Prayer

Backstage, dressed as Hamlet

I made the art I wanted to make. I went home at the end of the night when there was a home to go to. There were hours and days for making love, but I spend my mornings happy and alone. My voice, the imaginings I tend, ideas wrestling to be articulate — these are the demons keeping me up at night shifting stones, divining numbers, picking apart the sticky matter which is life. Bread digests and leaves me empty again.

Once upon a time I was a farmer. Each day I rose at 4 am and swam in the ocean alone. Naked and salty I watched the sun rise and headed back to less solitary land in time to take fistfuls of dirt and a hoe in hand. This soil we stand upon is made from our bodies. Matter of our existence, dark Earth we return to. It is our burden to share, and our only task is the whispered word, “tend”.

My worth was measured in string lengths given to the God of Stories. What right I have to speak is the same as yours, the breath of having become. Chosen temple, My Stage, I offer all that I have: Word and Action. Until I crumble into dirt once more I will mutter in tongues foreign to unnatural law. This is my dedication and my oath. The body is meant for war, a heart placed center anchors our need for peace, and my head navigates human’s unearthly tradition of spitting lies in order to control, teaching folly, and profiting off harm to a universal law.

I am no holy, no clean minister walking one town to the next. I am complex rhythms. Mosaic of worms and light, terrible genius, struggling and eternally short. I will be gone in a moment, remembered or not, so I offer this now: it matters not, my intent. What nurtured or destroyed all the other worms-in-light was my “doing”. I skipped ugly. I danced fevered with soul. I fell times, tripping others in the tangle of my angled limbs. I vow to rise each time though, salty and naked, knowing more deeply the many faced force of Grace.

I made the art I wanted to make. I went home at the end of the night when there was a home to go to. There were hours and days for making love, but I spend my mornings happy and alone. My voice, these imaginings I tend, ideas wrestling to be articulate — these are the demons keeping me up at night shifting stones, divining numbers, picking apart the sticky matter which is life. Bread digests and leaves me empty again.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

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~Thank you.

Rotten Election Sex Party Wisdom

karinwebb-fringe-image-wordsI was engaged for the evening of election night in a BDSM threesome with lovely perverted friends of mine. It was the best way I could think of to spend my time amidst the forest fires circling our cities in the South, deep within a local culture whose persistent war over this country’s social progress is regressive. A mere hours after voting, I found myself striped down and on my knees on a wrestling matt, zip-tied by the wrists and ankles, blindfolded with a huge American flag draped over my head, fingers clutching a flag-on-a-stick and red, white, and blue pinwheel, with marching band music filling the room in a never ending swell of patriotic pride! As the nation waited to find out exactly how bad it was going to be, my General and their Lieutenant quizzed me on knowledge of all things American, and for every question I got wrong I was beat with a thick strap of leather — and oh how I got the things wrong! I am terrible at fact regurgitation, and the test for the evening was to list the first 10 amendments of the constitution, handle some constitutional trivia, and name all of the Presidents… Let’s just say I got a couple right, and did a lot of counting lashes as they fell upon my posterior while my superiors gleefully switched off punishing duties. It was a glorious and sublime distraction from the events of Election Tuesday 2016.

Throughout the night each dismal check online for current election results was answered with more kissing, more biting, more fucking, and more beatings until we all just fell asleep in a heap of cuddles before the official call was made.

Breakfast the next morning was quiet and slow and solemn. Naturally we talked politics and activism and how fucked our community was about to become, and agreed that as we’re all in this mess now we might as well have been enjoying ourselves as the mess was revealed — election party win, as the country was to lose.

***     ***     ***

HB2’s Legacy as I see it: Here’s something I’ve been thinking about lately: HB2 and how the rest of the nation has fallen behind on their bathroom signage. Does that sound strange? Well, I think some of the fallout from that bill’s passage is an interesting case to study. I hope the USA, with Trump and Pence and a whole lotta other bigots joining the ranks of “in charge”, will take notes on how one deals with regressive and endangering politics from (at least) Asheville’s response to the now notorious House Bill 2. When HB2 passed in North Carolina not only did the city council of Asheville unanimously (and completely to no legal end, but the action was beautiful and appreciated) repeal HB2 for the city of Asheville, but all over the city and much of the state one suddenly found themselves faced with gender neutral bathroom signs when having to empty the pipes publicly.

Via University of Bristol LGBT+ Society, http://lgbtplusbristol.org.uk , source URL: http://lgbtplusbristol.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/image1.jpg , see: http://epigram.org.uk/2014/11/transgender-bathroom-signs-at-bristol-uni-go-viral/

From restaurants to libraries, Universities to toy stores, much of NC became a place with more gender free restroom signs than I’ve seen in my entire life. Some bars even gender freed the rooms with stalls, urinals, and multiple seats! It became normal. You just went to the room with a toilet in it when you needed to. It didn’t matter who else was around — if the head was free, your ass was invited to use it. The presence or absence of gender neutral signage became a measure of whether you respected an establishment or clicked your tongue and judged the owners upon relieving yourself. It became so normal to me that I noticed when I went on a cross-country tour and was again surrounded by men’s and women’s restroom designations (even single stall ones, what? Oh my!), that I felt offended and in danger and shamed about my gender in a way I hadn’t felt in decades.

So, the “Men’s” room is empty but I’m supposed to wait around in the hallway like a puppy on the leash of it’s errand-running human for who knows how long while others get to come and go as they please because I have the wrong birth certificate sex designation to use the room that has a urinal next to the shitter, rather than a diaper changing station? Fuck No!

It pissed me off more than my entire lifetime of looking at bathroom signs ever had. It felt so wrong and so regressive, so quaint, stupid, born of ignorance, bullyish, endangering, and demeaning that I actually feel relief now in much of the heart of the South, in a state which consistently votes against the very progress it inseminates itself with in reaction to its own conservative restrictiveness…

Which is to say, in short: push me, and I’m gonna get creative and actually action back. As the Government gets more restrictive and outrageously domineering, the people will have no choice but to do what people are genius at doing: being creative. And the creations of a people who are majoritively discomfited are inevitably what moves humanity itself along the path to progress. Where there is a need, we are inventive! So… the arguable “comfortable” and “lazy” years of the Obama Presidency — where legislation vastly improved the lives of the poor, working class, and marginalized people of this country — allowed for a certain amount of “we’ll deal with it” attitude from the people, a certain amount of undesirable “norm” suffered and accepted. Introduce a bunch of backwards legislation though, stripping people of their rights and freedoms, and off our asses with the fire of creation and new norm setting actions we come! I wish this for us. Yes.

***     ***     ***

Samhain recently passed. The themes of sex and death are ripe in the air as November grows daily colder. Celebration of what our bodies are capable of in the midst of a political freeze on progressive growth — nay a rolling back of liberties and safe streets — seems appropo if not direly needed. My summation of this blog today is a message of the inevitable cycle of life’s beginnings and endings. We are put on this planet to LIVE! Rage on! Make something! BE fully! Holiday family time looms over the heads of liberals and conservatives alike, and what we need now more than anything is to burst the bubbles which signal our collective demise. I challenge all of the people reading this to remind themselves what discomfort feels like — how the pain of working out is an ultimate reminder that you are growing stronger:

Masturbate until you see the connection in everything! Fuck! Be Queer! Have experiences! Try something new! Get tied up! Ask for what you truly want! Practice a new skill! Learn! Dare to try! Accept rejection! Celebrate with the people around you! See the similarities between yourself and all the other sentient beings on Earth! Reject social pressures! Speak up when you feel moved! Remember that your Grandparents and their Grandparents had sex in some ways so you could be born generations later — that we all cling to a story written in DNA dependant on fornication or the mess of cuming for the future of the world to live on! Lay on your stomach and watch spiders spin their webs — those creatures are no different than you! Learn from watching and remaining silent! Slow down and FEEL things!… Your intake of information is so much more diverse and deeply informative than the single-type intelligence impressed upon us as “correct” within society. Judge not, instead struggle to understand…

Only together do we move forward meaningfully.

To Breath and Being,
~ Karin

If you like my blog, please check out my Patreon Page and consider supporting me, or just click here: Support the Artist

~Thank you.

Growing

Picture by Mileamne

Picture by Mileamne

They say the pain of birthing is…
…still so many children have siblings.
“Relationships are hard” the back of my brain whines
While I gasp for air in a corner
Beside myself
Barely recognizable
A ball of distrust and sharp edges stabbing inward too

Fear.  Grief.  Feral Anger.  Pain.
These places are taken at the table
Crowding out space set for perspective and care
Past and present intertwine
Here and now
A ghoulish nightmare
Mismatched memories
And I don’t know who I’m talking to anymore

The hours roll by
An evening, a week, a year; my life seems almost through
Tears fall
Bark of a pained heart
Howling cry long in the night
And we fail one another
Love one another
Push each other
Sew it back together

Maybe stronger
But when memories recall too fast
We fall again in blame
When memories fade too fast
We trip up, a clumsy face plant on the floor
I look for grace
Lovers learning
Creative breath
Opening by degree
Delving deep to fix the cracks
A race against shatter

We will fall again
In love, in turmoil, into Fear, Grief, Feral Anger, and Pain
We’ll see them coming to the door
We’ll take place settings away
Calm the monsters
Hold onto a faint almost imperceptible vital knowing
That everything will be alright

Nothing incredible was ever created without an understanding of survival
Without a certain measure of surpassable pain.

To Breath and Being,
~ Karin

If you like my blog, please check out my Patreon Page and consider supporting me, or just click here: Support the Artist

~Thank you.

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