Always Musing, Always in Color

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Posted from WordPress for Android

Some time ago I posted a blog/poem/creative (which, I just realized, was not migrated to this site. I’ll fix it, I promise.)  inspired by an xkcd.com comic related to LEGO bricks. The short version is that we are, all of us, built of a series of existential LEGOs and we add, change and remove pieces as needed to fit the game of our life in that moment.

The arrangement, as the comic says, goes away, but the pieces can be used to do something else, build more, build differently. Sometimes you need the swinging door on your house and sometimes you need a thicker, higher wall with a moat. I was always partial to windows and jet engines. And flowers. Lots of those primary colored little flower discs everywhere. The point is, whatever you need, you have the ability to modularly adapt and grow as a human being (sans the pop-off hair, unless that’s your style savvy).

A short time after that, I posted a lamentation and said that some of the pieces fell off. No body of text. Just a title. Some of the Pieces Broke Off.

For all the amazing parts of my life, I am there again.

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Spider and the Fly

A bit of scurry, a bit of hurry, a lot of worry; why?
Weaving new, hanging on,
Beauty and pattern in chaos found,
For both the spider and the fly.

One the hunter, one the prey; dichotomy often blurred.
Caught up in the intricacies,
Dancing, fighting, loving, all of it seen,
A battle cry, a defiant roar; can you be sure what you heard?

Danger abounds; each should be wary.
Folkways, norms and mores questioned,
Each feeling stronger than the next, emboldened,
Each unaware of the strength and the power sharing.

Not always clear or well-defined; identity sometimes strange.
The effort to be the chaser, the strength to be the chased,
Each struggling to find their place,
Wide choices range.

A war of fate, but choices made; the fight is nigh.
A complicated relationship of give and take, low and high,
Prideful, willful, determined cries,
Thrashing, breaking, submitting; the fly.

Bound and held, processing decisions made;
dominated.
Immobile, not trapped;
entered into, flown.

Struggling against the silken bindings; begging.
Needing mercy, needing care, opening eyes,
The prey, the hunted; not always weak but inviting,
Finding strength as the captured fly.

No lamentation. Just realization.

To walk amongst the spiders’ webs, to wander through the cave;
To wonder if you’re worthy of all the spider gave;
To think of all that you have done and all that you could do;
Eventually you realize the spider, dear, is you.

Posted from WordPress for Android

As shared in my last post… I am feeling overwhelmed. My personal/romantic/sex life is a bit of a roller coaster, my family puts the “fun” in “dysfunctional,” and work is making me a drone. I miss spending time with my Sir Deviant. I miss spending time with my chosen family. I miss my father.

Mostly, I have realized, I miss me.

This is not to say that I have totally gone ass-over-tea-kettle and abandoned who I am, what I love, or stopped doing things that I enjoy. Not by a longshot. But I found that I loved the me that came from all the changes the past 18 months or so more than I am loving the me of right now.

– I loved the me that had daily interaction with my Sir because of (a) the connection we made and (b) because it fulfilled the simultaneous needs of attention and service/accountability (for both of us; I truly believe in that).

– I loved the me that saw my chosen sister every week, no matter what else we had going on in our lives.

– I loved the me that was working 8-5 and trying to have a life outside of work.

– I loved the me what was writing often, communicating often, and making connections often.

The past two months have been devoid of most of that, at least at the high, take-care-of-me level at which it was running before. Some of it has been lacking even longer.

And the hard truth is this: *I* am the common denominator.

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I did something I said I wouldn’t do again, especially when I am overwhelmed… I stopped writing.

This is bad for a myriad of reasons, the most important of which is that writing is my outlet, my way to process. Writing is my venting process, my thinking process, and my processing process. My friends and confidantes are tres important, bien sur, but writing is my catharsis. More so than tears during a good beating or zoning out to amazing music. Even more than fantastic, can’t-walk-afterwards circus sex (um… please?). Writing is my life, my calling, my soul. My collar is a handmade, leather-bound writing journal… yeah, writing is that important to me.

And yet here I am after an (unconsciously) self-imposed hiatus, wondering what the hell I was doing all this time if not processing properly?

Well, that hiatus ends here.

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