Bodyhair. To shave, or not to shave?

That is the question? Are you going against your own principles as a feminist if you shave your body hair? Fuck no. I think it’s important to do what you want to do, what makes you feel comfortable, and happy and awesome. But I do think it’s important to think about the things that you do, and how your choices will affect the interaction of the world that you find yourself surrounded by.

It’s true that there are more pressing issues in the world, than whether or not your shave your legs. (Can I get an “amen!”) That’s not to say that it isn’t an important way to connect the dots on the place of women in society. How people seem to feel some form of ownership over your body, so much so that your autonomy to go against the norm bothers them.

I began writing this blog, due to a friend posting this article by Alicen Grey. Grey says:

“I hope one day you grow your leg hair out. And your underarm hair, too. And whatever other hair you’ve been coerced into removing regularly. I hope you get to know your hairs, with all their different lengths, textures and colors.

I hope you let them growgrowgrow, until the uncomfortable prickliness softens up. Until you develop the habit of rubbing your legs when you need comfort. Until it feels weirder to be hairless than not. Until you find the idea of shaving absolutely ludicrous. Until you hear all the anti-hair messages in the movies and on TV and from friends and family and strangers, as utter nonsense.

I hope you let so much time pass, that you forget what it ever felt like to hate your body hair.”

I can relate to the feeling of it feelings weird to shave your leg/armpit hair, but I still occasionally shave to varying degrees. It is funny when you shave after having your full hair for a while, because it makes your legs feel so skinny and kind of weirdly naked.

As far as body hair goes, I think of that more like a haircut, or hairstyle, and that you can do whatever the hell you want. So many people seem to be bothered by the personal choices of others when those others go against what society has been sold.

I honestly hate buying razors because I don’t like supporting the hair removal industry. I do though on occasion. I don’t think that women should have such pressure put on them to have the appearance that is prescribed by corporate motivations and adopted by mainstream society.

I have had people say things to me about my leg hair, my armpit hair, and even been fired for shaving my head (by a bald man). People, if you are going to comment on someone else’s body, it better be a neutral factual statement or a fucking compliment. Because if it is ANYTHING ELSE you are a total fucking asshole.

Things people have said to me about my body hair:

“Ouch” – guy I was “dating” when he touched my stubbly legs.

“You’re disgusting” – my sister

“You look like the 1960s” – another S.O.

“That shit wouldn’t fly in Miami” – Cafe Owner, acquaintance in Jamaica.

“You need a trim. Don’t you think it’s getting a little long?” – Best friend who is supposedly a very open person about these sorts of things, pertaining to my underarm hair.

“What is wrong with you? Why don’t you shave your legs?” – Brother. I asked him if it really bothered him that much.

People if other folks body hair bothers you, you have to ask yourself why. “Because it’s disgusting” is not a real answer. Why do you think it’s disgusting? Because you have been sold an aesthetic. It’s fine for you to think it “looks better” to be hairless, but it is still a choice to do that. It is not mandatory. At least it shouldn’t be. I’m sure if you have certain jobs, they probably want to force you into a dress code that includes your personal grooming to be upheld to their standards. Which is probably like everyone else’s.


Our Reality and The Dream World

We are so used to seeing our reality as it is and believing it. Not questioning it, and just accepting it as true. So much so that when it happens in our dreams and all sorts of things are going crazy, we just keep on accepting it and dealing with it the best we can.

I can’t say off the top of my head if the craziest things that have ever happened to me have been in dreams or reality.

I guess it’s fair to say, that both provide a lot of excitement, whether it be positive or negative for us.

I used to try lucid dreaming and part of that training is to always question your reality. You have to do a few things in order to understand if you are in a dream or if you are awake. In dreams you can’t read digital clocks, or fine print very well, you can’t switch lights on and off. It’s weird, but it’s true. I have tried to switch lights on and of in dreams repeatedly, and you can’t do it. (Try it!)

The thing is to be able to try it you have to do it all the time. In your waking life and in your dreaming life. Do it when you are awake so much so that it engrains into you, like a habit, or trait. And then you can realize when you are dreaming, and become conscious in your dream.

Now, that doesn’t guarantee that you will remember what you do from that point on, or that you won’t get so excited about being conscious in your dream, that you actually wake yourself up, but it’s a good start. And from there you just practice, and you write. You keep a journal next to your bed, and you write it down as soon as you wake up from the dream. Some people even set a timer or alarm, to wake them up. I think the optimal time is

Sense of Accomplishment

Happy 4:20am to everyone sharing the central time zone with me now.

From anything, and everything that I have done with my life, High Dias has to be amongst the greatest. It continues to evolve, fluidly.

I’m letting everyone know that you can listen to High Dias Radio now.




I continue to strive for the growth and evolution of myself and High Dias. It has pushed me in every possible way. I am doing things I wouldn’t normally do. I am learning and growing new skills.

I hope you like it!

I’m flying to Portland, OR tomorrow. Extra excited for the amazing time we are about to have on the road. You can check out adventures with Amory Jane here.

Stay tuned for updates! I feel like writing again!

Love you all!

I Don’t Know How To Be Here

I haven’t written anything in awhile and that’s because I was happy. I was living in the moment as much as I could and I was going around having new experiences. I was too busy trying to survive to care about much of anything else. Then again I was also really living in my opinion. I was enjoying the world from a new perspective, and now that I’m back in New Orleans, the past two weeks—I just don’t know what to do with myself.

I thought I was going to get a job but the more I think about that the more I think I would get trapped inside of it. I never know when the right time to leave is—actually I do but I just don’t listen. I have said this before, I feel the conflict inside of myself, it’s telling me “get out now” but I don’t want to be rude, I don’t want people to be offended as to why I’m leaving so soon out of the blue. To me it is just simply time to go, but that’s because I can’t be comfortable in some kinds of energy.

Today I had decided (since last night) that I would start this day with the conscious decision not to smoke weed anymore, not to smoke cigarettes anymore, or drink anymore, or eat anymore sugar. That’s right, I am going to quite smoking Marijuana. I thought it would be impossible and I thought that it’s something I would never do, nor want to do, but I think it’s right for me to do that. The other things I have quit before and I can do it again. But smoking weed has helped me a lot and quitting it at some stage I think would have been detrimental to me, because I never would have survived those periods of time without the lift, the thirst, the hunger and the distraction I got from being high.

My own personal reason for wanting to quit again with everything is to get an understanding, a baseline for where I am now. When I quit everything before, I was experiencing heavy mood swings, the inability to sleep, and difficulty in remembering to drink water or to feel hungry. I know that I’m not ordinary or regular or normal.

I know that I have very different standards and desires than the average American. The more I see this election cycle, the more horrified I am at the disconnect between people. All that politics does is divide people in ways they don’t really even understand.

I felt a kinship with the people I met when I was traveling. I suppose we have to be a similar kind of person to seek out that kind of life. But now that I’m back in a house, weighed down by possessions, and confused about my place in this city.

Something I noticed when I emerged from the desert, was that cities are all about rules. As an Aquarius, I have always taken rules as suggestions and definitely things that are to be broken. Sometimes a rule is good, and it is helpful. It creates a boundary that keeps humans from being hurt. But what is a rule that doesn’t protect anyone? What is a rule that actively oppresses the existence of others just because they are poor, or nomadic, or choose to live outside?

Have you ever thought about what it must be like to be born and to know that you don’t fit into this world? To have your dream of living the life you want crushed and thwarted at every turn?

My own mother, while I was on the road said to me “nothing wrong with living your life but in not such a nomadic way.” What I would like to know, is why is it so bad to be nomadic? What is so wrong with wanting to make your home where you are, and let your heart or opportunity lead the way?

My father’s mother, Laurie Holtz, she said “Cover the Earth before it covers you.” Ever since I heard my Aunt Betty tell me that, I knew it was what I wanted to do. Each day that I’m not moving, that I’m not exploring something new, is a day that I’m at odds with myself. Each day that I don’t nurture a sense of adventure and exploration, is a day I have let myself slip into a holding pattern. It’s not to say that is a bad thing.

Sometimes I have to go somewhere to recharge, and to remember why I was moving around to begin with. Why is it that I’m so restless? This is a question I have to ask myself, but living in New Orleans, I spent so much time here feeling placated by the sheer number of travelers passing through here. I could scratch my itch without actually going anywhere. The perfect answer for someone as I was then. It became my focus to put down roots, to build a home that was also a house, a place I could come back to and lay my head. A place that would always draw me back, and let me rest, if that’s what I wanted.

Now that I’m back here and resting, I feel tremendously guilty. I want to act like the people in the city act, that they have jobs and hobbies, they seem to have a more predetermined existence. Some people say that the jobs help them, it gives them structure in their lives. I certainly am intrigued by this, but equally if not more so repelled by it.

I don’t want my time to be used up for someone else. Anything that you must do can become a struggle to find motivation or energy for. Even something you love. Just ask the people who made it big, who wanted their whole life to be a famous musician and then got their dream. If you have to do something for someone else, and not for you anymore—that will kill your spirit.

Just being in the city is killing my spirit. Maybe I should get a job? So other people can dictate how I spend my time, and judge me for my quality of work, and not pay me enough money to survive on. Maybe I should just keep buying into the same miserable dream everyone has, and keep grinding away in the same drudging fashion I’ve noticed my peers have when they must scrape themselves away from friends to go “make that paper.”

Am I saying that you should quit your job and run away and become a nomad like me? Yes, well, I can dream, can’t I? A traveling tribe of people who all work to help each other survive? That live in accordance with nature, on the earth? It was a lifelong dream and I didn’t even know it existed until I cancelled my return ticket that day and made a decision to go on a journey.

I’m back in New Orleans, but that journey hasn’t ended. I have only just begun to accept who I am, and the life that I want. I won’t let your judgement of it take that away. I won’t let the rules and regulations of your governments take that away. I recognize the sovereignty of each individual person. International and internal borders are meaningless to me. They are a joke, and I will dance over the entire earth before I die.

Honoring Family and Friends

I’m not used to writing a blog, but I am trying to remind myself to update here once in a while. I think of this as sort of a personal diary, but more of a bringing myself to the world type thing. Anyway, today I learned that a family member and a friend died yesterday. Two in one day. The same day I went with my boyfriend, Hans, and his family to visit their family cottage.

The boat is named Muistot, Finnish for memorabilia. It used to belong to Hans’ grandfather before even his mother was born.

We ended up visiting his mother’s parents grave. It was very emotional, but I felt like everyone was hiding their emotions. I felt the wave rise up in me at the thought. At understanding this life, and at seeing his mom standing there. I thought and felt so many things that tears streamed down my face. I was wearing sunglasses. I wanted to hide it. I didn’t feel like I should be allowed to cry if no one else was, or showing their emotions. I stayed behind a little while to collect myself, but it coloured the entire experience.

I thought that one day I would be her, standing above my dead parents. A day I have dreaded for much of my life. I also thought that we would do that same for his parents one day. I wondered if we would be as quiet. I wondered if we would want to walk away and hide our emotions, and try to get on with our lives as if it didn’t hurt.

Then I looked out at the whole cemetery and thought that all of these people once probably did that, and now they are in the ground. And how many more there are, and yet to come. Rows and columns of graves, all over the world.

Today, I learned that my cousin, Rebecca Jones, died. Shortly after that, I learned that my friend, Zachary Guinn, died. I have had friends and family die before, but two in one day is a new sort of thing, the experience is overwhelming, but I feel like I have mostly shut down. I didn’t know Rebecca very well. I think we only met a few times when I was young. I would hear about her through my father. I always thought highly of her, she seemed like the kind of person who went after what she wanted, and I admired that.


My Aunt Betty on the left, and cousin, Rebecca Jones on the right.


Zack, I met in massage school at East West College. He had an incredible smile and infectious laugh. His happiness was palpable. We worked closely together when I did a case study on him, to understand the effect massage had on lowering blood sugar. I was saddened deeply to hear he died from complications associated with his diabetes. I always kept the jacket he gave me, one that he had designed for Columbia Sportswear, as a prototype, but it didn’t get selected. It always made me think of him, but I never stayed in touch after I graduated school and moved to New Orleans. He was far too young, but I know he did his best to live his life to the full. Everyone loved his energy. He was a remarkable person, and I know I won’t be the only one to mourn his passing.

source: Jessica Rattner via Zack’s Facebook wall

In the story I am writing, death is a major topic. I think about it all the time. I’m coming to understand it as a part of life, but each loss is unique, and difficult. I don’t think it is ever going to get any easier. If you are reading this, I want you to know how thankful I am that you are here on this earth. I hope we are friends, and I hope we help each other to enjoy life a little more each day.

Keeping Track of Changes

I have never been very good at understanding how much time has passed. I have always tried to be meticulous when I journal to write dates and even exact times when I begin to write. Somewhere along the way I kind of stopped doing that. I kind of stopped writing journals too, I guess. Anyway, I really wanted to write this post about the things I have stopped doing and how I feel that it has affected me. The things I want to talk about are substances.

First Thing: Alcohol

I stopped drinking it. It wasn’t really intentional, I didn’t feel like making any kind of big deal out of it. I knew Summer was coming, which in New Orleans is very depressingly skint. Money was going to be tight and I was headed to Canada for the summer. I had quit drinking Whiskey already, because apparently it makes me kind of mean, pick fights and such. I wanted to have a better relationship with Hans, so I stopped drinking it, even though it was my favorite thing. I stopped drinking it, but I didn’t stop drinking. I still drank wine, and beer, and occasionally something else (rum, gin, vodka…)

One day I had a breakthrough realization of a tattoo and piercing ado that I wanted to get. It was very emotional and had a lot to do with me understanding that writing is what I love. It’s in my heart and soul, it’s in me, it is me. But I had stopped doing it. I got “write.” tattooed on me, and I got snakebites. My piercer said I could drink liquor, but not to drink beer or wine because it would irritate the piercings.

I listened to her, because arbitrary rules are fun to me sometimes. And that is how I stopped drinking beer and wine. What was I going to drink now that all my favorite drinks were off the table? I started to experiment. I ventured into flavoured vodka territory. It was tasty, it was fun! I wasn’t hurting anyone. But I am a big drinker, and boy was it expensive. And I had the summer to think of! That was how I stopped drinking. That was over two months ago now. I really have lost track of any exact time table. I’m happy to be saving the money. I’m happy not to be ingesting the extra calories. My liver has also sent me a “thank you” card.

Other things happened when I quit drinking. I felt all the pain of my body. The pain that I drank to numb. I felt my anxiety. I felt my depression. I felt my desperate shyness. I felt a lot of things that I hadn’t wanted to feel. I still feel these things. The thing about feeling stuff, is that you have to do something about it. I think I noticed that most when in Canada. I feel myself slowly starting to do something about it. Whatever it is.

Second Thing: Cigarettes

Oh lord. Just as I never thought I would quit drinking (I’m still not sure if I have, actually), I wanted to/didn’t really want to quit smoking cigarettes. I smoked for years before I even considered myself a smoker. I don’t know how long I smoked for, maybe ten years? The heaviest was when I was drinking, or working in Casting, because that shit is stressful. I never went much beyond a pack a day. I had tried to quit before. I feel certain that I am done for good now though. I quit at the same time I stopped drinking, save a few here and there.

The last cigarette I smoked was bummed from someone I met late night at a skatepark (Dunbat) here in Toronto. It was after midnight, so it would have been the 4th of July. That’s over a month now. I can smell better, and taste better (in both senses, no pun intended). I’m sure there are a whole lot more rewards for this one down the road. My lungs are still recovering from a cold and from smoking, I’m sure. I feel good I finally did this.

Third Thing: Sugar

This one is huge, because I feel like it was the most intentional. I kind of knew that sugar wasn’t great for me. I mean, there was no way to pretend it was a health food, am I right? One night I sat down with a documentary called That Sugar Film. I sat with it, knowing it was going to provide me the kick in the pants I needed to take action. Boy, did it ever.

I learned a lot from that film, and from subsequent research and firsthand experience. I feel like I am a strong advocate of a No Added Sugar life. If you are somehow magically reading this, look into it. I feel very strongly about this.

I haven’t eaten any added sugar for the past three weeks. Let me explain a few things to you. I was always a skinny kid. People often thought I had an eating disorder, that is how skinny I was. When I moved to New Orleans, the food was so good. I gave up my ten years of Vegaquarianism after just one year of living there. I began gaining weight rapidly. It was as if I didn’t know myself anymore. I felt myself expanding and it was awful. Sometimes, I got positive feedback from people. They said the weight looked good on me. I had to completely re-evaluate how I felt about myself. I fucking hated myself- to be honest with you, my friends. I didn’t want to hate myself, but I felt terrible.

I tried to look on the positive side of things: Ass and Boobs got bigger. I had to think of myself as a “curvy” woman now. My brain didn’t get it. I was supposed to fit into smalls, but now larges felt small. I couldn’t buy a pair of pants and have them still fit me by the time I got home. That is how I felt. What the hell is going on, am I right? Okay, sure- I was drinking a lot too (that is also sugar, eh?). Around my middle section I was getting fat. I mean, no one was bringing a forklift to get me out of the house, but for me it was significant weight gain. I gained close to forty pounds. A lot of it was around my middle. I started getting people congratulating me on my impending baby. I cussed them out.

I felt humiliated. I felt ashamed. I felt fat. I hated myself. I didn’t know what to do about it. And at this point, I will tell you that I could live with the weight I gained on the outside. But the weight on the inside, surrounding my organs, pushing up against my ribs? I could NEVER feel comfortable in my own skin. I often said I felt like a sausage packed to bursting, too tight in my own body. Add the scoliosis and chronic pain from a broken rib in 2005, I could never get comfortable.

All of that to say, it’s only three weeks into this and I already feel so much relief from the pressure the fat inside of me was causing. I also feel much more clarity approaching me in my thoughts. I feel energy and drive to do things I am passionate about.

Fourth Thing: Marijuana

This “quit” was not intentional. And it has only been about three days I haven’t smoked weed. I typically smoke once a day, nearing my bedtime. It helps me to wind down, put my thoughts in perspective, do any writing or creating I might feel compelled toward. Being that I am a depressive person, and an anxious person, and a person with an overactive mind, prone to insomnia, this has been the worst three days.

I haven’t been able to sleep very well. I feel nervous and jittery. My emotions are up and down and can’t seem to find equilibrium very easily. I have felt moody and suicidal. I have developed skills over the years, to cope with my thoughts and emotions. I talk myself out of things, I convince myself of other things. Basically, I have learned to be my own therapist. My friends help me a great deal. Hans helps me more than anyone, he’s basically a hero. I keep helping myself as best I can.

I don’t intend, plan, expect, or desire for this fourth thing to be a true quit. Marijuana and other psychedelics, offer me tools, gifts of perspective. They offer me respite from the constant grinding of the gears in my mind. They let me see myself and my situation in a new light. I often experience a positive, reassuring mindset, even if I must go through an ordeal to achieve it. Oh, my lady Mary, how I miss you.

I shall not lament upon this any longer. I will leave you with a brief list of the things I have (re)added to my life over the past two months: roller skating, writing (fiction and nonfiction), modeling, photography, editing (video and photo), makeup (fashion, nails, etc. so fun!), being more open with the world, reaching out to friends (gettin’ on that social media),  and accepting and loving myself more (little by little, each day).

I’m just trying to put one foot in front of the other.


Three Months Ago, I Wrote This Journal Entry…(now I’m sharing it with you)

I’m supposed to write. Writing is good for me. I used to need to write. I used to love writing. Now, I still want to write, but I don’t. I don’t update my journal, or my blog, I don’t even write status updates on my facebook page.

It’s important for me to keep writing, and to push through this block. But why am I blocked? Why do I deny myself the one thing I seem to want? Writing was my air, my dancing, my sustenance. And though I desire it, I have abandoned it. Though I dream of it, and envy all who seem to wield words far better than I can- I fail to pick up a pen, or type a word. I have been failing myself. I do not want to do that any longer.

My brother bought me this MacBook pro so that I would do creative things. That I would put my entire effort behind them. He wanted to give me a chance to succeed, and to make my visions of the future come true.

Now, I know that I can, I always did have the power to do it. I just need the work ethic. I need to put the structure into my life, and schedule time to spend with my craft. Honing my skills, and putting words down. Getting them out of my head and written is the most important and seemingly the most difficult task. Even now, Fauchard (my cat),  makes biscuits on my chest and blocks my view of what I write. I continue on typing, because I do not need to see, to know what letters I touch to make what words I think.

This is easy enough. If I can just become part of the machine and let my brain connect with the screen and flow, then I don’t have anything to fear. I can just let it all come out of me, and not judge what I write. Just spill out the words like my blood, like the contents of my mind.

After Hans broke up with me, I spent two days alone and distracting myself with all the plans and ideas of things I would do. Things I would focus on, and things I would accomplish, to prove that I was a great person. That I could grow and be okay no matter what. No matter if I had lost the love of my life, or if I could win him back again.

Since then I have been gathering back myself, my friends, and my family. I know there is much work to be done. But no one can do it but me. So if I do not begin the work, it will fail. I will fail before I have even begun to try. And if I try and I fail- which I have done before, and I’m told I shall again. When I fail, I will get back up, and try again.

I am resolved to this now. To succeed no matter what. To become a writer. To be read and loved, the way I read and love other authors. I want to create a world for people to love, and characters for them to care about. I think the only way for me to do that, is to create a world that I love, that I want to live in, and that I find interesting, with characters that I would want to be friends with, or love dearly, or even despise.

There is something to be said for making amends with people from your past. I friend requested J today on facebook, and he asked if it was my way of wanting to start our friendship over. I suppose it was. I wanted to see what would happen. I know that there are feelings hidden inside of me, many mingled feelings for J- both good and bad. I would like to get to the bottom of things, of why he did what he did to me. I think I could understand it. I know I can be overwhelming. I know I was emotional, and that I didn’t know what I was doing. I was being reckless. But sometimes I am reckless. Often, I am reckless in love, and in adventure. I dive in, I jump. I do things that everyone says is crazy to do, and impossible. I have to do these things, for if I do not, then I know I shall regret them for the remainder of my life.

In the case with J, I acted in a way that I carefully considered. I chose to go to Florida and wait for him to pick me up on his sailboat. He wouldn’t acknowledge me publicly, he wouldn’t tell C about me. I felt guilty, dishonest, sad, invalid, insecure. I wanted him to treat me like more than a mistress, more than a person to have sex with, more than a secret. But the secret was beautiful, it was fun, it was dangerous. I’m sure I would have been content to be a mistress on a sailboat with a man who I found both attractive and intelligent.

I won’t lie. I still have an attraction to him, or to the idea of him. But I know that he is dangerous for me. Perhaps that is part of what draws me to him. I cannot be foolish enough to trust him again. Not unless he proves to be deserving of that trust.

I’m obsessive. I am an obsessive person. It’s why I fall in love so easily. It’s why I binge watch five seasons of a TV show in one week. I am voracious, I must consume everything and everyone. I don’t mean any harm in it. It is my curiosity that drives me. Perhaps, not only knowing but experiencing. When I watch shows, or read books, it gives me the chance to experience many things that I wouldn’t otherwise have been able. However, it also keeps me safe from the perils of such journeys, not to mention it also keeps me set apart from the characters.

If you think about it, I develop a deep emotional attachment to characters, who are to me, (real) people, friends, even. Friends that never will know my name, or love me, or know anything of me at all. And once their tale is done, I have lost them forever. Until I watch or read or listen once again. But that- it is their story, frozen. Their story only changes as I change, as my perspective grows and transforms.

Is that why I must finish reading a novel, or a series? Is that why I’m left with such bittersweet sadness, an emptiness, when I have accomplished my goal?

Will I feel sadness when I finish writing my first novel? I suspect in some ways I might. I think I will just feel proud, and perhaps uncertain as to how I could have possibly done such a thing. It is something that I have failed at for all my life, and I suppose that I have seen myself as never being able to do it.

I think I need to let go of so many of my notions about myself. I think that those stories I tell myself (about myself), they are not helping me at all.
I think it is time to tell myself a new story. One that I want to believe in. Something that I can be proud of, achieve and make the truth.

I have accomplished many things in the past. When I put my mind to it, I was able to overcome my feelings of overwhelm, and fear, and worry. I was able to succeed, to learn, to grow.

I realize something now. I never truly was proud of my accomplishments. I never felt as if anything I did was good enough. I always thought it was normal, that I should do such things, and down-played my achievements. I didn’t want to brag, I wanted to be humble. I think I just expected that I was awesome (my family placed high praise and expectation on me), and therefore, when I received praise for it, I ignored it. I wasn’t proud of myself, I felt I could achieve more. I felt I could do better, always.

I think there was a point in my life I became disillusioned with life. Or perhaps it was the grand illusion. I’m not sure. Working for Ellen changed me. Going to Jamaica changed me again. Living in Portland changed me. Going on the road changed me. Living in New Orleans has changed me. Many of the people I have met, and loved, have also added and subtracted from me.

Who am I now? If I saw myself, would I recognize me? Would I be proud of who I am right now? I am not brought so low, to have nothing to be proud of. I think I am young, younger than my age, even. Though I have had wisdom in the past, I think I have forgotten much. I think I have buried my own wisdom, forgotten it, and chosen to ignore the nagging feeling of it knocking on the trunk, and screaming to be freed.

I have chased love, and sex, and adoration. I wanted to be loved by everyone. It now seems as though many do love me. But I do not seem to love myself. I used to know how to treat myself. How to control my self. I had self discipline of a degree I cannot begin to explain. If I could be that person once, then why can I not, once more? I am still the same, though I am changed. I still recognize myself. I am not so very old. My life is not over, despite what my fears keep whispering to me.

As I face 30 I feel as though I failed. I should have accomplished something by now, and I still don’t even know what I want. I’m just starting to feel okay again. I realize that I don’t have to know anything. That I just have to decide the things I want to do with my time, that makes me feel happy, and enriched as a person. I want my life to mean something to others, not just myself. I want to share my love.


Sometimes, I worry that I will be alone, and die unknown, without accomplishment, and will basically have completely failed at life.


I’m not going to fail. I am going to succeed. I am going to have all of the love I desire, from all of the people I desire. I am going to have all the books, comics, TV shows, films, art, leather-work, clothing, and whatever else I decide to create!
I can do it all. I just have to figure out how to do it all. And the great thing is that I already know the answer. Just do it. Like Nike said all along. I only wish that I would have understood it for myself, instead of having it sold to me as a slogan for a brand.

That is something that bothers me so much about the world. Everything is marketed. Everything is valued, and priced to sell. I am no different. I am trying to sell my self and my ideas. It’s not noble, but I have to live, and I want to take care of myself. I want to travel and that is expensive. Plus, doing book tours and such makes you travel a lot, I have seen.

I can’t fight against things as strongly now, as I will be able to in the future. I need resources. I need the stories in my mind and in my heart. I need to tell those stories.
I want everything. So therefore, I should have it. Which means I have to do everything in my power to get it.

I want to be strong and healthy. I want to be flexible, and not fat. I want to fit into my old clothes, and get nice new ones. I want to earn money and fix up my house. I want to grow good food in my garden. I want to write amazing works of fiction and nonfiction that empower women, and creative people to find their voice, and motivation. I want to achieve my dreams. And the more I write to myself, the clearer the path shall become. Not only will I realize what my dreams are, but I will realize how to accomplish each step, on the road to success.

I will only penalize myself for failing to contribute to my future. I will never worry about staying up too late, if I am writing. I will no longer need to escape from myself, my emotions, or my life. It is mine. It is all I have.

I will embrace those willing to embrace me. I will cautiously guard my heart, instead of throwing it around without first looking. I will face my fears, one step at a time.

I applied to be a KJ at Kajun’s. Just emailing a cover letter and resume was a big step for me. Even just thinking about the possibility of an audition makes my heart beat faster. It scares me. It scares me that I might get the job. Because that would mean I would have a responsibility, where other people would count on me. I don’t like to be counted on. I like to afford myself whims, and be unreliable. But I am not unreliable. I only fear that I will let people down, that I will let myself down.

I fear giving anyone control over me, and my life. I should affirm to myself right now, that having a job is not giving over control. I maintain control at all times. I can choose to take the job, or not. If the job allows me to grow as a person, to push myself, challenge myself in ways I haven’t been before- then I should accept it. If the job creates too much stress, unhealthy habits and behaviours, and regression from my personal growth, then I should stop it immediately.

No job, regardless of needing or not needing the money, should hold me down. I seek only elevation, expression, and experience.

I am my one true and closest friend.

Perhaps, one day I will find someone who can begin to try to know me and love me, as I do. But I should realize sooner than later, that I have already found her, and that she is in me. Because Hans could never know me or love me that way. Though he loves me deeply, and knows me well.

I fear this feeling. To be so utterly alone in the world. If I am this way, then everyone must be this way. I will allow that to give me some comfort, and hope, that we all strive to touch one another’s souls. To see, and be seen. To be cherished and respected. To have a witness say “I see you. I am here, and I see you.”

Over The Rainbow: Farewell to a Friend

Wendy at Club La Vela

Wendy at Club La Vela

My friend Wendy Pierce lost her battle with cancer on Wednesday. It started in her breasts, but by the end it was in her lymph nodes, lungs, heart and brain. It’s just too much.

We were at Kajun’s Pub when Wendy told me she had 9-12 months to live, and that she wanted to take a cross country road trip. Krys and I were there, and she invited us to come along with her. She said we could do some fundraising and get in her car and go. There were things she wanted to see, things she wanted to experience. She thought that what you knew, is what you took with you, so she wanted to learn as much as possible, and see as much as she could before she died.

We did some fundraising, and ended up raising over $5,000 and a car, thanks to some really lovely, and compassionate people. But the trip was never to be. Not in the way Wendy wanted it to be, and certainly not in the way I thought it would be.

Before I went on the trip, or committed to it, I was asking myself questions like “why do I want to go on this trip?” and trying to make sure I was doing it for the right reasons and that I was prepared as possible for it.

We did go on a trip, we drove from New Orleans to Florida, stopping every so often to eat some food or take in the beach views. The purpose of the trip became Wendy getting to see her son, Frankie, and her telling him the news. She no longer had nine to twelve months to live, she had three weeks. The cancer had spread to the blood vessels surrounding her heart and were cutting off blood supply. Her doctor expected she would die from cardiac arrest, and wanted her to start taking morphine tablets to lessen the pain when it eventually happened.

She was scared, and we would talk about it. We would talk about what we thought lie beyond the boundary of death. Wendy would joke about haunting her friends, and starting up a bar in the afterlife, getting it ready for us, when it was our time.

It’s so hard to write this, I can feel the tears pressing against my eyes. Sometimes I think I will be fine, and then suddenly seemingly out of nowhere a flicker of a memory will cause my heart to clench and I feel the loss all over again.

Wednesday night, many of us who knew Wendy gathered at Kajun’s. There was a seat at the bar saved for her, an altar of sorts and everyone could buy her a shot if they wanted to.


I think by the end there was probably about 20 shots. It was a lovely thing to see, in a way, the outpouring of love for her, the comradery that losing someone can bring. We all came together to remember our friend, to celebrate her life, and to mourn her death.

The day Wendy died, it was Krys’ birthday, we were out having drinks at Grand Pre’s when we got the call from Lorie. I knew it was going to happen that day, just felt it coming closer and closer. The day before, I had woken up in a panic feeling the imminence of her passing. You see, Wendy and I hadn’t spoken since the trip.

After we left Orlando, the plan was to go down to the southernmost point in Key West, but Mike (an old friend and ex-boyfriend of Wendy’s, as I understand, the love of her life) had just come down and now he was doing the driving. I thought I would give them some time alone together and rent a car myself and go off to see a friend in Marco Island.

It ended up that I could not rent a car, and so I asked if they would drop me off at my brother’s house in Pompano Beach, and they could just pick me back up on the way. They never picked me back up. I didn’t hear from them for two days, and they were two hours drive north of me telling me I needed to find my way up there because they were going to leave. I couldn’t find my way up there, and so they left. I was hurt, but I found a rideshare back to New Orleans, and was no worse for the wear.

The anger, the selfishness, the fear, the inability to see beyond her own death. These were the things I experienced with Wendy on the road trip, the things I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t know how to be, or what to do.

In the beginning, when I was alone with her there was the constant fear of me finding her dead in her room, and I was trying to prepare myself for what I needed to do. Call the doctor, call her sister, the location of her DNR papers and her will. Sometimes she would become so negative and angry, I didn’t know what to do. Friends advised me to just be there for her, to just listen and support her in that way. It was what I was already doing. It was all I could do, apparently. I couldn’t make things better, I couldn’t take away her pain or her fear, or her anger.

Once Mike showed up, I felt more useless and invisible than ever. I had to remove myself from the situation to try to relieve the strain I was feeling, and perhaps causing. I was worried after they left me, that Wendy thought I was only using her as some kind of a vacation. A very fucking morbid vacation, I have to say. These are things I have to let go of, thoughts that won’t serve me in any way.

The last time I saw Wendy, she dropped me off at my brother’s house in South Florida. The last text message she sent me was “Phone die laat night. N charger wasnt jllg”  I posted “I love you” on her facebook page at 1:43pm Wednesday, March 4th, 2015 about four hours before she died.

I hope that I can be strong like Wendy was, a bad-ass woman with a great sense of humour. I’m glad she’s not suffering any longer, and I hope she knows I love her.

I don’t believe you only take with you what you learned in your life, I prefer to think that your knowledge is boundless in the beyond. And now that Wendy has gone, she has the wisdom and knowledge of all the Universe.