[This was inspired by and written for a particular individual, but I dedicate it to all of my slightly worn beloveds, who are perfect with their chipped edges, scratches, and stains.]
T.,
I do not know you.
I don’t know what has fueled your joys and sorrows.
I don’t know what made you curl up instead of flying free.
I don’t know why you’re feeling broken inside.
My life may be nothing like yours… but I’ve lain there in that hospital bed, feeling worse for being there because I stumbled at the moment of my intended exit, feeling like it was further proof of personal failure and ineptitude.
Years later, I cannot believe I was willing to throw away every minute I’ve had since. No, it hasn't been all pleasant. Yet, the glory of new discoveries in a world I never previously perceived has been dazzling.
What I winnowed from those years was an understanding of the seemingly impenetrable darkness of a haunted mind. Some of us are beaten, some of us are screamed at, some are distorted by apathy. It comes from strangers, casual acquaintances, or, worst of all, from friends and family. Regardless of the ignition age or source of distress, the mind can incubate and nurture stygian obsession with adroit skill.
Consumed by such bile, many display complex coded cries for help. Family believes it sees us. Family swears it knows us. Those who believe they understand us are often the last to know, and rarely comprehend the entire situation. And Family has its constrictions.
A dear childhood friend had a mother more heartless than any I’ve met. My friend’s mother never missed the chance to tell her little angel “you look fat in that”, “that looks horrible on you: go upstairs and change”. For her sixteenth birthday, this woman gave her daughter a scale. My friend swallowed pills for years. Never truly wanting death, but quietly hoping for an accident… Just to make it stop... Just to make the voice down the hall stop.
Then there is another who seemed to shine so bright. I watched her grow up, screamed my guts out at her sports games, and never saw the undeniable truth: she was fading. I was right there, fading alongside her and I never said a word. Her eating disorder reduced her from fierce feminine beauty to potential collegiate expulsion.
...
Those of us in the dark know complete recovery is impossible; we’ll always have cerebral muscle-memory of the pain, but we can turn on a light.
Or even open a window.
Five years ago, as I had another of my then-typical agoraphobic anxiety attacks, someone bitch-slapped me out of it:
“I don’t have any respect for people like you.”
In that black pre-dawn hour, I saw clearly.
I would not accept scorn from the apathetic or pity from the loving. I refused to allow suicidal self-hatred to define or mar the life I could lead. I would be damned if I gave up without a fight.
I was no longer despairing… I was furiously determined.
...
And then there are the people we love…
Living solely to protect others from the pain of your passing is not enough. Tolerating your existence to martyr yourself to their needs is not enough. You can thrive on loving them, but you cannot survive living only for their peace of mind.
In the end, happiness requires we stand tall in our own shoes – heels or flats, sneakers or boots – voices calling out for the freedom, life, and love we deserve.
Don’t whisper - shout. Jump up and down, wave your arms, thrash around.
We will see you.
Never forget: you are not alone.
There are many like us, and I have lived to meet them.
We cannot eat; we cannot eat without purging; we cannot eat for fear of nerves.
We cut our flesh to redirect the pain, to distract our minds, to punish ourselves.
We drink to be numb; we drink to forget; we drink because it is something else to do besides obsess.
We question the source of happiness and beat our heads against the wall in frustration as it all appears ever so slightly beyond our grasp.
We love our families… Why don’t they understand us…
We hate our families… Why couldn’t they see the damage they’ve done….
If you leave us now, we lose another sister, another soldier, who could have stood with us and helped lead the next generation home.
Believe me when I say, you do not want to miss this. The world may be vast and terrifying, and the internal world even more so, but you do not want to miss this.
We are here, waiting. We have each other. We’re a lot fun and laughter… We’d like to meet you.
If you open the window, perhaps you will discover you want to meet us, too.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Idle Hands.....
I usually post items discovered courtesy of a friend...
But these are mine.
I hope your browser renders them a legible size. Increasing the posting size distorts the original image.
Years ago, I completed a full deck of cards on a computer without Photoshop or any other Adobe CS program. And I loved every minute of it.
Oh, I've got more... Idle hands do the devil's work, and mine are too bored for their own good.
But these are mine.
I hope your browser renders them a legible size. Increasing the posting size distorts the original image.
Years ago, I completed a full deck of cards on a computer without Photoshop or any other Adobe CS program. And I loved every minute of it.
Oh, I've got more... Idle hands do the devil's work, and mine are too bored for their own good.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Origin of a Canid
This blog is not a personal diary or therapeutic inner-monologue.
The world and people around me are far more intriguing and worthy of perlustration.
However, as this little record of those amazing Others gains quiet momentum, I receive more and more inquiries as to the source of my name, Ravedogg.
Yes, to me, it truly is my name, bestowed with humor and oft-repeated in friendship, the endearment magnified by its decade-long endurance.
You won't find me at Burning Man or any illegal warehouse parties downtown.
And if you ever catch me in fluffy neon-colored vests, big hats, and oversized plastic jewelry, you have my permission to perform a mercy killing.
No... Here's where I began:
One fall evening on a college campus along California's south coast, a heavy metal enthusiast found herself blessed with an empty dorm room.
The Gates of Hell had made another trip home for the weekend, and I was flying high on supreme command of the stereo.
[The Gates involve repeated post-shower, full-frontal encounters with lots of Victoria's Secret body lotion... Please don't ask me to relive that in detail.]
I opened a window, flipped on the blacklights, and cranked Pantera up to 'ear bleed'.
Little did I know, down on the sidewalk leading into the building, stood a girl who would become a life-altering inspiration and dear friend.
She looked up at the window and said, "A real Ravedogg must live there."
And once you've piqued her curiosity - it's on.
So there you have it. One seemingly mundane moment setting a lifetime precedent, creating a new identity.
Thank you, Hezzah, for taking the first step in turning a sow's ear into a black leather purse... with lots of surly silver studs.
The world and people around me are far more intriguing and worthy of perlustration.
However, as this little record of those amazing Others gains quiet momentum, I receive more and more inquiries as to the source of my name, Ravedogg.
Yes, to me, it truly is my name, bestowed with humor and oft-repeated in friendship, the endearment magnified by its decade-long endurance.
You won't find me at Burning Man or any illegal warehouse parties downtown.
And if you ever catch me in fluffy neon-colored vests, big hats, and oversized plastic jewelry, you have my permission to perform a mercy killing.
No... Here's where I began:
One fall evening on a college campus along California's south coast, a heavy metal enthusiast found herself blessed with an empty dorm room.
The Gates of Hell had made another trip home for the weekend, and I was flying high on supreme command of the stereo.
[The Gates involve repeated post-shower, full-frontal encounters with lots of Victoria's Secret body lotion... Please don't ask me to relive that in detail.]
I opened a window, flipped on the blacklights, and cranked Pantera up to 'ear bleed'.
Little did I know, down on the sidewalk leading into the building, stood a girl who would become a life-altering inspiration and dear friend.
She looked up at the window and said, "A real Ravedogg must live there."
And once you've piqued her curiosity - it's on.
So there you have it. One seemingly mundane moment setting a lifetime precedent, creating a new identity.
Thank you, Hezzah, for taking the first step in turning a sow's ear into a black leather purse... with lots of surly silver studs.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Who Spiked the Candy?!
Who doesn't like gummie candies?
People who want to avoid date rape, apparently.
While enjoying the delicious and unusual taste of these German gummies, in the fabulous shape of blood drops and skull-and-cross-bones:
I perused the text on the back.....
Can't read small print? Allow me....
Yup. Rape-seed. Thought I felt a little light-headed.
Hey, little pretty, want some candy?
People who want to avoid date rape, apparently.
While enjoying the delicious and unusual taste of these German gummies, in the fabulous shape of blood drops and skull-and-cross-bones:
I perused the text on the back.....
Can't read small print? Allow me....
Yup. Rape-seed. Thought I felt a little light-headed.
Hey, little pretty, want some candy?
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Unwrapping Santa's Package
When Yolondar of Portland first introduced me to St. Nick, I thought, "What a friendly, open, clean-cut young man."
And then I found out about his luscious past: shake that money maker, soldier boy!
As I forced details out of St. Nick, drooling with eager curiosity about a lifestyle I've never known, he buried his chin in his chest and mumbled, reduced to a blushing schoolboy by my exuberant attention. I believe time proved I was not being judgmental, just a devious tease who would say anything to illicit a smile.
By my last day in PDX, he was sharing the contents of his prized boxer collection: that's my boy! Next time I come across boxers with cartoon animals on the bum, they're all yours.
The subject of strippers brings up a topic which has recently been on the minds of friends across the nation: "Are we sluts?"
Not long ago, a good friend confided concern about what they perceived as their tendency towards excessive promiscuity.
I was floored.
This person is amazing: sexy, friendly, loving, sincere, gorgeous inside and out. I would be blessed to be 1/10 as fabulous. I would probably be a lot more comfortable in my skin if I conducted myself with as much strength and courage.
In the clothed light of day, "slut" and "whore" can be venomous and hollow slurs, most often spouted by the jealous and insecure.
It's one thing to Tarzan yell, "You F**ing Bitch; You F**ing Whore" in the bedroom, quite another to spit these words in passive conversation.
Ironically, the most worldly and confidant fret over the same issues as the shy and inexperienced. Most of us are constantly concerned about our perceived inadequacies and failures, even if the rest of the world doesn't notice.
Have not these modern times evidenced the scientific and mathematical inability to quantify/qualify "Normal", "Average"?
Go ahead, my pretties: bitch-slap self-reproach and self-doubt to the floor. Life is too short and you are too brilliant to hide away.
...And the next time you're in Portland, OR, feel free to show St. Nick a little love: tip his good deeds with a fiver in the Jockeys... or a Voodoo Doughnut.
And then I found out about his luscious past: shake that money maker, soldier boy!
As I forced details out of St. Nick, drooling with eager curiosity about a lifestyle I've never known, he buried his chin in his chest and mumbled, reduced to a blushing schoolboy by my exuberant attention. I believe time proved I was not being judgmental, just a devious tease who would say anything to illicit a smile.
By my last day in PDX, he was sharing the contents of his prized boxer collection: that's my boy! Next time I come across boxers with cartoon animals on the bum, they're all yours.
The subject of strippers brings up a topic which has recently been on the minds of friends across the nation: "Are we sluts?"
Not long ago, a good friend confided concern about what they perceived as their tendency towards excessive promiscuity.
I was floored.
This person is amazing: sexy, friendly, loving, sincere, gorgeous inside and out. I would be blessed to be 1/10 as fabulous. I would probably be a lot more comfortable in my skin if I conducted myself with as much strength and courage.
In the clothed light of day, "slut" and "whore" can be venomous and hollow slurs, most often spouted by the jealous and insecure.
It's one thing to Tarzan yell, "You F**ing Bitch; You F**ing Whore" in the bedroom, quite another to spit these words in passive conversation.
Ironically, the most worldly and confidant fret over the same issues as the shy and inexperienced. Most of us are constantly concerned about our perceived inadequacies and failures, even if the rest of the world doesn't notice.
Have not these modern times evidenced the scientific and mathematical inability to quantify/qualify "Normal", "Average"?
Go ahead, my pretties: bitch-slap self-reproach and self-doubt to the floor. Life is too short and you are too brilliant to hide away.
...And the next time you're in Portland, OR, feel free to show St. Nick a little love: tip his good deeds with a fiver in the Jockeys... or a Voodoo Doughnut.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Counting F**ks
Another from Jewels:
I think my love of flamboyant Goth boys began with the count.
That's hot.
[Copyright; TM, R, Paris can lick my nugget, etc.]
I think my love of flamboyant Goth boys began with the count.
That's hot.
[Copyright; TM, R, Paris can lick my nugget, etc.]
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Simple Joys
Encouraged by my September 2006 trip to Portland, I made another visit in January 2007.
While standing in the bar line at Hive, I began conversing with Eshin (those of you 'in the know' will understand the pseudonym). I thought he was a dear, so I willingly parted with my e-mail - the real address, not my "Well, you're SPAM" address.
Digital correspondence and blog-sharing have, delightfully, revealed harmonious demeanors and sense of humor.
I lifted this from Eshin's web journal, and I dedicate it to Jewels, with whom I have spent years watching Muppets and other television intended for children:
Thanks, you two, for giving me reasons to smile.
Yip Yip-ee-I yo mama!
While standing in the bar line at Hive, I began conversing with Eshin (those of you 'in the know' will understand the pseudonym). I thought he was a dear, so I willingly parted with my e-mail - the real address, not my "Well, you're SPAM" address.
Digital correspondence and blog-sharing have, delightfully, revealed harmonious demeanors and sense of humor.
I lifted this from Eshin's web journal, and I dedicate it to Jewels, with whom I have spent years watching Muppets and other television intended for children:
Thanks, you two, for giving me reasons to smile.
Yip Yip-ee-I yo mama!
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Soundtrack to a Lovely Evening
I stumbled across this while crawling through the 6 Degrees of StalkerSpace (via Starshine of Bellevue, WA); the beauty of it brings to mind of a lot of good memories.
Picture SoCal in summer, after dark, circled lawn chairs on someone's patio or in a driveway, speaker in the window, occasional wafts of the grill cooling off. The music turns soulful sweet, and everyone runs out of conversation at the same time. Backdrop to stereo, the life sounds of neighbors, traffic, and (in my neck of suburbia) the symphony of little frogs in the damp washouts hum on. For a few minutes, all seems perfection; when the feeling lasts until dawn, it certainly is.
Remember when?:
Lyrics & Music by God Made Flesh (Jenni Wildflower) [Copyright, TM, R, etc. legal stuff]
"Negro Spiritual"
Michael when you gonna get outta that boat
Michael when you gonna learn how to float
Michael when you gonna be my swan
Michael when we gonna see a new dawn
Michael I exhausted wanting for one touch
this fasting and this praying's gone on long enough
If you an angel you should listen to God's daughter
If you a messenger come trouble these waters
Come to me I'll be your miracle
I will pervade your body like a Negro Spiritual
Michael you the one who tossed about
by every wind of doctrine blowing about
Michael you're not being careful can't you see
Michael you need to turn and look at me
Look at me
Michael why you listen what men say
you take their words to heart you digging your own grave
Michael you more than just another king
Michael you an everlasting thing
Come to me I'll be your miracle
I will pervade your body like a Negro Spiritual
--Michael don't you go and do no violence to your soul
you know you shouldn't hurt something that old--
Michael I just a stone out on the road
You shake the firmament you get the story told
I loved you once and now what's done is done
Michael in the end the kingdom come come come
to you it be your miracle it will pervade your body like a Negro Spiritual Come to me I'll be your miracle
I will pervade your body like a Negro Spiritual
Sleep tight, pretties.
Picture SoCal in summer, after dark, circled lawn chairs on someone's patio or in a driveway, speaker in the window, occasional wafts of the grill cooling off. The music turns soulful sweet, and everyone runs out of conversation at the same time. Backdrop to stereo, the life sounds of neighbors, traffic, and (in my neck of suburbia) the symphony of little frogs in the damp washouts hum on. For a few minutes, all seems perfection; when the feeling lasts until dawn, it certainly is.
Remember when?:
Lyrics & Music by God Made Flesh (Jenni Wildflower) [Copyright, TM, R, etc. legal stuff]
"Negro Spiritual"
Michael when you gonna get outta that boat
Michael when you gonna learn how to float
Michael when you gonna be my swan
Michael when we gonna see a new dawn
Michael I exhausted wanting for one touch
this fasting and this praying's gone on long enough
If you an angel you should listen to God's daughter
If you a messenger come trouble these waters
Come to me I'll be your miracle
I will pervade your body like a Negro Spiritual
Michael you the one who tossed about
by every wind of doctrine blowing about
Michael you're not being careful can't you see
Michael you need to turn and look at me
Look at me
Michael why you listen what men say
you take their words to heart you digging your own grave
Michael you more than just another king
Michael you an everlasting thing
Come to me I'll be your miracle
I will pervade your body like a Negro Spiritual
--Michael don't you go and do no violence to your soul
you know you shouldn't hurt something that old--
Michael I just a stone out on the road
You shake the firmament you get the story told
I loved you once and now what's done is done
Michael in the end the kingdom come come come
to you it be your miracle it will pervade your body like a Negro Spiritual Come to me I'll be your miracle
I will pervade your body like a Negro Spiritual
Sleep tight, pretties.
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