumble
I would sing a song fifty feet long
Sweet breezes on pine beaches
The sound of fire
Let it shine Let it shine Let it shine

Shut down the city lights I want to be with my lady
Build up the watchfire, turn down the sun
I've been too long in the green fields of rapture
I've been too long without being on the run.

Carry the fire from the heart of your lover
Carry the fire where the wild things run
There's a monster lurking deep in the forest
Let's go and get him when the morning comes.

Ooh Rose do you remember all the dances?
All the miracles and all the crazy chances we took on
Love  Love  Love
I wanna go beyond love  love  love

Inside the walls of forbidden halls
Beyond everything I've ever hoped or done
Come together and warm around the campfire
Come together 'til the morning comes.


Lightning Rose : : Jefferson Starship



This is a story of how I became who I am, an elder now, a woman who perhaps should not still be alive. I have survived like so many of my kind, atrocities and circumstances with details grotesque and cruel. These stories surface now as they do because it's their time, this blink in history. Strength grows as the numbers swell and as petrifying as it can be, one by one we are rising up against the abusers. We are testaments.

Take a step back and look at the big picture, the one that's becoming increasingly clear every single day now. For years and decades and centuries and generations we've burrowed. Like little ground animals we lift our heads and at the first sign of danger go scuttling back down into our holes. Venturing out has meant, what ... ? Everything and anything: we are the granddaughters of the women you burned.

My story is the same as yours, all of ours are. That's a pattern, too, when you take that step back. Have you noticed it yet? It appears as though as certain amount of trauma must ensue before one earns one's wings. How many gutters did you wake up in before you figured that one out?

One by one the layers peel back, either we shred them ourselves or we're held down and someone does it for us. The result is the same. You have just been flayed my dear. And you start thinking stuff like you know I don't think I can take much more of this shit but even just by saying that you've doomed yourself to more. So what is the right answer then. There is only one answer: It's A Good Day To Die.

"Payoff!" he says, Larry Darryl. He thought Sophie was his payoff. He says this to Isabel: I thought Sophie was my payoff. And why would you think that dear Larry? Because you took the trek in the snow to the holy man and saw what he saw? Was it that your love for our Sophie was the purest most uncomplicated thing, so absolutely devoid of any judgment, Christ-like almost, so enormous was your ability to live with compassion. Finally! You'd gotten your just rewards, for your service, for your humility, tenacity.

But when they brought sweet Sophie's body up from the water her lovely throat had been slit. Sophie just wanted music by moonlight. Sophie couldn't bear the pain. Sophie had lost too much to bear. And I mean well who could blame her.

So you too have arrived here through one channel or another with a story of your own, looking for comfort, camaraderie, kinship. We are everywhere now, unafraid to hold our heads high, we are everywhere now in plain sight. We have gathered and are gathering more and we will never back down again. This is our time, come join us.

So let's scoot close, shall we? Warm ourselves around the watchfire, stand by the banks and watch the water run. Link arms hold hands smooth hair soothe feelings. Holler when you're close ... someone will hear and bring a torch to light your way. Thank you for being here   -- Ruthie Grace


Savannah

For a very long time I was a very nice girl. I had manners and I was pretty and on top of that I was smart. I don't know how old you were when the fissures began; but I knew the multitudes of tiny white blisters that cropped up on my butt and genitals indicated something. I knew enough, at eleven, to know to keep tugging my swimsuit down over them at lessons. I knew what the references to contagious and open sores on the sign in the dressing room meant and I knew it meant me. 

Being a nice girl won't get you out of the mess you're in. And no matter what the string of chaotic and ugly and traumatic events you've experienced, it's your mess and you got to get your own self out of it. And you can pray and you can go to support groups and you can hire therapists and lawyers and all those things are powerful and good. Little progress here and there, some rehab, a divorce, lots of "zero-contact", a new tribe, a dog, a guitar.

But all the real real work that must be done, that final grunt through the thick of it can only happen when you take a hard look at your own dark side. Ladies you have to get your witch on.


Your ancestors want to help you.

My mother is a witch who uses her gifts to maim and crush. As a borderline personality disordered, she also played the Sublime role of Flying Monkey. It's from growing up in her house that I learned my early super powers, to dissociate, to transcend pain and to withstand humiliation. My mother's toolbox focused on ritualized sadism: pants around our ankles, bent over our beds, our round sweet bottoms exposed, she made us wait that way while she rummaged through kitchen drawers for a wooden spoon or spatula. We prayed for the spatulas because they stung less. In the summer with the windows open, the breeze brushed my backside and I had to admit it felt nice. Even so, screaming Bloody Murder no one who heard intervened. Years and years of it, stopping when I was fourteen. She had us trained, also, riding in the backseat while she drove, to lean forward when she demanded, so our faces were within reach so she could give us a fat slap across the face. Yes, we obliged. Well of course we did.

A Finnish girl learns to read the future.

You know what happened to me, it happened to you. You really can't believe what is happening to you. When it starts very very early, little babies and toddlers, you can build up a resistance to it, like a virus. If you didn't develop coping mechanisms you would have died. Lots of little ones do all the time, just perish from the grief. Anyone who has made it this far, however far you are - you're here - has crawled across cut glass. And that is the stuff you're made of. That, my lovelies, is Sisu.

Finnish children get their witch on each Palm Sunday.

We are all of us in the gutter
But some of us are looking up - at the stars.
~ Chrissie Hynde


Disbelief : : Terror : : Exhaustion
The Stockholm Syndrom in Real  Time

Who is this beautiful woman? Here is the studio she's made in a garage where she hand paints fabric with dyes, then cuts and sews the garments. During this, her first year, she'll produce nearly 400 pieces with orders from shops all across the country. It's 1985 and she's 27. She has been married four years already to a man who's a sociopath and it will be eleven more before she escapes the marriage. But wait, there's more. She was married BEFORE THAT. When she left HIM he kicked her in the crotch from behind so she fell on top of the baby in her arms. Later he poured gasoline around the apartment with the intention of setting it on fire. Already both of her baby sons have been raped. She herself is raped repeatedly by her husband. But had you told her that then.

Let's fill in the blanks. Your experiences too. Disconnect. Cognitive dissonance. I will say this once: what you didn't know would have killed you. Don't kid yourself. That you're alive is the result of your mind's incredible ability to protect you. Your mind's job is to keep you alive. That's it. So your mind is going to do what's fastest, easiest and most efficient in order to manage that. And if it means throwing up enormous roadblocks to protect you from suicidal tendencies, then that is precisely what will occur. You could not crack through with a sledge hammer if you tried.

My duster.

Lean in: What your mind did to protect you is what it is. There is no negotiating. You will turn yourself blue in the face trying to sort that through.

Lean closer: What your mind did, is the REASON you blocked things out, compartmentalized. What YOU did to numb, dissociate and bury : those are your EXCUSES for not facing your pain. All the drinking, the cutting, the fucking, all the ways your rode your wave of pain further and further from shore, the consequences of those behaviors belong to no one else. And all the people you crushed and shit on doing whatever it was your particular brand of running from the terror LOOKED LIKE, is why the suffering doesn't stop and why it's been handed down and why all the kids still have to fucking suffer too.

Ladies: Now you see why it is you have to get your witch on.

Nice isn't a skill that matters now. Fierce does. And how to get from enraged and furious to fierce is another run of it. You're here because you've been through your Dark Night of the Soul. Or at least you're hoping you've been through it and that there isn't another one up the way ahead waiting to jump your bones. So here's these layers and layers of hurt and disconnect and disembodiment and hiding in the shadows. All the stuff your mind has protected you from in order to keep you alive, here it all is and it's spread wide and thick and deep to the marrow. Miles and acres of unprocessed emotion never fully felt, gnawing, eating away at you from the inside out.

You get to that point, remember? and it's the hottest white-molten mess a girl could become. You are just a mess and you are a tar-black puddle of self pity and all this shit keeps happening now people are starting to fucking die and you probably should quit drinking at least at SOME POINT or whatever your I'm-too-pitiful-and-weak substance of choice is they are all the same all of it and all the shame is the same and it's comparing apples to oranges. Pick your poison.


Together we rise.
Your lovely bones are shattered but you must still find a way to walk. Your messy wild and untamed parts can be stitched and cobbed together into something extraordinary. Women are rising and awakening, balance shifts as we join forces collectively to reclaim our magic, our blood, our birthright. We are, like Mother Nature herself, both fierce and calm, unapologetic and compassionate, wild and gentle. 

Your birthright is yours to reclaim.
Victim shaming, gas lighting, triangulation ... how deep runs your shame. How is it you still feel that summer breeze lilting across your bottom and you think my god we go mad this way, these associations with pleasure and pain. But when you've been maimed in this way by the only one who held in her power every minute of your life the ability to extinguish your sweet little girlness, Come over here I'll give you something to cry about, you have a really long row to hoe. There is no one nowhere no how for you to trust. You're starting from the bottom sweet pea but when you climb your way out of it you'll know what all the fuss was about.

Sensual Siren, Erotic Mother : : Every sinew of you is potently powerful. Magic runs through you woman, get up on that.
In my work as a sexual doula it's the simplest things that heal women, your reflection in the mirror, a snapshot of your sweetest thing, the thick veins running through your hands now, your full thighs taut with stamina. Bare your breasts if you still have them Magnificent  Woman and if you don't here let us decorate your scarred chest with our paints and our kisses and our flowers.

We who lead you forge ahead, to the high mountain deserts, the prairies, the rivers where we pitch tents and form circles from stones for nourishment for ritual for warmth. We are practiced in the crafts of signals and codes, we understand without speaking if that suits you. Nights the sparks crackle as we sing and chant and dance furiously; our spirits soar as our calls and prayers are acknowledged.


Every answer lies within you.

There's room at our table. Please share a meal. Who are you my lovely and where have you been?

Brew.


THE TOO MUCH WOMAN

"There she is. . . the “too much” woman. The one who loves too hard, feels too deeply, asks too often, desires too much.
There she is taking up too much space, with her laughter, her curves, her honesty, her sexuality. Her presence is as tall as a tree, as wide as a mountain. Her energy occupies every crevice of the room. Too much space she takes.
There she is causing a ruckus with her persistent wanting, too much wanting. She desires a lot, wants everything—too much happiness, too much alone time, too much pleasure. She’ll go through brimstone, murky river, and hellfire to get it. She’ll risk all to quell the longings of her heart and body. This makes her dangerous.
She is dangerous.


And there she goes, that “too much” woman, making people think too much, feel too much, swoon too much. She with her authentic prose and a self-assuredness in the way she carries herself. She with her belly laughs and her insatiable appetite and her proneness to fiery passion. All eyes on her, thinking she’s hot shit.
Oh, that “too much” woman. . . too loud, too vibrant, too honest, too emotional, too smart, too intense, too pretty, too difficult, too sensitive, too wild, too intimidating, too successful, too fat, too strong, too political, too joyous, too needy—too much.
She should simmer down a bit, be taken down a couple notches. Someone should put her back in a more respectable place. Someone should tell her.
Here I am. . . the Too Much Woman, with my too-tender heart and my too-much emotions.


A hedonist, feminist, pleasure seeker, empath. I want a lot—justice, sincerity, spaciousness, ease, intimacy, actualization, respect, to be seen, to be understood, your undivided attention, and all of your promises to be kept.
I’ve been called high maintenance because I want what I want, and intimidating because of the space I occupy. I’ve been called selfish because I am self-loving. I’ve been called a witch because I know how to heal myself.
And still. . . I rise. Still, I want and feel and ask and risk and take up space.
I must.
Us Too Much Women have been facing extermination for centuries—we are so afraid of her, terrified of her big presence, of the way she commands respect and wields the truth of her feelings. We’ve been trying to stifle the Too Much Woman for ions—in our sisters, in our wives, in our daughters. And even now, even today, we shame the Too Much Woman for her bigness, for her wanting, for her passionate nature.
And still. . . she thrives.


In my own world and before my very eyes, I am witnessing the reclamation and rising up of the Too Much Woman. That Too Much Woman is also known to some as Wild Woman or the Divine Feminine. In any case, she is me, she is you, and she is loving that she’s finally, finally getting some airtime.
If you’ve ever been called “too much,” or “overly emotional,” or “bitchy,” or “stuck up,” you are likely a Too Much Woman.
And if you are. . . I implore you to embrace all that you are—all of your depth, all of your vastness; to not hold yourself in, and to never abandon yourself, your bigness, your radiance.
Forget everything you’ve heard—your too much-ness is a gift; oh yes, one that can heal, incite, liberate, and cut straight to the heart of things.


Do not be afraid of this gift, and let no one shy you away from it. Your too much-ness is magic, is medicine. It can change the world.
Don’t believe me? Check this: All of your favorite women, the ones who’ve made history, the ones who’ve lent their voices for change and have courageously given themselves permission to be exactly who they are. Some examples: Oprah, Ronda Rousey, BeyoncĂ©, Kali, Misty Copeland, Janet Mock, Mary Magdalene . . . they’re all Too Much Women.
So please, Too Much Woman: Ask. Seek. Desire. Expand. Move. Feel. Be.
Make your waves, fan your flames, give us chills.
Please, rise.
We need you."























































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