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I am stumbling to get words out. Profound and enlivening shifts are occurring with the same old nightmares, body aches, anxieties, and sleeplessness cycling through the background. Grief is still riding me, hard. My dreams are full of bears and bodies. My libido has tanked again.
And yet– I feel that I’ve found a true, legitimate, and plausible/possible calling– one that I feel will integrate fairly easily into the work that I already do, and working for and with people to whom I, in my deepest and most intimate roots, resonate with and do not feel alien to, after a life in which I, almost without exception, have felt alien. It feels like going home. It feels like falling in love. I’m enlivened and burning with ideas. More on that later.
I’m writing, of all things, a trilogy of Greek plays. I have a reading next month, am likely returning to the Lambda retreat this year, and am easing myself back into the writing world. I have a real and plausible opportunity to finish Nuthouse Birthdays this year. I have a chapbook of poems to edit and hopefully publish. My writing has changed in ways both startling and fucking exciting.
After years of what constitutes almost unspeakable personal devastation, I feel like life is starting again. I’m getting back into activism. In three months, I will no longer be legally homeless, and the level of governmental control and interference in my life will lessen. I am connected with my body in ways I never believed possible. I have family and community.
And seriously, I have the fiercest femmey-est fucking bedroom ever. Even with the sweats, with bears hunting my brain through long hours of the night, it is hard not to feel kinda fucking fabulous, what with all the gold string lights and flocked fleur-de-lis.
So. A grand and joyous (and belated) welcome to 2014. Let’s see what we can make happen.