missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)
I am happy
this emptiness right here
this emptiness right now
is a temporary thing.

Happy people cry too
even if their tears are confused, missed and taken for laughter
Happy people scream too
even though their pain is mistaken for con and fused with fervor

I am a happy person
and this emptiness is a temporary thing

this Emptiness
where my Worth once stood
Worth I so carelessly gave away
Worth that with an equal carelessness was wasted away,
until my hallowed became hollow  there
once warm womb turned temporary torrid tomb…

Stand not at this grave a weep for me
Neither grieve for me
Nor hold wake with me
give me your noise
lend me your laughter
create chaotic celebration so that I can cry

Soak me in the sun of your warm smiles,
transmute this sea of tears into fertile spring rains rich with the beauty of our combined joy.
Lend me the rhythm of your stamping feet
turn bitter grapes of sorrow into sweet wines of sacred wisdom, a precious ambrosia garnered from life’s painful lessons
Pour it over this rotted earth
let me use your bright colors as inspiration to re-landscape my barren greedy glorious garden

Grieve not for me
nor hold wake with me

give me  noise
lend me  laughter
create chaotic celebration so that I can
and cry

for I am a happy person
and this
this is but a temporary thing.
missrenie: (Default)

The message was a few lines:

Yeah, it is time for me to wish you happy birthday again, without having seen you for a year.  So much happened in your life since I’ve seen you and I don’t know the half of it.  Sigh

Hope you aren’t hiding in a hole and are out there living the good life. Lots of people love you a lot and you need to keep in touch with them!  SoCal? Really?  What’s up with that?  Anyway, if you want to know about my life, you have to tell me about yours.


I typed in "Nothing much I'm a massage therapist now :)" and almost hit send.

But I didn't
Alot has happened.
Alot has changed. 
To say oh nothing would be a gross understatement.  So I told her what happened to me.... in third person.   Not because I am an ego maniac, but because its really too painful to think of myself as this stupid.
It helped... it truly helped

Because now I know where I have been
Although I can see where I am going
Even if I'm far from certain of where I’ll end up
That's just fine with me

Because I made it  here… I am exactly where I need to be.

Where I am supposed to be  and where I chose to be.



 __Our Story so Far__



We last left our unlikely heroine in San Jose.  It was the end of February 2007  beginning of March.  She had just successfully:

-gotten one of her friends out of a physically and emotionally abusive relationship, 

-reluctantly left her stable albeit low paying job at the law firm to navigate the unpredictable torrid waters of  Los Angeles at  her fiancées enthusiastic and guilt riddled request

-sold or giving away 90% of her personal belongs in preparation for the relocation

- and moved in with his parents.

-and is engaged in an open relationship with fiancee and said from above friend.

Two weeks later (still in withdrawal from the massive ego high of playing the moaner) she is working at Walgreens  i.e. the "Pit of Despair".   Her fiancée who is unemployed and has been since November of 2006  is depressed and mentally MIA due to the apparent fall through of the LA thing (soon to be termed the “Great LA Fiasco of 2006”) . This leaves her to fend off debit collectors, default payments, and the repo man on her lonesome.

In April  while busting her ass at Walgreens i.e suckville USA, facing financial ruin and living with her fiancée’s dysfunctional family  her fiancée is not only passing his time crawling into World of Warcraft the way some manic depressives crawl into a bottle but also crawling into the “friend” she helped out of dire situation.  Although the relationship is an open one and she understands that means sex  she’s hurt… he should have been spending at least some of that time doing the laundry... this can not continue.  
She goes to speak to him about her leaving Wal-hell and instead of getting the comfort/promise to help out that she is hoping for she is cut off and mournfully inquired as to wether or not she is leaving him.

She thinks to herself that that is a brillant idea and replies enthuastically in the affirmative.
He is so overcome that he leaves her bed to go into the bed of his other partner the "friend" who comes and tells her that she will help her get back home to New Orleans.  Our heroine finally puts 2 and 2 together as the "friend" embraces her and tells her to just let it all out.   She cries but mostly out of the halirity of the situations.  She realizes that this is single white female without all the white females.

She decides to let the "friend" and former fiancee ride off into the sunset together.  She knows he will be back because... well the friend isn't her.  And she is right.  It took all of 7 days before it all went to hell for the new little unit.  The friend leaves the fiancee comes back and confesses that the friend was making him choose between them for the last few months and telling her that she was a cold, heartless, selfish and going to leave him for someone better anyway.  He now realizes that
swf has been twisting her words and manipulating him.

Our main girl realized that 8 days ago.  "Why didn't you ask me how I felt"  she asks and for the first time is really hurt.... even more than she was over the laundry.


His excuse

She was becoming distant

Her excuse for becoming distant

His not bringing in money, helping with the chores, or looking for a job was a personal pet peeve and massive turn-off.


This recent turn of events inspires her toward her own semi-dramatic mental break down (why should he get all the fun).   She quits, moves into the spare bedroom, re-evaluates her life and enrolls in massage school all with-in 48 hours.  She figures she has nothing else to lose.  Its now early May.

By the end of May she has a job that pays her twice what the other use too, her ex-fiancée is her fiancée again (our heroine is obviously injecting heroin)  and the LA job offer finally looks like it is going to go through.  She refuses to go to LA despite the pleading of the fiancée and his mother.  She realizes that she had given up way to much of her life and needs to get herself straight and on track because she can’t depend on him for anything stable.

He doesn’t go to LA without her.

It’s now July and lo and behold after eight months he finally joins her in the land of productive adults.  He gets a job.She’s overjoyed. After all last time he was unemployed it took him a year to find a job.  He’s cut his refresh rate down by 4 months!!!

They go to couples counseling.

Her week looks like this

40 hrs work
10 hrs traffic
16 hrs school
5  hrs gym
10 hrs massage application

She still comes home and does the laundry and cooking because even though he only works 25-35 hours a week and lives close to his job he forgets to do chores.  And she is too exhausted to complain.


It’s August and she wants to move into their own place… he suggest they wait until she finishes school.  Besides her rent money helps his mom out a lot since his dad hasn’t worked in 25 years.  It’s a good thing they do because in February he is unemployed again.  Happy New Year!!!!


In May 2008 she graduates from NHI.  And becomes a Certified Massage Therapist.  She has held down a 3.96 GPA and has been class leader for the past six months.  She has made wonderful friends for life, conquered an obsessive compulsive eating disorder, discovered how awesome life could be with a self esteem and started calculations regarding her own personal worth.


She tells him she is moving out in three months.  He can only come with her if he starts acting like a man. By late July he has a job.  But in August she starts to notice patterns, cycles, red flags, unacceptable behavior ( he fucks around on her while she's at home visiting her mother for the first time in three years) and she slaps herself.  She looks at her relationship closely and is finally able to see that 3d image 75% of the population insisted was there but she declared as a hoax.


There is a laundry list of things but is sums up to this.  He is not the man(baby) she wants in her life and she does not want to be the woman (mother) he needs her to be in his.  All signs point to yes, the stars are (mis)aligned… they must part ways. 


Since they still share a car she gives him until the end of September to get his affairs in order.  It’s a slow but friendly break up… so far.


Because despite everything.


She still loves him.

He made mistakes, she certainly has made mistakes.  They both have been selfish, and childish, easy to defer blame, accept undeserved credit and shun self responsibility.


She still loves him


In her heart she wishes things could have been different.  Nine years…for  nine years.  He has been her best friend, her lover, her partner, her shining knight, her shoulder to lean on, both crutch and hurdle, simultaneous curse and cure.

And she has been that to him.


She still loves him


But she knows her worth and has chosen to love herself more.


The new chapter begins this October.
All my love,


ps.  There are something’s I left out... like scandalous kink, moonlight skinny dipping, semi naked photo shoot, losing my car, and a brain tumor scare...  But all those things resolve themselves for the best.


missrenie: (Fatgurl@thegym)
I haven’t always been fat.
But that doesn’t really matter now does it?

             Because I’ve always considered myself to be fat, large, rotund, morbidly obese and doomed by my anti-aesthetic monstrosity to a lonely life.  A horrible, torrid, terrible affair, brimming with romantic rejections, jobs that had me stuffed in the farthest darkest cubical, and the occasional snickering of small children.  I would only find peace by my merciful and satirical death.  Which would involve a two year old twinke and a Jerry Springer rerun.

As I would laugh merrily at the misfortune of some skinny bitch I would choke on the twinke I just found under my seat cushion.   would tumble from my recliner (an awkward pathetic slow fall) with my flower print mumu flailing out around me  (except for where it was pinched between my ass cheeks in  a gigantic weggie).  My chubby sausage fingers would rake the air knocking over my sad collection of crystals, precious moments children and snowglobes.

No one would come.  I would be alone.  I didn’t date. I wasn’t married.  I never had children, because I was still scared from elementary school and the kids who pointed and snickered on the streetcar.  As I lay there drowning in my own vomit while simultaneous reliving all my nightmares and daydreams  my eyes would catch a rumpled ad from Jenny Craig that read “Isn’t today the day?”

With that the curtain would fall heavily on the Shakespearian tragedy that was my life.  From there I would go to heaven  (because I died a virgin)  where I would be given a set of 3x size wings (because I was still fat).  This makes me sad but I forget all that because for the first time that I since I was seven that horrible lower back pain is gone and I don’t get winded standing up.

I’d float all happy like down from heaven to take a peek at my sparsely attended funeral only to find that it is a closed casket because my nine cats had partial eaten my face before they found me in my backstreet, ground level, studio apartment.  Surrounded by broken glass and dried bits of confetti snow with the mother of all wedgies stuck between my asscheeks.

                 It is preordained, predetermined… destiny.
Even when I managed to lose my virginity, meet a man who wanted to marry me and developed an allergy to cats I knew better.  I had seen it.  The same vision since I was sixteen…. Trust me its going to happen.
Or so I thought.
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)
I had forgotten
amidst years of conflict
amidst years of conditioning
amidst years of conforming

I had forgotten
my worth
my beauty
my self

I cast it off of me in order to wear a lesser garment of lesser value.
I painted my face with the lies of a commercialist society
I strapped my chest with the fears of friends and family
I clothed myself
From tit to hip
from hip to toe in you...
to blend
to disappear
to die
because I believed that fighting was too messy for you
because I believed that changing was too difficult to do
because I believed it was easier
to run
to hide
to give in

The fabric has worn thin

and as I stand
skin red and raw

I stare
and see
just me

and me screams:

I am tiered of wallowing
I am nary not swallowing
one more fucking thing

I’m tied of choking
When its time for me to sing

I’m tied of crawling
Cause you pulling on my wings

The lies you spittin are starting to bore me
I’m gonna be my own best success story

Now is time for a Reclamation
To which I make this proclamation
To Untame
To Rename
To Reclaim me

can not you see
undA NU mangeMEnt ='s A NU ME
it's time to stop trying
it's time to stop crying
it's time to be
it's time to       come
it's time for                   me 
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

I hate me...

It’s11:15 pm on a Thursday. It’s raining. You are in the den playing World Of Warcraft, the cat’s licking her ass and I am sitting in a plush beige 3rd hand recliner in the living room of a 2 story house nestled in a suburbia which exists on the fringes of a large city in California .

The living room has shag carpet that someone told me was once orange. It might have been 25 years ago but today is an unpleasant muddy green with splotches of moldy brown. The curtains are yellow and as old as the carpet. A bowflex sits in the middle of the floor, unused, unwanted and glaring ominously at any one who passes it by.

The room is flanked by 3 bookshelves all spilling over with binders of world maps, recipes, math and English assignments, craft instructions, etc. Two plaid couches (from the late 70s?) mercifully covered by bright red table clothes, hold up the rest of the walls.

The walls themselves are plastered with a concoction of African and African American collectables, oddities and art work which start off as museum worthy then hyper jump directly into the realm of offensive and tasteless. Example: Hand carved wooden mask from Nigeria next to a green, red and white hand stitched circular pot holder that portrays a black female child in classic red lipped, moon faced, darky, pickanninny style. This is the standard décor for the rest of the 2 and ½ bathroom, 4 bedroom house. To summarize it looks as if the 70’s a Costco/Sams ( or what ever local where house supply store your familiar with) size box of Reese’s pieces, a teaching supply store and the Black Power movement got together for one wicked foursome and heaved all over the place.

The art, the carpet, the furniture, the room, the house all belong to my possibly- future -mother-in-law and is a physical manifestation of the mental and emotional abuse she endures from her husband. I used to feel sorry for her. I don't anymore. She stayed. She stayed here. She constructed her tomb. She chose to accept. I want to grab her and shake her. I want to wrap my hands around my neck and wake her up. Sometimes I even want to blame her for how my life is. If she would have demanded more of her husband and for herself you wouldn't be the person you are today right... right? That has to be the reason for it. Your father is an ass, your mother his tool and you a cross between them both.

I’m hungry. I want to stuff the hollow space within with something heavy and solid. just to pretend I'm whole. The emptiness is something food could never truly fill... but right now its close enough. I open the door to the refrigerator and look inside. It is just like the walls, just like the house, just like your mother, just like me… full of useless odds and ends, going off and in need of cleaning, in serious want of catharsis. I close the door to that little pocket of insanity and tragedy so viciously that I can hear clank of 8 13 month old salad dressings bottle cry out against eachother. Although I wonder if I have broken something I am quite certain that I do not care.

I feel destructive. This isn't good. My minds not well. I should go upstairs, sleep off or through this storm.

I might as well take a Valerian root and go to bed. I say this out loud. But the only one who hears me is the cat. Who is busily content at the moment so she could care less. I repeat my plans for retirement again, louder. And I hear you say "Go ahead I will be right up."

It's 2am before you actually comes to bed. Your feet which areicy cold from sitting in front of the window while running your latest "instance", brush against the soles of mine. I feign sleep and roll away from you but you snuggle closer and suddenly the cal king size bed isn't nearly large enough. You place your hand around my waist and slowly, slowly inches your fingers up until you are cupping my breast. Warming your frigid fingers from my body heat. I know you don't mean to be a pain. I know you just want to be close to me. But I want to cringe, I want to push you off, but I don't want to explain why.

So I lay there and I wait for your breath which comes in deep sighs to even out. I wait for you to stop your slow and gentle grinding into my back. I wait for you to sleep. And when you do I un-twine myself and push away. I'm colder than before.

I'm wide awake now.

And I'm pissed because I have to get up at 6 and go to work then leave work and go to class until 10pm and you don't have to do that.

I want to shake you. And tell you to get it together, get a real job so we can get out of this house. Get in school, get a life so I can get some respect for you. Get it together... so we can get together. Because I am so damn tired of holding our world up. So tired of being here, in this house, in this place, in this state of mind.

I want to tell you that you are killing me. That you have been killing me for five years! I want you to stop it!

But I don't. I pull the covers closer and force myself to fall asleep. In the morning I'm cuddled up next to you. It's warm, comfortable, familiar... the curve of your side against mine and the cadence of your breath, the beat of your heart.

And for five minutes right before you open your eyes, before you say good morning, I love you. I wonder if this is how your mother feels and I hate myself for it.


I hate this house

I hate the walls

I sometimes hate you

but most of all

I hate me

for continuing to be


In this house

within its walls

it's rotten, it's crumbling

it's going to fall.

Before that happen I'll come awake

I'll grab me and slap me, I'ma give me a shake

Just for now I'll sleep and grieve

But one day soon I find the strength to leave.

I miss

Feb. 13th, 2007 06:16 pm
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

I miss
so bad
that I can taste it
if I bite my tongue
hard enough
I can taste it in my blood
it flows like music
up into me
and through me




I miss
Crescent Bends
the way the sounds of the street
with horse shoe cadence
the smell of these friends
coffee fresh and chicory kissed
flour fried into a pillow
delicate snow sugar misted
 I miss
Rain singin', slipin', spillin' on cobblestones
melted brown sugar, molasseses and pecans
I miss
broiled crawfish, crab, shrimp
and the songs
that get between your knees
and then crash into your feet

I miss
and green
the way the street lights danced off of a trombone
a bright golden sheen
I miss
I miss
New Orleans


Feb. 13th, 2007 01:17 pm
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

This voice is inside my head
and it is screaming
so loud
so hard
to get out
to break out
to break
my head
is splitting
into two
my brain is pulsing
with each heart beat
threatening to expose itself
to break the skin
crack the bone beneath
and blossom
an ugly purple orchid organ
from the shell
it does not at all bode well.



Feb. 6th, 2007 02:25 am
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)


Inside of me
beneath the skin
beyond the bone
and deep within
there is a dark
dark place
It started small
but now seek space
It growls,
and grows
it's hungry mouth
it takes things in
won't let them out
and I should fear
had it left any in me
that it will consume
my sanity.



The Tree

Jan. 5th, 2007 12:01 am
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)
The Tree

The wind whispers through it's leaves in shaded ways
songs of a rotten blood stained meal of strange and bitter fruit
Heavy... is the grey beard of this massive god aged oak Old... is this gnarled stairway to a heaven full of stars
Wrapped Branches like twisted twins strain against a recent sin of a swinging necklace of a golden yoke of rope
Rough and Resistant are the roots with hungry chocking mouths reaching
like brown limbs through black dirt Brown Oak buried in black Earth
Bark branches the color of skin the same warm Mississippi delta silken silt tones as the man that had swung from them. A puppet dangling on the wind
Some look and see just a tree
but I see clearer.
Once pure this thing
Once proud...
now pallbearer.
We played around this tree as children climbed it's branches in hot as hell summers
Used it as a haven from Mean Jake's dogs when he set them on us that one time for picking figs from his yard.
We danced around it's trunk a mad heathen spiral catching fat fire flies as they clung to one another
crashing clumsy into our bodies You touched me there... underneath my dress
your fingers were still soft then like cat tail grass underneath my cotton shirt
In the winter you snuck me corn liquor your uncle made in your mother's porcelain tub
and it kept us warm
You made maple syrup promises
promises of places like Shecago
and Nuu Yark beneath its shade
as you crawled on top of me
between me inside of me
your hands hard like a man's then
almost but not quite
your scent in my nostrils
your sweat on my thighs
I stand beneath this tree now with my feet on the ground. My back aching. My belly hard and swollen. My tears on the earth
traveling in tunnels
r o l l i n g
along the rough and resistant routes of roots
with hungry chocking mouths reaching nearer
brown limbs through black dirt
reaching to my
Brown Oak buried in the black Earth
to you
each tear
one beat
of a rhythm
of a hymn
I'll sing
until I climb to you

This song
of you
and I
once pure

This tree and you
once proud
and strong

This tree and I
singing a song
through I stand weeping
and it stands mute
a darkly sweet and rancid song
of strange and bitter fruit
strange and bitter fruit
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)



this one I wrote about home
about NewOrleans

A letter to a lover lost

I hated you.
Because you would never let me go.
I tried to wash you off... forget you
I changed my walk... I changed my talk... I almost changed my name
But some distant smell would wash over me... even here on the Pacific it would reach me
and reach into me and invade me.
Oregano, thyme, parsley, paprika tossed together on someones tilapia... all it was missing was the cayenne
and then all I was missing was you
City of Sin
City of Redemption
City of Joy
City of Sex
City of Art and Love and Magnolias
of the Dead
and I am stranded, robbed of my tomb. I always knew I would return to you... even if it was in a pine wood box. But not for one moment, one second, one breath did I think that you would leave me first.
There are no alabaster stones for my bones.

But the tings you did to me. Oh dear god the things you did and who you were... a violently poetic abusive lover. I would swear you off and youd get me drunk and Id come back again and again. A whore with a hurricane in her veins needing a fix from you.

You strangled me when you made love to me, And made me feel like there was no one else. A talent of yours... makin the world disappear.

And here I am in a place with these ugly and inadequate palm trees, with massive god aged redwoods , with soft brown sands and dark green and blue surf that seems like an eternity sweeping before me...
and all I want to do is to curl up inside that little bowl by the river bend. Sit beneath an old oak with a beard of Spanish moss, skin as brown as mine, curvy as the women who walked beneath them while a mosquito silently violates my leg.
The sea to me looks the same but your mystery was contast change

I want you
I want you bad
I want you to give it to me hard and rough with oil and fire, crawfish and jazz, crumbled hot brick buildings, black bodies dancing to the drummers beat, old folk business,
and second line.
And I want you to forgive me
because no matter how much of a bitch you were. You were family and blood and water and flesh and bone and heart and me. And I thought I was better than you. So much better than you
But I was wrong
we are the same
were the same

Can you hear me?
Can you still hear me?
I want you to open the door.
Im knocking on the door.
I want to come home.

missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)
I was reading alot of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and nature romance poets at the time and got inspired

Morpheus Vale

I descended into the valley of my most potent dream
along its darkened branches saw most wondrous things
Deep within it's cavernous walls I willed my vison scry
and drunk in greatness that only heroes taste
like gods among the skies

At times I felt so small and frail as I paused beneath a monestrous tree
And others tall as red wood grooves with ants beneath my feet.

Then there were nights I lost my way, stumbled in the dark
For no map of experience had I, my compass was my heart
Summer Seasons fell into a winter with no end
Left alone my hope a drone beating in defense
Bloodied wearied tiered and worn perchance the end came I
Could I survive this venture, this path
Up this mountain side?

I faltered, slipped ... my courage slack
but pressed I forward binding back
the wounds done on my pride
continued up and deeply in
I took my faith to bride
Hilt-ed hope upon my side
and fasted fought against my fear
I will not surrender to doubts mounted stones of years
and yet... as I climbed I knew each one
for I had built it myself
This mountain all my doubt and fear I had made myself.

The rocks were sharpest granite done and cut like knife and glass
Still surrender could I not even if I bled my last
And for eternity time stood like a hinge upon a door
Swinging back and to center
no gain
advancing nevermore
And my scream did eco into dark abyss
I grit my teeth raised my fist
into hells night I screamed this
Listen little mountain you shall crumble at my feet
It is I that scrap the sky
I am mighty you are weak
listen little mountain for I am more than you
Open wide and let me pass else a death on you
There was silent thick
and then a thunderous bolt
a quake
a shake
a creaking crack
a flash of frightening hue
and behold like softest gold that mountain split in two!!
And up came I a glorious wonder
like the falcon bold
and past this hurdle high came I and what did I behold?

Below me came the rivers wide and opening to sea
Below me came the forest far spreading to infinity
my world upon it's axis almost ceased and sputtered
Over my heart a shadow came
and almost did it smother
How long had I yet wandered?
How long shall I have yet to task
Until I reach the end of this dreamed' valley path
Just as I to sacrifice my life
along with hope
I saw
I caught a glimpse of a far
yet distant slope
taking breath I steeled myself
hoping sight does not belie
perchance it was true beginning of the other side

I swam
I swam that sea wide and deep
and blazed the forest by the sea with cursed prayed I cried
through searing tears I set my eyes
till at last this basin side I came and did not stop
for in my soul I knew my prize rested at it's top
I climbed

I climbed though muscle tears and bones do snap
and nail bent back to root
Pressed I on lie a mighty song
advanced on my route
Though each foot, each inch, each breath
I was met with mocking from the wall
I did laugh
did not forfeit
and low I did not fall
Dizzy with determination
set hard again defeat
for a time I did not notice where I set my feet
and too my knees I fell and stopped
for I had reached the treasured top
and with a startle cry shook I the universe withing
because now I understand what all of this has been
I am Reborn
through things I've lost through things I've shorn
and all the stuff this journey stripped I see
has left a wondrously better me
I was first!!!
I was first this path to make
I was first that mountain overtake
first to swim the torrid sea
first on forest floor was me
and low they follow far behind
this glory
this honor
this epic , mine
for I have made their path refined
naught destroys that even time
With my dreams I carried theirs a beacon in the night
and here I stand sentient to give them will to fight
and here I stand
ere I wait for one to take my place
for in the east I have seen
my next dream to take
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

When the white hot lighting burst forth from the blackened amethyst early morning sky and stuck the green rolling hills that teemed with orange and yellow wild flowers something stuck me too.

I remember pulling over to the side of the road and getting out of my car while the lightening danced a violent staccato tarantella across the alien Wyoming landscape. I remember my heart racing to its rhythm... my blood saturated with every roll of thunder as it stalked closer. And I could not move... run... retreat from it. For the first time in my life I faced the storm. Let it wrap my in its arms and smother me. The wind picked up the tiny rocks around me and they bit into my legs like tiny ants but still I could not move... would not move.

Even when the sky opened like a spilt ripened fruit and poured down over me the cold rains gathered by yesterday sun I willed myself to stay and to embrace it back... letting it saturate me. I became so filled that the things inside of me... the dark and dirty, disgusting , unforgiving, un- merciful things that drove me across the mountains, through the hills and across the desert began to overflow their banks. Out of my womb, out of my heart, out of my head, out of my soul and out of my mouth I screamed curses and first... vile profanities... I stamped my feet into the soft earth until my calves were mudded. Then came words which weren't really words but real... a heathen, insane prayer. I mixed my tears with the tears of heaven until I became sick... drowning in the rain.

But I stayed muttering, mumbling,gasping, choking, aching until I could not feel anything except for the earth below me and the sky above me... and pleasure so intense and complete and sexual that it was painful to endure. And that was when the wind died, the heavens solidified and the last distant sound of thunder rolled away.

I was  shaken. I was confused I was unsettled. I felt like I had been kissed passionately by a dying man in his last seconds of life and I knew I was never to be kissed that singular way again. I had felt life, death and divinity in a span of time that was unknown to me. As I sat in the passenger side seat and washed away the mud with a towel and a bottle of water I tried to relive or at least understand what had just happened to me.

I stayed there in the middle of nowhere for the better part of an hour and not one single car passed that stretch of road as I feebly attempted to grasp that moment. By time I left the sun had cleared the horizon and the wind was gently running its fingers through rolling hills... making green rivers run though fully opened orange and yellow flowers that covered them. I took that moment and hid it away. Locked it in the secret place. Washed it off like the mud and left it in the hills. Forgot about it because it was hurt me to think about it.

But it chased me

Through Colorado's rocky mountain ranges and Wyoming's  winding hills, skirting the salted plains of Utah, blazing past Nevada's white hot sands and brunt black jetties, up up up and over the rolling coast of the Sierra. It crept into San Jose down Saratoga street and caught me in its arms yesterday at sunset as I lay on a hill with the wind blowing from the South and the pointed blades of grass biting my legs and arms and neck.

I know why it was painful... why it hurt to remember. My life has always moved from one storm to the next as soon as the sky turned ashen and grey I ran, or turned away or cowered. But not that time. No that time I stood with arms open, soaring and challenging and alive. It hurt because I was dead for so long that I no longer remembered what it felt like to be alive.

Alive!!! My entire being was a sleeping limb roused and beaten until blood coursed again with the sensation of a million tiny pins and that was the pain... that was the torture and torment.

I pushed it away, denied the experience because of deep rooted monestrous reasons that I used as justification to not lead a life well lived.

I substituted false unworthiness, and shame because it was easer than dealing with the appalling veracity of selfishness, slothfulness, and stifling fear.

But yesterday I remembered, relived and was paralyzed with anger at myself but more than that I was hungry. That memory is ahead of my now instead of behind me... teasing and taunting and fresh as spring
and I am hungry for it... longing for the kiss and the thrill of thunder.

missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)
maîtresse de dépression

"Shall we dance this dance again"
With her arms she gathers me in
over the thresehold
and out the door
she craves, she desires, she demands for more

When I resist
she presists
"Your body, your soul give me this"
An eternity passes
and I submit
and I am weightless
she gives me this

A promise
an escape
a single wish
a sweet delusion
a kind illusion

A vampiric, Judas, saintly kiss
this is hell
this is bliss

She tears at me
until I am two
one loving her
one hating to

"Come lay with me upon the marble stone"
She's soft, she is a cold, betraying, false home

"Kiss me now, love me, don't fight"
Its like drowning and I know it isn't right

"I'll be your protection, your truth, your womb"
she completely welcomes me, I know it is a tomb

"Quiet now, and yield to me"
but if I do I will cease to be

"Rest now you are weak"
Sometimes she is my muse
"I give you the passion you seek"

"Let me be your mirror, through my eyes you'll see"
because my true projection is much too painful for me

She is right
She is wrong
My Will is shattered
Her power strong

My body is her canvas
she paints the pain on me
My body is her temple
I am the shore to her sea

Her mana, her voice ,herself is empowered upon my soul
She feasts, she claws while she lies and says " IreneI make you whole"


May. 12th, 2006 03:32 pm
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

.. think I may do this at an open mic night


My home was...

my home is as jazz
sweet seducing jazz
rays of light piercing from core
like a bird taking flight beginning to soar
A city built like a legends kingdom
forged in ancient voodoo wisdom
One ticket to moral escape and artistic freedom
Ash Wednesday worship after Fat Tuesday redeems them
Standin on the corner
makin groceries at Schewgmann
Say Hey to yo cousin
and save those dishes for brotha man
A magic I can only dream to understand
some science not yet known to man
Have you ever, ever been touched by the taste that hands heavy in my mouth?
The stripping twang and tang of the sultry soul
it leaves one thirsty under wantons cover
passionate and as hard as a new-lost virgin doe her lover
Have you ever been touched so deeply hat you could scream and cry?
But no sound pierces your lips
it builds in a silent speed
twisting turningtrying to fly
then-suddenly it comes.
Penetrating from the depths of your soul
form the marrow of your bone
the sound of an old man in Jackson Square seducing you with his saxophone.
Your heart beat matches the rhythm of street children as they taps down the streetthe clang of coke bottle caps under the ten year olds feet
Take of its wetness bathe in its sweetness
sleep in its divinity and divine in its serenity
A city borne on godless wings
A city where the angel sings
Saying my novena to Saint Jude for all to be well
the man on the street corner shouting We all going to hell!
Standing watching the sunset from iron worked balconies
Waiting for some Romeo to rise from the magnolias and marry me
Sleepless nights on Rue Bourbon with the heat a second skin
The cooling taste of a Monsoon as its juice drips down my chin
The sounds of the streets tempting me
bringing me to my rest
the gas lit lamps casting shadows at my feet
the warmth within my breast
A golden coin tossed up shining in the sun
inseparable from head to toe this city and I are one

missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

made up some new lyrics and finished tweaking with them... I really have to learn how to play a guitar I havent been able to get my hands on a piano for sometime now and a guitar is much more mobile


I may
start to scream
But I want
I mean
to be calm

Cause though I’ve
said this before
It has yet to get through
Do you listen anymore?

Please don’t
try to fight
it’ll just make the ropes get tight-er
and I’ll remove
that gag
as soon as I’ve had
some time
to get this off my mind

I’m tired
Of intricate excuses and tactful technicalities and eloquent summaries of why its not you
And its always me… you try to show me but I can’t see
Cause I’m tied
by twisted tales its like a noose around my neck and questioning my own sanity
So now I am insane
maybe I was to blame
but not the first time

I sorry
I raised my voice
I ‘ll try to be
a little bit calmer

Its just that
you sacrificed me
to make your own damn armor

I tried to be
really nice
To be sweet, soft, kind and approachable
And if I flinched when you touched me
Its because of something I couldn’t control

Cause inside
I was screaming when you gave me that line
That what I felt I wasn’t feeling
When you told me
it was all just chemicals, that I really should be sensible
That shit really fucked up my health
I was
cause your arrogant half assed apologizes
Seemed to always imply that its you that was right
And it’s I
And it’s me

but what I
know for sure
is you're an addiction I can't quite
to afford

and I love you
but im not going to
let your lies
become my truth

the me
thats me
is still there
I'm still standing, still breathing
and im leaving
Im not to blame
im not insane



missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

It has been years... years since I've been in a beauty salon... let alone a black salon. The smells of hot grease and curling irons drown me in an ache, a longing for home and pink barrettes, shiny black patent leather shoes and baby blue taffeta dresses. Sade and Aretha Franklin sounds so thick that they wrap around you pulling you into a world between the worlds this portal in to African and American.

And here I sit a fresh 24 feeling all of 14 when he wraps that drape over me and tilts me back in my seat and runs the hot water through my hair. The woman to my left speaks of last Sunday's sermon and the woman to my right moans about her children. And he scratches and scratches and scratches my head until memories wash up coming clean in mint, lavender rinses.

"Is the water too hot?" he asks but it is barely heard for I can hear my mothers voice sharp in my ears telling me she'll be back in a few and to be good.
"Yes" I say  but not to him.                            
He makes the water cool.

I remember now the awkwardness of sitting there... tilted back stomach exposed hands left at your side not feeling quite covered, trying to sit like a lady instead of bracing your legs wide apart. I curl my feet to the right, clasp my hands across my belly and curs silently for not wearing my longer skirt. He leaves me there... letting some herbal formula work its way into my scalp...

I still feel 14 "isn't that the truth sista?" I hear from my left. I turn in the direction of the voice and nod uncomfortably and manage a smile I hope was not bewildered... The woman smiles in satisfaction and rambles on to her friend ignoring the little brown girl that is tugging at the hem of her exposed black slip edged with an inch or so of lace. And I realize that I am not 14 anymore. That I am a woman. I smile at the little girl... I remember being her. I remember my mother's slip the long conversations about what I do not know. Wanting her to see me.
        He comes and rinses me clean.
                                            up goes the chair, his fingers twisting my wet hair. And we speak of home, of the south, of politics, of religion, of past, and hope and ambitions. He gently rings out pain as he twists and binds in hope as he locs. This is ordinary for him but today he twists me in and locs "Jane" out. three hours go by I’m worried, my legs ache. He consoles me tells me my hair will loc nicely and quickly and grow so fast I will hate it.

I remember to breathe.

        He seals the bees wax with heat. He spins the chair hands me a mirror and I try not to cry.
                                                     Oh my sweet Goddess what have I done.
                                                    Where has it gone, my mane, my crown, my glory gone.
        Only twisted slender curling dark strands snake around my head. “6 weeks until they locs and thicken and 3 months hard up keep after that you will be fine don’t worry.” He smiles and me. No matter how much I tell myself to smile back I feel the falling of a frown. And I stare into the mirror directly at myself. My round face with ample chin, full heavy lips and large large eyes and I don’t believe it is me.

                                                        The eyes turn sad.
I manage a smile, pay, leave, go home and stare,
                                                                                             stare into the mirror with a comb in one hand and towel in the other ready to wash it out...
and slowly,
                                slowly I see what I have done and the woman that I have become and the lesson I have

yet to learn .
I am the field run through, up turned scattered with seeds barren and brown...
my hair, my body, my soul, my being laid farrow far too long.
I am the field run through up turned tilled scattered with seed, and hope, and dreams and determination.
And just like my hair my being will grow.
Just like my hair wild and free and fat and black and nappy and me.
And so I begin again.
For I have never in my life ever looked so not like “Jane”.
We my hair and I unruly once more
like an unbroken wild animal thing
wild beautiful unbroken thing
back in Africa
all the way back in Africa.

missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

I wrote this for a friend  

for sarah sphinx

They are all scared

the plastered models, the pumped up jocks
the blue ribbon bitches in their size two frocks
the crazed out rocker, the dazed out punk
even the black man that say that he got dat funk
they are all wearing masks and trying to hide
because they are afraid of the decay inside
or them.

They are terrified or being in the light
they are terrified of the silence of the night
they are twisted and holding tight
to a being some one told them was right

But you see people
healers like you and me
are blessed and cursed
because we can see
beneath the mask
through the facade

it sucks I know
but like you said
it's easy to die
so forge ahead

don't falter, flake or fall to the side
keep that pretty head held high
and no matter how tired you get
no matter how the curse you
or at you spit
don't condemn them
fuck it and pass them by
they lose cause they missed
the beauty at their side

Keep digging, keep ploughing, keep bursting through the ground
because somewhere there is a diamond to be found
someone is waiting for the wisdom with in you
someone who has no hope until you tell them to
Keep on keepin sista goddess
fuck the mainstream lies
the course of humanity is oft forever change
by a single soul who tries.

missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

I was up late yet again last night.  I have so much stuff to do today but I just do not feel like doing it.  I feel as if things are spiraling out of  control.  Maybe that is why I am finding it so easy to write right now.
Well here are some lyrics I thought up

Creole Queen

Rain kiss the street / there's a full moon rising

Drums tap the beat / that my heart is finding

There's voodoo in the wind / spider's fingers on my skin

Magnolia breeze is telling me / oh baby be my creole king

    Calm calls the melody / slidin' in seducing me

    Come taste my recipe / let your gin sit in me

There's bourbon in his bayou grin/ Gonna let this heathen in

This phantom calls to me / oh baby be my creole king

      Oh lost in the river bend / how far did I slip in

       Mmm nobody tell'd me / but he pulling like the Mississippi

Lay me in a honeysuckle bed / won't you kiss my un-maidenly  head

Put a hurricane in my veins / Till I scream out your name

     Oh lost in a memory / is where you'll find me

      Oh a hot southern night / on rue amor he bind' me

My creole king did to me call / into me I let him fall

Dissappeared in mystery / in his arms you will find me

     Oh come hear my tale / that he has taught me

     Come taste this gift / that my love has bought me

Dark as night and twice as lovely / I'll give you magic if you love me

This pleasure you've never seen / Let me be your creole queen

     Oh come hear my tale /  that he has taught me

     Come taste this gift / that my love has brought to me

There's voodoo in my skin/ Come on baby let me in

This pleasure you've never seen/  Let me be your creole queen


Feb. 9th, 2004 01:44 am
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)


I started writing something a few days back this is all that I have so far but I think that I am off to a good start the hardest thing is getting it all to come out sometimes I feel as if thw words are all stuck in my head just content to lay there and rot. I have to poke and prod them to come out. Well here it is.

Me -n-Jane

It took my hair out the first time… clumps of it. Just as tame and straight as Jane's but it came out all the same. As if my very skull rejected the forced assimilation even though I was quite too young to understand. And it itched, itched like hell. You know the kind of itch that is just like a doctor saying "oh no dear this is only going to sting" to calm you down just enough to inflict his torment freely upon you. I learned after the first time going to the doctors but for some reason (other than my mother) I kept going back to that salon, sitting in that hot leather chair, letting myself be boosted up until my dangling toes no longer touched the ground ( I suspected then so that I could not change my mind and run away) and tortured almost unbearably for 12 years (once a month) like clockwork.

Oh it burned like hot ice. I imagined my head a stack of smoke. How long was it? 15 or 20 minutes with that awful white girlish pink tinged stuff dripping to my ears and eating the flesh away. I remember it even now. God the liberation I felt when she put my head "under the sink" to wash out that awful lye based acid. It felt like relieving yourself after waiting a long long time. Crud I know but that is the truth. Such intense pleasure after all that pain. Every muscle in my body ached with release. It was like I was being worked over by a grand masseur. .. Well that was until she stared scrubbing my scalp to make sure it was all out. Her freshly French tipped manicured nails ripped at the newly opened wounds or war against my untamable hair. I remember the salt tears running from my eyes as I tried desperately not to cry aloud. Over the years it got easier, more accustomed to the pain. Just one of my many penances for being black and a woman.

I would leave that parlor (two hours later) on account of the drying and curling) and relish in the feeling of the wind running it's finger through my sore scalp. I didn't mind the fact that I would not be able to play bare headed in the rain, sweat or worst of all go swimming (unless it was under the strictest understanding that my head was not be submerged at any and all costs). I was happy no longer nappy. I would swing my head back and forth until I saw stars swimming in the clouds. I would turn in mad circles just to see my hair move freely like all those shampoo commercials. Just as lose and easy as those blonde skinny models. For five minutes I was in heaven on earth. Just five minutes because my mother (ever watchful) yelled at me to get back in the car/house lest the strong southern humidity cause it to go back, all the way back… to Africa. And that would be a waste of her 30 dollars. Money that we did not have to spend. For a week I would suffer sleeping on hard curlers thinking to myself that if Jesus could stand a crown of thorns I would at least stand this. By the second week the chemical burns would heal up. Mama would scratch my head and the scabs would float to the top of the black river and fall like snow onto my back and the dark blue towel across her lap. By the end of the second week I was fine, perfect at peace. My scalp had healed over and my hair still moved when the wind touched it. But by the fourth week it no longer hung down and the thin comb would not pass though it. And my scalp began to itch un mercifully. My mother interrogated me about what I had been doing to my hair. The hair dresser laughed and said my hair will one day be able to "hold the perm" for up to six weeks once I was older (it never did). Unruly once more like an unbroken wild animal thing back in Africa all the way back in Africa.

And so the process began again.
So I could look
just like


missrenie: (Default)

November 2011

1314151617 1819
202122 23242526


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 25th, 2017 05:04 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios