purple summer

follow my little trail, breadcrumbs and bones – turn style ribbons/hampers full of typewriter keys/ follow my little footsteps, i am dancing, i am a river.

the sky is purple haze and lilac-cream and the rain is a gentle visitor on my head. the summer is curling outwards and i am trying to remember to take it in. i am trying to remember to take the time to breathe it in, to feel the rain on the roof, the clatter of cloud shapes across the sky. i am trying to remember to feel the grass between my toes, on my back, between my fingertips. i am creating in a new way now – dancing and plotting and graphing and charting and moving bodies in space. teaching and directing and discovering aspects of my own strength i had not yet tapped in to. i am owning my shit and bumbling boldness in ways i did not even know i truly love. i am enjoying a new process, a firm hand, a vast crafting. seeing a show from the other side. making decisions and sticking to them. being clear, crafted, specific. on the beat. inside the sound. with the rhythm. swaying. i am enjoying creating and i am enjoying getting to revisit my beloved soul. this show feels sacred to me. like a carved part of my ancient heart. a ghost that came to sit and heal me at a time when i was broken. a melody that came to sing me out of grief when i was all sorrow and flutterskin. when i was life-shaken and curledfear this music came to sit on my shoulder. to be life-affirming. to sing out the sorrow and show me how beautiful it was. and i could hear it – reflecting back – the beauty in the depth of your sorrow – the beauty in the human experience, the human struggle, the human spirit. the sensory experience of life and living. of finding the light in the darkness. and the comfort of making peace with the darkness, and the glow of holding fast to the smallest of lights – that’s what this show gave me. and kept giving me. and kept giving me. and walked me out of pain so that i could sit with sorrow. and sit with beauty. and sit with joy. and feel the shadows, the ghosts, the lights, the melody, all at once. sit with the autumn and winter of your soul, and languish in the spring and summer of your soul.

and you said the best way to describe me is that i inhabit my body completely. and i have since i was a teenager. and that that was special. and that was a beautiful thing to say, i think.

so let’s sing it – the song of purple summer.

and it is not binary; it is complex. and it is not one season we all endure – it is all of them. and they are all this life. and it is not parts and parts and parts. it is complex. it is not binary, it is complex.

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i became an archetype once. saddled with skin and sunken with flesh – i became a river once. dreamweaver sickness and silence of sunrise webs, i became a summer. i became my own courage, hungering through the atmosphere.

rumbleheart, i heard a rumor. i heard what happened today, i head from a heard from a falling tree-bird that Trump trounced through the tumbled tundra today (it was important to hear and i heard it here first). i heard he’s bedazzled in glittering gold corpses and i heard today he said that he’d say what he said he’d say when he said nothing at all. i heard, i heard, she said, i heard. i hear the rumbling of something else, too – the hollowed shell of the sea, gurgling mermaid murmurs back through the mirror of the sun. i hear something else, too – the winged cry of my boy in the sand – singing carols to the crooning of the crabs. i hear another, and another. i hear things too. things more valuable than trumpeting tweets and teetering towers of tricks and treats. i hear things too – tiny and ringing – a frequency higher than the tongue of social media. i hear the breeze blowing chunks of cloud consciousness into my hair. i hear the silence of the stars still heaving. i hear the roots of the rooted-ones still resonant and resounding – reaching, reached; teaching, taught. i hear things too. things too tasteful for Trump to tout. i hear river songs. i hear hope. i hear bottomless beaches of people reaching our voices for melodies to sing. i hear people rattling the drums. i hear the drums rattling back against the horizon. i hear the Earth tucking in for the night. i hear women carrying cities on their backs. i hear minorities mounting high the momentous monuments of our own momentary history. i hear muslims praying perfectly; profoundly; presciently; perpetually. i hear gender-queer fluidity lapping like a shore, like a river, like an ocean. i hear the horizon widening. i hear people standing up, sitting down, taking no shit. i hear people speaking courage words. i hear a people rising. i hear a moonbeam cracking open its eyes. i hear a people awakening. i hear a surge of voices singing out in songs of sacred unity. i hear a chorus of creative hearts curling around the edges of a coronated, corrosive corruption. i hear disease being purged. i hear people rattling the drums. i hear the drums rattling back. i hear our bird-song-trills, rancidly beautiful and terrifyingly bright; resounding and rattling and resisting and raging higher than tiny tweets from the ground. tweets don’t fly, but birds do.