Life Going On

It’s been an uneventful couple of months since I last posted. I’m still working on a Kemetic Activity Book, but I’m also finishing up the semester, so don’t be surprised if you don’t see much for it still. The semester is going ok, it could be going worse so I’m going to take what I can get. I have a paper to write and two tests left, which I really should be studying for, since one is on Monday. Later this week I may get around to writing a current events post, because I’m black and opinionated, in case you somehow didn’t know.

Things have been pretty hectic in my personal life. There’s a lot going on as we try to stretch our funds. Z got a new job in October as a part-time graphic designer, which I’m sure I mentioned. This means he took a pay cut, and I’m having a hard time dealing with us not having enough money. I grew up within 200% of the poverty line (where we are now) but I always had a way to get little things that I wanted and I wasn’t acutely aware of how poor we were because my grandparents weren’t poor. So, I’m not used to not having that and it’s hard for me. I’ll be honest in that I’m terribly spoiled and I’m upset that my little bubble was burst. It’s a matter of maturity, so I don’t expect anyone to pity me, especially since I’m still quite willing to, and do, ask my family for money for frivolous things.

Meanwhile, my religious life has been pretty quiet. I haven’t heard from the crazy kidnapping demon chick, and I hope to the gods I’m not jinxing myself. On the flip side, Z got terrified by Dapper. It was more he wasn’t expecting to receive a response than that the wolf was genuinely trying to frighten him. Apparently Z also thought Dapper was a god of some sort. I was like, omg no, talk about inflating his ego! They seem to be getting along. Then last night Z had the most whacked out dream that he’s had in a while, so much so that I’m not sure how much of it is actually astral madness and how much is dream insanity. But on the whole, pretty quiet.

My goals for this month, learn more about LPN programs for school and continuing education for my bachelor’s. Try and find a job. Write more Kemetic Christmas carols. Help my younger sister with her writing. Oh goodness, being able to look back at how I used to write and the skills I gained makes me chuckle at the level her skills are at. Not in insult or anything, just that it’s very adorable and I used to write just like that, and worse. Thank the gods for teachers and many books. I was terrible in high school, I cringe at the cheesy nature of my teenage writing, and even more so when I look back at how I wrote in middle school. I feel very appreciative that my sister trusts me enough and thinks me good enough to ask for my help. Here’s hoping I keep that trust yeah?

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A Project Idea

So, yesterday a friend posted an interesting article about a school district in Florida. Apparently, some conservatives and evangelicals made a big fuss to get Christian religious materials distributed in public schools. Well, the Satanic Church sued to allow their materials in, and the judge agreed that it would be unconstitutional to forbid their stuff while the Christian materials were allowed in. As such, the Satanic Church’s Children’s Activity Book was distributed to the students in the district.

My friend commented that he wished such an activity book existed for Kemetic kids. I couldn’t help myself and jumped up to say I’d be interested in making one. So, if anyone is interested in helping, give me a ring. More importantly, if any Kemetic parents have suggestions for what kind of things they want to see in such a book, please, please tell me!

Shut Up Motherfucker, I’m Delicate Dammit

For some reason people (me included) just can’t grasp the fact that words mean things. The whole “sticks and stones” spiel always was, is and will be, total bullshit. Words fucking hurt. Sure, sticks and stones do break bones (there’s a reason you can stone and beat people to death), but words. Words can destroy you like a tap of a chisel against scattered rock. They can turn you into sand.

Words burrow into your heart like an insidious horde of termites. See, the thing about termites is that they leave your house full of holes. Millions of tiny holes that cause the wood to be hollow and weak. You wouldn’t even know until something collapsed, because they’re sneaky little bastards. And even when you eradicate them, your home is still ruined. Unsafe, unsound, capable of complete disintegration, at any moment on your head.

Words are termites. They crawl in unseen (or seen, depends on the words and who they’re coming from), and start chomping on you. They break down your bones to feed their thousands of offspring, they tear up your muscles to feed the queen. Your mind falls apart as they consume the juiciest tidbits and the support of your body fails. You might forget they’re there, and all the worse for you, because then you won’t know what’s picking you apart.

Words squirm like maggots, feasting on the dead and dying remnants left by the termites. They weaken you further, and some become the nuisance that are flies. They buzz around until you’ve hit yourself at least once trying to shoo them away or slay them. Words are a difficult pest to exterminate. Worse than bedbugs I would think. Bedbugs at least only bother you at night, as if that’s really a pleasant situation. Trying to rest, sleep, escape from the weariness of the world, and all night they crawl on you, biting and itching. Is that a normal itch? Or one of those pesky words?

Even if you manage to squish the words into oblivion and force the termites out, you’re still left with a dangerous house. Unfortunately, you can’t repair or replace your brain, your spirit. You can try repairs, but you’ll never be the same. It is impossible to make whole what was broken, decayed, dessicated. The category “like new” and “refurbished” comes to mind, but unfortunately you actually can’t get that good. And you become more vulnerable to the treacherous nature of words in the future.

So, why do people misuse words so much? We purposely fling “barbs” and “jabs”. Shouldn’t that be a fucking clue? Why is it so easy to make a hurtful joke or make a prank? Why is it so effortless to be cruel and nasty, even when we truly, genuinely don’t mean to? For some it’s that the offending person doesn’t realize that the person they’re talking to is vulnerable, one who has been badly damaged by a word infestation. Of course, this opens the discussion for why are those words ok period if they hurt the susceptible? Wouldn’t they cause others to be hurt and contribute to future pain? For others the offender is clueless, stupid, or mean-spirited. Somehow words are always just fine until someone gets hurt, and then it all falls apart because the offender was simply hoping to not get called out for being an ass. And still there are those who lash out because they’re in pain, usually because of words, whether freshly ground into their skin or old maggots chewing at their joints.

The reason I’m going on about this is because quite a few of my family members (most of them male) have a disconnect about words and how they mean things. Not only that but a distinct lack of understanding of my personality, mental stability, resilience, and sense of humor. Basically, they say stupid or fucked up shit and it hurts my feelings and they’re always either baffled, offended, uncaring or a combination thereof. Sometimes it’s because there’s confrontation. Whatever, everyone has had nasty words flung due to confrontation. What I’m referring to specifically is jokes.

Anyone with sufficient access to the internet knows these kinds of jokes. Assholish, mean-spirited, cruel, nasty, discouraging, bigoted, and a bunch of other adjectives, these jokes are the ones that are harpoons undercover. They’re demeaning and unpleasant, and they’re often defended when challenged. Not always, since they sometimes come from a genuine place of cluelessness/stupidity/innocence.

From the time I was little I’ve been subjected to such types of jokes. Height, weight, hair, eating habits, talents, and personality have all been fair game for these quips and jibes. I’m not a particularly fastidious person. My feelings are easily hurt, I get offended regularly. I get defensive. I’m softhearted, emotional and empathic. I think deeply, I feel deeply. I’m not that resilient. This isn’t new information. I’ve always been sensitive and acutely aware of others. I’ve also been born to a family that has suffered, and that lashes out and attacks. I have suffered. My mind and spirit has been flogged by words and actions, drained and broken by the parasitic nature of words.

So yeah, when I mention I’m sensitive about a particular subject, like being anxious, shy, and pathologically stage-fright, don’t make a joke about how I “should sing solo so no one can hear you.” Like, are you fucking serious? How is that funny and encouraging to people who are confident in their ability to sing and perform, and who aren’t so easily shattered? This isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with unkind, thoughtless and downright cruel, things being said about any talent besides writing that I’ve tried to cultivate. (Never mind that the pressure on me to write because I’m good at it is strong). No one meant to be critical, but I lived with critical commentary, heavy expectations and destructive words.

It’s interesting that some of my friends comment about how strong and vocal I am. They don’t realize how much the iron claw, powerful voice, assertiveness, viciousness and aggression I show hides a quivering, crying puppy. And how much I only show “strength” to keep others from getting beaten with words, or to shore up their failing beams and sagging ceilings. Truly I’m quite fragile. You can see it whenever I get into an argument with those who can hurt me the worst, and when I get hurt. I bite, with force, to keep others and their infectious words, their deadly parasitic language, away from my weak and broken spirit.

So for fuck’s sake, shut up you assholes. I’m delicate dammit.

Who am I to suffer?
Who am I to cry?
Who am I to weep for the rain that passes by?

“There’s war upon us darling!
There’s starvation,
Genocide!
Who are you to wish upon the will to die?”

And who am I at all?
Who am I to dare?
How could I be so callous,
So self-centered to despair?

There’s suffering in Detroit,
There’s children whose plates are bare.
I have a roof, a job,
Some water! Oh how could I dare?

Suffering is labeled.
It’s a commodity you see,
Since there is always someone worse off than me.
Such things of course matter to those who have the mind.
They like to spout about “how could you be so blind.”

The funny thing about it though,
Is madness does not care.
It will take the suffering and magnify it,
Like a flare.

Resist the deepest sludge,
Go ahead, struggle in it,
Feel it sap away your life
And tell me if you’re in it.

Well who are you to suffer?
Who are you to bleed?
Who are you to struggle or determine another’s weeds?

Who are you to codify what counts and what does not?
Can you prove there is a proper way to suffer
And what is not?

Broken

I used to fly on gossamer wings of ice
Until the sun struck me down.
It cut me open and watched my heart bleed
On the sky, the clouds, the wind.

It wove my life into ruby vines
That touched a golden ocean,
And stained the cerulean fibers
Various shades of purple.

The clouds were dipped into the paint
The paint that was my soul
And now their wispy forms are red and blue
And gold.

I fell to earth and shattered,
My wings of ice destroyed
And everything about me torn out and used as toys.

Brutal god of wonder
Vicious god of light
How cruel you are to rob me of my flight.

Whisper, whisper, as weak as a breeze.

Quiet, quiet, you’re among trees.

Listen, they only talk in a hush,

Listen to them speak in a rush.

Dark amongst them, yet they live in light,

Catch their words as they speak to the night.

Lost, get lost amongst their breath,

Then you’ll never know what happens next.

Death in their leaves, watch them fall apart

as the sky darkens and the warmth departs.

Are we not so much like them?

Can we escape their fate?

Even the evergreens eventually sleep.

Silence, silence as the cold settles in

but you can hear their whispers even then.

Pain, pain as the new growth starts.

Will the warmth return, will the morning star ignite?

Rebirth, they cry, resurrection is here,

hear their hushed and private tears.

A wish, just one, floats on the wind.

The wish, the hope, to live again.

A Short Encounter

I backed into the wall as he approached me. My heart raced with excitement as I felt the cool surface meet my back. He placed one hand by my head and another by my shoulder and leaned close. He smelled strongly of water, like he had taken a walk in a light rain and rolled around in the grass and earth. He might very well have done so today. It was a sweet smell, like flowers.

I tried to steady my breath as he put his lips to my ear.

“I need you to understand. This is no game. Do you know what you’re getting into?”

His body gave off an absurd amount of heat inches from my face. I could sleep naked with him and not be cold, even without a blanket. I tried to fight back the blush creeping up my neck at the thought. He chuckled, putting his face into the crook of my neck and inhaling deeply. He then pulled back to reveal his face.

My eyes went wide. His eyes were a vibrant orange-red, like a smoldering charcoal. They seemed to be alight like charcoal, as if they were literally lit. I could taste a hint of magic, it prickled my tongue like PopRocks and washed through my body like adrenaline. Holy shit.

He smirked. “You’re such an interesting human.”

Something about that smirk and that statement set my heart down a racetrack. Suddenly all I could see was danger. Here was someone who could destroy me. Not just maim, or kill, but destroy. He could annihilate me and feel no remorse. Not because he was cruel or sick, but because animals don’t have morals like humans. Yet, he would likely never do such a thing. I was too valuable, for now at least.