RIP #johnheard. No one will ever be John Pierce again.

on therapy

...sometimes i berate myself for having spent so much money on simply talking to another human being over these past years...on "wasting" my precious and so hard earned dollars, just on another person's ear...another person who was never "really" invested in me from the start, right? no, but that is not right at all, in any way, in any form, or any how. what entity in the world, what possession, what diamond, what latest iphone or louis vuitton, what new fad ripped denim of the moment could be any more important than the value of speaking your truth to another person, a caring and WISE beyond words human being? what thing, what gem, what tangible entity, is more precious or worth more of my penny than myself and that which serves to make me more whole?

to anyone who deigns to challenge, demerit the value of human to human connection and more than that, the value of therapeutic work, i have this to say: if you are truly blessed enough to say this, if you are one of those among us who need not the help of another, well, i am happy for you. in fact, i am envious...might i say even jealous. if you are that person, that woman or man who can live simply and seek not the guidance of therapeutic connection, consider it a gift. as someone who is not this person, i say this not with snark or anger but with true admiration. but for me, for what i know to be true in this life, there is nothing more valuable; no better venue in which, no better person to pay, no possession more worth my "hard-earned" dollar, than that and whom to which i owe my stability. 

we pay for country clubs, we pay to sit in the sun, to get our necks and feet and shoulders rubbed, for these experiences bring us lasting joy, restfulness or calm. or any combination therein the sun is not a finite moment on our skin for better or for worse for that matter. the effect of its blonde yellow rays is lasting -- it stays on our exterior, browning us to beauty relighting our heart-shaped bulbs in our interior. the experience of the massage is not limited to 60 minutes -- it stays in our joints and our being for much longer than that. and so, we pay for that. we open our wallets and our minds to so much -- we cloak our nude nails in neon, transform our locks into colors never in natural occurrence from human follicles, we trim our lines, slim our waists, drape ourselves in capes and denim alike. we pay for all these these things, and yet some leave our (or more appropriately, their) souls uncloaked. but not me, not she, not thee. just as the blonde rays of the sun stay with us, so do the words, the bright smiles, the hugs, the love, the realness of a connected human entity.

On Mothers

Maybe some people are born to have two mothers. For some unknown reason. Some silent quiet reason none of us may ever know. The same reason that some us have the gift. The. Gift. That special unexplainable silent knowing gift. The wisdom of knowing things that are not said. The gift of the wisdom of the mind and the soul and the universe existing as one. The gift of a few. Yes, the gift Susan spoke of. My old true wise friend. Mi amiga especial. 

Maybe that reason is the very reason why I have two mothers. Yes. Maybe that is the same quiet reason for it. Maybe and maybe not. I do not know for certain but I do I think so. Feel so. I have the gift and it is known. People around spill their minds and the darkest deepest parts of their shredded selves to me without prompt. This has happened always. From the start. I know it. I have known it in my heart since before I could assign words to it and before I can remember. "There are those who know the things that are not said."

I also have two mothers. One who bore me. One who raised me in teenage turmoil and tough trails, in moody angst and impatience. One who listened to me complain, who smelled the pot I smoked, saw the trials and tribulations of my perfectly scraggled pointy-edged, in the lines youth. Then I have another one. One who came into my life. My adult life. My other mother. The one who knows me and does not get scared of me and hugs me the same. The other mother from the other place with the bangs and blonde highlights and loving eyes. Yes this is the other mother who helped bring me back from the dead to the living. Who hugged me and yelled at me and hugged me again through eyeliner less, emotional and emotionless days. Flat days, bumpy days, swollen eyes and raging ambivalence. The oxymoron there is intentional, never fear. The other mother with patience and caring intonation in her east coast voice the same. My use of the word “patient” throughout this streaming river of conscience is also not lost. Intentionally unintentional as they or we or I say.

I am lucky. I have a mother in my blood and a mother in my bones. Mothers and Figures. Curvy figures and straight ones. Figures of circles. Mother. Figure. A word that has been intentionally lacking to this point. It has been present, though, in the reality realm but not in the realm of the heart. I write from the truth of my heart rather than from the truth of the facts. And so I write to this point with the intentional absence of that one medium sized word. Mother. Mother figure. Figure. I have a mother and I have a therapist but both are moms just the same. I am a lucky girl. Lucky human. Woman. Thank you DC/MK, for both being and in my life, in the dark and the light and consistently in my heart. Siempre en mi corazon. 

Amor y vida.

...a ghosted summer rainy breeze

Some people come into your life like a storm -- they blow in unexpectedly like the turbulent angry rainfall that drenched my slightly greasy braids on this Friday. Like dark clouds that unexpectedly release their  inner dirty demons into and unto your newly pressed jacket, your dirty sneakers and your eggshell-framed life. Those are the people you expect least, the ones who thrust their messy shit onto you, rain on your soul and your clean neat, sharp lines like disgustingly sickening toxic waste. Why you let them in and why they are allowed to stay there - that is the question, though. Rain rain go away, dirty sneakers, make your way... toxic people - why rhyme. These are the people whose clouds and bubbles should be popped and emptied far away from you, their auras toxic, their presence contaminated, like the silicon-encapsulated pesky packages at the bottom of a shiny new toy. They toy is shiny white and new in its pristine box.. only ruined by that stupid poison-filled pellet. "Caution, do not eat." Okay, I won't, and I don't. The stormy people are like poisonous-silicon filled dark clouds, raining on the parade of your new toy in your new box. Extract them like the rotten-infected tooth that plagues your little cherub cheeks; throw their dirty auras into the nearest puddle and be careful not to splash it around. 

Yes, some people come into your life like that - they turn the blue sky dark and don't blow over until the storm wreaks havoc on all below it.

Some people, though, they come in differently, like the softest lightest, moisture-free breeze blowing over your fresh face in the spring. Like that luxurious air that feels so delicious and crisp, you swear you could bite into its ripe beauty. That air that caresses your newly washed hair as you sit in the front seat of a convertible, wiping your aura and soul clean with a white air-eraser on a yellow school pencil. Swish, all is good once again. Some people are that air, they softly and sweetly smile at you with their eyes and their hearts, and wash over you with love and joy. The air that brings light that sees the light in you, through even your thickly clouded, leather-bearing exterior. These are the people who neutralize the turbulence, the blonde bangs of the sun that re-light the flickering bulb of your rusty heart-shaped lamp. 

The air is thick, the clouds dense, and the soul deep. The wind can blow in all directions, grabbing dirty jagged-edged particles in its moody unpredictable path and throwing them at your face. The turbulent storms cease and the sun inevitably comes up again, whether hours after the storm, days, or years. The sun cannot stay idle forever, the air and wind are strong enough to carry heavy loads for only so long before they break. The air and the soul run deep and dark, then run light and low. And dark and deep and light and low and back and forth and around again. The full circle of the merry go around escapes my unmanicured finger tips once more. 

The people that come in and out of your life are the wind, the rain, the air and the fog of the earth of your soul. They bounce in and out, sweep across your sweet and salty Scorpio face, contorting it upside down and right side up. human people are the salt and the sand of the cells of your soul and they polish and taint it, breeze in and out, mess up your fresh blow out, revive your lamp, lift your spirits and crush you into a shrunken pepsi can on the dirty new york sidewalks. they do all of this. and yet still, she persisted, though she be but little she is fierce and all the instagram quotes in the world to end this loosely flowing stream of dirty rain water thoughts on this steamy, humid, cloudy, bright day.