MOVING TO ANOTHER SITE

 I am putting everything on Gumroad, and eventually my own site. 

If you are looking for something email me, or check back for when I have everything posted again. 

Tired of finding my stuff plagiarized or used without acknowledgement. 

FACEBOOK AND THE FEAR OF NIPPLES

I am restricted from using any of my accounts for 6 days for re-posting a photo of Georgia O'Keefe that Steiglitz took of her.  Her breasts are bare.  You can't really see her nipples.  You couldn't really see Chesty Morgan's either- I got banned for those awhile back.  

Once they target you, everything you post becomes an issue.  And if you have a lot of lurking haters that can't wait for you to post something that gets reported, well...

Gonna switch over to Redditt.  The convos I want to have seem to be happening on Redditt. I just stay on fb because so many people I know are on there.  

FB has restricted me not just on that account, but on all my accounts. 

The real problem with Facebook is that they cannot figure out how to make the product pay to purchase itself.  And they are all greedy fucks that can never have enough money and profits. So like all capitalists they have to keep expanding. 

Social media, like utilities and internet, and big stores and services like Wal-Mart and Amazon, should belong to the people.  They should be public co-ops.  They shouldn't be a way for lazy men to make gobs of money and calling it "working". 

Anyhow. here is a link to a similar picture.  I can't find the one I posted.  I got it off another post on Facebook last year!!!! LOL

https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-alfred-stieglitzs-sensual-photographs-georgia-okeeffe-reveal-vulnerability

Remember, kids, nothing is more powerful than the "female" body- the body of the person with ovaries and a vagina and a uterus.  If people with ovaries claimed their power we could rule the world.  And do it much better than the Sperm people. 

That's why they ban us, exploit us, strip naked, rape us, make us cover up, shame us, don't let us abort, force us to sterilize, and try to control everything about us. 

Here's my nipples back in 2005.  Just to assert the power of The Nipple. 

THE STANDARD HALLOWEEN IS NOT SAMHAIN POST

 art by Margaryta Yermolayeva

Standard Halloween/Samhain disclaimer:  Today is not Samhain.  All Hallows belongs to the Catholic Church, an amalgamation of Dia de los Muertos, Samhain, and probably some other things (like Diwali). 

Samhain (sau-en or sow-en or sav-en) and Bealtainne (be-yall-tin-eh or bel-tin-ah or bel-taine) do lie between the solstices and equinoxes, but they actually have to do with the position of the Pleiades.  (One reason I do not think it is Bealtainne in the southern hemisphere, despite the season.  But there is no record of Druids in the southern hemisphere to guide us on that.  And I have not been able to celebrate either in the Southern Hemisphere and see for myself.)

And there is a reason for it, magickally.  The gateway lies with the Pleiades, not the sun.  These "holidays" also lasts for 3 nights, although there are mentions of longer celebrations, but you really have to dig, and most just go with the Coligny calendar.

If you are only going to do one night, look for the sun at 15 degrees of Scorpio (Taurus for Bealtainne), and remember the "day" begins and ends at sunset, not sunrise.  So look for 15 degrees of Scorpio, after sunset in GMT, to be exact.

Having said that, Halloween is still awesome, still magickal, the veil is still thin, and so many people set out food and offerings that of course the spirits can come with an invite. 

It's just that Samhain is many more things than Halloween.

Happy Halloween peeps!

THE TWO MAJOR FORCES POWERING THE INTERNET FOR ONLY $5

 19 years old (gumroad.com)

"Thanks for the video, you have managed to combine the two major forces powering the internet, cat videos and porn"

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 

So that is now my tagline pitch!!!!  Only $5 for the two major forces combined!!!!

I would also like to say, that I have only sold about 5 or 6 copies, one person paid VERY generously, and I have gotten a few gifts.  It's not really porn, and I am not rolling in dough from exploiting my young body.  (I hear this a lot from people "well you think you can just sell your tits on the internet" etc.

Um, no.

I do try, but I am actually not fond of being in front of the camera- would much rather be behind it, directing, or writing the script. When that video was made I hated my body, thought I was horribly fat because my stomach wasn't flat and I had a line of dimpled cellulite just below my ass.

And also, at the time, I was "Red Rachael" the communist.  I was desperate to reject and overcome my issues from being an abandoned child, desperate for male attention and love.  At puberty when I figured out I could have almost all the male attention I wanted if I just let them have sex I did.  (The men and boys that didn't take advantage of me are in the  minority.)  

By the time the communists showed up in fall of 1981 I'd had my fill of men that were users, abusive, narcissists.  I'd been raped a number of times, once by two men, and strangled twice (one was the two men).  And I hadn't had an orgasm myself once. I'd learned to moan and pretend early on, because oftentimes the man would orgasm then and the sex would finally be over.  (When I finally did have an orgasm I was on my own, reading an article in Cosmopolitan magazine on how to masturbate- also something I had never done before except as a show.)

So my feelings about my body, sex, men, etc, were all very confusing. And in 1992, when I had a suicidal nervous breakdown and went into therapy, I also discovered that I was not Andrea Dworkin, or someone like Linda Lovelace. (I call that period of my life- between 12 and 15 my "Iris Steensma" years because I can't find any other shorthand, but for the most part I was not a prostitute and rarely engaged in that sort of direct exchange- usually it was another kind of payment, not cash- because it always had to be about the largesse of the man and me wanting him- and really, in some ways that was better, because when men straight up paid for it they were usually paying to be abusive and dismissive.)

Until a few years ago, when quite frankly my body changed, including my hormones, I did enjoy all things prurient and especially that women should choose, men should compensate women for sex in some way, or society should. Because even without kids we have the periods, the constant threat of rape and impregnation, etc. 

And also, it is the only thing of value that society has consistently wanted from me.  Men want sex, or to talk about sex, or look at sex, etc, and even women want to photograph or otherwise the female figure, and everyone wants to find a way to make money from it.  And there is a fatigue too, that comes with anything of value a person possesses- like a doctor constantly being asked about people's symptoms wherever they go, or a film director having every waiter pitch them a script, etc.

My disagreements with prostitution, strip clubs, porn, etc, all stem from the fact that they exploit rather than empower women.  In my 20s when I was really trying to write about my early sexual experiences I could not get anything published because "underage sex" was illegal. So go to any bookstore and buy Iceberg Slim's autobiography, or watch Taxi Driver, but if Iris Steensma or the Rachel in Slim's stable had tried to write a book or make a movie it would have been rejected.

And the other thing that I would run into, is people that would insist that there was something wrong with me, that I had suffered myself and still thought sex work was wrong! Many of these people weren't religious.  I get that most women want to find one guy and settle down and have kids, but I also know that given the opportunity there is a great chunk of men out there that are not going to do that, and it unrealistic to expect it. 

(I used to think to myself that I had to have sex with all of these men because their wives and girlfriends didn't. At 13 I really thought I was responsible for blue balls and that I was a tease- and I probably was- I wanted men to look at me so I dressed sexy and flirted.  I just didn't want or like the sex, I just put up with it. But I thought I obligated to provide it because I had made the men excited and their wives wouldn't have sex with them.)

Anyhow, so when this video was made, I didn't see the amazing young body I see now, and I wish I had appreciated myself more.  Many of the photos that I have were taken by boyfriends with a lot of protesting that I was "too fat" and "too gross". 

And later, when I did try to do these on my own, I just cannot seem to market myself of play the game right.  The whole acquisition of money is so exhausting to me.  "Selling myself." I am way too honest to do that.  And too weird.

And also now I don't feel it as much.  I want companionship and help with the storm windows and someone who isn't going to flinch at my 56 year old (in 5 days) body.  Part of my problem now is that I listened to a lot of very detailed complaints from all those men about how disgusting older women's bodies were. And also I flinch at myself these days. So taking selfies and doing topless Skype chats is probably over. (And with very few exceptions I don't look at dick pics for free.  Or for cheap. And not that I get many, but just FYI. )

But to be clear, I don't think badly of anyone who buys this video.  I'm 19 in it, not 13.  I am selling it because I need money and my thanks and appreciation for every purchase are very sincere and  heartfelt.  I also understand that there is a limited market.  I'm also selling my stories, my office and other skills, and this HP Stream Laptop (good for gamers-and barely used $100).

Also, any gifts are welcomed as well.  Or any book advances from publishers that want me to write my life story! 

Thanks for listening!

READ THIS BEFORE YOU THINK ABOUT DEATH

 Haha, right?  The title is a trap!  You already thought about death!  

My favorite magazine, The Sun, delivers the most thought provoking, timely interviews every month. (Also excellent, prose, poetry, fiction and photographs.)  And every month I have at least one major epiphany.  Usually a nexus of seemingly unrelated things swirling about in my head come together.*

The magazine has a monthly theme too, and this month it is Death.  The interview is with Sheldon Solomon, and his research and theories really fill in a gap on why fascism endures, and why we often respond inappropriately to life- altering change.

This Mortal Coil | Deborah Golden Alecson | Issue 544 | The Sun Magazine

You’re probably not even cognizant that death is on your mind. We know that death reminders have consequential effects on a panoply of everyday behaviors. Most people who are reminded that they’re going to die eat more chocolate-chip cookies, for example. People who consume alcohol are more likely to buy a drink after a death reminder. People who smoke cigarettes not only smoke more but inhale more vigorously.

If you tell people who find tanning attractive — and whose self-esteem is based on their physical appearance — that being out in the sun causes skin cancer, and then you ask, “How long are you going to stay out in the sun, and how much sunscreen are you going to use?” they say they will stay out a lot longer and use less sunscreen. What’s happening is that, when they’re reminded of death, they are unconsciously trying to boost their self-esteem, which is based on their appearance. Death reminders, in this case, foster behavior that may make you die sooner.

We get our values from our culture. If our culture emphasizes caring for children and old people, for example, then when we’re reminded of death, we should want to take care of children and old people more. But if we have a culture of narcissism, then when we’re reminded of our mortality, we turn into narcissists.

***

Our very first study was conducted with twenty-two municipal-court judges in Tucson, Arizona. We reminded half the judges that they were going to die and used the other half as a control group, who received no reminder. Then we had all the judges pretend to set bond for an alleged prostitute. In the control group the judges set an average bond of about fifty dollars, which was the norm in Tucson at the time. The judges who’d been reminded of their mortality, however, set an average bond of $450. This is a remarkable difference. After the study, when we told the judges what we had done, they all said there was no way the questionnaire could have altered their judgments in the case. Here were people trained to adjudicate the law in a rational and uniform fashion, yet just a subtle reminder of death was like putting a giant fist on the proverbial scales of justice.

***

I guess what has surprised us most is finding that death denial touches every aspect of our lives. For example, how come people can’t get along with others who don’t share their beliefs? Becker’s view is that accepting someone else’s beliefs undermines my confidence in my own. Therefore, he predicted, when we run into people with different beliefs, we will try to convince them to adopt ours, and if that doesn’t work, we will denigrate them or even kill them.

Sure enough, in our studies, we have found that when we remind Christians they’re going to die, they like Christians more and Jewish people less. When Germans are reminded that they’re going to die, they sit closer to people who look German and farther from people who look like immigrants. Iranians reminded that they’re going to die are more supportive of suicide bombers. Americans reminded they’re going to die are more supportive of using chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons against countries that do not in any way threaten us.

So the biggest surprise is really the consistency and robustness of the effects. They have been replicated in a variety of settings, in around twenty-five countries on five continents, and in children as young as ten and adults as old as their eighties.

***

So the best thing to do, Solomon advises, is embrace the fact that you are going to die, and that it could happen at any time.  All you have are the choices you make in this moment.  Decide what is important and focus on it.  

I agree.  But I am also glad to finally understand the whole Hitler/Trump thing.  (Read the rest of the interview for more.)

Blessings, peeps, I hope you are enjoying this beautiful Spring weather!!!  

* Like species 010 for 3.2 seconds as 7 of 9 observes it in ST:V episode "The Omega Directive".

RAIN BOWIES, LAZARUS AND RESURRECTION

I see meme's that a heavy metal is going to be named after Lemmy of Motorhead.  Someone posted a meme saying that Bowie should have an exotic reef fish named after him because of his colourful personas over the years.

On Sunday a giant rainbow appeared over New York City.  A "rain-Bowie" a woman on facebook called it.  (This link shows all the photos of the rainBowie.)  The link describes how "Starman" was partly inspired by "Over the Rainbow".

I don't normally associate Bowie with a lot of Christian symbolism, but looking at the "Lazarus" video I was struck that his last album's first single was named for a resurrection, the album was released on a Friday, Bowie's birthday, and he died on Sunday.

Bowie's resurrection was to return to the womb of all creativity.  "Look up, I'm in Heaven."  And here was the corpus of Iris to show the path to the next realm.  Bowie is painting on a larger canvas now, for all to see.  We only have to look to the sky, to the astral, to Heaven.  Now there truly is a Starman waiting in the sky.

EDIT: 15 January 2016: A great article about Bowie's occult symbolism... A must read for Magickal Folk, CM's, Kabbalists, and Bowie Fans...

I believe in celebrating one's birthday- even if just singing to yourself a "Happy Birthday" song- because the door you come in to this life is the same door you exit out of life.  And it seemed appropriate to me because I do see Bowie as a God.  He was definitely a World Walker.  And a Shaman.

I might form a church called "RainBowie" or something.


EDIT/PS: I see Bowie faces in the cloud shapes.  I guess I will be like one of those Elivs fans that is always seeing faces in pancakes and stuff.  Maybe when an artist means that much to someone you see them everywhere after they are gone.

DUFF'S REMINISCES, DANIEL, AND DOMINATRICES

Duff's in the Central West End is closing after 41 years of business at the end of June.

I associate Duff's with Lawyers and Poets. The high ceilings and solid wood pew-like tables and chairs create an atmosphere that summons the erudite folk for pints and educated conversations.

Most of my recent memories from Duff's, since moving back three years ago, are from Chance Operations,   I attended the premiere Chance Operations and I hope to attend the last one that will be held at Duff's, on June 24th.  (It is rumoured they will be moving to another location.)

Also a Secretary's Day luncheon with an attorney employer, a few random drinks, on a few different nights, with a few different people, going between Brennan's and Balaban's or Dressel's.

One of the strongest memories I have is a night at Duff's back in 1983 or so.  When I was 15 I became a radical political activist.  A bit of a recap for anyone that doesn't know my history: shortly before I turned 12 I had started drinking, having sex, and smoking cigarettes.  Drugs followed quickly.  I was a runaway, often on the streets, and living an extremely sexualised life involving too many older and often very dangerous men.

During the summer of my 15th year I was desperate to get away from the life I was living.  I initially embraced punk rock and revolutionary communism because it scared off all the men I didn't like. I cut my hair short and started hanging out in the Delmar Loop and Central West End with punk rockers, people of colour, and homosexuals. It was like magic.  Poof!  Suddenly I was free of all my old ties, with very little drama, threats, or bodily harm.

However,  I continued to be an activist for the next nine or ten years because of experiences like that night in Duff's, 30 years ago.

One thing that I did almost every day as a political activist was to sell revolutionary newspapers. Daniel Sheehan of the Christic Institute was speaking at Washington University Law School, and I went (alone, I think) to sell papers to the crowd waiting to go in, and also to attend.

(The question and answer period of talks like these were considered as important as selling the newspapers.  Because often a question could be framed in such a way as promote propaganda and invite debate on the revolution.)

I knew who Sheehan was because of the Silkwood case and Kerr-McGee.  The Christic Institute had become a major source of information about the deeds of the US government and corporations.  In addition to Karen Silkwood, the Institute had been involved with the La Penca bombing (the movie Above the Law with Steven Seagal was based on the information uncovered by the Christic Institute) and defended many other activists, including both of the Berrigans.

Afterward I ended up in conversation with several other attendees and Sheehan himself.  He invited me to come with his party to Duff's, along with Wash. U. professors and students and attorneys.  It was not just the thrill of being included, but to be taken seriously by someone like Sheehan.

In the last three years, without all of my many journals and diaries and scrapbooks  to assist me, my memories have become somewhat eroded.  This night is still very strong, but the details are gone-- what questions I asked during the Q&A, what Sheehan and I discussed, etc.  Those things were recorded in archives I do not have access too, currently.

I recall that he asked me a lot of questions.  I was somewhat infamous for turning my High School upside down, attempting to bring two controversial Salvadoran refugees to speak at assembly.  (They didn't make it to the High School, but they did end up speaking at the College next to the High School.)

At that time in my life I'd had very few experiences with men that weren't sexual.  I had a distant, stern uncle that visited my grandmother once a year, and a crazy grandfather (a former attorney) that I almost never saw and was embarrassed of when I did.

Even the "nice" boys from my grandmother's neighbourhood (where I went to High School) were always groping me in private, or cornering me, or seducing me.  (I ended up with the not nice boys because at least they still acknowledged me after they got what wanted.  Even if it was angry or abusive, at least it was male attention.)

To not only have a man like Sheehan paying attention to me because of my MIND was unbelievable.  I had been having other experiences like this, with other revolutionaries and activists, but Sheehan was a kind of radical celebrity.  And while I don't remember the exact details of the questions, I do remember that he was genuinely interested in my life and who I was.  If his libido had anything to do with it he hid it very well.

This memory is so strong, and warms me still on the coldest nights, because Sheehan's attention elevated me.  While I might have understood that on some unconscious level, it came to me like an epiphany when I saw the notice about Duff's closing in my facebook feed.

Just recently I was having a conversation with someone about the different types of Dominants and Submissives.  Or perhaps methods of Domination and types of Submissives.  It isn't all about flogging and ball torture.

In fact, there are many Dominants that do not engage in anything physical.  The relationship can be entirely mental or emotional.

But in particular I was relating a story from my own experience, when I was very interested in and learning about the BDSM community and lifestyle.  Too Dominant to train as another's Submissive, "learning the ropes" so to speak, I called a Submissive I knew and ordered him to be my Slave and teach me to be a Dominant.

One of the first things he taught me, and a common misunderstanding outside of the community, is that there is a big difference between humiliation of the Sub, as the lesser in an unequal relationship, and the type of Dominant he wanted and thought me to inherently be.

That is, the Dominatrix, without even uttering a word, is so powerful to the Submissive, that not only is his submissiveness summoned and then commanded by the Mistress, her power is such that it actually ELEVATES the Sub.

"When you fight Xena and she kicks your ass," he told me, "you become one of an elite group of warriors that has even FOUGHT Xena, or encountered her."

I suppose this reminisce is not so much about Duff's, itself, but for me this warm memory of my encounter with a truly amazing and inspiring man, that alone would be enough to keep the place alive in my heart until the day I, too, retire.

RIP Duff's.

BLESSINGS!

YOU'LL HAVE HAD YOUR BURNS NIGHT SUPPER THEN, HAMISH?

2014 Edit: And this http://laladyrae.blogspot.com/2014/01/slainte-mhath.html

The moon is full tomorrow night in beautiful sunny Leo.  And here tonight there was a wonderful, pearly moonbow.  What a gorgeous light to seduce and celebrate some poetry!

Tonight is Burns Night, the birthday celebration of the Scottish poet Robert Burns.  Haggis is paraded about and recited poetry to and then consumed.  (The Scots national dish is most demonstrative of the national character: "we're not cheap, we're frugal!")

Have a toast of some fine Scotch! Slainte!

The title of this post comes from: Hamish and Dougal

Robert Burns, Auld Lang Syne sung by Eddi Reader

Selkirk Grace

Great Chieftain o the Puddin Race!

POEM: ODE TO SCROTUM, 2006

I am the cock's scrotum sac,
Listen and hear my plea:
I am handsome to the ladies
Best aquainted with me!

Those that know me well,
Squirm in pleasure at our greeting!
And weep and cry, and moan with delight
Upon the occasion of our meeting!

September 22, 2006

POEM: NOMADS(1995)

NOMADS

In my grandmother’s

Twilight hours

Dreamt of

Dark dusty night:

A long journey

I walked alone.

I arrived

Cottage of my own sunset;

No light from the window,

No arms at the door.

Let myself in

Stirred ashes

Stoked fires

Made dinner.

Wept in silence

At the solitary hearth;

Shadow play

On my wrinkled hands

Reminded me

My body in youth:

Straight bones

Clean blood;

No stretch marks

No sag

Smooth skin.

Skyward curve

Of breasts and buttocks,

Before men

Before fear

Before (look away, say quickly in one breath)

Drugs, rape, pregnancies, pain.

Before a broken heart.

I had this dream

Before Nonny died.

Then a dawn came

My grandmother

Did not return from

Night.

I came back

From this Carnival

To this

Lush land (where silent snakes curve

deadly like

rivers

and my reflection lies

coiled in eyes

I’d rather forget;

I remembered why

I left

the moment I returned).

Here

I am a ghost;

I can remember

Before I was born.

Old Grandmothers,

I remember,

Walked Highlands at dawn,

Beaches at dusk.

I remember

A new country

A missionary’s life;

I remember

Boston streets

A wealthy Englishman’s wife;

I remember

White frame house

A poet and painter.

I must not forget

A candy maker

Whose hands

Lie folded

In my lap.

I remember

First Grandmother

Drank scotch,

Danced a jig,

Cursed First Grandfather.

I remember

What First Grandmother

Told her daughters;

I remember

First Grandfather

Never returned for long.

First Grandmother

Never told

Of lonely twilight

Lengthening

Into night,

And no fire kindled

At her last hearth.

My own grandmother

Whispered it sometimes

When she could find me;

And how rare that?

Me, whole,

Away from Circus;

I have wandered so far.

Her gnarled hands

Would grip mine

Like tree roots

Seeking earth;

“Time to stop these

Generations of roaming,”

She’d say;

“I have my

Hopes on you.”

Then she’d

Teach her crafts:

Candy-making and story-telling;

Different from those

Her grandmother taught her;

But, “Any craft will do,”

She’d warn me;

“Something to exchange for

Welcome at another hearth,

Even a Tinker’s campfire.”

I’d look away

Wondering

If she knew

How many

Gypsy boys

My body nourished

Before I trusted

My own crafts.

I know why

Never my children

Cradled my arms;

I know why

Never I lay

Wrapped warm

In Highland Shepherd’s plaid:

Nomads, we

Whose hearts

Became brittle

When men failed

Firelight vigil;

Unprotected,

We learned

To keep warm

Alone.

Nomads, we

Who chase hearth fires

Of others;

Refuse to use

Broken bits

Of our own

Unforgiving souls

To kindle a spark,

Bring Grandfather back.

I drink old scotch,

And dance a jig;

I know how

To keep warm;

Still, I cry out

For Grandfather’s son

To return

Without shame.

I sleep with a new dream:

A twilight croft,

Two grandparents

Well wrapped

Lie warm.

Dusk deepens

Fires fade

Soon enough

Without a curse.

Final draft 20 December 1995

copyright

CHANCE OPERATIONS

I went to Chance Operations.  It was JK Publishing night.  This is all local poets.  www.jkpublishing.org

They published Bob Reuter's new book. I really enjoyed hearing Bob!  He is a true Renaissance Man and is always doing something interesting. Photography, radio show, musician, poet.  He is also the subject of a movie!  He is a genuine St. Louis unique, nowhere else in the world, man. 

Chris Parr read from his new book.  Going to Find It. 

I read Seamus Heaney's "Undine".  I also read two poems of mine.  I posted them seperately.

The first was from my Holiday Greetings in 2004: Birds Of Prayer

And one I wrote with in the last week or so, mostly today.  (Chance Operations inspires me! :)

The Moonlight Tells Her Secrets.  I might be editing this one a bit.

As always, it was a great night!

POEM: THE MOONLIGHT TELLS HER SECRETS

I have shone upon you, and
upon all of your grandmothers,
every one.

I have lain among the fragrant
sandalwood forests with
dark-eyed men
and made romantic
the guilt edges
of their sharp scimitars.

I have caressed the breasts
and smooth thighs of
lush maidens on the floor of jungles,
and danced across the thorns of thistle
on moors
inhospitable and alien
without me.

I have touched the
rarest flower as she bloomed,
and also as her last petal withered and fell
to the ground.
I have ridden
the broad whale's back
as he spiraled above the ocean,
and as he disappeared into
the water again,
dove back down
far below
out of my reach

and left me to mourn on the surface
of the smooth sea,
for stormy weather and white capped waves.
You ask me
how can I love
such an ordinary place,
average people,
undistinguished streams and woods
without distinct character?

These few ragged weeds in an urban sidewalk
crack?
And ghetto palm trees,
their scent
blending with the stink of the sewage-runoff
wash that is pregnant with trash,
dry and stagnant,
rarely clear with stream--

How could I love such as this?

You ask me
because you think it would be better
if I had found you
gazing at me from the base of
the Taj Mahal
or beaches of Bora Bora.

Can you not see that
I love you all
equally?
The scimitar and the palm fronds
and the sea and the
dry wash, I love them all
the same.

I love you. And I love the kings,
and the sandalwood forests
and the soft bellies and backsides
of agile maidens. And I love
the sleeping larks,
swooping bats,
mating frogs, and

the drunk man ordering tacos at
jack in the box drive thru at 2 AM,
wondering if his wife will let him in
when he gets home. I love him and I love
the self-immolating monk
in Myanmar, lighting
the predawn capitol streets
with a glow that seems warm
and inviting,
from an ignorant distance.

I love the piles of rubbish,
and the empty lots,
and the ancient icebergs in the Arctic seas,
and the bloody battlefields
filled with fallen heroes.
I love the maggot and the murderer,
the wolf and the lamb,
the cockroach and the Kephri,
I love them all the same.

I love everything that you are,
and I illuminate everything
that you might choose your
path, and make your way.

I love you so much that I
would spend eternity
in the darkness,
my gaze mesmerized, turning,
undulating
over you as you stand beneath
those ordinary cottonwoods,
by that undistinguished creek,
in an uneventful city.

All have my blessing.
All are part of the night.
All may share the bounty
of my light.

I love and I find love.
I love and I find you.

I shine upon you,
and you shine upon the night.

Copyright 2012

POEM: BIRDS OF PRAYER

From Within and from Without, keep Christmas a cardinal bright,
Among the evergreen boughs of Hope, the stars crowning us with Light.

On Christmas Day in the morning
Send not sailing ships of three,
But Peace doves, a pair for mating,
East and West o'er the sunrise sea.

From the North and from the South
Let the Happiness bluebirds fly,
In mighty flocks, soaring forth
Across the innocent pink-dawn sky.

And if it were true as Above, so Below,
No more would the war crows find
A place to nest or a place to grow;
At first light Joy to earth would bind.

As in all Seasons Past, until Evermore,
Sweet sparrows and wrens sing Good Cheer!
Hear this, my prayer, on Christmas Day morn,
For the newborn sun, blessed babe, and New Year.

Copyright 2004

AUTUMN WEARS A RED DRESS

Tonight I went to Chance Operations. I heard two poets and I read three poems.

http://chanceoperationsstl.blogspot.com/

I bought a book by Drucilla Wall, and I already love it!!  The Geese at the Gates!  She invokes the genie locii of every place she visits- a true Shameness!!!!

Also hear a wonderful Frenchman expatriate, Marcel Toussaint.  Loved his poem about the lady driving the red car, and collecting speeding tickets!

The first poem I read was The Magi, by T.S. Eliot.  I gave "quite a different reading of it, than as is usual" and I knew where I was going with it, and "it was very good to hear it new," was the verdict.

And that is good because I love T.S. Eliot a lot, and in a way I cannot describe, short of loving him the way I love the colour green, or Venus shining in the twilight.  And when I read something great I want to be worthy of it, of course.

Moreover, along with all the other spirits- and right now it is every spirit that ever walked the earth!- T.S. Eliot is here and roaming the poeted and poetic haunts of his old home town. So it was wonderful to read some of his poetry so near to his birthplace.

And the poem, The Magi, is fitting for this period in history, when those of us that are shifting into the New Age, are indeed "no longer at ease here, in the old dispensations" and the "alien gods" are being clung to fiercely.

I also read Los Angeles poet, writer, and editor, Marie Lecrivain.  I read her great poem "Manifesto of a Sexy Librarian" last time I was there. Tonight I read one of her latest poems "Shamanic Dreams Via The Internet And Prolonged RNC Coverage".

I also read my own poem.  It takes me a long time to finish a poem.

Edit: This was originally written just after Katrina and dedicated to the annual Red Dress Run in New Orleans (which actually occurs in Spring.) This is a poem that seems born (or bourne) by hurricanes. I finished this and read it on October 29, 2012, as Hurricane Sandy was arriving in New York City.

EDIT EDIT: This poem, however, is NOT about hurricane Katrina or any other hurricane.  It is about both the season of Autumn in nature, Samhain, and also about women's bodies, if nature and the four seasons were the same woman.  
 

AUTUMN WEARS A RED DRESS

Autumn comes gaily clad,

Cooling the skin, but enflaming the eye;

She is the raucous harbinger of

Winter’s silent and unprotesting

Final death; the immodest,

Elderly grey,

Corpse to be concealed

Reverently beneath

Modest, white morgue sheets

Of snow and ice.

Autumn, she comes,

Crying and wailing;

Beating her chest,

Exposing her distress;

She can not be consoled,

Until that tantamont tango,

Naked and whole,

At last.

From the Debutante Spring

That grew like a wallflower;

Danced bare-legged and

Gawky limbed;

Rode her Papa's toes

Like an awkward colt.

Through to Summer ,

A Fine and Generous Lady

Ample bosomed,

Carnal and knowing,

Her skirts full and lush,

Fertile and green;
Her suitors, potent;

Her children, many.

Comes Autumn, then, finally,

Liberated from decorum and duty,

By the windsong echo of

Death-bone rattling drumbeats

Of thanks and praise;

Blessings.

Autumn hosts a feast! A party!

A festive Crescent City Wake,

Held just before the

Last rites will be given.

Autumn dons her gayest dress;

Flaunts her harlot fashions,

Taunting like a Hollywood starlet

The phantom that approaches

To claim her last dance.

Bare legged again,

But veined now, and thinner skinned;

Shedding her accessories

Coyly, one by one,

She boldly leads

Mourners dressed in riotous color;

And Dixieland bands,

Trumpets gleaming, toot sweet,

Through dream-soaked streets,

Announcing

The Year’s last breath.

Dressed in bold finery,

With nothing to celebrate

But certain death,

The Old Year is carried jubilantly

On the shoulders of the parade

To the Midnight of the Seasons.

On this Eve

The pyre is lit;

The uninvited and the dead

Feast with the living;

And the soul of

The unborn New Year

Runs mad with prophecy

And redemption in the streets.

The Old Year's breathe rattles

Like kindling,

And under a sickle moon sky

She lays to rest
Upon the dead wood crackling orange
Against the smokey black night.

And Autumn wears a red dress

To the funeral.

Copyright 2005 and 2012 

EDIT: You can hear me read all three of these: http://laladyrae.blogspot.com/2012/10/my-readings-of-poems-from-29-oct-2012.html 

IT'S A POEM. REALLY.

COWGIRL LOVESONG

Lie down;
Stay hard;
Shut up.

HARVEST TO HEARTH

Samhain is passed. All the of the spirits have been appeased for the year. And even if they haven't, their yearly visa to this dimension has expired, and the last transport has left.

Just the living and the ghosts remain. (And maybe the aliens... are humans, collectively, ready for the uniting "other" to appear in the sky?)

Samhain begins at sunset because for the Druids, a new day began when the old one went to bed-- in other words, when the sun set. As the day began in darkness, so must the year. Samahin to Yule was the dusk to pre-dawn twilight of the year.

And from Samhain to Yule there is rest in all endeavours in the other world. There is far too much to do in this one, this mundane world, especially in years of abundance.

The harvest is over. But there is still plenty of work to do. Preserving, putting up, planning for the winter ahead.

And Yuletide dreams are beginning. Soon there would be only the small points of light in the darkness, and time to rest from the labours of summer.

There will be merriment, and new beginnings. And gifts, coloured lights, candies, much drinking and toasting, great logs to be burned with fragrant herbs. And long nights for reuniting with old friends, and sharing the year's adventures.

But until then, there are memories of the things we lost this year. Mourning for those that have died.

And the hearth to clean after summer's neglect. There might be a chill in the air. A moment of sharpness, until the fire is lit.

Stay warm.

With love from my heart to yours,
Lady Rae
ladyrae@gmail.com

THE FAMOUS 2008 SUPERBOWL EMAIL

Superbowl prediction
Saturday, February 2, 2008 6:58 PM

From Rachael XXXXXXXXX Sat Feb 2 16:58:46 2008

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Subject: Superbowl prediction

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Well, if you remember the incident last year where I predicted a team that wasn't playing, you will see this as the expirement I see it as: can I get good enough with numbers to live a lazy gamblers life?

New York Giants 17 Patriots 14


That is what I kept seeing. Then I saw

Patriots 22

I don't know. I am not confident enough to hit "everyone" on this mail, but to my friends and football fans, well, you know I don't follow the football, especially the American kind.

Friends in LA, I must tell you, I have not seen one betting sheet with the little squares. Who knew I would be homesick for something so silly?

Go Team!!!

EDIT: My 2012 post
 http://laladyrae.blogspot.com/2012/02/superbowl-psychic-performance-anxiety.html

MOURNING HAS BROKEN, PART 2

(To see the first post, click here.)

The first time I remember meeting Karl K it was at a concert at Mississippi Nights in 1981, or thereabouts.

I was on the guest list.  However, I was also underage and without an I.D. so they wouldn't let me in.  (Or they were over capacity.)  It was raining, and there was no one on the bus when the band went on.   Karl was huddled under a little alcove in the side of the hill behind Mississippi Nights, listening to the concert as best he could.

He waved me up, introduced himself (we had seen each other around the Delmar "Wall"), and then proceeded to give me a narration about the concert.  (I couldn't hear it as well as he could.  The man had ears like a bat, even at 15 years of age.)

Eventually the band's tour manager, Geoff, came out and let me on the bus.  Although I urged Karl to come with me, he did not, preferring to listen to whatever he could from his alcove.

After that, it seems reasonable that for the next three years I saw Karl at least once a week.  (If I am not mistaken, he moved away in 83 or 84.  I left in 85.)  He had an encyclopedic knowledge of punk and British ska, and I recall him answering my music questions on one occasion, when we were both shopping in Vintage Vinyl.

He mostly hung out with a very tall man named Eric.  Very tall Eric and not short but not really tall Karl were mostly a kind of silhouette I would encounter when roaming the Loop.

I sheepishly admit that in early July of 2007 I saw Karl and did not remember him.  Now, at the time, I had just fainted in St. Louis Bread Company (anemia and iron deficiency) and broken my front tooth.  I was not in the best of health, and I was also very embarrassed about my tooth.  (I was headed back to L.A. at the end of July, and was waiting for my dentist -- and insurance-- there!)

I was handing out my pink "You are Amazing" flyers.  It was Saturday afternoon and the Loop was hoppin'.

He stared at me for a second before exclaiming, "Rachael?  Oh my god, Red Rachael?"

I nodded.  He took off his sunglasses.  "It's Karl, Karl -----!"

His last name is not one easily forgotten, but I did not remember him.  No one had said his name to me for 25 years!  I'd reunited with three other friends that I'd not seen since back in the day, but they were people I'd known well, and seen more than once in the last two decades.

I apologized profusely for my bad memory.

Karl named several encounters (not the Beat concert) and finally said "I used to hang out with Eric -----, remember tall Eric?"

Suddenly, it all flooded back to me: the Beat concert, he and Eric's familiar silhouette, and several random conversations we had had about PIL, ska, and politics.  (I used to argue with EVERYONE about politics.  I was a true zealot.)

Needless to say, Karl was somewhat offended that I did not remember him until he'd mentioned Eric.  I apologized again.  He forgave me.  We exchanged numbers and quick bio's of the past 25 years.

I didn't really see him again until winter.  The Knitters were playing Blueberry Hill.  Karl and two other people that I had not seen in 25 years came and we all met for the concert.  Unfortunately, one of the musicians turned out to be someone from L.A. and I was not able to really participate in the reunion.

(I spent most of my time talking to my musician friend at a booth, while Karl and friends were at the bar. Although, while three of them had known each other well, I was not able to share much.  Not just my bad memory, but also just that I guess I have always done my own thing and been a bit of a lone wolf. )

I bumped into Karl more than once, in the Loop, and also on Delmar up near Lewis Park.  The encounters were mostly inconsequential.  We mostly commiserated on the St. Louis economy and job market, and the climates we'd left behind: Karl for Hawaii, and me for Los Angeles.

The last time I saw Karl it was shortly before I left to move back to Los Angeles in June of 2008.  Karl was in Vintage Vinyl with an armload of records.  It seemed he had run out of money in the "H"
section.  He had some Herp Alpert, Hot Chocolate, and Don Ho (among other things I can't recall).

He was trying to decide what to put back.  I only had a buck or two on me, but I gave it to him gladly.  I knew he would have done the same for me.

Thanks to my joining Facebook, after returning to Los Angeles I came back in contact with many of the people from my Delmar "punker" days, Karl included.  It was a big happy on-line reunion for all of us.  (In some ways much better than a real reunion.)

Had it not been for facebook I would not have heard about Karl's cancer, and the twists and turns his struggle took.  I returned to St. Louis in November, just as Karl either took a turn for the worst or was having a remission, depending on the person telling the story.

Ironically, I met one of Karl's  cousins over the holidays, shopping in the boutique where I work.  I had casually asked if she lived in the area.  She mentioned her cousin was ill, I asked if I might know her cousin, and so forth.

I tried to call Karl a few times, leaving a messages with his father once and the answering machine.  My phone service has been very bad here and I don't always get my messages.  Also, my phone was shut off for non-payment when Karl died.  So I don't know if he tried to call me back or not.

And I don't know if I would have been any comfort for him, anyhow.  Like many people I've come back into contact with-- while "Red" Rachael was too radical, too atheist, and too political, at least she lived in the clear cut, material, empirical world.  "Rae" lives in a world that few others inhabit and most do not really understand or relate to.

Would it have been helpful for Karl to speak to me before he died?  To hear the stories other spirits have told me about the afterlife?  Or would it have embarrassed him?  Possibly disturbed him?

And I knew, anyhow, that if and when he died (I was rooting for his recovery right up until the end, even when it seemed all was lost) he would find me.  Mediums are more popular with the dead than with the living.

And he did.  He died on the anniversary of my grandmother's birthday.  Truthfully, if he had not contacted me I might have missed the funeral.  (They aren't really my cup of tea.) But for a new spirit, especially one that died during a lengthy illness, a medium's attendance at the funeral is very helpful.

The dead have no place in the world, no voice, no body.  On this plane, as a ghost at a funeral (not in "the light" or crossed over), the dead cannot see the other spirits of the dead.  They can only come back through memory or invocation (saying their name, making a space for them in the real world-- a candle, or bell or flowers).

The funeral is really the deceased last chance to participate in a group activity.  True to form, even without a body, Karl did not ask for much or push too hard.  Twice he asked me, if the opportunity arose, to pass on a message, "but not if it is a big deal."

I was very glad that I did go.  Karl's people did him right, and he was happy to see all of his friends reuniting with each other! I even saw big tall Eric again, although I didn't recognize him at first.

He and his wife gave me a ride to work afterwards.  It was during that drive that I felt Karl's spirit the strongest.

After Eric and his wife dropped me off I sat at work with the door locked for a few minutes.  Karl was back with his mother, there were no human spirits living or dead.  I was alone.

There is something very moving about taking a moment to acknowledge all that a human lifetime encompasses.  It does not matter whether the life was 80 years or 40 years or 4 years.  It does not matter if this is your first and only lifetime or if you have been here thousands of times.

We are all so privileged to share this time here with one another.  And while this is true of everyone we encounter in this lifetime, whether friend or foe, it is doubly true of Karl.

We were lucky to know you friend.  We will meet again, many years from now.  Until then, farewell and safe journey!

--Lady Rae
laladyrae@gmail.com

MOURNING HAS BROKEN

A man I knew died today. He was an acquaintance from the ragged gang of punkrockers that were found in the Delmar Loop back in the early eighties.

I want to write a homage to him but I have an urgent matter at hand. I thought I might make note of a few things that I have learned from the dead that comfort me when someone I love passes.

On the other side everything is complete. We say that "life" is "eternal" but there is no death on the other side, and no time. You have already lived, and you are about to live, and you have never lived. So your own spirit comes to meet you, and the spirits of all the people you love and care about also come to meet you.

A part of you is still here as a kind of "ghost". (Until the funeral, as far as I can tell, and sometimes longer, and in the case of really hard core empiricists, only long enough to experience "brain death".) But there is another part of you-- a more enduring part--that is already in "heaven" or the afterlife, or whatever you think of it as.

And you do seem to have as much choice in what you believe and experience in your after-life as you do here. However, I will comment that a family member that was a very strict religious person in life, encouraged me to use my gift as a Medium with her family. And then also a client's deceased friend that was an atheist dropped in with a message that she had been wrong in life to not believe in an afterlife. (Although she did not regret, nor was she in any punished for not believing this while she was in this life.)

If you have lost a loved one I can tell you it is like in the tv shows and movies. They are standing right by you, trying to comfort you. For them, it is just a blink of an eye until they will see you again.

Just remember them and speak out loud. Light candles, and place flowers, and pictures about. Tell stories about the person. The dead can come back to this dimension through our memories of them. (That is why happy memories are best-- so they don't have to journey through the bad ones to get to you.)

And all is forgiven. The number one thing the dead say to the living is "I love you." Love is what makes us live forever.

In Los Angeles spirits of the dead can get the white cabbage moth to do their bidding year round, although I also know a guy who comes with a rose beetle. And indoors in winter fruit flies are often the carriers of the dead.

Sometimes it is a little breeze, or a branch or twig snapping. Every now and again a bird, or small animal.

I'm sorry I don't have time to write more! Karl, you are celebrated, and you are missed!!!!

Rae