Thankfulness – First Of, Well, A Few

I suppose the weirdest thing about what I’m about to do my good Gentle Readers, is that I am mapping this all out in my head 12 hours before I do it. It’s a little after 9 on Friday night, I probably won’t be writing down what you’re reading here until well, you can do the math.

It’s not that I haven’t done this before, it’s just that I feel that I could have a more honest writing experience if I can bypass my fingers and put it directly from my brain on the page, and recording my voice allows me to do that. I can go back and fix the inevitable typos and miswordings, but I can never get the raw ideas back that I don’t get in that first draft, at first blush, that first time something leaves my head.

Yesterday, I wrote about thankfulness, mind you, it was a scathing rebuke of an idiot on the internet, but I suppose it was about thankfulness nonetheless. So, lying here in the cold comfort of my bedroom, an entire night to compose something in my head and not have to worry about screaming children and watching college football, think maybe I’ll list a few things in the world that I’m thankful for.

The first has to be My People. Tribe. Circle. Group. I have long screamed their collective wonder to the vastness of the internet. I told you about how they saved my life, I told you about how they saved my sanity, maybe even told you how they have forcibly made me into a better person even when I was too stubborn to realize that I had to do it on my own. I suppose what I haven’t told you were the softer things, the gentler things. The moments when they listen to me when I’m babbling, the simple hugs that mean so much, the fact that they let me lift them and spin them around in a circle because it’s kind of a thing I like to do. They welcomed me into their homes, they come into mine, I’ve met their children, they’ve met mine. They’re My People in as many ways as my Blood is not.

Second, on this list, but never in my heart, are the three absolute wonders that I get to call my children. My Ducks. The oldest who is so goddamn smart, my middle guy who’s laugh could make the fiercest demon weep tears of happiness, and my little guy who is such a wonder as he learns new things day after day that they told me he would never, ever, learn.

My Naomi. Gone but never forgotten. Not with me in flush but forever in my heart, my mind, my soul. The woman who finally taught me what love was, who taught me that not all women were the sideshow horse that I grew up with. The woman who put up with me during the absolute worst, and was single-handedly responsible for the absolute best parts of my life. True, she was taken far too early, but for all of us that knew her, she’s never truly gone.

That’s what I’m going to write, for now, there are more specific things that I will be addressing in the next few days, specific people that I want to laud to the stars and beyond. First I need to ask them a few questions, acquire a few permissions, and let this one sit and let people know that this isn’t just about writing. This isn’t about how many words I can get off in a certain amount of time, this is truly about how thankful I am about these people who have made such massive changes in my life that I’ll never be the same person again, and praise be the goddess for that.


Sometimes Inspiration Is From The Memory Of A Tattoo

So, I am going to take a deep breath today. No, I mean, like the whole day is essentially a deep breath. I am going to try and write and focus on the things I need to do for self-care which, as you may know, I do not especially excel at. Thankfully, I have beautiful people in my life who remind me of the adage about not being able to pour from an empty cup and all of that.

My cup is nearly empty, and I know how to fill it, so I will.

Words are a healing balm, a spell, which I can cast effectively to make the universes and wonders that I create come to life as much as they are able to. Whether it is the Dark Goddess, Edward, The Marquis, or even darker things, it is the creation that fills the cup. The quality is some part of it I suppose, but it is the writing, the effort put forth in each piece, the focus it takes to weave the entire thread of it all and present it to you, Gentle Readers, as the story that Uncle Bear wants you to see, and maybe make you smile or shudder or turn the page eagerly to see what is next.

There are few things in the world that give me a sense of peace that writing does. Those other things, well, if you ever want to know you make sure to ask me and I will tell you in details that may or may not make you uncomfortable. I am a man of tastes, both very mundane and extraordinarily complex. I love like an endless fountain wanting to water the world and anger that would burn and salt all of creation if I had but a moment of peace to light the match I would need to do such a thing. There is a line from Frankenstein, a personal favorite to some people I know.

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”

When you walk in the Dark you see things that you are not supposed to see and you have stories about things that people who have not traversed that Abyss would not understand if they too had not looked into the Nietzschean depths of the self and seen that none of us are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, no matter what the pretty sings would have you believe. Most of the people in my life that I call My People have walked into that barren land, and they have come out the other side, or, like me, they are forced to go back to it night after night with no reason given to them as to why they must undertake this hellish and seemingly pointless crusade against the innermost part of themselves

Now that I have belabored the point I was trying to make I think I will be done for now and go back tot he world of men for a time and see what is among the trees before going back to the Sisyphean struggle that is sanity and compassion’s course.


You forgot about me and mine on the one day you should have always remembered. You spit on a memory of a love that I know now was never real. It was all a game to you and that, for the rest of my life, I will never be able to forgive you for in any way whatsoever. It is what I will never talk to you again and even thinking of you now gets me upset in the very depths of who I am. You are the anathema of my life, and you will be cast aside into the well of fucking indifference if it takes me the rest of the days of my life.

So instead of focusing on a Betrayer of Love, I will tell you things about my people. I will talk to them in the messages I write, and I hope they see themselves in the representations I choose for them. They are so much more than a set of words, they are the love and power that drives me as a human being. Some of them will have names attached, some of them will have nicknames, some of them will simply be raw and beautiful emotions that I put down and you will see that I am not shy of telling each and every one of my people that I love them and that I love as fiercely as I despise, more so actually.

There are a thousand people who have touched my soul in an ethical and joyous way, and while I would love to talk of them all at once, there is not a realistic way to do that, so I will simply mention a few a day, an homage to the glory and wonder and joy that is them.

What can you say about someone who has literally saved you from yourself more than once? You can say that they have a sharp mind and an ancient soul. You can say that they see the beauty in the world in a way that absolutely no one else does, the raw and pure form that sometimes needs to go through pain before it is purified into the wonder it will become. You are the keeper of the shards, the protector of the giants, the decadent one, the impossible thing, the whisper, the knowing smile.

Diminutive? Perhaps in the minds of those who don’t understand what you do for the world with your love and compassion. Strength and walls of steel you had to build and now, as the two of you slowly build the walls anew, together, I could not be happier for you. You are not afraid of one, you held another before all, you choose when to laugh, and the addiction of it is a tangible thing. You saved me from the pit, you will never be unloved.

Logic can be a neat thing, it can be a distancing thing. Yet, you talk of drums in the dark and the philosophy and emotion twine together and become, well, you. You know the Dark in most of the people you have, you tame it in a way that only you can do, and while it is absolutely terrifying to watch, it is a dance I would never once turn away from.

Like I said, a few a day to make the heart expand in goodness and then, back to the world and it’s humidity spikes, migraine nausea and the ever-present delight of scurrying children that you both want, and do not wish, to step on just so you can hear yourself think.