It is October again & right at the end
The magic in this. All I can think. the million different days i’ve sat right here, right at season’s end. Every bit of every magic I’ve ever meant falling as clean as a pocketful of what I harvested into summer solstice sea salt, such is my home to me. and a mermaid tear tossed in.
should you know what that EVEN IS. the voice of a million middle schoolers in my head thinking of how many i’ve known as i write those words, as singysongy as a million of them, too. how many of them have i known, how many i currently do know, i think of jotto, who taught me the language of treasures from an outatlantic back gem chest.
she taught me the charm.
I keep traditions. A pagan one and the opposite of it a Catholic one walks the ways and tides of the Saints certain they move bc the heart can be Marian led. Which is Sophia for those who keeping score. Saints who are gods other than the one God that, have no doubts, you idoLize. I know about the up downs of Nature, and the Church. Both. I know about the middle line
I believe in the changing Tide
Catholics have a male god and my paganism all women, Catholic is of sky and underground and the other earthbound, with room for All Views
I think of Maggie, who was ALL for beach city. for the pirate trade hahahahhaah, fuck i laugh to myself as i write this, i think of a million different laughs w mag glossy as a outback clearwater green patch path, full of miracle gemstones and a million different kids.
I want to tell him,
and the other one, and the one after that, and a whole ladder of them, male rage it is male rage at the heart of patriarchal blame. of the old world matter. of which our story wrote. it is the male heart, NOT THE Heart of the Feminine, that is broke
Do your work, feel your feelings, fix yourself, feel your rage, let them heal, let them fix, let them talk. I wipe eyes. Laugh and show people how close the two type tears. I talk to Papa on a long drive north, the couple times for me of him come back: those long ass drives out west w him and those full resuscitations,
That one bug stomping the up north grower how after that under that white peak moon up at playground on top of hill–by then that was the second or third time already (you have to think, i was living on the road then, had just crashed my car and had thankfully for the little commune and my cosmic murk fam been brought back to life more than one time by all of them being homeless and having to take my bags, and just go) Papa and I learned to honor the giving each other back to breath. How to help give breath when and where in some places my own fuckn own bones don’t even have any meat left
Papa is good and listens and, now having a practice behind him, tells me of gold and breath work, and how men heal. He is good for me to talk to about you.
Who I want to take to Oregon, to Seattle. To back porch places make me smile. To back alley corner places and the naked spots w hippies in the woods. To my first homes when first i left the south
I know a good fuckn few
oh and also HA! ( if only it were southern they stuck us w Mason-Dixon instead, a crossroads place, a tradewinds w i nnnn d)
At work I tend what that has taught me the good earth medicine of in-between…when someone else finally gets what I get by this, and does magic from it, this is how I know I am home. There is too much to arrive to and much to much to tend. I drive in the Jersey woods a long time through Delaware too to meet Kate we sing beans and also, make an apple-hearted blend. The results shake out violence, when I look at my own self through the shocked socked eye of my own best friend, i am way past having started throwing punches again. I am embarrassed of myself for her and remind myself, that’s why I’m to therapy again.
Don’t let any therapist tell you they’re any good if they ain’t at some point seen their own!
On my alter sits a typewriter from the hills of MD, emerald gold
it is on the other side and catches all the Catskill song!
and i have stood in ditches there, pants ratted to my knees, and listened to the creek who sings graffiti writ underbridge
it was always this way,
since i was Kid. & the message, always the same. b u r r r n this into your brain she tells me,
and on the her Alter, the Pirate sings…
…Her who is the second true crone i ever met, (first prayer to the heart of the crone ellie orr who saved me and the other, false-i crone molly who was maiden, gave pure milk)
(i revere women/ fuck who don’t)
second to mags, second for whom i sing
straight to your heart
it is day of the dead
& whoda ever thought you’d leave me so
quick as you did. nothing could kill me like last yr
tho, so. i am grateful for karen who claimed you
& equally for don who you (like gretchn) help me see
i hope i am clear with this when i give my thanks.
everything else is just song & dust, right? when you’re tickets up, it is~
soul card made by mags, on some well past day of the dead
thanks Mag, for this 😉
I wish i coulda known you in your best of days in the S U N