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The Writer Writes

Writing is playing. The writer writes. This morning as I stood, back to the rail, waiting for the 594 express bus to Tacoma and read words about grieving and healing by god-love-her-Inga Muscio and I looked up once in awhile to watch the serious-looking people hustle by and folks whizz by on bikes and pigeons flutterflap down to the oily street in search of crumbs, I knew a small buzzing through my body. An emergence, little tongues licking at the air, a rumbling mountain cooking up a fabulous explosion! I felt spring stirring within me!

I feel my writing like a great bird on the rise, feel it stirring, feel it birthing and burgeoning. I know myself as a writer. I am knowing. And the lyre I am strumming and the writer and word weaver I’m becoming is yummy and I know now! Courage to play! To step out of the fray of a busy bay of sharks gnashing teeth a dream out of reach an old shutting down. Repudiating my crown.

And Jill Scott says “I am not afraid to create my Queendom.” Queendom as in a physical, geographically defined space or Queendom as in the state of being a Queen (always capitalized)?. The state of being. I prefer the state of being.

I’m forgiving myself for still being broken. I’m letting the anger come, letting the grief come, forgiving myself for the trauma still stitched so hot and tight along the underside of my skin, that pokes out when I cough or sneeze or sweat or bleed–it’s in the fluids. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay I’m rocking against the rails I’m held by the rails my eyes burn  I am stinger

a finger learning to point away from my own chest and toward the poverty misogyny and racism and fear and dread and alcoholism that is really responsible for all this. The violence. Violence in my dad’s line, violence in my mom’s line, violence all across the arc of history — this was really just a template I stepped into.

Paper dolls and candy cigarettes and ringlets of sweet tarts and the biggest treat of all a double bacon cheeseburger I fell upon with love in my eyes, how it girded me from the inside.



One thought on “The Writer Writes

  1. Shay, You are a beautiful writer. And Soul. Thank you.

    Posted by Corina Strein | March 30, 2011, 12:43 pm

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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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