Proust was paid by the word

I wasn’t really thinking about Mothers day this year. I got my mom a present, of course, and wished Happy Mothers day to all the people who are Mother’s and I have contact info for. But I haven’t taken it seriously since my Nana(grandmother) died. I used to always buy her flowers and a stuffed animal. She kept all of them on her bed. And that’s quite alot of stuffed animals when you count Mothers day, her birthday and Christmas.

I smelled the faintest whiff of hot fresh made tortillas. Imaginary, of course. She made the best tortillas. They were thin and buttery but not too buttery and we used to have a ton of them. She cooked until the last month of her life. She was amazing.

She raised five kids on her own. Kids who went out into the world and made something for themselves. Firefighters, city construction crew, Chip assembly managers, Social workers, and accountants. Some holding multiple hats. All with families of their own.

She held us together. Not just her sons and daughters but also her grandchildren. The cousins as I refer to us.

We had Thanksgiving and Christmas; Mother’s Day and Easter. When the cousins were younger we had summer camping trips. We were tight knit. Close.

But that’s mostly gone now. The cousins all have their own families. And the tight knit bonds our parents share never quite translated down to us. For us, it was Nana that tied us together. She babysat many of us. We would play games in her halls.

She always wanted to feed us. She didn’t have much but there was always food. And it was delicious. Those recipes are mostly gone. Our parents have one or two, here or there, but it’s all gone.

At her funeral, I couldn’t attend the wake. It was too much. I was sitting outside on a stone bench. I could hear the music and people talking. But inside, it felt like I was drowning in their sorrow and I couldn’t deal.

I thought that I had a handle on her death. She didn’t go quick. I was letting her go for literally years. Knowing that the inevitable was coming.

She died surrounded by her family. She died protected by her faith. And I know, not with faith, but with certainty that she made it into her heaven. She died as well as any of us can.

And still, walking to her grave. To have her be buried. I cried. I almost had to lean on my older brother because I couldn’t see through the tears.
I had to hang back from the burial. That wasn’t her. What made her, her was gone.

But still I remember. Days like this, when my brain betrays me. When I remember her singing in Spanish. When I can smell tortillas, which I’ll never taste again. Nothing is quite right.

Still, I remember. She’d always take one of my bears with her when she was in the hospital. I wonder if they gave her one to keep her safe. I wonder a lot of things.

But that’s life. We get very few answers to match up against our pain.

Just one more spin on the wheel. Who knows for how long.

The situation is….

So I guess what I want to talk about today is being out and what that means to me and how that effects the people in my life.

So out. It means alot of things to alot of people. Sometimes it means out of the closet. Meaning you have told at least one person how your sexual orientation differs from the majority. And I term it that way because it’s not as simple as saying “I’m here, I’m queer, Deal with it.” Because people are involved and that makes it complicated. Maybe your not ready to be that far out of the closet. Maybe forcing people to confront their own bias through you is scary. And shit. Its scary.

I first came out to a couple of friends who I mostly thought would be cool. When that went ok, I came out to more friends. Then to my older sister. Then to my cousins.

But I haven’t told my parents or any of my aunts or uncles. I’m not hiding it. But I’m not forcing a confrontation either. Because I know that once I do, everything will likely change. And while I’m not fearful of that, I’m also not emotionally ready to lose them.

So, I don’t confront them with it. But I also dont live my life any quieter.

And really, while still being dangerous and emotionally fraught, at least that is a coming out that people understand.

But there’s another side to my coming out. Some years ago, I decided to come out as a BDSM practitioner. For me its more than just play. For me, its a part of who I am. And I feel like hiding who I am does more damage than I’m willing to accept. So, I came out as a Switch at first, to friends and was widely accepted. And I found that the more open I was, the more people responded. And the more I saw that we all hide these “shameful” desires.

And while I don’t flaunt it, or confront my family with it, I don’t hide it either. Sharing things on social media under my name and not really caring.

I have made 2 concessions to living out loud as I term it. Concessions I made for the person I’m in a relationship with to make them more comfortable.
One, I restricted my Facebook to friends only.
Two, I changed my Facebook flag from the BDSM leather flag to a more goth picture. Because I suppose goth is more acceptable than BDSM. Though you’d have to do an image search and really want to know for that one.

Out. Its not just a one and done. In a very real sense you are always coming out. As your circle widens and your comfort level increases.

I will say that if your living situation is based on the largess of someone you are afraid to come out to… Don’t. Don’t force them into a confrontation until you are safe. Until you have a fallback plan. Be free but be safe.

I am Pelgris. I am beautiful magic. I am pansexual. I am Sir.

Derek Chauvin: Found Guilty

Let me be clear. Our justice system is meant to enforce the laws of our states and country. Finding an obvious murderer guilty is not a victory. It’s not a cause for celebration. At most, it should receive a nod and a simple acknowledgement of, “good.”

That it took the murder to be recorded, to be distributed, to be shown over and over…that it took riots and demonstrations and protests to force the justice system to act in the best interests of our countries citizens…This is not a victory.

This is an indictment. Murder after murder of Persons of Color occured during the trial and on the very day of the verdict. No, this is not victory.

This must instead be one more step on the road to equal justice. To a society where the murder of Persons of Color is not seen as justified at the hands of those who were supposed to and never have, protected us.

This is NOT victory. We need to keep fighting. Keep protesting. Keep filming. Never resting until the false promise of, “All men are created equal” becomes the reality.

To do less, to subside into quiet with one step taken, is both failure and complicity.

Qualified Immunity needs to End. The unjust mandatory minimum sentencing needs to End. Private prisons and the constitutional loop hole of slave labor needs to end.

There are many other steps to be taken. Don’t waver.

Past revisitation

The heart is a funny thing. You can twist it, break it, give it away. You can make it light or it can sink. It can race or slow down so much that you can literally feel the seconds drip by and still…

It’s its capacity for pain which captivates. Because the pains of the heart are myriad.

But they all boil down to loss. Loss of self, loss of control, loss of hope, loss of love, loss of permanence.

I would like to say that it’s only pain, but it is medically possible to die from the emotional pain of a broken heart. That’s how connected we are. That the loss of love can break us. Kill us. And when it hurts that badly, you hope for that. Desire it. Because then it stops. And that’s all you can see.

I know that feeling. I know it bone deep. I fear it but it’s a road I’ve mapped, so it is intimate and familiar.

I’ve been rereading my older work and it paints in vivid hearts blood. A man trapped by pain.

I hope to not go back there. But some things are beyond control. And I, unfortunately, am emotionally mature enough to know that. Having your eyes wide open, remembering it all….

Believe me. It’s a curse

Introspection regarding recent changes

There was a time when, on waking, I would work on a story or write a poem. When it was easy to start though never as easy as I like to think it was.
But, ultimately, easier than it is now. And I wondered why that was.

At that time in my life, I hated my job. I disliked my bosses. And I was thinking about trying to get another job and despairing. Because any references would have to come from those same people, and they were spiteful and vindictive. Couple that with my companies penchant for assigning a single title which never changed despite job duties and my lack of college degree, and I was feeling trapped.

But my writing provided an escape. I could ponder what if’s and design worlds. I could explore the things I had kept hidden and, in fact, revel in them. Moreover, I decided to no longer be private about who I was. Regarding both my sexualities: Pansexual and BDSM-Sir. And yes, I regard the latter as a sexuality. It colors everything I am, and until my realization of it, I felt as lost as I did before I came out as Pansexual.

At that point, my thinking was this. I hate this job. But, I’m excellent at it and I am constitutionally incapable of not solving a problem when it arises and my job was all about solving problems. So, my customers got good if gruff customer service. If you wanted help with an issue, I was great. If you wanted your hand held and assured that the world was a kind place, I was not your guy.

So I disassociated from the job. I was a different person at work than elsewhere and I gave zero fucks. Firing me would cripple the department and if I got fired my ESOP would pay out so I was like fuck it.

So I was both shackled and free. And that informed my writing. I hid nothing. Held nothing back. Because there was no point. The only thing I had to lose was a job I hated. Though it would also lose me the chance to hang out with my best friend. Who worked in the same department.

I can’t say enough how that daily interaction with my friend kept me as sane as I could be.

So what’s my point? What am I talking about?
Well, now its tough to write. I have parts of my life hidden, at the request of others. A boundary I have decided to honor. I have a job which I don’t have an adversarial relationship with.

In short, I have something to lose. And since they are external to myself, I have limited control over if I do lose them. And I don’t do well with a loss of control.

So I procrastinate. I put off writing because it IS in my control. And that leads to me writing in the afternoon, when I am usually tired and depressed. So there are less thoughtful pieces. Less poetry and more songs. Just less…me.

I hope writing in the morning will fix that. Some of that. But there are things I can’t fix. They’re out of my control. And I hate that.

Why are there songs of the day?

Music doesn’t make me remember where I was when I first heard the song. None which makes me feel nostalgic. None that transports me to another time.
Instead, it just makes me feel. Like it opens the locks on long closed doors. And a flood of emotions bears down.

If I want to feel light, then Armin Van Buuren will make me dance in joy. A-Ha’s Take On Me is instant tears and a deep ache in my heart. There is music that makes me feel like running away and music that makes me ready to fight. Music that gives me hope and music that evokes a sense of dark ownership.

In my head, there is always music, whether it be some line or some tune, its always present. Silence is rare and in silence, I will find some new piece and add it to my hearts collection. I don’t allow myself to be mired in the familiar and always seek out the new. Because music is who we are. And allowing ourselves to stagnate, or crystallize, is the path which leads to stagnant thought. To zero change with no ideas making it past what you ‘know’ to be true.

Music is the wedge through which I keep doors open. The battering ram of new ways of thinking. It is everything made beautiful. And I have never felt alone when the music swells.

A yellow wood

I once said, “I have no regrets.”
And meant it
But that all came crashing down one fall night
Then regret became everything
So much so that it eclipsed everything
Until I was nothing
Just an open wound
Pulsing pain
Looking for anyway to feel
And there again I felt no regrets because I was so deep in regret
That nothing felt different
So with no differentiation
Nothing was the name of the game
Eventually, I began to feel again
And I would say that I regretted the things I hadn’t done
The actions I failed to take
So I resolved to risk
To hold forth my heart entire and burn rather than smolder
And I hurt some people
Because I was still hurting
I just kept the thorns turned inward than out
So I began to regret those actions
So actions taken, actions failed to take
And neither safe
So I became mindful
Tried to be honest
Always honest
With myself most of all
And I found myself with even more regret
Not of action or inaction
But instead for being unable to act
Constrained by my word given
Once to let my partner dictate pace
And so unable to make moves for both of our benefit
Once to say that two masters cannot be served
And instantly regretting it
It’s what I thought but if life has taught me anything it’s that new information brings new thought
I wish I had that confidence, that ignorance, of youth
That I could enforce my will and bedamned to all other consequences
If I did, for brief moments, I would be happy
But instead, I wage this long game
Hoping that my choices now will lead us well
And not to regret