Mud

Let us not loose our minds.

Let us know we are the stars children, created to dance in the colors we choose to flail about.

Let us not let our eyes roll back in ecstasy only alone in the room of closet.

Let us release and love the outburst that is us.

Let it be more colorful than beige.

Bland.

All color taken out.

Let it sear the skin and make all things seem inevitable.

Let the pleasure dry the mouth and moisten the hips.

Allowing the swerve of the curve of your lip to rest on the knee.

Tickle the insides of me.

Let us not loose our minds in the desert of doubt the plantation more raped than pleasured.

Let us breathe in the sweet smell of delicate encounters chipped by desire.

Let us not reflect like glass yet soak up like earth.

Allowing the moisture to turn us to mud.

Feet swollen with ache in fun.

Ache in romance.

Ache in acting.

Ache in painting.

Ache in laughter.

No ache in heart. Leave ache of heart in the land of bland.

Give in.

Give stand and. . . well. . . dance. 

ggrroo00OOWING

My father. Strict and blocked. He is an artist. he will not admit it even to this day.

So many different memories come up when I think of my father. His sternness. His anger.His drinking and pilling. His cheating and tearing up the family over and over again.

I wonder often if he is the reason I have a hard time believing in the ‘family unit’. That term seems false to me. Restrictive. Keeping people from claiming themselves, for the better of the unit. Shells. Shells are what they become and I fear I may be one as well.

My father loves to ponder and draw. But thinks it silly to allow such gifts for himself. I did not grasp this when I was younger. I thought he was mean and powerful. I thought he hated me. Wished for the life when I did not tie him down.

I pulled this picture out the other day. I am beginning to look back at where I came from. Admit to my adult self what I have lived through and how to see all I have changed. Not just for myself but for future generations. My daughter finds it completely acceptable to call yourself an artist. A word that would have brought about immense laughter in my house growing up. Not because they didnt really think we were but because it would have meant they could call themselves such things.

Today I am reminded of the amazing possibility for the soul to change. I have changed and I can accept my family unit and invest great deals of creativity and emotion into this dream as well. . . I was not taught to be happy so this will be hard but I am ready. . . I accept I am still ggrrRoo00OOWING.