Category Archives: stream-of-consciousness

april, rain(n)

it’s nearly the end of april
rain keeps calling: dig deep,
go within, and rediscover
that serpent coiled and sleeping
too soundly, a knot
at the base of my spine.

it’s got me on a kick
painting in binary code
blasting tori, screaming
all off key and laughing

(the names of our daughters
are pins in a map
to find this:

who are we now?


where is my sex, in
banshee wails and curtains
of rain and the temperature
in wild flux?
cocooning in quilts that
smell of the dog and
baby’s bath and
our last sweat?

is it there, bled out of me
with the moon and just too tired?
or leaking out slowly with
a mother’s tears and milk?

are you there, still, in the painting of red and blue? these colors

you used to show me in tantric visions
when i was a gateway and
atheist lips called me goddess
while strong hands washed my feet

snakes used to writhe so hard they stung and bit
and now their slumber is a lullaby
of heartbeats and exhausted sighs
did we lull it to sleep
with our familiarity?

have i known you too long?
(and now you’ve seen inside me)
and emptied of secrets
and wearied of shared worries
can we find the madness
that pulled us in to it?

can we spark and spin
and wake the snakes wound
tight in sleep inside us?
can some art or artifice reimagine
and rework the passion
and heat that slumbers?

can i build new secrets
to draw you back
and shimmer again like
a careless thing still
smoking and glowing
in the shadows?

can you cry out
and wake it and can i
let go what sent the thing to
sleep and just watch

the fires rise again and twist?

More Kundalini musing…still blogging for RAINN, still chasing my tail, still writing poems about snakes and moons. (Morrison… Doors… Blake…) I invoked William Blake in ritual when we were calling our ancestors. Seemed strange to never have thought of calling to him in circle. Wonder what his mystic Christian soul thought of this, a funky witch in fake ivy and nose ring invoking his presence all uninvited?


This post is a celebration of the Sexography project in support of RAINN– the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network. RAINN provides information, education, outreach and other services. Among its programs, created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1.800.656.HOPE. Please consider a donation to RAINN. If you donate, please mention the Daisybones blog and note “GBBMC:08″ in the “donation in honor of” section (in addition to anyone you want to honor, including yourself.) This will allow project-related donations to be tracked, and every donation sent from my blog will be (to me) regarded as honoring my mother and all others who were kept silent. Thank you.

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winter blues have me

I’m so eyeball deep in the January Funk. I feel like my limbs are lead and my brain is opiated. I want to eat bread and butter by the loaf, or maybe two or three pizzas, and enough chocolate to boost entire South American economies. I want to lie in bed with TV & movies and sleep until May.

Damn parenthood. I can’t. I am grateful for Her Pixiness and the cuteness and perkiness of her, but it’s like swimming against the current or walking up a really steep hill to resist my whole being wanting to coccoon.

Interestingly enough, it’s been unseasonably warm today and yesterday. This is depressing me more, sitting in an office and knowing that by the time I get home it’ll be dusk and cold again. I have a horrible laziness with house stuff after work, and when it’s dark out it’s so much worse. whinewhinewhinewhine.

Ah! New moon. This is PMS, the extra SAD-enhanced version. Lovely. OK. So, one minute at a time, gentle internal crazy-girl pep talks, attempts to force the Wiccanself to appreciate All Four Seasons even the one that is longandstupidanddarkandevilcold and try to reframe my day to day stuff as small comforting rituals. The house is a sacred hearth to be nested and nurtured, not a disgusting pit of filth and cluttered sanity-stealing chaos. Repeat until I believe.

Am running seriously low on self-talk positive energy be a human being at all mojo. Must. Resist. The Funk.

yoni leaves

Here is a poem that fell out of me. I am in deep love with this modest little bush that lives by my front steps and has beautiful leaves still on with piles of shed leaves beneath her like a crochet blanket. I’ve felt drawn the past few days to creating something Andy Goldsworthy like with her leaves. Maybe just lay them out in a spiral on the ground…I have a need to collect them and treasure them. Then another post with a tiny thing about the yoni shape led me to this:

she sheds brilliant leaves in piles beneath her
each is a tiny yoni shape, a goddess gateway
i adore her in her simplicity, unpruned
for a year at least her growth
is wildness in the yard of a quiet home

i research yoni, beloved small word, to explain
why it is important that her leaves are formed just so,
and happen on a ritual that is
taboo and secret and sacred
and it whispers the reason to me

that watching her pour her leaves
on the earth is profound
because i shed too, red in rhythm like she does
with the turning of the sun
i bleed in circles with the moon

and to see the pouring of red unashamed
of its intensity falling in stark contrast
to the dark autumn earth
pulls me into the circles of time
and renewal and
each shedding of blood
is an autumn in a tiny world

hey self? piss off.

I don’t know who I am anymore; Or

I do but the dissonance between myself now and a few years ago makes me feel a sense of not-knowing myself, and knowing myself is what I do. My journals, art, daydreams, meditation, and prayer all are archaeological digs into a familiar center. I go in again and again to confirm that, yes, I am still here: strong, singular, and creative. Finding myself new and different is a strange sensation.

I don’t know who I am without her physical closeness. When she’s away my cells panic and my entire body is an empty vessel. The milk I give is a metaphor so thoroughly that it isn’t. My whole self aches like my breasts did before they learned not to express milk when she isn’t hungry.  I’m terrified if I’m away from her some unspeakable unwritable unlivable tragedy will happen. My brain overrides, knowing she’s in safe loving arms and a house with laughter and warm good food and care. But my nervous core rebels and won’t be still again until she is firmly attached to my breast. The baby girl, needing me, me nourishing her, that is the only purpose that is real. It’s a deep biological rightness that is like the moon’s path around the earth, the gravitational centrifugal spin. The order of the universe pulls me to her little needingness.

I tell myself, swallowing tears right now, willing them back down, that this is my mother-self as a baby’s mother. I trust and want desperately for it to be true, that as she grows away and outward from me I will relax and allow that to flow. I’ll be the easy and open mother I had. All this worrying and tension will melt as it needs to. I feel it’s primal quality so it must be universal to feel a little unsettled and un-tethered when the baby’s away.

I look ahead in my mind, painting composites of other children as they grew, babysitting charges and cousins and friend’s children, and I form a timeline of how she might change soon. I see her independence happening like a rocketship in the next years, and it makes me smile. She’ll push my hands away to do something her clumsy discovering way and I’ll watch then as a witness more than anything. Glad to be so blessed to be like a guide, but knowing she’s the real force, the direction, the will.  So I see that, see me celebrating her changes and expansion and know I’ll be so good at the preschool years- fingerpainting and naming new things and stories and pretend. But I’m good at now. Some pressure or disapproval sits in my head labeling me

the protective one

like that word is a word like hysterical, all wrapped up in why women’s emotions are the most untrustworthy irrational force on Earth,  and I think that I’m fine.

That I’m not worried so much about the baby being away, as I am worrying that I shouldn’t worry a little. Probably there are moms who would, upon sending the baby to the grandparents, feel only pure relief. But don’t most of us feel a little twinge of sadness? When the baby’s still a small one?
I hate when I start writing questions like that. It makes me feel self-conscious and I hear Carrie Bradshaw’s character and her inner monologue of insightful and yet still completely insipid questions.

But, then… I defend my own right to feel anxious to myself, because I have to be the most neurotic human being on the planet, but I feel guilty for every single minute I’m doing anything besides paid work when the baby’s at the grandies’. Because I think:  it’s OK to send her away because she was needing constant attention and I couldn’t work, but it’s not OK to read a novel or make silly blog posts or god forbid do something really decadent like masturbate. Horrors! 

So this was my favorite sentence:  I defend my own right to feel anxious to myself. I’m so over it now, having written it. I’m allowed to miss my daughter, for the love of God. I’m allowed to feel, and express, whateverthehell I feel. Fuck. I shouldn’t have to come to that realization; it is just a human thing. How did I get so turned inside out?


I do not have the disposition to be a working mom. Economic and political ideals aside, I’m deliriously happy to bake bread and play with my toddler all day. It was sublime. I love nesting, I’m good at mother-hen-ing. If I didn’t feel the weight of the hours I’m away at work, I’d be enjoying the turned off baby monitors and my (entirely picture-free) book so much more right now.

this is my new book. old stories new pages.

I feel a kind of loud, heavy aloneness. Angry at the universe that took my mama away and is leaving little holes in Grandma’s memory and sense. Bitter that I have to mother the baby to sleep while Bu has beers and music at friends’. I said it was OK; didn’t know the house would start to shrink around me and I’d feel like I have lead for blood. No more words, just enough energy to scratch my initials in the ether. Reach out to the air with disembodied half expressed thoughts.

Say, I’m here, feeling sluggish and clogged and un-everything, and this is my reality this moment. Dear diary. Dear electronic penpals. Dear other tired moms and Dads:

I’m tired, I’m worried, and I’m scared kind of. I know this, the paralyzing nothing in my hands and toes and mirror. It’s worse than the shaking buzzing panic, but it’s better than it was when I was half my age and I first felt it. Better because I know I can breathe through it and never lose my center. Better because a tiny child’s cry will pierce it in an hour or a few and I’ll be a little satellite around her and the tiny new world of her will be my gravity. Better because my husband who has lovely laughter etched around his eyes will come and he will act a monkey fool to make me smile. I have milk to feed my daughter and I can’t stuff my holes with drink and pills and we’ll all be OK this time. I have a new book, with daisies not demons and people to read it. They leave me notes like little folded greeting cards and they make me know the isolation is in my head where it always was. I know myself better, inside out, and I’m knowing my world and letting it spin. Light after dark, always. Always.

tool + jung = babble

The thing about the Law of Attraction, i.e. my new obsession, a.k.a. The Secret, a.k.a. a law of Wicca via Ceremonial magick is this: it works to a crazy degree. It’s insane when you pay attention to your attitude how much of what surrounds you is brought to you because of the energy you emit.

I think it really ties into the idea of sychronicity. Whatever I’m focused on keeps popping up everywhere. So I’m seeing references all over the place about creativity and rediscovering it. The cool thing is that this reinforces my quest for changing from artslacker to artist. I heard my favorite Tool
song on the radio today, a song I don’t have on CD or mp3 any longer. My love for Tool approaches a religious fervor:) The lyrics are so influenced by alchemy and the occult, and the music and lyrics are beautifully dark but transormative. This song is one of those pieces of art that just opens up my soul and reminds it of all the stuff it keeps forgetting- what with me letting my brain & body stay so cluttered.

a bit of the lyrics:

I am too connected to you to
Slip away, to fade away.
Days away I still feel you
Touching me, changing me,
And considerately killing me…
And as the walls come down and
As I look in your eyes
My fear begins to fade
Recalling all of the times
I have died
and will die.
It’s all right.

It was awesome to be hanging out with the Birdie in her high chair, cleaning my kitchen like crazy, and this song came on, so I stopped, picked her up and danced and sang with her. It’s the first time I heard it since she was born and I was struck with how new and the same I am. (?) How to describe? To be filled with love and light, and be so content in a simple task- cleaning my home with my little daughter eating her “scooby snacks” and yet remember that I’m still the same girl who has been through dark, dark times and dived headfirst into rage and mourning and sadness. Awareness that that girl went deep into her shadow and came out the other side with a better wholeness than before. (This itself is a paraphrasing of another Tool favorite.)

So, this is me: tag-team parent on the long-weekend shift, overstressed and worried, taking inspiration from random radio programming and the beauty of scrubbing a refrigerator with baking soda.

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