Life as an Extreme Sport

Rights and Passage

It seems like it must be a passage of adulthood, a rite that no one wants to pass but everyone eventually does, that one of authors becoming people, people flawed and awful. For some of us, that rite of passage is picking up beloved books of childhood comfort and realizing just how horribly racist they are, and that no amount of the warmth from Polgara’s kitchen can change the fundamental bedrock of racism that forms the faults and seams of the stories.

For others, the stories remain beloved comforts, heavy and warm and rich with the scent of a fresh bound book slowly worn by the repeated readings, the track of the digital scrolling past on a thin electronic tether to the most wonderful libraries. For those people, the rite of passage is different, worse and better, because what changes isn’t the story but the author, who reveals that they weren’t the person who wrote the beauty that comforted, consoled, and inspired you. But in some ways, you’re lucky. The text? It no longer belongs to the author; it’s your love that sustains it, that breathes life into it, that forms the bonds between people with that shared passion and love. You can take it and make it what you want and will; you never have to give the author another cent, never have to support them, never have to acknowledge them, and you can still have the beautiful, inspirational people living within the boundaries of that book binding, digital or otherwise.

You might have to let them go; it might be the only way you can handle the taint of the author, to turn away forever. But it’s a choice. You can keep the characters, and get rid of the author. They began living beyond the author when you began reading, when your mind gave them form. They are embodied by your imagination, your passion, your love.

It’s not just gods that are made real by your belief in them.

Eye of Eve

This to this:

I am not Eve,
slender and lithe, with straight bleached hair and blue eyes
(or curled brown and streaked with red, chocolate pools for irises; natural redhead or fiery fake).

I am not Eve,
older tho not wiser,
curving in all of the wrong places, too much in the right.
My hair is not the right colour, my eyes framed by crows laughing lines; I paint myself into nothing.

Lilith, the foil – bait to catch the jealous eye of Eve.
In the end, equal returning alone to her cave.

Still needs work.

golden goose

I was a silly goose once
When the wind swept thru my hair
The grass lay at my feet
And I ran for the sheer joy
of movement and motion
Silly is a word we associate
With the young
     and care free
Whose laugh lines haven’t frozen
From a river of tears
Etching a path down the
     glacial planes of
     cheekbones, lips
The goose given way
To a crow and feet
Carefree becomes careful
Remanded with nothing more
     than memory

3am Sheets

More “from the random files of…” I don’t talk to the person this was written in mind of, anymore. Not really a surprise, either – some things, you just see coming.

It’s 3am, just to bed, my feet wrapped in the sheets
Staring at the pitch black above, my mind won’t quiet
And I can’t sleep
Thinking about you, me, him, her and us
All the tangled webs we weave
I wonder what it is you’d say to me
If you weren’t so afraid to speak