This one is not about boymen.
This one is for some very lovely ladies. I could devote pages to each of them.
It has been on my mind and heart and body to spell out my gratitude. I am somewhat afraid I do not possess the weaving abilities to exact their goodness in words. But I’m going to give it a shot.
Let me begin at the beginning. It was Thursday or Friday of my visit week. I was on a Metro 720 heading west somewhere, maybe the Hammer. I sit at the back of the bus if I can, past the back door, or the 2nd back door, when it’s an articulated bus. I tend to sit on the left side, third seat from the ones up the steps, next to the window. That’s my favorite seat, for no reason. Not that I always get it, but I sit there if it’s available. I looked at my phone, my safety net, connection to everyone. I sent a txt to the Cakelady:
I kind of want to stay.
She replied nearly instantly:
I kind of think you should.
It was a very unusual message. She’s my heart, this amazing Lady. We were fuckmates and sisters in spirit. We could share a bath and cry. She cut me in ritual that so many bad years would be excised as blood ran from the wounds.
I failed that, went back to him as he promised a change – a change that never materialized, no matter how I pled, no matter the stories I wrote, begging for some crumb of attention/affection. No matter the whispers I made to spirits on my knees, before an altar burning frankincense and sandalwood. No spells I cast, no exercise in service was enough. Nothing I could demonstrate was petition enough for him to find me the least bit worthy of his time, his body, his discussion.
Cakelady had once provided me a week of sanctuary, staying in her closet, where a bed fit easily. I considered living there. I could get a job and pay my own way. It was just somewhere else to sleep, that wasn’t my solo room.
I don’t want to belabour the negative parts. I want to celebrate.
Cakelady, sweet woman of my heart. You have listened to me, you have spoken to me. You read my cards and cried for what they told. You have called me your naked friend, sharing that past that seemed to hover, claiming your future as cloudy. I have stood by you chewing that petal, in full moonlight, as you are crowned queen of the evening, you chewed and you wished. And in time, the Moon knit your broken heart back together. And one night we sat on your porch, rocking a bit, and you told me about kissing YourFella. Your shimmer, my sweet friend, eclipsed those clouds from the past. You took time, this time, time for you. And you pieced together what it was you wanted. You learned yourself, from holding on to you. And you and I could curl together, you and I could fuck/makelove/couple/copulate/bangagong and there was no jealousy, just gladness.
The first time, remember? It was so much fullness of goodness that we wept. Our tears together, salty and honest.
With you I knew I was a whole person, not the sole shard to which I held on tight after being shattered. With you I know me. You, I know, you, I hear totally, you are in my sight; and I will always carry your heart. Near or far, nakedly I am yours yet lay no claims. I am yours in nearness and distance, I accept all words and voice that you might share, and I accept them with all gladness.
Without your blessing, I would have not made my life here. Without you saying you would rather my happiness than my closeness to you, I would have gotten on the flight back to Texas. But those words, so mellifluous, dripped like gold into my philosophy. You cared so much. You continue to care. Everything from you is wrapped in silk, and promises of featherbeds in not too distant futures. I light a candle weekly for you – in blessing and casting all goodness.
The Girl Named Much
She has the most acerbic wit since Tomastio. I think the two of them, actually, would make an excellent match. Except that she’s on the East coast.
Much has been through a few nicknames, but this is the most recent, and it’s from me, so this one we’ll keep around a bit.
Much is fierce. She says she’s a delicate flower, or a fluffy bunny, I think it is. But she can hyper-analyze anything and make comment upon such anything as to dissect it in mere seconds. She can slice and dice an argument in a blink and she will fuck you up if you dare to fling a logical fallacy in your mix of bullshit.
And she’ll tell you. Oh, yes. Don’t fuck with her. Just, really, don’t.
Which is something approaching Astronomically Awesome.
Her fierceness, it is my good fortune, extends to her love and care for me. In true Channeling-of-Tinkerbell fashion, she has encouraged me without end since I left Texas. A vocal proponent of Faeries and their force, she once said in encouragement: “clap, fucker! Believe and clap like a mother fucking seal! Arf! Arf!”
Our shorthand for the shorthand of the encouraging command to “clap and believe!” became simply the word “ARF!” Through my job hunting, and disappointing interviews, and maybe-could-be email responses to my inquiries about jobs, she was awake, though Easterly.
Much, at one point, provided me such encouragement as to make my Moth weep with gratitude. Which is to say, she has been endeared to a great many women for her endless goodwill. That’s all I’m going to post about that.
Much continues to ARF at me, through shitty days, through bad dates, and during my longass commutes. One day I’ll bring her here and show her how big this City is, how far reaching it is. I’ll take her on my fave bus routes, the landmarks I have, the buildings I love, the streets that make me sing.
But the City won’t mind me singing my gratitude to Much as well. She’s glad too.
Ipso and I made friends a while ago. She lives in Edmonton. I have lived in Canada, but i lived in Toronto, which is a different place entirely. She is an Oak with unending roots. When her stability is shaken, I worry with such immensity that it interferes with shit going on in my life. Before I was employed, we chatted from waking to sleeping. We wrote novels in synch during November’s nanowrimo. I cajoled her into doing it. She is such a prolific writer now, I hope I had some part of kicking that off. She has mined all her words, having chronicled electronically since the 90s.
Her constancy was difficult to part-with when I started working. I couldn’t chat with her all day. I couldn’t say wtf was going on all the time. It was an unravel a bit of the safety net I kept nearby, my smartphone clutched to my chest as if it were a prayerbook. I checked in as often as I could, and she was always there, kind words, steady and beautiful.
Ipso’s ease made me easy. I do not deny this. I relied heavily upon her support, expectantly. She never let me down. Her own life may have been twisty at times, and she told me so, but not to say “I can’t help now, sorry.” It was to say, “me too, friend. I hear you.”
Ipsie hears me. I want to shower her with diamonds and chocolates. I wish so much we could hang out together on soft couches, laughing at whatever the fuck nonsense other people come up with. She’s smart.
She’s whip smart.
But she’s not schooled, and I learn from her that this is not important. She’s Unschooled, she learns fast, she finds her way and she makes shit happen. She works things out. She wrote a novel that she saw in her head. That’s fantastica.
From Ipsie, I learned that budgets are freedom. This is a huge leap. I’m still not so good at them, but I get it and I know it’s something I have to figure out and make work. And discipline. JesusGod. I really admire her for this.
Cause there’s days I want to say, “but I have $X in savings, can’t I buy these jeans?” And Ipsie, if asked, would say, “well, sure, but you might not make rent, you know. Or have food.”
Acacia. She’s a goddamned Acacia. Tree of Life. And me, not quite rooted, but planted at least. And with no idea into what I might bloom, though Much says I blossom here, in this City.
Maybe I’ll be Star Jasmine, and perfume the streets from dusk until dawn, starting in February.
These women, so strong and beautiful. So full in their outreach of love and compassion, understanding of my need to babble onwards on nothing, so accepting of my big decision to fuck yes I’m going to make it in LA, damn all the hate. Damn all the loneliness.
They banish my loneliness with their words and voices. These women: Cakelady, Much, and Ipso, bring me love daily. Because of these women – these strong, these fucking incredible women, my stand as a single woman is so profoundly freeing.
It is freedom, indeed.
With their arms wrapped around me from the South, East, and North, I am embraced in such goodness, and fear nothing as I walk about this West.