soul magma

You are my anchor in the universe. I have known you through institutions, bulimia, virginities lost, cross country expeditions, through abusive men and fistfights with one another, and we’ve always come back to our friendship…. Together we’ve faced the challenges of motherhood, and marital life, and body images,and no one will ever love me like I love you; we found ourselves without one another on more than one occasion, but we will always fiercely protect one another. You were there when my first daughter was born, you noticed her dimples before I did, even. You were there when I was lost in a world that didn’t represent who I really am. You were there to feed me, and comfort me, and you are my sister soul mate. I believe we have known each other through lifetimes, that we are the structure and the foundation that all friendship is based on. I cannot have your absence in my world. Your spirit feeds mine. Our kinship is boundless, not obligatory like blood, not superficial like “well, I’ve known her forever, so I have to keep it up”. Our lives are firmly grounded in the same soil. We share the same structure at the base of us. You are ever, my rock, my tree, the green and spring and hope and joy that comes in life and I love you more than you will ever know. As a small child I always wanted a sister, and I was granted you as a young adult, and I will always be grateful for your infinite spirit and ability to forgive and encompass a person as a whole, and nurture. My dear, I love you, and there are no fonts or formats, or songs, or words to express it. Thank you for balancing me and being beautiful and hilarious and present and wise and giving and forgiving. I’d never have made it this far without you.

(via geminijune)

absolute-ridiculosity:

Color of the sky

(Source: boywonder99)

saccstry:

I’m boredd

(via geminijune)

It’s there. It’s just at the tip of my pen which I can feel in the grasp of some ancient scribe; poised, full of life, full of need, full of darkness, hope, sorrow, ready to speak with the scritch scracth of a feather tip quill across an ocean of white, a sleek silver orb exuding the everything pulsating from my palm, through my tendons, coursing it’s way through my cuticles, yearning for the hammer of my grandfather’s typewriter, blooming with the depths of me, swollen balloon beckoning an explosion, a cacophany of all my emotion, worry, tears, laughter, fears, hope, hype, and over exultant, the deepest, brimming, unspoken desire, unknown, unintelligable even to myself, that dark dank place that says I need you, I want you, but more I am afraid, of myself, of my heart, my mind, and my what may come….

Speak through me, tell yourself, Story. You are there. You are on the tip of my tongue and the top of my heart, waiting to be heard, to be spoken, to be released. Release me! Let me go! Speak your words, your tale of contrition, your kudzu laden sticky stinky summers, your wintry gusts, let me tell of the hills which roll with green and sing with beauty, blooms with rare gorgeous flowers, and dies a cold grey death,  and the horrible festering stink that populates this cesspool, and the joy, and the growth, and the loss, say it all and let me go from this need, this pulsating sense of unfinishedness.

It’s a different kind of cold. Dry. It doesn’t get in your bones. You remain nonplussed by Plummeting Mercury. There’s no reason to cover up, even. It only moves you when some gust bellows down from continental heights, or some Front comes through Heavy. Then you take refuge from wandering winds, waiting for it to pass while you remain by hearth, whittling wonders willfully, restless but selfless, Not sure of the carvings, but knowing without caution and creativity all that remains of what once was alive, and then beautiful, could carefully curl into a pile of pretty, hard shavings and Kindling for some fire in some future you haven’t yet got a fix on, what-with the storm being so thick. 

But mostly, It’s a dry chill. Nothing sticks within, leaving you aching with hope that it’ll soon carry on, and give you a sight of the end. A damp cold can do you in. Climactic suffering without control without reciprocity, or even an agreement An understanding. An awakening from inclement winds too intimate for comfort, no matter what the Whether Man says. 

You know it’s good to be gone when all that wetness insulates you in a wilderness with no compass of quivering arrows Hungrily polar, reaching anxiously for the attainment of some source of magnetism, Or else pushed rapidly away, affronted by the cardinal urgencies pushing towards it. 

It’s a different kind of cold. Dry. You adjust to it, the thin air puffery and you learn how to steel yourself against what wanderlustful Windstorms Wreak havoc and leave you wondering, What the fuck just happened.

I heard it said that secrets warrant a name. To give me a name is to invoke me, and all that comes with me. 

First, I am Alva. I am Hebrew for Brightness. The Alva River is a Portuguese tributary that feeds the seas, and thus Everything. 

Then I am Vanessa. There is some academic debate over my origin— was it Jonathan Swift who coined me as a pet name for his long term lover and correspondent? Did he use me to entitle an epic poem of he and her where he is the teacher, and she glad to be the student? Was it a primeval Grecian deity born of a cosmic egg the one to bring to light, to revere for procreation and new life? Was it a silly scientist merely ascribing a pretty word to a pretty thing and thus an entire genus of butterflies came to bear my identification, flighty, colorful, temporary?

I am those and I am more. I am Kali- the Redeemer of the Universe, the Goddess of Time and Change. I am the handmaiden of he who, when he puts his foot down, the world will end. I will put it together again. I am worshipped for my kundalini. I am revered as a mother. 

I am Shakti- the Divine Feminine Creative Power. I am dependent on no one but am interdependent with the Universe. The child born of me rides around on the back of a rat and brings good fortune to those who honor him. 

I am Ma’at- the Goddess of Truth, Balance, and Order. The sun cannot rise without me. I am the fabric of my children’s reality. Hearts are lain in my Scales and I pluck an ostrich feather from my tresses and weigh your spirit against it. It is not personal. It just is. 

I am Juliana, the saint of Chronic Illness,
I am Dymphna, the Patron of the Insane. 
I am Hestia- guarder of the hearth and keeper of the flame. 

I am all of this:
Creator, destroyer
Brightness, colorful flightiness, 
Coined in a poem
Redeemer and judge,
Feeder of seas
Home, Chaos, Stability

You cannot entreat upon my ME 
Or my MINE. 
Once you have invoked me. 

(via geminijune)

You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes.

Yesterday on the subway I sat down and a cheerful blonde young woman about my age sort of cocked her head in my direction. She wore a rich sapphire jewel toned well made wool pea coat and grey leggings and a pair of the palest gold sequined ballet flats. She had a pink set of headphones and a stack of papers in a Manila folder on her lap. I’m wont to half smile when I accidentally make eye contact with strangers in the city, which she returned, smiling with the apples of her cheeks but not showing teeth. Essentially the same way I smile.

I sat down and began my fuss budget ritualism on long train rides, digging in my backpack, trying to choose between 3 books and a sketchbook, finally settling on Joyce Carol Oates’ Gravedigger’s Daughter. When I pulled it through the mouth of my bag, the girl in the blue coat actually leaned forward, I could see a spark of interest and curiosity. It was plainly spelled in her features, “Oh! What is she reading?” And I smiled inside and she caught my eye and actually flushed peony pink and looked away hastily and my heart was like, “augh! It’s ok! We are the same person!” Because, it’s nerve wracking, being in this behemoth underbelly of a city I used to fantasize about from my tiny little Mississippi town with no real belief that I was adventurous or savvy enough to live near or tackle with any regularity or skill, and police officers standing at the sliding doors imperiously and impatiently on the sane train a Vietnam vet was stabbed to death earlier this month over an iPhone, and to see, definitely, that there are other people walking here, breathing my same air, with blushing curiosity about what we’re reading, or listening to, thinking about, well. It’s good knowing them that have your same kind of earnestly awkward.

But I opened my book, and she opened her Manila folder, and the chemistry notes she began correcting absorbed her, and the cops got off the train, and whole crowds shuffled in to replace them, and we didn’t make eye contact or smile again.

.