Madam or Madman

Photo captured at Black Forge Coffee

Or both. 

It is exhausting having a foot in both worlds. 

This week I was a therapist and a patient. (Humble plea: Yes. Hospital workers can be brusque and harried. I know and I’m sorry.  But please try to be gentle with us. We sometimes come to work as sick as the patients.)

Sunday I sat at home alone begrudgingly doing housework and later I was a partner, far less begrudgingly listening to jazz and story idea and fears over wine. He was much a far better partner to me days before, making sure I had food and wine (there are commonalities in both my worlds) and love and rest. 

Saturday I was a single mother and a performer. 

I watched my son accept an award for his art. 

It is a better drawing than I will ever accomplish as I have zero artistic capacity in this realm. I was as proud as if he’d stood up and criticized a Congressman. Surrounded by conservative values and history, I stood observing and silent. 

Hours later, I was on stage myself, performing a movement and poetry piece I created entitled Bare. I stood among an incredible collection of  women, femmes and female-identified artists. They opened their souls and bled poetry and performance art about feminism, gender roles, heartbreak, self-abuse and body positivity. We loved naked bodies and what they can portray. I spent the night alternating. Attracted then repulsed. Laughing then crying. Unable to look away then covering my eyes because there were moments that were simply unbearable  to watch because they were so raw and real and pained. 

I don’t know if what I offered of myself on stage was any good. It know it hurt. 

And that’s usually a good sign. 

I know I was honored to share space with these mavens. 

The day reminded me of how much I try to keep myself in two places, be two people, fulfill two roles. 

Straddling worlds means I am trying to keep a grasp on everything between my legs. My thighs may be thick and strong but they can’t maintain this tonic contraction forever. 

Metaphorical muscle fail also brings to the brink the eventuality that as these two worlds shift, I won’t be able to bridge the gap and I’ll rip down the middle. Torn into halves. Unable to make meaning in any plane of my existence because I’ll be in pieces. 

I want to pull the worlds together. I want love and inspiration. Bedtime stories and burlesque with fake blood. School projects and hearing my own plays read. Kisses with passion and quiet handholding when the fears come. 

I want to be madam of my own house. 

I want to be the madman that brings the wildness in so the ones I hold close can see the feral beauty and learn of bravery. 

Madam and Madman. 

Both. 

All. 

Light

My newest Dark Yarn Production. 

This one is light. 

Sometimes there is too much dark. 

My hands yearned to craft the possible. 

A warmth made for hope, for love

with gratitude and longing.

To be given for comfort

without expectation. 

One to protect in coldness.

One to stroke for calm. 

One whose  greatest role

is to be set aside, when

love can do those things

in its place.

For days of light. 

What’s The Difference?

 

What’s the Difference?

A mile?

A minute?

A Saturday out?

A look?

An imbalance?

A whiskey, then a stout?

What are the chances
across that table
among that smoke
and sound
that we found
what the other wanted.

Two
of a kind
of a pair
both at the table,
cards to the chest.

We finally showed them.
And they were…

Different.

Un-matched.

From different houses.

Of course they were.

Hearts
and spades.

Strings
and blades.

Shouldn’t you
fold
when the cards
don’t match?

Isn’t that how
you save your skin,                                save yourself

if you have any hope
of playing another day?

When you go in,
and in, and all in
again,
and there’s nothing left
if you leave it behind.

If you lose,
you can’t always start again
because everything
is everything
and you don’t even get
to keep the cards.

You want…

You want…

What?

Why did you toss your coins
and pull up a chair
in the first place?

What were you hoping to win?

Or were you just playing,
to see where they fell?

Smile and shucks
and flick the ash,
pick another gamble,
round up your cash.

I think it’s more than chance.

Because we don’t match.

Or maybe we do. 

It might be we’re the same

faces worn off

from the heat of the 

game. 

Under the varnish,

under the belt,

suites, signs and numbers

embraced as they’re dealt. 
But I don’t think so
We are the difference
that seems to make
all the difference.

What is the difference,
if we aren’t?

Is it rigged?

Up our sleeves and

behind our backs?

Can we still play?

Can we win?

Can we lose?

What’s the difference?