Some women are islands

I am, indeed, an island.

Like that fifth grade project create-a-country where you papier-machêd a dream paradise land with palm trees and dolphins and strawberries into the shape of a moon. Something isolated, something forced, something repressed, but dreamy. Far away, lonely as hell, heavenly and void of civilizations. Something private and deeply exposed beneath the sun and dry sand.

When I run out of sleep, when I run out of thirst, my head becomes a glass ball full of swirling smoke. Swirling, swirling, swirling.

No man is an Island, Fer said, dammit Alice, No man is an Island

But I am, indeed, an island. Also worth noting, I am not a man. I have found out a way to fortify myself with a moat the size of an ocean, and while my voice carries far and eerily across the sea, most voices that get released are tired and shortsighted, focused on surviving the time of day and surviving the weather.

Yes, I have visitors by motorboat, but I hide in my jungle. I feel like that terrifying island from life of pi that glows at night and that which is organic becomes carniverous. Hidden, mystical, barbarious, scared of myself.

Other times its beautiful, peaceful, and quiet, colorful but distant. Could be swallowed up by the sea, dying for company.

Mama hands and her virtual universe

I remember my mother sitting in front of a computer in the mid-90s, writing down encrypted Norse patterns from a video game, to decode the most advanced puzzles to get to the next level in the virtual universe, Raven. If she was intent on her task, we hardly noticed. Her hands did it for her, scribbling and scratching like a comfort doodle while talking on the telephone, like a life drawing in the park. Nonchalant decoder.

It was like her crossword puzzles on a clipboard before she went to bed. Very serious braintainment puzzle accomplishment achieved in her most intimate moments. Pijamas, with cat, soft warm relaxed skin in bed. Advanced sudokus, all filled in, beside her in bed as she slept.

I don't even remember playing Raven because it was too difficult, too obtuse, too confusing and multilayered. I feel like one day I asked my mom what happened to that game and she probably answered, half paying attention, oh I solved it, it was all right.

It was a bit like those afternoons on sunny weekends where suddenly mom wouldn't answer the phone and then we of course asked "where the heck have you been?" And shed just answer, "the GARDEN" with a giant breath and excitement in her eyes and active veins in her forearms. I have absolutely no clue what she did back there, or why. Weeding, I guess. Sometimes she said she moved some things around. All I know is nothing ever died unless it was supposed to, and her hands did all the work. Sometimes she would come back with a snapping sprout, or a sliced up hand, or a black, bruised index fingernail, or worse, a worm. These things were worth sharing.

And then there were dozens of rolls of cloth and drawers of needles and thimbles and old bullets from wars and magnifying glasses. All were used for making quilts. I don't ever remember any quilt she made, but I remember the sound if the machine. Hours of silence, calmness, and the tvktvktvktvkk. Tvktvktvktvkk. Her hands did it for her.

Overeager

Shame, mania, the occasional reminder that I can "come off the wrong way"

"Aggressive", "control freak", "surprising and uncomfortable".

I don't mean to be abusive. In fact, I really mean to be constructive. Maybe I've been taught to love by beating down and embracing, as a rebellion and a loneliness if sorts, of being too smart and too solitary too often.

And when I feel valued, I go balls to the wall and I don't see any reason to inhibit myself if I'm a positive whirling force of eager energy and hope and spirited volition.

"I want to be pushed too", I've told others, but people who have disappointed me push back with biting, personal words I am unfairly loyal to. "You just want control," they may say; "You need to chill out." Or worse yet "You need to be patient."

"You need to be patient" really means "You can't grow here," and "You need to calm down," really means "I can't keep up with you and I am insecure so I will make it your problem rather than find strengths with you and help you channel the positive force that is your energy." Yet, the reality is, sometimes its not my world I've walked into. Maybe for them, they really do need me to be patient. and I reject those needs. I'm like a smart, destructive, beautiful Samoyed. You abandon me, you bore me, and I will chew through that which you value. I don't mean to. I just get hurt and upset at the unstimulating world sometimes. I can't believe I just called myself a dog.

I've been trained, and I remind myself when I am on my best behavior that the pull rather than push method is a universe of missed opportunities but far more qualified wins. Ugh, the traps of being a lady. And the reality is, wow, its my duty to find strengths and channel force too. I know I shouldn't waste my time with the inerts and the inerters. But an inertive force can be very powerful and requires rebirth. I can't allow myself to become a Samoyed. Or if I am, I have to choose to be a damn loving one. Waking up helps, though it may keep me from sleeping.

On Saturday, I didn't get out of bed all day. "Now is not the time to visit. Please respect our decision." The words of sharp, unexpected rejection crushed me, not just because they meant I would not get to see friends or family for more weeks. But it's almost thanksgiving. That wasn't all of it. I didn't even let Gemma or Hector in when they knew I was upset and knocked on my door. I was in bed, unshowered, staring at a white screen, makeup halfway smeared across my pillow.

They crushed me because they reminded me that my eagerness must, as a curse, be repeatedly punished. Once I earn familiarity, it is far less punished. Maybe it's because I can be deeply inspiring, if condescending. Maybe it's because I am genuine, if clumsy. Maybe I brighten the room with my quirks and my hope for a stallion ethic. Maybe they see me deflate, human, alone, defeated. I try not to be Don Quixote but I'd rather stay young and hungry. I suppose I am learning to hide desperation and ego. In expectation of disappointment, and in lack of social validation since i am overwhelming enough to begin with I rarely get feedback, this is the most challenging thing ever.

Regardless, a generator makes loud noise outside my balcony. I think it's coming from the nightmare kitten truck from which sparks flew behind a curtain later that Saturday when I was stumbling across the street in heels, eager to meet a complete stranger who had come a long way to find me. The truck is horrifying, it is literally covered with dripping kittens. The kind of thing you paint if you feel a lot, suddenly, and then wished you hadn't created it. I asked my new stranger to walk up and see what the sparks were, since the surprise of the emerging sparks had almost caused me to eat it. "Welding I guess," he said. I stood there for a second with my hand on my head.

I am an artist, I must remember, I am like that. I will find strangers, who will come a long way to find me. "You still have those wild eyes" my friend Kelly stated, commenting on a pic I'd posted of me age three, my mother, and my sister whale watching, leaning over a foamy and speedy expedition boat's edge. This fills my heart infinitely. Kelly had told me openly once she thought I was a terrible or at least loatheable person when she had met me - who is this hot girl saying what she wants and challenging people. Until she learned I was like that - I really didn't even realize I came off that way, she said, and she realized I'd be a best friend for life.

Kelly lifts me of my rebellion and of my kicking and screaming. The thing about me is, I feel invisible, but I am heard. She reminds me that it matters. She is loyal. She shows me she needs me. And I'm determined to do the same. It may take some time, but I'm determined to focus more on rewarding and less on heart-sleeving.

Kelly told me once, "It is so beautiful, vulnerability," and she was talking about a moment that became a soulmate husband. "Ha" I said and "hmm" I thought. A man at a wedding and I once dove into the Caribbean at the end of the night and he lay floating weightless in my arms and I think he apologized for being weightless. "Sorry I'm weightless," he said. "Vulnerability is important," I said. We both kind of just floated there, wondering at each other. I thought of all the times anyone had shared with me under the stars.

This is the standard we can afford to have. It's the standard like a lullaby when we fall off, from kicking the monkey bars, when they kick us back. We are left to look up at the sky and squeeze the dirt through our fingers and pull up grass gently and smell it. Remember those moments after doing cartwheels as a kid, when you lay alone and gawked at the size of space, which you only saw once a week? Well, thank goodness we get kicking and kicked, or else we may never get this view :-)

Outing

 what I almost told my family, again, but it was too much to wrote them, and I got embarrassed.

I think most people may not understand bisexuality because gay is "other" but bi is chameleon. Truth is I've always been queer, since I was 0, its a part of my swagger just like frida, ellen page, whatever, but no one can say I won't end up in a traditional marriage and perfectly happy - barefoot mama in a garden - yet taking executive calls and owning it - and still feeling a deep sisterhood with the blow songs and glad to be part of the community as a person! I hope I get to do it all, all that expression and still be me

And a great love. Where pathetic is pathetic but vulnerable wildly strong. Where from across the room , things go soft, and the whole room fills with soft. where a little voice and a little chord dare to be girly, raw, vital and biting. Where the wild things are in hoods and mischievous smirks and bring creative gifts because we notice everything when we are in love with the world.

Chameleon shoulders, chameleon necks. Chameleon fingers, chameleon dance moves. Chameleon wreckage, and chameleon declarations. Silent chameleon decrees of fresh, groovy accomplishments!