deadFunk

greggo emailed me once, a long while ago, and told me that i was fantastically on my way to mastering the Funk, and then he and *m* threw such a wrench into the works that it totally derailed me.

when i was on my dating kick, the Funk suffered.

i tried a relationship with a younger man, and somehow lost my sense of humor. after telling him about my real estate investing dreams, he told me he could never be with someone who loved money so much. i told him i couldn't be with anyone who didn't support my dreams.

between learning to live without gluten, entering a new community one week, a new job the next week, returning to school the next week after a decade away, and entering my first serious relationship since *m* back in december of '07, i was exhausted, hungry, stressed, emotionally tender, exhausted, confused, insecure, and did i mention exhausted?

i took some "me time" to try and sort everything out. i was getting dangerously close to the blow-up-at-everything-and-sabotage-my-relationships stage. i needed time to rest, and think, and slow down.

in that time, my lover assumed i wanted someone else, misinterpreted everything i said and wrote, shut me out for a week, and i found out this morning he's with someone else.

in all this, i don't know how i could have done more, been more, given more. i was always honest. i handled my own issues. i was loving. i let him into places inside my heart i never wanted to ever see again after *m*. i covered his face in kisses at night and told him i loved him. i retreated in order to make sure i didn't hurt him if i had a meltdown.

i did everything i could.

and i've been here wondering what's wrong with me.

as long as it's just me with my family, the Funk is strong within me. i am confident, joyous, Funktastic, creative, and invincibile. the moment there's anyone else in my life, the Funk is either murdered (like *m* did), or it goes out. when i show my ugly side, they leave me. when i don't show my ugly side, they leave anyway.

i don't understand it. everyone wants to be loved. i am no different. i want to be held at night, told i'm beautiful, appreciated for those unique things about me. i want it. but i'm beginning to wonder if Delena of the Funkywild can only survive alone.

i'll get up again from this. i always do. i'll survive, i'll be strong, i'll re-find the Funk. and i can find happiness in my solitude. but i want a fulfilling relationship, and something deep inside me is afraid that Delena of the Funkywild is made for no such thing. I want to grow old with someone who loves me.

in memoriam

i wanna be like her.

when i grow up.

the price of love pt v

to read the price of love from pt i, click here

"sullen and stubborn melancholy hath never become of any human," my friend said.

i looked up at him, hot words burning the tip of my tongue, but one look into his golden eye --the slit of his pupil narrowing to a line thinner than my smallest finger-- and my heated words cooled. so i did as he bade me and stopped pouting.

"do as you will, my friend," i told him, frowning. "i need to think."

i made my way across the plains, down where the land sloped a bit, and found a gently flowing river that sparkled in the sunlight like a dragon's hoard tumbling with gemstones and pearls and glittering, glittering gold. the blue of the water was sapphire blue, darkening like the night sky the deeper the water ran toward the middle. fish leapt like dancers, catching mosquitoes and water skates for their meals. reed birds rustled in the tall grasses, scolding and calling one another with their "chirrr, chikirk! chirrr, chikirk!"

i stripped out of my armor, the delicious breeze a cool caress on skin hot and dampened with sweat from wearing such heavy armor through an eternity of battles, of blood on the boil from such a close hunt of such a hated enemy. and with each item i loosened and let drop to the ground, the lighter i felt. the breeze cooled the back of my sweaty neck, dried my tunic, ruffled my hair which i had unwound from its battle braid. it truly felt as if i were letting go of more and more of my worries and setting them down along with my armor.

at last i was able to close my eyes and truly listen to the wind and hear what it was telling me. in one swift motion, my tunic and leggings came off and i was letting the current take me downstream. how long i was out there bathing, swimming, basking in the sunlight before i swam back to shore, i do not know. i should have come out miles from where i'd lain my armor, but there it was...waiting for me.

i sighed. i might be able to lay it down for a time, but it would still be waiting for me to take it up again.

instead, however, i sat by the reeds in the shallows listening to the wind sough through them, hearing their wisdom whispered to me. as the golden glitter on the river turned to orange and salmon and lavender, it finally made sense to me.

insanity is what it was, what the reeds whispered to me by the water, but as i had tried all else without a mote of success, perhaps insanity inspired by the wind and the water was what was called for. perhaps the essence of what they proposed was insanity itself. no one ever said This Thing i was attempting ever made sense...

i stood up and brushed my hair with the curled witches' fingers that grew among the reeds, but kept it loose. i put on my tunic and leggings, now dried and stiff from the sun.

my armor i left by the river and returned to the cave. my old friend and companion, the fire dragon, was gone.

the entrance to the cave both threatened and mocked me with its deep, enveloping darkness. she was in there, i knew. my Inner Flaming Narcissist lay in the deepest hollows, biding her time, raising my worst selves from the dead. but it didn't matter.

i took a deep breath and closed my eyes. the wind took my hair in its hands and stroked my face encouragingly. the earth pulsed beneath my bare feet. somewhere beneath them, i knew, She walked.

...and so i sang.

i'm sorry but i'm just thinking of the right words to say...
i know they don't sound the way i planned them to be...
but if you wait around a while i'll make you fall for me
i promise you, i promise you i will...

i sang every fitting song i could remember.

something in the way she knows
and all i have to do is think of her...
something in the things she shows me.
i don't wanna leave her now.
you know i believe and how...


and when you speak...angels sing from above--
everyday words seem...to turn into love songs...

bronze and salmon and lavender hues on the horizon gave way to the deeper blue-black shadows of night. stars came awake across the sky, and the milky silver ribbon of moon tears stretched from one end of the horizon and disappeared into eternity. the grass took upon itself the silver sheen as the moon rose three-quarters full. sweat beaded across my brow and tickled down the side of my face. i felt it streak down the middle of my back and between my breasts, and still i sang.

i saw a world enchanted
spirits and charms in the air,
i always took for granted
i was the only one there.
but your power shone...
brighter than any i've known!
i'm under your spell
nothing i can do...
you just took my soul with you.
you worked your charm so well
finally, i knew
everything i dreamed was true
you made me believe!

through the night i serenaded her, though my voice grew hoarse and i had to wrack my brain to find new things to sing. but still, however silly it seemed--

it's not unusual to be loved by anyone
it's not unusual to have fun with anyone...

--i sang it. at some point before the darkness gave way to the first hint of dawn, i had fallen to my knees in exhaustion. now i pleaded with her, romancing my Inner Flaming Narcissist with every love song i had ever heard, and as the first touch of gold crept over the horizon, i saw movement by the mouth of the cave. i gasped!

...and it disappeared.

i merely closed my eyes and began again.

hello, hello!
i'm at a place called 'vertigo'
lights go down and all i know
is that you give me something i can feel...
feeeel!
you're teaching me...
your love is teaching me
how to kneel.
kneel!!

and there she was. with outstretched arms she came to me and embraced me.

and as the sun burst over the horizon to bathe the sprawling hills in dazzling light, as the birds and insects began their morning songs, one more song arose within me, and she joined in. by the time we finished, there was...

give me strength to find the road that's lost in me.
give me time to heal and build myself a dream.
give me eyes to see the world surrounding me.
give me strength...to be...

...only me.

-------------------------
songs in order of appearance:
when in rome, "the promise"
the beatles, "something"
louie armstrong, "la vie en rose"
buffy the vampire slayer: once more with feeling, "under your spell"
tom jones, "it's not unusual"
U2, "vertigo"
over the rhine, "give me strength"

continued from pt iv

the price of love pt iv

last time, on iGoddess...

“She Who Never Lets Go is out there,” I said.

She Who Never Lets Go. She Who Never Forgets...nor Forgives. i had many names for her, primary among them My Inner Flaming Narcissist.

i leapt onto my warhorse and meant to simply gallop in search as i had with all the others. my warriors let out a resounding roar as i wheeled my mount and he reared up, beating the air with his mighty hooves and bellowing out a blood-boiling whinny of his own. my heart pounded in echo of his bloodthirst, but just as i tightened my grip on the reins, he began to morph right before my eyes.

sleek chestnut neck elongated, grew scales that deepened to the smouldering redblack of still-burning coals. swift, straight legs thickened like oak stumps and bent in upon themselves. stout hooves grew into five-toed, leathery feet with obsidian talons the length of my sword and as thick as my thigh. the swishing horsetail was shed and in its place grew a powerful tail with wickedly curved spikes at the end. my steed unfurled expansive wings that ruffled like canvas tarp in the wind, and --astride a great red dragon-- took to the air.

my companions grew smaller as we lifted higher into the air. i felt a pang at this, leaving them with nary a farewell, but somehow i knew they were still with me. all ninety-nine of them.

flying low, we could not find my Inner Flaming Narcissist, and so I pointed up and the dragon rose higher. there! running full tilt through the barley as if the hounds of hell itself were after her. perhaps hellhounds would have been preferable, compared to myself astride a red dragon?

i pointed at the small form running, and the dragon opened his mouth and a veritable fountain of liquid fire gushed forth and flooded the countryside in flames. just before it hit my enemy, she dove headfirst into a small opening in the side of the hill. not even the barley caught fire. not so much as a whiff of smoke on the air once the dragon ceased his onslaught. we circled around for another dive, and this time the dragon spat fireballs. circle and dive, this time raining brimstone.

again and again he barraged the hillside with sulfur and flame, but it was no use.

once more i pointed to the ground and he nodded, coming to land right beside the mouth of this tiny hole in the hillside. from the air it seemed tiny as a rabbit hole, but in truth it would have fit a child quite easily. however she had shrunk to fit, or the cave mouth had widened to accommodate her…it was an ability she alone possessed.

i had to doff my armor, even leave my sword behind before i could fit. i squeezed through the mouth of this cave and crawled, but it widened a few paces in and i could walk freely. it was blacker than hell and i could not see my hand in front of my face. the only light came from the mouth of the cave, where i could see –in great detail—the clear sky to the horizon, each stalk of barley, and the red dragon watching me carefully.

a few more paces and the tunnel forked three ways. immediately i knew She Who Never Forgives had taken the middle fork, but still i hesitated. somehow i knew that a few paces beyond the fork, the tunnel curved sharply down, became almost a chute that led deep, deep into the earth. and it was a maze down there, i knew. somehow, i just knew.

i had lost her but could not admit it. i struggled with myself, wanting more than anything to go after her and be done with it! but i also knew that i would very likely lose myself if i followed. get lost? no. i would lose myself...whatever that meant. i was a warrior, not a philosopher! but somehow i knew it was a dangerous maze down there, filled with the unknown that was all the more monstrous and dangerous because it was the unknown. if i went down there, i would never see sunlight again.

a deep, rumbling voice echoed from the cave mouth. “my friend and lady knight,” said the dragon, “how dost thou intend to proceed? thy quarry is lost in a warren of twists and folds even thou could not hope to unravel.”

draconic, the language of the draq, was a very high and formal speech, i knew. and this was as informal of speech as a dragon could manage; we were very old friends, he and i. but the old forms must be met. again, something a philosopher or perhaps a historian would understand, but i was a simple warrior. all i knew was that old friends through lifetime after lifetime, it was enough for me that i just knew. “i am conflicted, old friend,” i confessed.

before i could continue, the dragon spoke again. “thou art out of thine element, sister, and deep in thine enemy’s lands.” the warning was simple but elegant; his telling me the advantage was not mine would have been redundant.

and yet i lingered, torn between chasing after my Inner Flaming Narcissist and admitting defeat, but the dragon was right. i just could not admit it gracefully. i could not let go of the chase. not when i was so close to utter victory!

"pride blinds thee," he said. "thou wouldst follow Destruction to its end and salvage thine dignity, even as thou risks all."

i laughed, but it was a bitter sound. he was right, as usual. i wanted to save face, to save myself the trouble of hunting them all over again, to save myself from feeling stupid and like i had failed by not cutting off the head of the hydra. and yet i was willing to risk my life to save face. he'd said it: i was being stupid and egotistical. i couldn't see any alternative, however.

finally, gritting my teeth and fighting not to punch the walls and scream in frustration, i turned heel and climbed back out of the tunnel. my friend waited as i lost myself in thoughts. i was wallowing in my dark mood, defeated and frustrated beyond words. how could i get her?

...how could i destroy her?

to pt v.

rainbow dreams: the movie

lovlies over at sacred suzi's have been making their dream boards for the full moon. i made one last month and it was a blast. i actually have it saved as my wallpaper on my computer.

but i wanted to do something a little more fun this time around. something that would jazz me up a bit more, get my blood racing and my Funk revving.

i bring to you...

...rainbow dreams: the MOVIE!




i am grateful to all the abundance in my life that made this movie possible...

the price of love pt iii

last time, on iGoddess...


the body lay still, face down, and i stared at her hair rippling in the wind. my army cheered for the victory, but i did not. it would only get more difficult. “to Doubt,” i said, staring down at the body. the call was taken up by the rest of my warriors until it was a thunderous roar like a whirlwind around me.

i blinked.

and suddenly i was back upon my warhorse, galloping across the countryside, my companions running as if fresh and rested. we chased down Doubt and surrounded her so she was forced to face me. every time she tried to run, she ran into a solid wall of bodies and shields and my fighters shoved her back into the circle they’d cleared for us.

one by one we chased my enemies down. blood enemies. foes against whom i had struggled for lifetimes. eons. somehow i knew this day was the day i would strike them down for once and all, and be their puppet no longer.

one by one we hunted them down like animals. there were so many i cannot recall every single one, but i know there was a certain order to defeat them or else all my fighting would be for naught. contempt needed to be slain before Arrogance could fall, and yet i had to face Self-Importance and False Pride first in order to weaken Contempt enough to face her and win. and yet, i could not defeat False Pride without first felling Self-Loathing. and so it went. there was only one proper order, and it was a delicate puzzle i had to work out on the fly, in the rush of battle and drunk on adrenaline.

somehow, i remained clear-headed. and every single enemy wore my face, my body, cried out with my voice. i died a thousand deaths that day; i watched as i handed myself violent and bloody death a thousand different ways.

every time we were on the hunt, i rode my steed at a gallop and my companions easily kept pace. and every battle, i would suddenly find myself on my feet and my warhorse gone. after the first few engagements i realized my companions only grew stronger and had more energy after every fight, not weak and tired and winded. but i grew tired enough for a hundred men. and in the heat of battle there was never the stink that covers a battlefield like a thick blanket.

every enemy had her own horde of minions, which my companions fought and kept clear of me, and which i never saw. my own comrades i never saw clearly, either, only caught glimpses from the corner of my eyes. the air remained as crisp and clear as ever, and the barley swayed and rustled as it brushed against my armor. the chill in the air grew sharp as the breeze dried the sweat from my skin, but i felt clean. for all the blood and sweat, dirt and death that covered me from head to toe, i was clean.

the moment i had run Despair through the belly with my sword, i turned and my companions parted for me to walk a clear path…and suddenly Rage was there. she loomed until she filled my entire vision, my likeness in every way except her colors were more vivid, as if the background had faded to a pale, washed-out version of reality and rendered Rage in stark clarity. down to the red plumes on her helmet, Rage was identical to me in every way, only larger than life.

she grinned at me and my stomach jumped into my throat, then plummeted to my feet. in one swift motion her greatsword was out of its scabbard and arced upwards toward my head. i parried, and the jolt reverberated down to my toes. Rage was strong! far stronger than i. and as we fought, she grew. only slightly at first, but if we were perfectly equal in the beginning –not even counting her superior strength—any growth was her advantage. and she never stopped smiling at me, a dark smile that seemed all pointed fangs, and her eyes glittered with malice. she was making me pay; exacting her revenge for everything that had ever angered her, and i was Rage’s blood sacrifice.

but i held onto my own righteous, berserker frenzy and it was barely enough to keep up my defense. Rage fought me back and back. and she grew. and she was powerfully strong. i was losing.

i lost my footing and fell, bracing myself up with one elbow as i blocked another jab. i deflected the sword’s point, but not enough, and i took a wound high in my right shoulder. Rage’s sword did not pierce me through, just grazed me with the edge, but it was enough. the pain flooded everywhere at once, however, and somehow i knew it would leave a scar i would carry forever no matter how anyone tried to heal it. i remember only hoping that i would still be pretty despite the scar.

thinking herself the victor, Rage threw herself at me. but she was overconfident and underestimated me. i repaid her for my wound, and as she staggered back in utter surprise, i pushed myself to my feet and swung my sword with all my might...

...and her head went flying from her body. before my sword had completed its arc, Vengeance and Malice sprang from the pool of Rage’s blood at my feet.

they were peculiar. if i injured one, an identical injury appeared on the other. fighting them was like dueling two foes with one mind. one fell after i tore a hole through her heart, the other with her skull split. at that point, however, i could no longer tell them apart.

and on it went until there were almost none left. i rode my horse, my companions ran alongside me. we came to the spot i knew my next foe, Deceit, would be, and she was not there. confused, all one hundred and one of us looked around, searching for her. i knew she could not have gotten so far as to escape, and yet Deceit was nowhere to be seen! just then i caught movement from the corner of my eye and noticed that one of my companions wore her armor that did not quite fit as properly as it should. she carried her sword awkwardly, and her helmet was just a little too big.

she caught me staring at her and gave a start, her eyes growing wide and nostrils quivering like a deer that had caught the hunter’s scent. and i knew. she knew i knew.

i had found Deceit hiding among my own ranks.

“Deceiver!” i shouted, barreling straight for her at a dead run. i bashed her with my shield and then stabbed her in the chest with my sword as she lay stunned in the dirt. it was over almost before it even began.

“there is only one,” i said to myself. only one left out of all of them...and she was the most dangerous, the most important, and the most elusive. with her still free, i knew that it was possible my slain enemies could be resurrected.

in fact, it was most certain.

“She Who Never Lets Go is out there,” i said. She Who Never Lets Go, She Who Never Forgets...nor Forgives...

to pt iv

what's past is prologue

i am a writer of stories.

those stories you enjoy all tucked into your bed, those stories you dream when your mind is a million miles away. those stories you hear in a whisper and know there is a world beneath a few words. stories that stay with you forever. stories you forget in a turn.

stories.

we all have our stories.

your story began the day you came into existence. your story began the day you were born. your story began the day you fell in love, became a parent, got your first job, had your first kiss. your story began.

every waking moment we are creating our stories. every moment is a fresh beginning, where the past is prologue.

my story began today. this very moment. last monday when i got That Package in the mail. the wednesday after, when FedEx dropped off That Other Package. yesterday, when i actively created my day in my own image and It Was So. this morning, when i played god again, and It Was Good.

a new book opened up for me today. the title is Delena of the Funkywild. this character, the heroine, is a very rich and layered character, fully developed even on page 1. her backstory is incredibly vivid, filled with much pain, growth, and blessings.

as we see her on page 1, she is on the cusp of turning thirty. friends her age are lamenting the loss of their twenty-somethings, getting depressed or taking up smoking or reacting by sleeping with a parade of much younger men. she can't wait to begin being "thirty, flirty, and fabulous!" she's a mexican-american feeling somewhat displaced in the pacific northwest, where her culture is conspicuously absent yet remaining a very deep part of herself. her motivating factor is not obvious; it's not even hinted at, but it's there: her every waking moment, her driving goals, even the reason she gets out of bed every morning is for her only child whom she hasn't seen in three years.

there is no angst in her anymore; she's grown out of that phase and made peace with her inner child. they celebrated by sharing strawberry jam sandwiches and soymilk while playing with my little pony. her archetypes mutated to forms that would be unrecognizable to anyone in what she calls her "former life."

this heroine is a Thunder Walker about to take her first steps into a larger realm where the Movers and the Shakers live and breathe the paradigm her soul has hungered after her entire life.

the real story is just beginning. what does the back cover blurb say?

Delena's life is about to get far more interesting than anything she'd ever imagined. Having conquered the Inner Landscape of the Abused Stray-Cat Child in the Land of No Role Models, she was an established woman with a family, a career, and a cat...all she'd thought she ever wanted in life. But her perpetually adventurous spirit sought new vistas to traverse, and when she heard the clarion call to a Freedom Revolution, she answered in full freedom fighter regalia right down to her metallic pink go-go boots and lip gloss bandolier. But nothing could prepare her for the new cast of characters she would soon encounter: the Reincarnated Totem Horde, the One with the Tie-Dyed Decoder Ring, the Jiggy Dreaming-Magic Guru, the Thunder Walkers... Suddenly she finds herself in a world where what was real isn't, what was dreams is solid, and the only place that's real is the space in-between. In a land of shifting paradigms and mutating archetypes, Delena must find the courage to ask herself the big question: is she ready to embrace the power of the Creative Shamanatrix Goddess within herself and truly walk her talk?

the price of love pt. ii

...continued from pt. i...

i was standing in the middle of eternity, the countryside rolling in gentle swells as far as the eye could see. gone was the river of blood, where upon its blood-muddy banks i had sat with the pomegranate priestess. instead of the river, now i could see the rippling plains covered in barley swaying in the breeze which held a touch --a mere hint-- of ice.

it was the time of year when late summer was just changing hands with the darkening autumn, the chilled fingers of the turning seasons reaching into the heat of midday to raise goose chills on my skin even as I dripped sweat in the heat.

i stood alone on a hilltop, dressed for battle save for the general’s helmet tucked under one arm, its crest of red plumes fluttering ever so gently on the restless air. i looked around, expecting to see the pomegranate priestess with her blood tattoos, but she was gone. strands of hair had worked themselves loose from my braid and blew across my face; the breeze came from the north. death was in the wind this day, i knew. i ran my hands across the heads of barley and knew somehow this was the last moment of peace i would see for a long time, and i wished time would stand still.

silence fell.

even the breeze stopped and the barley froze in mid-sway. every tiny detail of the world stood out in cruel relief, simple as it was: the sky cerulean perfection, flawless; the hills so gentle it seemed the land was flatter than it truly was. it seemed i could run to the horizon and never get winded; the breeze sent the barley bowing and swaying in waves; the air crisp and fresh and smelled like…

i blinked my eyes and the peace shattered before me. suddenly i was sitting astride a warhorse just as garbed for battle as i was, a huge chestnut steed with black mane and tail. it had a red saddlecloth with gold trim; a red to match the plumes on my helmet. i alone in my army wore red, however, as was i the only one to have a horse.

this horse was no gelding and only half broken, fierce and rearing and whinnying and difficult to control. no one else could ride this horse, i knew, but even i had to give all my concentration to controlling my mount. i couldn't handle this horse casually at all but give it my full care and respect.

all this i knew in an instant as time resumed and i found myself suddenly astride this massive warhorse, my war party behind me shouting and roaring and beating their swords on their shields to get their blood racing.

i drew my greatsword from its sheath and pointed it forward, heralding the charge downhill. my enemies were here, concealed in the barley, occupying the beauty of the picturesque landscape in the heart of my queendom. “Onward!” it was a full-throated roar as i kicked my mount to full gallop.

the rest of my army, one hundred elite warriors of legendary skill and power, ran afoot alongside my mount. the horse, i knew, was a necessity born of the fact i could never have kept up with my companions running as easily as they kept up with my horse galloping.

i led the charge downslope, no enemy in sight and yet i knew that we were not alone in that vast field of barley.

And we fell on the enemy. the first of many: Fear.

i was screaming Fear’s name, waving my sword in the air and spurring my horse even faster. the bloodlust was a roar in my ears and a fire in my veins. there would be a reckoning this day!

and then i was upon her, and my horse was gone. i was on foot. my companions were fighting as well, but i could not see their adversaries. unseen foes accompanying Fear, nightmare conjurations of every form imaginable, but all i could see was Fear herself. my companions kept Fear’s minions away from me, defending me so i could face my enemy unhindered.

i raised my sword, screaming in the heat of battle. i looked into my enemy’s eyes.

my first mistake.

again time lurched, slowed to a crawl. i took in the sight of Fear from head to toe. her eyes held me. they were my eyes.

she had my round face, the scar on her bottom lip, her left cheekbone slightly puffier than her right from the day in high school when she cracked it. she was exactly my height; her hair exactly the length of mine; the mole on her neck; the scar on the knuckle of her right forefinger that i saw as she held up her hands…everything. she was me.

Fear was me.

i hesitated, my sword trembling in my hands. i wanted to weep. i was terrified. horrified! i would just as soon turn my sword upon myself!

Fear fell to her knees, hands in front of her face as if to deflect the blow she knew was coming. i knew exactly the expression i wore because Fear wore it as well, and i knew she would not weep no matter how terrified she was unless i wept first. it was then i noticed she wore no armor, no protection. all she wore was one of my favorite grungy, layered outfits i had loved back in middle school: forest-green shirt with a pocket at the left breast, faded and fraying denim shorts, black leggings underneath, black socks, black boots, black sweatshirt tied around her waist.

how could i kill an unarmed child? she certainly looked twelve years old again. i was trembling. an enemy as my equal, met face to face in armor and armed to the teeth i could slay, but i would not be a butcher of children! oh, how i trembled...!

...and then i realized this was her tactic; this was Fear’s great Weapon. she manipulated me as if i were the child!

anguish welled up within me. screaming anguish and defiance, i brought my sword down and sliced Fear clean across the chest, a diagonal gash that gaped horribly from her left shoulder down to the ribs on her right side. her breastbone made an ugly, wretched crunch as it was crushed. her blood sprayed across my face, splattered my armor, but i did not wipe it away.

upon the death of my first foe, my army rose up in a deafening cheer. “Onward!” I called, jabbing my bloodied sword straight up into the air.

to pt iii

attack of the id

about a month before *sy* broke my heart, i'd begun to have strange dreams and ...we'll call them "impulses." and they were troubling, for as much as i was (am?) in love with *sy*, i was constantly having strange dreams about *m*. and they were getting stronger all the time. i had no idea what was going on, why, or what to do about it.

so i did nothing.

and these past couple weeks --depression notwithstanding-- i noticed that not only were these dreams and impulses getting stronger, but they were downright overpowering. what did i want? what was i trying to tell myself? was there something unresolved in the *m* realm?

i didn't miss him. not really. i was sorry to have lost a pretty fun friend yes, but then again he hadn't really been a friend to me since before even moving out here.

and then, a few days ago, the urge to talk to him was so strong it nearly floored me. it certainly frightened me. i missed him.

what the...?

i began to list every single reason he was unhealthy for me, and totally not good for me. i listed every reason my family had to dislike him. i reminded myself of his outburst that finally drove me away. i relived my week of emotional detox, where *ds* and *ks* were literally afraid to let me by myself, i was such a wreck.

this man. is not. healthy. for me.

he is the very antithesis of the delena.

and yet the desire to be near him, to talk to him, to consider if i should try to get back together with him was scaring me with its strength and power. i came home from work last night and glued myself to my xbox purely so i wouldn't put on shoes and go talk to him right then. i knew he was home, and awake...

and i couldn't understand why.

of course, understanding the why of things is my habit, and so i wouldn't let myself act until i knew the source and understood it. it took my siblings to point it out to me. they're so smart...

and i think they're right. it isn't so much *m* that is drawing me as the simple fact that i was closest to careerlovemarriagechildren with *m*, even when we were miserable together. and he fought to try to get me to stay. and i mean he fought. albeit way too late to do anything but inspire resentment and suspicion, but he fought. *sy* just let me go because the psycho hose beast was holding his daughter hostage --which is despicable and disgusting and only proves what i've been saying about her all along. but whatever.

but *m* fought, and it was the first time in a long time that i felt he really wanted me. and we wanted kids together. and marriage. and i already had my career...

a part of me wonders if the closest i'll ever come is that disaster of a relationship. it's pathetic.

but i've told my friends: "if i were looking for a new job, i'd let you all know so you could help me find something good. well chicas, i'm in the market for a good man. if you find anything, lemme know."

brezsny-on-the-blog

CAPRICORN (Dec 22-Jan 19) - Want to know a secret? I "predict" the present, not the future. In other words, I discern unconscious patterns and invisible influences that are affecting you *now.* I also try to inspire you to read your *own* mind so as to uncover feelings that you've been hiding from yourself. So I can't necessarily tell you what specific events will transpire in the coming days. But I do suspect the following things are true, although you may not be aware of them yet: You are in the midst of redefining what home means to you. You've been neglecting a deep need that's a bit embarrassing to you. And there's a place in your foundation that's in disrepair and requires your immediate attention.


i've been in the midst of redefining what home means to me for quite some time now. my pack and i have spent considerable time lately trying to verbalize the family code, so to speak. this, of course, makes the iGoddess-hatchling extra special. we're a matrilineal family. i pray so hard for a girl it's not funny, and completely un-PC but i don't care. i want a girl, dammit.

but yes, mr. brezsny, i know i've been finding new definitions of my idea of "home." i have for quite some time. but i know i've been treating certain aspects of it as a big white elephant in my living room. shut up.

as for some deep need that's a bit embarrassing to me? you mean aside from the fact that all these words and feelings regarding the dead dream are piling up inside me and, because i know no one cares to hear or read about them, i've been holding it all inside and it's tearing me apart a little bit? at this point, i don't know whether the deep need is to talk about it until i stop mourning, or if it's just the fact that in this day and age mrs. cleaver isn't exactly an approved or acceptable goal to achieve and makes me seem a threat to progress and the womens' movement? all i know is that i'm choking on this need to sort through everything about my sorrow, rage, confusion, and helplessness, and on those times i've brought it up i've been met with a whole lot of silence.

a few nights ago i had this waking dream in which i had locked myself in an empty room with a large kitchen knife from my set, and repeatedly stabbed myself in the throat with it. in the dream, i had even lost grip of the knife but it continued to stab me on its own. i could feel the angled, downward pressure every time it bit into my throat. i could hear myself choking on blood and words and emotions. whenever i get sick, i wake up with a sore throat first.

now, naturopathically and magically speaking, i know exactly what this means. but hell if i know what to do about it. no one wants to hear a woman lament about never being able to be a stupid housewife, and no one wants to hear an inner girlchild crying about the terror that was life in a house like hers and how she used to play with stuffed animals like they were children and have an imaginary husband.

yeah, i didn't have imaginary friends. i had an imaginary husband. lame, isn't it?

it could also be the deep need to explore the aspects of the goddess who chose me (dammit), and to express my fascination with and love for her. but not many people like to hear about lilith, those people who are even familiar with a concept outside the realm of generic christianity. which is to say, "not many."

as for my foundation needing immediate attention to fix that spot of disrepair, i might have an idea what it is. one could say that i've let rage and vengeance creep into my Funk, which is like having beetles and dry rot eating away at the support beams of my inner mansion. and i'm struggling with it. but another someone could say that i've been struggling against the wrong things. lilith is no light and airy, funky fizzbang of a divalicious rockstar sort of goddess.

she's the one spoken of in the Song of the Rising Tides, the end of days:
...tremble,
o you children of seth
mother is coming.
mother is here.
with her lessons of madness
and hands full of blood
she comes to make the world anew
and her chariot is pain and horror...

see the broken chamber of 500 years
and the shattered crystal upon the floor
see the stones weeping and the dragons free
lilith is coming.
lilith is here!

there's a reason she's known as the Queen of the Hells. in babylon they called her Lamashtu. in greece she is Hecate. in india, she's called Kali. but kali and hecate have been "prettified" in some respects, and lamashtu is shoved into a corner. lilith is rarely known. she refuses to be cleaned up and made acceptable. there's a time and place for everything, and the Funk can't be All. too much of a good thing, right? to do that would be to deny aspects of myself. my Self.

what if the place in my foundation that's in disrepair and requires immediate attention isn't the fact i'm suffering the influence of my dark side, but the fact i'm denying it?

speaking of dreams...

so my bio-dad called me while i was at work the other day and left a voicemail. he mentioned that he'd had a dream about me the other night and wanted to share it with me. when i called him back, we talked a bit, and then he told me his dream.

he dreamt that he was with me somewhere, and i was both three years old and fourteen at the same time. like there were two of me, but not. but there were. ...but not, in the strange fashion of dreams. and the three year-old was mad at him for some reason.

"i'd have thought the teenager would be mad at me," he said, laughing, "but it wasn't. it was the three year-old. so i turned to the fourteen year-old and asked her to tell your three year-old self that it would be okay, that it would pass."

"hmm," i said. "maybe she was just having a tantrum."

"i don't know. but man, she was really mad at me. but it was the strangest thing, both of you looked exactly like you did at those ages. and i felt it in my heart, even in the dream. i feel it now still, actually. identical."

of course, it made sense to me on a visceral level. myself at three years old was still alive inside, and knew her heart and herself. the fourteen year-old me? she was quite dead inside, with a huge gaping hole in her memory, and wearing the thickest coke-bottle glasses of denial anyone had ever seen. she couldn't be mad, of course. she couldn't be anything.

and it struck me, because last night i had my own dream. some details are vague, and strange in the manner of dreams, but what i remember was speaking with *m*, and he was telling me about this song he'd heard someone sing earlier that day. only, i only heard his voice because he was speaking to me through my bedroom door, which was an inch or two ajar. it was some native american song, he said. he said it was beautiful, but he couldn't understand it.

and suddenly, i began to sing it. it wasn't the rhythmic, gutteral collection of vowels that you normally hear sung around a shaman's campfire. it was an actual song, in complete cherokee, and i knew it for a war song. but the thing of it is...it wasn't like anything you hear of, with the drums and rattle and pipe. this was a woman's lament, and a vow. it was a song of the hidden steel beneath the frail beauty of a spring blossom long since departed of its fragrant bloom. it was a woman's war song, telling of the loss of her love and the promise she makes to herself, as she sits in her teepee and paints her face for battle, that she will take the lives of many of her enemies who had slain him, and offer them up to Father Sky, or she will die in the attempt. either way, it matters little.

it was a sad song, a rare song that somehow i knew was not meant for outsiders' ears. which is ironic, considering i, too, would be considered an outsider. i don't know how strong the native blood runs in my veins, and yet in the dream i knew every word. i knew the voice of the woman who had sung it as if i had grown up hearing that voice from infancy.

of course, the words and melody faded before i was even fully awake. but the feeling of it is with me still. naturally, the immediate interpretation would be the simple fact i shouldn't give up on my dream, and i should die trying, striving for it. but that would be silly. in the song, the woman knew she was going to her death. but in the song, it was also certain she would put up such a fight it would become legend. i refuse to die like that, if my legacy will be failure. and so i reject that interpretation. what does speak to me, however, is that it was a woman's war song, its meaning hidden from men and, thus, from common knowledge. men being the world's self-appointed-yet-faulty keepers of lore as they are.

and i remember how *m* thought it was so interesting, so beautiful, and as i continued to sing it i only thought to myself, "you fool. you don't know the meaning beneath the melody, do you? you never have."

in my perfect world...

i had this dream early this morning, and in it i was talking with *m*. it was a face-off, to be perfectly honest. and he was completely fed-up with me, too, only i was so far beyond caring that...well...i didn't care. and he asked me what i wanted in my perfect world.

and i told him.

the dream faded to what my dreams usually are: swirling colors and darkness, thoughts and reflections of my heart spoken aloud by disembodied voices that sound like the textures that have made up my life. i dream of music and the desire to fly. i've never flown in my dreams...except once. something is always tethering me down, or knocking me out of the sky, or gravity suddenly becomes ten thousand times more powerful, or i hit a ceiling that suddenly appears, or...or...or...

...except once. i really flew, and my subconscious was so surprised, the oddity so remarkably odd, that it actually knocked me into a lucid dream. conscious thought entered the picture because i was so shocked to actually be flying. so shocked that, for the first time ever in my life, i wasn't being held down or denied.

which is why i usually dream of colors and darkness, of floating in nothing, of music and voices talking.

and i was hearing my own voice continue to rant, to be so brutally honest my every word was a lash meant to break skin, shatter bone, and cut through to the soul. and i can hear them all, tumbling around inside my head all day long until i thought i would go crazy from it. usually dreams fade with time no matter how hard you try to hold onto them. no, this one was etched into me.

my voice became something other...my voice, only not my voice. different. deeper, richer. not so annoying. there was even a hint of maleness in it, as well, of the deep timbre and quality of a man's voice that i love -- when you can feel a man's voice vibrate your own body if his chest is deep enough, if his voice is rich enough. there's something so sensual and erotic about it, something that touches a primal part of my female sense i really can't deny.

my voice had it, too. and, somehow, i knew my honesty and my hardness were coming from that masculine note in me. the woman in my voice was all the longing and softness, all the yearning and reaching and desire to make One.

"in my perfect world, you touch me," i said. "in my perfect world, you hold me close."

in my perfect world, you want me close.

in my perfect world, i take refuge in you.

in my perfect world, you see my deep, quiet, female strength.

in my perfect world, you see together we complete the ancient song.

in my perfect world, you don't take me for granted.

in my perfect world, you value my needs as much as i value yours.

in my perfect world, you appreciate how we balance each other.

in my perfect world, you see that's how the gods made us.

in my perfect world, you hear my flesh screaming for your love as loudly as i can hear it.

in my perfect world, you care enough to ask me why.

in my perfect world, you care enough to work to understand.

in my perfect world, you do not stand apart from me.


...too bad it's only a dream.

rainbow dreams

this week's rainbow dreams is brought to you by the triple goddess tarot, wellsprings, and the number 13.


who knows how long i slept in my bed of earth, of Earth, somewhere beneath the vast grounds of the Menstrual Temple? the voice had not spoken to me in a great while, but there was no sense of time there. i was becoming, it had said.

i could hear the creeping things in the soil, their plodding and twisting, turning over the earth. i could feel the other subterran denizens of the Temple in their dens and holes, digging and crawling, feeding their young. the roots of the green and growing things creaked and plucked and sighed as the crawling things' constant toil fed them and they grew into grass, flowers, creepers, and the great trees of the Temple forest.

there was no sight in the damp darkness, no taste but that of earth, no breath. and yet i knew i still lived, nourished from head to toe by this most intimate connection with the sacred soil of the Temple grounds. the great thrumming, the slow and throbbing beat of the very heart of the world beat within me, my heart kept its time and thus I did not die. i was of Those Who Bleed But Do Not Die, the priestess had said.

however long i lay inside my resting place, there was the pain of my injuries. and the pain of healing. for an eternity it blocked out all sound, all sense of my neighbors deep in the earth, all awareness of that great Heartbeat keeping me in its rhythm. there was only pain.

but it lessened. thought returned slowly, and i became aware of other things. it was an irritating distraction, a burden which interfered with my rest. i hated it! i but wanted it gone, i wanted to sleep! i longed for an oblivion which would sweep away all thought of what had brought me there, the aches and anguish and frustrated desires that had seemed so overwhelming before the pomegranate priestess had rent my chest and gashed my heart open.

but perhaps...

...perhaps...

...perhaps she had only made manifest an injury already present. i could not think the sisterhood relished violence. and yet...they were the presence of the vulture goddess on earth, their voice the Voices of the destroyer and bandit queen. blood, thievery, and death were their trade if it furthered the cause. the Mother is as harsh and hurting as She is kind and nurturing.

i learned to grow tired of the pain's constant presence within me, and then annoyed, and finally resigned.

it was only after i had accepted its presence like an old friend did it begin to teach me things.

it was a great tool to focus the mind, and soon i had learned to reach beyond my immediate surroundings and could touch with my thoughts the borders of the vast grounds of the Temple. i learned the boundaries of my endurance, and how to stretch them. i learned to go within it, within the pain itself, until it did not exist. i learned to go without, so it did not exist.

i learned it was a choice when to feel it, if to feel it, and when to let it guide me. but never to let it rule me. i learned a love as for a great teacher, harsh and wise, and was grateful for its presence. it helped me keep my thoughts centered, no matter how far i traveled by my mind.

i suppose you think you are great and wise now, little dragon.

i had not heard the voice in eons, or what seemed eons. perhaps, i replied. i am greater and wiser than once i was.

foolish, perhaps, but not greater, it said in a bored voice. only a fool thinks the greatest teacher is pain. any tiresome bore, a media-brainwashed automoton can summon the insipid courage to peer into the abyss. but it takes a freaking genius with a fearless imagination to peer into the maw of happiness! do so!

there was the unmistakable sense of being smacked upside the head, however disembodied the voice and i were at the time. what? i--

come! say it. how do you satisfy happiness?

i had no answer.

how do you satisfy your sense of adventure?

i...that is...

it scoffed. how do you satisfy the sacred uproar? the very revolutionary freedom fight going on right now? the Divine Wow within your very breast?!

i could only stammer.

how do you satisfy the muse in your heart?

i was baffled.

when you can answer this, little dragon, then ask yourself if you feel wiser.

mama always said life is like a big fat blow job

this is so absolutely kickass awesome that i had to share it. you ready?

my life sucks!!!

it sucks! isn't that great?! i mean like phantasmagoric, orgasmic, mind-blowing SUCKAGE!! my life sucks! it absolutely sucks!

i cannot contain my blinding excitement like a cosmic blast of kundalini lightning from the top of my cute and adorable head down to my funky, pink-and-glitter polished toes.

so i'm sitting here having my weekly conversation with mr. brezsny when he suddenly up and tells me, "if you choose to become a practitioner of pronoia, your life will suck. it has to suck."

and i was like WTF?

"let me explain," he said. "as you cultivate the arts of gathering and bestowing the blessings that the universe is always conspiring to send your way, your life will suck in the best senses of the word."

"first, your life will suck in the same way that you use a straw to compel a thick milk shake to disobey gravity and squirt into your mouth. metaphorical translation: you'll work hard to pull toward you the resources you need, perhaps even exerting yourself with a force that goes against the natural flow."

hard work, determination, and an excited sense of anticipation of sweet and creamy rewards are the inspiration i use to draw toward me those things i truly want in life, as stated in my heart's resume: to reside in happy, healthy, and functional surroundings which offer greatest potential for my freedom and well-being with the most room for personal growth. and i suppose i've gone against the natural flow. pop nihilism, as mr. brezsny calls it, is nothing more than the same Dry Cynical Infrastructure of the Evil Trickster Phallocrats which boasts all the geometrical symmetry of a constipated nazi general. HA!

but what do i keep saying? cynicism is NOT insight! sticking feathers up your butt does NOT make you a chicken! love, peace, and beauty, man! be a revolutionary freedom fighter! a macho feminist! a chivalrous rock star! go out and marry yourself, kick your own ass, and float rubber duckies and lotus flowers at the sacred pool of the Menstrual Temple of the Funky Grail! give yourself a good, hard poke in the third eye and go find a sacred cow to tip while singing the hokey pokey naked with native american war paint smeared all over you!

FIND your FUNK, dammit! go against all the laws of the phallocratic nations of humankind and fucking LISTEN to the orgiastic cries of the freakin' cosmos, already! then you'll have all the sweet rewards of your life sucking great big gobs of milkshake into your life like an ice cream party in your mouth.

"your pronoiac life will suck in a second way," he said, "like a powerful vacuum cleaner that inhales dirt from the floor and makes it disappear. you will have a sixth sense about getting rid of messes that are contaminating your clarity."

now, since last year when i told *axe* to go away, i've been cleaning out the shit in my life that's contaminating not only my clarity, but contaminating every part of me like some Hazmat nightmare. but i remember a post that the lovely and splendoriffic boho mom wrote about boogie woogie feng-shui and how once the inertia's going, the momentum just builds until you find yourself in a frenzy of clutter-tossing and feng shui fiesta. but it's so true! once i got started, it only got easier until now i've got the hang of it and it doesn't really feel like work. not only that, but it's like magic.

like remember in mary poppins when she's with the children singing about spoonfuls of sugar and all that, and at one point all they have to do is look or point at the mess and it gets itself gone? yeah, it's like that. contaminants get rid of themselves, the whole world is shinier, customers are more polite, co-workers are more understanding, stupid ex-boyfriends email out of the blue to say i'm still wonderful and they were total jackasses. obstacles that don't move themselves out of my way with a, "begging pardon, miss!" instead happily show me the secret to conquering them. letting go is now as easy as, well, just opening up my hand and letting go. the more chi and magic and sparkly funk i foster, the more i can contain. the more i give, the more i find.

he went on. "here's a third interpretation: once you commit yourself to the art of pronoia, you will most likely develop an unusually dynamic form of receptivity. whether you're a man or woman, you'll be like a macho male with a willful intention to be like a welcoming female. as a result, you'll be regularly sucked into succulent opportunities you would never have come upon if you had let your pop nihilistic conditioning continue to dominate you. your openness to uplifting adventures will make it easier for serendipitous miracles to find you and draw you in."

oh, this one's too freaking easy. i'm the type of person that's middle-of-the-road when it comes to New Ideas vs. Tradition. i love tradition. i'm mexican, after all, and a huge part of me still believes the woman belongs in the kitchen, showing love means walking a half-step behind your man, and a clean and happy home is a reflection of a woman's integrity. y'know, all that mrs. cleaver crap. not that i'm not open to new modes of living, because honestly, my dad rules the kitchen and he is my guru. and it totally rocks! i also believe in equality in all things, communication always, and him taking his turn washing the dang dishes.

but i'm also open and receptive to new things. hell, this blog is all about exploration of the new, the fantastic, and the crazywhacked funkywild world of pronoia in which nothing is as it seems and everything is what it's not.

i find myself sucked into succulent opportunities i never would have found had i allowed my phallocratic propaganda machine programming continue to rule me. i'd never have been open to finding *m*, never have been willing to shed all my armor and just been vulnerable enough to experience the orgasmic wowness that happened when i let him in. already i've shared countless events with him that i've never experienced before, whether alone or with someone else. those are his, and his alone. he's my uplifting adventure and serendipitous miracle that happened simply because i was willing to let it happen.

that's so freaking awesome.

"let's take one more poetic leap of faith as we meditate on the metaphor," mr. brezsny finished up. "as you devote yourself to the art of making yourself available, your life will suck in the way that movements of the mouth and lips and tongue during close encounters with intimate partners stimulate pleasurable feelings."

oh dear Funky Cosmic Jiggy Snake, my life is as awesome as a freaking BLOW JOB!!

c'mon. put down the cynicism and take the feathers out of your butt. dreams are not crocks of shit. our bodies are the crude matter that contains our second-generation star stuff selves in the same way dreams are the crude matter that contain the larger and more ephemeral presence of Hope. so take pronoia with both hands --it's really easy!!!-- and get ready for the universe to shower you with blessings. get ready for sweet and ice creamy parties in your mouth, boogie-woogie feng-shui, serendipitious miracles, and life that sucks like oral sex, baby, yeah!

what's the word?

from the oxford-delena dictionary

dreamer
n.

1. one who dreams
2. a visionary
3. someone guided more by ideals and higher aspirations rather than practical considerations
4. someone delena met today


i spent my day off with a friend of mine from the salon, *v*. she's been "one of the other groomers" or "one of the other girls at the salon," on iGoddess, but today she's earned a name. we've always been friendly, and from the very beginning she reached out and tried to make me her friend. of course i was open to it, and she's absolutely great.

she invited me to her house and we played videogames, ate chinese takeout, and drank energy drinks and watched movies. i brought my xbox 360, MY baby. i bought a new game, an extra controller, and signed up for EB/GameStop's card just because of today.

it was worth every shiny penny.

she let me into her life, and i loved what i saw. she was excited to show me what she'd only shared with her husband, her life of dreams and goals and passions. i met a family of huge dreamers. shel silverstein's lilting words kept singing in my head as i spent my day in her home and her life, as i listened to the glorious trilling of her daughter's small voice, as i joked and laughed with her and her husband. . .

if you are a dreamer, come in. if you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer, if you're a pretender, come sit by my fire. for we have some flax-golden tales to spin. come in, come in...

she's certainly a dreamer, a wisher, a hoper, a prayer. and they're not afraid to dream BIG! like, BIG big! she created a scrapbook, a work-in-progress, of all the dreams and wishes she has, all the things she sees for herself and her family. all the wonderful places she wants to see, the health she wants to be in, the "financial freedom" she talks about with diamonds in her eyes and glitter on her tongue.

but she believes.

it was beautiful. and she has faith she can touch and hold and smell and taste and live and sleep those dreams in their waking life. and he believes it, too. they're so perfectly matched in their dreams and aspirations, and in their fearlessness to believe they can dance along the milky way.

"i want a lamborghini!" she said in the car as we were driving me home, and started talking about what color it would be. she couldn't decide between two colors. it was all but already hers, and her husband smiled and said, "you can have both."

i smiled to myself. i want a 1970 VW squareback, navy blue. or that awesome 1970's pea green everyone hates but i love. or a 1967 chevy pickup, canary yellow, because yellow is such a happy color. that's as far as my thoughts of cars has gone, aside from one day regaining my status as a BMW owner, because by the gods how those cars handle...

but compared to *v*'s dreams, mine are so modest, and as we sat on her bed looking at her scrapbook, i realized the components of my dreams are the stuff of her reality.

as is.

she has a loving relationship with a man who values her. they're so good and generous to each other, and yes it takes work, but it's there. being her girlfriend, i'm let in on those confidences women share with each other about their lives, so i know it takes work. but work accomplished in love is not work, it's a gift given freely. and they give, every minute of every day. she has a beautiful little girl full of life and energy and those bright, shiny things that children are made of. she knows where she is, what she wants, and she has a family she helped build herself.

family is my passion. i've yearned for a family my whole life, even going so far as to dream of the picket fence, toys in the yard, family dog in the backseat with the children and little league gear. i tried so hard to foster that with big *c*, but he would have none of it. my bio-parents knew nothing of family. i changed my last name in order to solidify a sense of kinship with people who had built their own family together. i adopted my parents as wholeheartedly as they adopted me. i take my honor as a sister and daughter seriously, and love my family with joy and passionate belief.

as much passion as *v* has for her own dreams. but there was something about her family that made me ache inside, if only just a little, in that little place in my heart that still kinda dreams about that sort of family of my very own. i miss the excited treble cry of, "mommy!" ringing like bells and birdsong in my ears as a grinning bundle of three year-old comes tumbling into my arms. i miss it with an ache i hesitate to go near, because i know if i touch the tip of it i'll feel the entire submerged iceberg. i know it seems backward, but it's the reason i don't call li'l *c* as often as i want to, because that excited shout --"mommy!"-- hurts exactly as much as it heals.

my dreams are very modest. i want freedom, which i have. i want love, which i also have. i want to be surrounded by a family who loves me, supports me, and builds me up --which i have. i want happiness and the Funk, which i have in spades. as of right now, dear Funky Yayness, my life is perfect and only getting better every single day.

you could say i've accomplished my dreams and i hold them and live and breathe and taste and sing them every moment of every day. i thank the universe a dozen times every day, and a dozen every night, for the blessings it showers upon me every moment. it gives me exactly what i need exactly when i need it. so. . . i hope one day i need a family of my own like *v*'s.

it's this little dream i have. . .

what's that word again?

from the oxford-delena dictionary

pleased
adj.

1. experiencing or manifesting pleasure
2. feeling pleasurable satisfaction over something by which one measures their self-worth
3. what delena finally is when it comes to her life

i guess this is where i say the words i've been waiting a very long time to say: i have arrived! now, before you get your knickers in a twist, lemme finish.

when i say "i have arrived!" i don't mean that this is it, there's no more growth for me, no siree, i'm done, estoy listo! uh-uh. what i mean is that i have arrived at the place where i've been trying to get to for the past year. the place where i can look at myself in the mirror and know that i have it in me. i have It in ME. that certain something that says, "i'll always get up one more time than i'm knocked down," and which says it with that absolute, sparkle-in-its-eye confidence that's unshakable.

no more simply "surviving," like a flimsy tree in a storm, flapping this way and that, at the mercy of the storm. i've been a survivor, yes, but i've been so only because what doesn't kill you only delays the inevitable. i can't die from sadness, and believe me, i've tried. but now, i've established my place in the world, and it's a place i've chosen, and with which i'm ecstatically happy. for the first time in my life i feel like i know who i am, and it's not an identity dependant upon my relationship to anyone else. i am delena, and i stand alone as delena. i'm not delena-and-so-and-so.

i am delena, and complete unto myself. and i fucking kick ass.

three different times in the past ten years, i've worked at pet grooming salons. at my first job, the shop owner hated me and i was apprenticed to a groomer behind her back. i desperately wanted to learn, because even at 18 i knew that i couldn't be stuck in back-end, entry-level jobs forever. today at work, my manager and i were talking about the different aspects of the shop.

"see?" she said. "you're gonna be so easy, i can tell. i'm so excited!"

inside, i glowed. finally, all that shit i put up with at all three shops was finally putting up flowers. while the other new girl was figuring out how to blow dry a bichon frisé, the mgr and i were talking about different shampoos/rinses and how they, and grooming technology, have changed in the past ten years.

totally. i've so arrived. now i just need to keep going, hehe.

lovely for tuesday

i need to start waking up like this more.

i was curled up in my soft, warm, lovingly cushy bed with my soft pink jersey sheets (yay pink!) and feather pillow, amid the Shrine of Knowledgy Sci-Fantasy Goodness, and dreaming i could fly.

now, lots of people dream they can fly. what makes this special is that, for all my life, i've never been able to fly. either i hit a ceiling a few feet off the ground, or the air is thick as cold molasses, or i float an inch or two off the ground, or suddenly there's a chain around my wrist, or someone reaches up and pulls me down.

my entire life, i've always been totally and utterly grounded.

so there i was in my dream, in my old neighborhood where i grew up, standing in the street right outside the House of Oppression, smiling up at the clear southern california sky (and you know it had to be a dream because the sky is never a shade of blue like that)...and dove up into the sky. with long, lazy flaps of my arms, i floated up as if i were swimming in cerulean sky. i flew up above the rooftops, above my old voice teacher's huge tree in her front yard. higher than the telephone wire.

and i laughed. i laughed and thought to myself, "wow, i've never flown in a dream before." and just like that, quick as thought, i realized i was dreaming and still wide awake. "i'm dreaming," i said, feeling this giddy soft of laugh bubble up from below my belly button and all the way up and out the top of my head. "i'm dreaming, and i'm still here! i'm lucid dreaming."

so of course i had to test my theory. "yes, i'm flying so i'm definitely dreaming. but these are all my conscious thoughts." lucid dreaming, i remembered, is retaining all of your mental faculties and awareness while still in the dreamtime. "two plus two equals four, i moved this weekend, this is my old neighborhood--why must i always have my most vivid dreams in my old neighborhood, or in the House of Oppression?" i wanted to see other vistas, other places in my dreams! i looked over the rooftop of the House of Oppression and sure enough, there were the rising towers and sky-scapes of a strange land where the sun rose in the west. "ah, much better," i said.

now to test my theory. if i really was lucid dreaming, i should be able to consciously make things happen. "i want to see vines growing. great big creeping vines all the way up to the sky!" i looked down at the street, and suddenly it was covered in a carpet of thick, lush green grass, and there were little vines poking through the soil. one...two...six...a dozen, all growing because i had dreamed them there. i flew on, letting them grow as they would.

"y'know," i said, "a pegasus would be awesome. a gorgeous white horse with wings to ride on." suddenly there was a flicker in the corner of my vision, something in the sky moving closer on my left. i almost didn't want to look, afraid of being disappointed, but i knew that it had to be my flying horse because i had said it would be.

sure enough, there he was, flying closer, galloping on the air with magnificent wings like the horse on the Tri-Star Pictures logo. He had charcoal smudges on his nose and around his eyes. I hopped on and we flew over a funky vista that was part delena-funk meets salvador dali in vivid acrylic colors, and part delena's old neighborhood. the street was water, and my pegasus flew down to get a sip mid-flight. the street-water ended at an abrupt edge, and then there was nothing but turquoise-forget-me-not blue sky and salmon and pink and lilac clouds, with other lands floating on their own planes, with the sunrise coming from all directions and none.

just when i was thinking that, if i could have a way-cool pegasus, why not a dragon? i felt myself falling out of the dream. i opened my eyes to my pink sheets and double windows behind my television, and grinned. i flopped and curled on my other side, and instantly fell back into the dream. but...i thought i was still awake, because i was in my apartment.

it felt so real, too, that i was actually disappointed. except...i could still fly. maybe, with a bit more practice, i can make it into the drivetime...