“I own thy speechless, placeless power; but to the last gasp of my earthquake life will dispute its unconditional, unintegral mastery in me. In the midst of the personified impersonal, a personality stands here. Though but a point at best; whencesoe’er I came; wheresoe’er I go; yet while I earthly live, the queenly personality lives in me, and feels her royal rights. But war is pain, and hate is woe. Come in thy lowest form of love, and I will kneel and kiss thee; but at thy highest, come as mere supernal power; and though thou launchest navies of full-freighted worlds, there’s that in here that still remains indifferent. Oh, thou clear spirit, of thy fire thou madest me, and like a true child of fire, I breathe it back to thee.” The Candles, Chapter 99

Today I am calling back the gods.

My island.  My gods.

Here I can do no wrong.

You see, it’s a fiction, but it is a necessary fiction.

Because. . .

Lower you voice

Speak up

Show me another inch

Too much

Come closer

Back up

You have to take care of yourself

It isn’t all about you


Don’t think







Fix them all

You can’t fix them

Give and ye shall receive

But first you have to give

and give

and give

Be the madonna

No the whore

No the madonna

Lady Gaga wants to be a soccer mom. This is the headline. As if it is incomprehensible that wild women sometimes long for the port. How about the soccer mom does not want to be Lady Gaga? That’s today’s headline on the island. Soccer mom doesn’t really want to be a soccer mom.  Soccer mom hates definitions.  Aside from that, she finds soccer difficult to follow.

On the island today we are running a special:

Let me see, will you be forsaking all others?  No?  Well then– Welcome welcome.

Here the women dance, arms entangled until their laughter wears them down, and if they then collapse into each others laps there is no one there to make a voyeuristic assumption about how women hold community.

Here the men come to share thoughts and give perspective even as they lay warm hands on the women’s bellies.

Here no one,

not men,

not women

are afraid of saying too much,

earning to little.

No one is threatened because when one rises we all rise.

 creatingreciprocity will be designing this evenings programming after which susserativeaspirations will be serving tea of darkness with general malaise in the gazebo. scar*let ngumi will arrange the evening’s unusual acoustic offerings. The smallest tasks are never a waste of time.  Here we can feed the hens by hand and the heartbreak of invention assures us that time spent with chickens is never time wasted.

Here the men love the women for their minds and are not frightened by women’s capacity to give. They allow the women to speak each others names. They allow the women to dance and wrestle and seek each other out and when the women return, their faces flushed, their eyes bright, the men do not greet them then or ever with : “Why don’t you ever have that much for me?”

The woman stares at the pool of blood she stands in.

What. . . have I ever. . . not given to you?

And then, when you could not give to me, —I covered it.

I found it in other places.

It runs through me and I will give it all to everyone on the island, everyone under this refuge where

no one

is slapped down

shut up


Here, in a communion of fire, the gods have made us capable. He we struggle to understand and with each line we recreate the world in a fiction real enough to live, because the gods know that only with that power will we come back to life.


Gave to you all of my chances

All my gambled desires,all my romances

Rough scrawled lines cover these pages

Through all the years,all the ages

Every line trying to understand you

Every line trying to re-create you

This is no storybook ending

I’m not lying you’re not pretending

Unspoken words unspoken feeling

Backfired desire, angry meanings

Enough…I’m in love with you

Yes I’m in love with you

Dance on the face of every morning

Dance through the hallways of my mind

Dance through this illusion,

Stop Listen, there’s no choice when you are blind

This is no storybook ending

I’m not lying you’re not pretending

Unspoken words unspoken feeling

Backfired desire, angry meanings

Every line trying to understand you

Every line trying to re-create you

Nate Maingard
Special thanks to scar*let for directing me to this musician with her post: http://scarletnguni.com/2012/03/04/where-is-the-love/