Clouds

Clouds

Clouds talk to me, early in the morning to late at night. Some days their carefree, all fluffy, and kind. They hid the blistering sun in their loving embrace sheltering the beings below. Other days they are lonely, sweeping low to kiss the cheeks of walking life below. When they get angry you can feel them, musty, and heavy their anger shifts their cotton to oil as they huff and puff. Their tears fall down, a boom of a shout, and a flash of there fear.

The grass talks to me, early in the morning to late at night. They hate to be trodden upon, there tops sharp with spikes. They complain and turn brown if ignored, but if brushed to the side they glisten with pride. They tell you secrets that blow in the wind, floating and flying to land again.

Trees’ love to sing with the melody of the wind, with whispering encouragement to their friend to play with there leaves in a rustling mess. Limbs sweep low and rise high in the grace of a dancer. A laugh, a dance, the glittering mess of leaves twirling to the ground. Therewith a head tilted you wish to join, they call to you with there joyous laughter. They say within their song, to stay.

The world is quiet…and loud as can be. It can rise out of the ground, it can fill once dry land with the abundance of an ocean. It is moody, as can be.

It is very human, the clouds.

A butterfly

A butterfly

How silly to call a bug a butterfly. Is it made of butter, and thus since it flies it needs to be called a butterfly? Or is it called butter, a substance that melts at room temperature, because of how fragile and weak it appears? A touch of its wings of a butterfly paralyzes them, especially when you cut their tips and ravage the edges.  I look around and watch as they land in spider nests, or cling to the ground with wings heavy with water. How can such a weak creature survive a world as harsh as our own?

Yesterday I walked to my dad’s van, and they’re a beautiful black butterfly was fluttering its wings on the front. Taking a closer look to see it’s lovely darkness I noticed it fluttering only one of its wings. A jell like substance had caught its other wing and no matter how hard it shook or flapped the wing was not coming off. I wanted to help, a huge part of me wondered what it was I could do. Unsure I left inside to consul my dad, and he knew the butterfly would not survive even if it escaped. They are too fragile in a world as harsh as our own.

Yet they thrive. One could say it is because of how they breed, bugs are known to breed quickly because of their short lives and the fact that they die far faster in a world as harsh as our own.

A more sentimental part of myself though wonders if it is because of their change that makes them so weak and strong. They spend four to five weeks as a caterpillar where they eat and prepare to build a cocoon for their adulthood that can last one to six weeks.  They determinedly eat and eat like a person if you think. Most of our lives we eat and eat knowledge from our elders. We build ourselves up to be who we desire to be and stuff ourselves full of life experiences and knowledge. This is strong of ourselves and the butterfly to keep going and going no matter what to build our cocoon.

I always liked making cocoons in projects about myself. I identify a bit with the building up of oneself; building a cocoon of knowledge and experience to form a melting pot of who you become.  I do think this cocoon is our ending as well as our beginning just like a butterfly. We come out of the cocoon, wet and sloppy unsure if this is who we are or if this is an allusion. A falseness and unrealistic ideology that needs to be fixed or changed yet unsure as to how to go back. Once we can take flight, may it be for a short time or for a long time, we all fly and we all affect things around us. For good or for bad, or maybe so small most would overlook us yet still every butterfly is important and plays a role in our world.

I only hope that I am building my cocoon accurately for myself. I fear that maybe I am going for the wrong career, that maybe my writing is not what it can be, and that I have too high hopes for myself. That this cocoon of who I want to be is the wrong cocoon of who I should be. Yet… who can say this is not for me? How can one be sure this is the wrong cocoon? There is no set path in how to build a cocoon, and the world shapes this cocoon just as much as we shape it. Who is to say this is not my cocoon? Who is to say the cocoon you are building is not for you? No one but yourself can say no, and leave the cocoon and build a new one.

Butterflies and humans share many things in common. We are deemed weak because we may fail or get injured or our wings are torn from under us. But in-fact butterflies and humans are not weak. We are all stronger than we think and what others think, it takes time and love and patients to build a cocoon, and it takes strength to enter and fulfill dreams that seem far-fetch or unrealistic at the time. To build wings that fit ourselves.

It is ridiculous to call something that strong a stick of butter. And it is ridiculous to laugh at the accomplishments and dreams of the cocoons around us.

The girl of clockwork

The girl of clockwork

Everyone is clockwork…I am clockwork, and so are you. My heart is a gear the pushes all the little gears into organs and those organs make oil for the gears and it all ticks with life. I look at myself in the mirror and I can see the little clockwork eyes blinking at me, with my hair ticking left and right to the beat of my heart.

Every day I wake up, around the same time. I eat, then brush my teeth, then dress, and then I wait for the bus with all its little yellow gears twisting and turning and chugging along the clockwork road. Up the steps to a bus full of other clockwork children, each doing as they did. Some talked about politics, others nature, some schoolwork, it is the same as before, the same as it will be.

Even if you add spice and a little jazz to the day, it is still clockwork. You eat at the same time, you sleep at the same time, You go to work at the same time, you go to school on time, you talk to the same people, you cry and laugh and whine. It is all their because we are clockwork.

Time…Time is a clock as well. I like to count the seconds…I like to count the minutes, the day, the week, the month, the year, the decade, the century. It is like clockwork. I will whisper under my breath the seconds, the minutes. Everything over and over again. I will contemplate time right when I need too. I will wonder what makes it time and what makes it clockwork.

 

A best Friend

A best Friend

Today ShyShy passed away. She was my best friend since I was a one-year-old. Her soft chocolate brown pelt had lines of black on her back, and her muzzle turned white with age. Today when I woke up, I left her to sleep… when I came back and brushed her back to wake her… her pelt was cool, her body stiff. That was when I realized she was dead. I stayed beside her unable to even believe that she, my spoiled, stubborn, lovely, demanding, kind… and an amazing dog could even accept death, I always thought she would ignore death and turn it away. The denial was short-lived. She was gone, once life vanishes it is gone for good. She did make her mark in life; she made many marks in my life.

When ShyShy was younger, we had this box of chocolate donuts. It sat on the countertop and as we left, we came back to a mess. Her muzzle was darkened, and her paws prints were everywhere. We all never found out her magic trick.

On walks ShyShy was the boss, she chose where we went, and how fast. She walked ahead of her tail wagging as she stopped at every point to mark her territory and her dominance. She always thought she was the biggest, badest, top dog out there and she would hold her head up high and tell the world what to do.

ShyShy owned our bed, she decided where to sleep and graced me 😉 with the privilege to sleep beside her. As long as I kept a hand on her back and scratched her itches. Her favorite spot to be scratched was just above her belly to the side of her back nearest her femur bone.

When we moved to Arkansas, I had a few bullying incidents. Nothing extreme but enough to make me cry and hate school. ShyShy was there, and when I came home, I went to her. Crying I stroke her back and curled up beside her. She did not mind, she let me wet her pelt and let me talk to her. I told her everything. Things I did that I regret, things I enjoyed, what I hated and liked. She probably knew everything I ever did in life and knows stuff not even my parents know about me. She never asked for much, all she wanted was some scraps of human food :), scratches, and lots of attention.

I love my whole family, but I always had a soft spot for ShyShy. Mommy said when I was younger I would say, “No mommy ShyShy said….” Or “ShyShy does not like that….” and many more… Even when she was getting old and frail, not a cute puppy anymore… I still saw her just as my ShyShy. I had my arguments with her, as every friendship. We fought over how many times she needed to enter and exit the house, or her hoarding all of the food. And where and how far we walked. I also gave her lots. I picked her up to set her on my bed, till she decided she would rather have her own bed. So I instead gave her some of my blankets to sleep with, and at times I would lift her bed up to my own and sleep beside her. Every night I let her outside one to two times, and we hopped back to bed. We all spoiled her…

The pain is odd and weird. She died peacefully, she looked asleep. Yet there is a small part of me, when I went to get mom and dad, that hopped… that dad would come over and tease me telling me I was wrong and there ShyShy would be trailing after him, to scratch the door and look at me with her brown eyes and say, “Come on, I have to use the bathroom.” It did not happen, instead… she stayed on her bed… I regret not saying goodbye. Not being right beside her when she passed. The pain is not in my heart like stories say it is. The pain is all over. My eyes are red and puffy, my nose stuffed. There is a dull thud in my head as if it still is trying to find a reason to deny what I know. My chest is tight, and my limbs heavy. But my heart does not hurt. It still is beating blood throughout my body… it is still alive and not broken. It is my mind that is hurting. It is my mind that constricts and squirms and wiggles. It is the mind that feels this pain, not my heart.

There is suppose to be staged to grief. Why go through all that. Denial is natural, the concept of those you love dying cannot be imagined.  Yet I do not feel anger, I cannot bargain with anything, and if I became depressed over ShyShy’s death she would get mad at me. It went from Denial….to Acceptance. There is no need for anger, bargain, and depression. I am crying, I feel the pain. But it is the pain of knowing that someone I loved with everything is gone. It is the pain of knowing I have only memories of her now, and I can only treasure them as I can make no more with her.

There is a running joke among my family about ShyShy. We say when she dies and if there is an afterlife, she will rule it soon. I said, “She passed away because it was due time for her to take the next step and rule the afterlife.” When I die… Hahaha :)…. when I die she will be there on her throne looking down at me and telling me, “There you are, I waited decades. Now scratch my back!” Laughing I know I would go up gladly and scratch her back, leaning down to place my head on her shoulder. She was always shorter than me at least. 🙂

My tears will come, every morning when I wake up and not see her. I will feel her absents for a long time. But I have pictures of her, a memory of her, and the knowledge she passed calmly in the night.

My birthday is soon… She was born after my birthday, I received her from my Nana who gave her to my mom and I decided I wanted her. ShyShy was a family dog, she chose me to be her human though. I love her… and will always remember her. To respect her… I will keep on living and remembering. There is going to be so much heart ack. For every human, cat, dog, and any furry friend I make. Each one will have a part of me, a part of my brain that remembers them. No matter how many pass away, no matter how much I will feel this absence and pain. I will keep on living not just for myself, but for the memory I hold and the love I have. ShyShy would have wanted that. She would hate it if I go down a deep hole of depression for her. She would glare at me 🙂 and snort, “Really?! I trained you better than that. Go on my little human, live and one day I will come and get you back.”

 

I will keep on loving and living. For her and myself, and my family.

Spark of life

Spark of life

Life is a spark. It glows in many different colors and shapes. Some can be a forest fire, affecting not just itself or others…but the world. It changes ideas, customs, or beliefs. A similar spark of life may be more humble, it doesn’t affect the world but those around it in a comforting campfire. Then there are some who, unlike a forest fire that helps a forests’, destroys in an eruption of lava. Changing in not always…a good way.

Each spark of life is unique and affects the world no matter how small it may be. Some sparks live a long time, as a candle that was made to last for days on end. Sparks may flicker and dim, while others get a gust of wind and vanish into smoke. There are sparks that are purposely or accidentally quenched. The spark that originally sat on a candlestick was lost forever, never to return.

We all read about death…we all have seen movies with death…but a video…or a personal encounter with death is not something we expect. It is sudden, brutal, and changing. It is witnessing a spark going dimer and dimer tell it is all gone. A spark that is no more.

I believe I was fifteen when my eye’s started to open past my home…past my family…past school…and into the world around me. You don’t all of the sudden pay attention to the world. It is a slow process from when we are young to when we grow older. My eyes were not all the way open..it was partially closed and young…innocent to the way of death. I have killed…I swat at flys, I have stomped on ants…I have tortured poor little frogs. And as I grew older I noticed the spark of life. I started to feel bad for all the life I took, the cows I ate, to the bugs I stomped. I realize that to preserve a spark, a spark may be taken…that spark becomes the spark of another. It is a sad realization but an honest one at that. It is an honest death.

Some death though is not honest. As I witnessed at fifteen on a small computer screen…A death of a black man, chocked to death by mutable cops. Crying out he could not breathe…I have never seen death…I didn’t watch the news tell then… Once I did watch the news…All I saw was death…more death…and unjust death…all these sparks were being quenched for no reason at all.

The first time I saw a spark being taken, I felt my heartbreak in two…Here was a spark, taken unfairly by cruel hands…I cried for days unused to such a sight, it plagued my memories and dreams. I had felt empty and at lost for words. I soon convinced myself, it was a rare thing…unjust death…How wrong I was.

Years have gone by and I watched school children mowed down by sickening men with guns meant to kill. I watch as they were said to be ill, mentally insane. Yet as I hear and watch them kill five to more poor children then sent away as mentally ill. I watch at the same time black men, women…minority men and women who killed for less. Not said to be mentally ill. I watch over and over again as sparks vanish under the hands of white men and women who are all, in the end, said to be mentally insane…

My innocents have been taken from me. My heart soiled. My mind is new.

I watch helplessly…angry now rather than scared, I feel as if a tornado of fire is blazing inside of me. It twirls and spins faster and faster burning inside. I taste ash with each video, I smell sulfur and smoke. The bright light of hatred has burned away at my retinas.

It is killing me this fury, a fury of unjust. I hate this circle. A circle of death and unfairness.

I’m sixteen watching the debates over gun control, and the black lives matter. I cheer thinking…this is a chance…a chance those sparks were not lost without meaning. Their loss of sparks is a sad thing but it has brought this…a chance for future sparks to lie untouched by unjust death. I watch happy, feeling joy at the thought of an ending to this circle.

I don’t believe cops should be persecuted, NO that is wrong in its own way. But I also believe that narcissistic, or scared cops should not be hired. ONLY good men and women who are there for their community should be cops, not children with guns. I also believe that cops should be trained in unarmed combat, they should have the ability not to use their gun, and still be just as effective bringing in criminals. I know it is much but it is necessary for more pay, breaks, and training because narcissistic or scared cops are killing people. While the good cops say nothing.

I believe in gun control because people with AK-forty-sevens and the like are holding guns that can kill many people in split seconds. I don’t know my guns but shouldn’t a hunting rifle, or a small pistil be enough… You don’t need all these large military designed weapons that are meant to kill en masse. These weapons are to end lives and not meant for protecting your home, or your person. You may say, “The second amendment is for the freedom of my rights to bear arms.” Yes, I do see your point……The constitution is a breathing living document though. It is meant to change with time, and when the second amendment was first created there weren’t super-powered guns, there were single-shot inaccurate guns. Today a single person can kill twenty people in just seconds.

I am just tired of unfair death.

I am seventeen…and I feel dirty…no longer am I just a sweet little girl, I am an aged woman. Someone who is entering an unfair world of death. I hate guns…I hate death. I want gun control, I hope black lives matter works. Not just for blacks but for all minorities, Mexicans, Native Americans, Asians…all who are not white…men…

I feel dirty writing this down as I notice, it sounds like I am complaining and crying like a child who has lost a toy…Yes, I suppose I am…I am crying and complaining because I have lost my innocents. I am now numb to the bone, today I watched another black kid get shot…A black mother holding her precious child close… murdered…and I felt…nothing.

The anger is gone, the fear is misplaced. As I watched, I saw the same thing over and over again. It was all the same, just different sparks under different situations. How am I to feel anything when it is a pattern, a circle we see, and try we might it seems as if others are holding onto this circle…of an unjust death. Sour is my mouth, tired is my heart beating the same beat every day…A spark…isn’t it special.  I am a dirty spark who wishes for change, in myself and others.

I am a white…autistic…lesbian…women…I have no idea what minorities feel because, even though I am a Mutt of America, I look European. I may be able to understand the difficulty of women’s rights…of people with disabilities…of the LGBT community…but of minority races…I have little idea of what they are truly going through.

I do know…I am now a dirty flame, wishing to find that spark to set a forest fire though out the world…with my writing, a voice of my own…to change the world and leave a ground of burned nutrients for the younger generations to come.

 

 

European Trip

My heart is broken, it has crumbled into tiny peaces unfathomable to the human mind. It acks and screams as I got the message. My limbs are limp as I type my emotion out on page, cotton is in my ears blocking the world around as I am told…I cannot go on the European trip because I am autistic…Because I am a puzzle piece, a square block in a round peg…I am not permitted to go to other countries and see the world.

I can scream all I want, I can cry tell I bleed red…nothing will change the fact that I am not aloud to go.

I was so exited, my heart jumped and howlers as I read that letter a month ago, telling me I got the chance to go to seven countries for sixteen days. There I could test my wings, I could soar higher than I ever been. Today I would be unable to go, but as I do every years I would in time. Today I marched in band with fellow students, head high, back straight and I stayed in pace. It was so difficult, I did this for a whole day just practicing and being with my band. In a year time, I could have traveled…I would be prepared. I now am heart broken…as all my practice will be for naught.

My band directors, my parents, my siblings all believed in me. My mom could not wait to set up a fund raiser for we are not the most well off. We needed the support of others in order to make my dream come true. All those people, from family, to close friends who placed there hope in my fund raiser all believed in me. I promised to a lot of them to send picture of my travel.

This was a punch in the gut as we called to get the money verified…All six hundred, two hundred of my own money from all I could save…My dad was told I cannot go without a parent…We cannot get the money, fund raiser or not, for anyone to come with me…its too much. It would be close to ten thousands dollars with more for food and basic supplies to travel. It is too much for a middle class child to even dream of.

I wish they could have given me a chance…I my be weird, I may be autistic but I do not hate being so. It made me who I am…But know…I wish I was not because I wanted so bad to go. I have dreamt for a long time to travel, It is a scary concept but one that fills me with as much excitement as I get fear. It is a tasty brew of a concoction of emotions that gets one all hypt for a journey…

I suppose I just have to wait a little longer for my trip, hopefully when I am older and with more money…I will still live life to my fullest as an autistic women with the lust for adventures in real life and in her mind.

 

 

Consent

Today I have read an article..It was an women who was raped behind a dumpster. She wrote an powerful story over her feelings and what she felt during the time of the assault …reading it I felt emotions I’ve never felt before. She was a strong women who decided to go to a party with her little sister. And this man decided to take advantage of her…He took from her, her privacy, her confidence, her safety, and so much more.  Reading this I have never met her yet I hold her in such high regards. She had encounter a dark time in her life, something i do not understand as she does and I hope I never will…And she climbed up from this…

My mother has taught my siblings and I the meaning of  consent, as an autistic women myself I understood to a degree what consent is. What consent is, is when you make love with your partner they had said yes, A true YES. Not a too drunk to give consent yes, nor any other yes but a real I want this to happen YES…And if they all of a sudden decide NO I don’t want this you get off of him/her immediately . You ask if they’re “ok” and you keep to yourself… Reading this, I understand now… and I cannot stand this.

I just read this and I found out news articles called her just a drunken women found behind a dumpster while her rapist was called an athlete, an white male who sexually assaulted a women. They avoided the word “Rape”. They listed all his “Good” qualities after describing what he did to her.  I know this is horrible but I assumed (And was correct) he was a white rich kid, as I read he had a good lawyer and the ability to win absolutely…It pained me as she describe the battle she had….And all she got…All she won from her year of pain…was barely Three months…Three months he will go to jail…                                                            We can be better than this….People need to be aware…I don’t want this to happen to anyone, and I know this is not realistic….You would say “Bad things always happen”…But don’t you think if you teach others to love rather than hate. To think before taking…To realize that we all are alive, living beings with feelings. We need to teach people consent. And it is not the “Women” fault. She did not “Ask” to be raped..she just wanted to go to a party. Her clothes, her attitude, nor her face just “ask” a man to touch her.  And the same goes for male rape victims. They too did not “Ask” to be touched. WE need to teach consent, no questions asked. No one should go though this, and I hope that those who do, can get what they deserve. The knowledge everyone is on there side, and that there rapist will get time to truly think about what they did. What they have done for ever to another. I mean jail time…not a slap on the wrist…