That Created All Gods & Backworlds

The cigarette smoke trails lazily past my fingers in forethought, as I partake of its source with sharp punctuations… perched among heated moments that bring Tom Waits, motorbikes and Burma to mind…swigging sweaty bottles through squinted, hangover-stained eyes…all the masculine parts men only speak of in songs & humorous, self-depreciating chuckles…sdf

Thick hand on neck, razor whining, crisply biting past growing, fighting fur… Clear-cuts, crunch by shear, smoothing defined boundaries across sovereign skin.

I wonder if the father thinks of holding the boy as he now holds the man in his hand… protective, ever so subtly-tensed flesh, breaths matching century-old rhythms.

As I exhale my cigarette breath all I can think of is to steal quickly this deep concentrated pool of life, these buzzing, crackling moments & electric seconds, wrestle them down into mere English words, to be devoured by hungry, vicarious eyes… this moment can not be forgotten, the simple moment of cutting hair, a moment of traditional ritual & heartbreaking aesthetic…

Like all Good Memories, It, too will die… the art of framing a memory with words… tacking up Movement & Vitality with verb & noun, Life spooled out of the mind & twisted from it’s original form through a crushed glass lens, contains its own beauty…a numb sense of what might have been if the world derived more satisfaction from itself.

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I want men’s memories…their intimate moments…want to curl up in men’s quiet spaces, dreaming with them about all things still-desired & now-spent.
Yearning & regret twisting together like brier roses, crumpled & beautiful, both Dangerous Need & Lonesome Comfort coupled into one bent, withering body, heaving breath into the unknowable, unquenchable abyss…

Sucking the marrow from life’s bones.

Breathing in the thick, heady oxygen of life’s deepest jungles… poison seeping into & from your skin with a tree-frog normalcy that settles into you like a first-nature… born within and from harsher reflections of reality… expected to adapt; As has the cycle spun for centuries without you, it will continue on after you become but a whisper of collective thought in warm spring.

What ultimately happens to a woman like me?
The Mighty Wench, the Keeper of Taverns & Men’s Sanity within the Valley of the Shadow of Death…the Great Lover, the Wild Redheaded Flame, the Problem, the Solution, the Salve after it Ends? There seems to be no rest for my kind, nor Another to ultimately lay a tired head beside in the weary sigh of Age.

asdAs a Woman that contains a mighty inner war, I am skilled in the art of defense & tactic.
I prefer to give my chosen partners the benefit of my doubt & rationality, however it takes a very clever human to override my senses for long & I am consistently disappointed in my choice of males based on their mental & emotional stamina.

My thoughts shift again to the idea of Goddess-led Kingdoms & the days of half-naked Oracles splayed out on sun-baked stones… pouring their poetry on pavement, threading subconscious dreams into stone cracks & thinned brains of those too busy staring at stars to feel the immediate effects…how many of those women have burned?

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Those Rocks made Lonely Feel Good

 

I always come to writing full of ideas, but in the act of thrusting those thoughts through to my fingertips, I tangle up and lose everything.
I wanted to write about the alarmingly fleeting nature of modern relationships… this ‘toss-away-if-broke-and-get-a-new-one’ mentality…
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‘Mr. Cables Wasn’t stable, E
ven tho he said he Was..’

I’m not going to blame anyone for not giving a fuck about someone else…what I don’t dig is the lead-on, or the taking advantage of a partner, or allowing the assumption that there is a partnership going on when there isn’t.

I should know that for myself I can’t settle for just mediocre living… my brain needs stimulation, craves culture, wants art, exotic foods, clean sheets, and….

…my own place.

I’m completely desperate over this housing situation.
I am so used to being transient.
I have never gotten an apartment for myself in my life, I’ve very simply just had roommates or couch-surfed or what-have-you.
lkjFunny, huh?
Thirty goddamn years old, Woman, and I don’t even know whom to call for electric!

I had a desperate hope ((and still do honestly)) that I could afford to just live out of hotels for a few years instead of renting an apartment.

I adore the idea of clean sheets and swimming and breakfast and coffee in the morning and people-watching at night, working in the afternoons, lazing & rolling about on the bed, beautiful and perfectly pampered…

I wish life was easy and beautiful all the time.
I have been handed so many beautiful fruits in this life…I have seen so much good, deliciously ripe, juicy things bursting with potential & vibrant energies… and yet it all expires & melts away into the next plane eventually.
It’s a potent lesson in finality.
And each and every thing is ultimately alone… sure, indeed… but that’s exactly why I enjoy my relationships… I choose them knowing the finality of things, the ease of losing things and people and memory…I cherish each second with a grace & dedication unmatched, packing each moment away like precious gems and yet each time, each loss again breaks new wounds fresh upon the soul’s skin & disturbs the most primal of beings living within woman’s hearts. mou

There is a mourning that happens quite similar in feeling to going insane.
It viscerally pulls you into the ground by your knees & sets fire to your every nerve. You’re a prisoner, captured alive by your very own existence, and it doesn’t stop burning & retching water & wrenching screams from guts you didn’t know you owned.

One is lucky if they can afford to dull the experience with cheap booze, but care should be made to stick within the layout of the kitchen or bathroom floor and not venture outdoors. You can’t see anything anyway… how far do you really plan on crawling, huh..?
This mourning period can last eons, or what seems like it… years, months, countless hours of days passing…

Luckily for me, I’m dissociative.
Because of this, I have the funky ability to allow other ‘personalities’ handle certain life events that other parts of my psyche might not be able to deal well with.
So I’ve simply thrust myself into work and carry life on.
Tally-ho until next time!

 

I didn’t mean to drown myself, I meant to swim till I sank

I have not written in quite some time, I am aware.

It’s not that I’ve run out of things to say, it’s simply that each time I sat down to write, my heart was torn out fresh for a while.

Ultimately these writings are about men; my relationship toward them, my passions, desires & drives for them, the journeys taken, the adventures lived…
And unfortunately, the losses…the heartbreak, and the pain.

Back in January, I went through an enormous loss.ded
I had been seeing a man…whom I had nicknamed ‘The Deer Hunter’.
In retrospect, the nickname was devastatingly apt.
He had a few health issues I was aware of, however I did not realize the amount of mental suffering he was living with, and ultimately he ended up stepping out of the world via a rifle, on my birthday, thirty minutes after dropping me off at my home.

Afterward, I struggled for quite a while mentally, and to this day I’m still not sure if the impact on my mind has ceased, however, I remain alive & breathing, and must continue on my path, even if I may be crawling it instead of walking now.

At the end of May, I met another man, and he has been such a sweet comfort…he treats me well, is a strong, intelligent rock of a being, and I find myself caring very much for him. He allows me to be myself, and I am trying to care for him as much as I am able.

I felt able enough to return to this journal of mine, but I do not have much to say today.
I felt as though I owed my dear readers a reason for my silence, and reassurance that I am indeed still here…it will just take some time to climb back upon the beast that is the written word.

 

All my love,

-JK-

Meet me at the Crossroads

“How many men of mine could have been killers?
How much further did i lead them down the sticky honeyed path of death?
Those moments….those beautiful moments…you sitting against a wall in an old house
Victorian, and crumbling..the wallpaper cracking…
Youth & pale flesh acting like glue, new cobwebs creating new boxes of memory
I’m comparing my level of 1-10″ as when I was on the floor in that bathroom….you could have stabbed me. Quite literally.”

-Excerpt, My Journals

a311a19b98932401fd882f45bc1a9c2bHis name was M.
Let’s call it Markus.
Markus Toowell.

I recently had a bit of a mental health hiccup & landed myself quite suddenly in the lap of professional care… Who would have thought being tired of the basic Act of Living could be a source of confusion or derision among the common…

There was a day in there that I had been changed from ‘committed’ to ‘voluntary’ basically, and my fabulous dissociative coping mechanisms weren’t having it. I railed, screamed ugly and frantic against my tin-foil bathroom mirror & dull-gun-steel sink.
I told them that given my intelligence, putting ‘leaving’ on the table as an option was basically laughing at my illness…taunting me & my inability to cope with Society and Humans as they are.

They took the option off the table, and told me I would be transferred to long-stay.
Afterwards, they gave me print-outs of DBT therapy workbooks.
I took them to the kitchen area, deliberately sitting in the view of a young fellow I had eyed before.
At some point, I had gone to the fridge to get some milk. I made a deliberate circle in front of the energy I felt sitting at the table to the right of the fridge.
I knew it then.
As I pretended to ignore everything around me to the pursuit of my room, I felt and saw out of the corner of my eye… he looked up as if in a daze… stared at me the whole way.
I knew it then.

As I sat at the kitchen tables, leaving one full table between us, I knew he would. I knew we would have a moment. It took a while. Got half a page written before the sun began to set.
“You’re from Alberta?”
“…No”
“Oh, I was just wondering about these birds, they’re crazy…”
Outside the wide window that took up the entire wall, you had a full view of the airplanes coming into the city from the Othersides of the planet…. a parking garage and a shopping district to the left were about all… but he was correct… Seagulls…. hundreds, thousands of birds flocking back and forth. We tried to get scientific… watched the frequency of flight in comparison to airplanes, but we couldn’t come up with anything but wistful theory.
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We talked for a long time.
Connected as much as two broken people can inside of an institution.
Told to go to bed by the nurses at one am.

He got out before me, and I knew he had gone back to the Life.
Sadly, he’s a little naive creature, hasn’t been on the Streets or bluntly Homeless before, so this is all new to him, and this city is rough.
He was sweet though.
Kept his word about calling me every day, and visiting me every day as well.
He was my only visitor.
When I got out, I got back to life as I know it…

I felt bad I wasn’t reaching out, but didn’t want to be pushy.
I got a hotel for a few days.
I wanted to Bukowski it out before a craft fair I was a part of.
I invited him to stay for a few nights to get his head and affairs in order, because I’ve been there so many times I’ve lost count.

He stayed until we got back from the craft fair, waited till I went out for smokes, and robbed me of everything I made at the fair. To be fair, it was only $35…but…

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My Mister Markus Toowell.
So sweet & broken, my poor dying darling.
I never hold it against these men.
I suppose I should…
I can’t help but take mutual responsibility for the situation.
Unfortunately, I set them up to fail.
I’m not the best influence myself… I won’t change you, I will just be beside you.
It kills them every time.

 
I’ll remember his scratchy, wobbled head… his baby teeth… his sweet softness.
He was thirty two, but he seemed so young & innocent, the thing.
If it was a schtick, it was a fucking great one…
But I’m more apt to blame it on the Cycles.
Inanna is dying & beginning her descent.

I like beautiful melodies telling me terrible things

fd9aca7170246c6b4c67fc784bc89b31When it comes to desirability, I have always had dual thought in regards to myself.

I know, from life experience, that I am considered a desirable, nay, intoxicating & addictive biological female human specimen. I have learned my traits of optimal desire, and have learned to exploit them.

However, the split between my logical brain and my emotional one means I remain cut off from the ability to ‘feel’ or ‘see’ my attractiveness for myself, unless I shut down my logical brain and just get sexy…. usually when I’m exercising or dancing… logically, ((ha!)) any activity that I utilize my body & become wholly physical and energetic.

Sex has the potential to bring about feelings of being sexy, but in the past, more often than not, they’ve been acted-out feelings rather than genuine ones. ((I very rarely vocalize my feelings to humans because I assume everyone can mind-read, of course. Please play catch-up with those of us who can read your feelings & thoughts… it will make everyone’s lives easier. 😉 ))

When I tell a partner for the first time that I have never had an orgasm before from anyone3ab48a096fb8f16e723d2583a08ae75c but myself, they are often confused, then unremarkably & unjustifiably… hurt?!

Why do people become offended that other people have not successfully conquered my body’s electric circuitry?

I assume it’s more a matter of feeling like they’re about to begin a long, thankless journey into the unknown territory of A Pussy That Has Never Came. Poor souls seem to become deaf to the part where I mentioned that I’ve had orgasms, just never from another’s hand. I’m not sure why this is. Perhaps it’s my body’s way of telling me who’s Mate & Partner Material. That would be fascinating to research. Perhaps I simply have not found enough men with genuine love & passion for a woman’s body.
I suppose as the sayings always say, time will tell.
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I have always appreciated the idea of settling down with an older man.

The first I really committed to the idea of was Mr. Scootercat. Now that I look back on him, I see a frail old man, terrified of the world and reliant upon his mother & his cats.

I tried so hard to love him… holding him in my arms as he would take trips to the past… reading type-written pages on good days, listening to one song on 24-hour repeat on bad days… he was stubbornly attached to the notion that the world was doing him wrong with no solution.

It’s the same with most of my relationships with older men, I feel like I miss out when they end… but I know that I’ve just been in love with an ideal or a projection…ghosts and long-dead stars, sending out echoes that reach my ears in romantic whispers.

The Memory of the Blaze Burns in the Heart & Mind Forever

c969ddf708db2b4994d5b13bc7086db0I’ve been noticing that I’ve been framing a lot of my blogs in a ‘distressed damsel’ kinda manner, and I want to clear up that this is not the case. I do find myself in many pickle jars, but I tend to enjoy pickles, and don’t mind chewing my way through them. I have taken care of myself since the age of sixteen, and I am happy to reassure the public that I know what I need for survival & beyond.

I sometimes wonder if having the tease of almost-perfect relationships in my older days is karmic consequence from my insensitivity & cold behavior in my youth.

Before the age of 14 I wasn’t allowed to date, living in my father’s house. When I moved to my mother’s, she didn’t mind, as long as I stayed safe. My first boyfriend, Mr. Pepperoni was sweet and dumb… your normal teenage boy. I didn’t really fancy him, I was being polite when I agreed to date him, which was my usual way in the future… all of a sudden being thrust into relationships I had only halfheartedly agreed to in the first place.

I found myself becoming overtly rude when speaking to him, or acting irrationally irritable at small inquiries or comments… It was in an effort to corner him into breaking up with me, but the poor lad didn’t know what to do with himself. I finally told him in a phone call one night it just wasn’t working out and I wasn’t really feeling attracted anymore.
I still feel bad for him, I shouldn’t have been so harsh as a kid who knew firsthand about bullies and how shitty they can make people feel.
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Being shitty to people, especially in relationships, got old really fast. I changed tack, if I didn’t like someone, I told them & left. Clean, quick and simple.
Sometimes they didn’t leave.
Mr. Blue had to be police-escorted away because he refused to stop living in my apartment. He was an interesting time. Wild, verbally & emotionally manipulative, moody, but be damned if I didn’t want to have a body part of his in my mouth at all times. I suppose I can’t blame it on teen-aged hormones, since females apparently hit their peaks in their forties, but whatever it was, I wanted to bottle it up & sell it, and could have.

He was fond of telling me it was my fault he couldn’t get a job, and that I should get him one. I had at that point already done the ‘get a boyfriend a job for them’ thing, and I refused to do it again. Which of course meant I was a selfish bitch setting him up to fail and all that.
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Many times in relationships I am doomed to the ‘Selfish Bitch’ role.

The best one I’ve ever gotten is ‘You’re a fucking nazi…no, no…you’re the QUEEN of the Nazis!’ I thought that was fantastic verbiage of insult & incredible use of vocabulary. Obviously, it really stuck with me, I was genuinely impressed and delighted.

I suppose as one who grew up with other children pulling me down hallways by my hair, calling me unbearably mean names, asking me age-inappropriate questions due to carrying my father’s surname, and outright abusing me, as well as enduring both seclusion, confinement & abuse at home… People who try to hurt or insult me now are adorably laughable.

Ironically, growing up, there was a relative of mine who told me ‘A day will come when you’ll just laugh it off, and words won’t mean anything to you anymore.’
I thought they were absolutely insane.
Words are my everything.
Words are what humans use to communicate, words are all anyone has!

But I didn’t know at such a young age that some people are just mean, or don’t know how to ‘use their words good.’ I eventually figured it out, and now try to communicate as effectively as I can, while respecting another’s feelings or life path. I have found that genuinely respecting people goes pretty far, and that people know when you’re faking.
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Love Tames the Benumbed Beast

“A man is put to use regarding a woman’s physical safety, but a woman is put to use regarding a man’s mental safety.” – Criss Jami

28135272b0c67d9c893bd27617da0d6eI watched an interesting documentary last night on sex workers in other countries called Whore’s Glory.
The segment that inspired me to think about the topic of this blog was the first, which followed women in Thailand.

The girls would do their thing and make their money, but then relax and unwind by spending all of their earnings in bars. These bars are basically the male version of their own work… the women pay men to sit and drink with them.

I found it highly astounding, and quickly fired off some neurons to explore the concept a little deeper inside my brain’s sandbox. 774bf9074d404472f19c07383c8e2acf

I thought that the idea of a female supporting someone else isn’t new, from a sexworker’s standpoint…
A large majority of sex workers support entire households.

Conversely, the men & women that financially support sex workers by paying them for service are no different… If humans are able to pay for pleasure, why should I be the one to exert a limit on who can or cannot?

Silly me.
I wanted to go further.
In ancient times, the female Priestess, Sacred Whores, Queens and Goddesses were revered & swathed in gifts, tributes, sacrifices, absolute finery.

Befriending one of these sacred women must have been a very fine social position indeed. Imagine the hand-me-downs of a woman considered to be an incarnation of a ruling Goddess – Lordt, give me the job!

I thought of the idea that the very rich, who very often avail of our services, are in a sense handing us the keys to the redistribution of wealth. Sacred Whores very probably had a duty to give back to the community they resided within. I think in today’s modern age that would look like charity work, small business & job creation, the continuation of education, and generally spreading goodness within your environment… Fostering growth, secretly planting flowers everywhere, bringing cookies to retirement homes, saving stray cats, real feel-good stuff, ya know?! 😉

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