Liminal, the place between, between the seen and the unseen, the corner view, the edge of sight, the distance between wrong and right, the gap that lies between the worlds, where all the dragons sleep, tight-curled, from page to page, from left to right, in and out and day and night, all the spaces in between, where the tricksters dance unseen, in whirling steps of green and blue, and dancing, make the world anew, in colors of the brightest sheen, to decorate the place between.
I really am nuts, y’know? Not a little bit, not relatively, just…nuts. Not “insane”, I don’t think. Well, technically, I suppose, but that’s -such- a broad spectrum, honestly. Just vague and diffuse…like the law…a net spread to catch the biggest fish, but tight enough to catch the tiddlers as well…when the Fishers want them. *shrugs*
But that’s beside the point. Back to “nuts”. I like that better. It’s perjorative, and offensive…unless you are, and you use it about yourself. Well, in -my- rules, anyway. Such as they are. Normal. Silly word, silly place, let’s not go there. *nodnod* Most people (“most”…another nonsense word) want to be normal. Correct? People want to fit in wherever they are, in whatever living environment they find themselves in, this time around. But some people don’t. Some people feel that it’s impossible to ever fit in, so in a sort of sour-grapes scenario they decide that being “normal” isn’t anything worth striving for. Just the opposite, they decide. Let’s be as -abnormal- as possible, and revel in that…in our separate uniqueness…just like everyone else.
Then there are the nuts. They…we?…just live. Well, try, anyway. It’s really very difficult to swim downstream in a world of spawning salmon. When the race is to be uniquely different but in a way that fits in with ones chosen social group in such a way as to not outlaw the possibilities of being fertile within said grouping…people who for whatever reason don’t have/want/use that drive can be easily lost in the crowd and drowned.
One of the horrors of being…asexual? ish?…is the absence of touch. People were designed to need touch. Physical contact of even the simplest kind…a hand on a hand, a touch on the back…people without these things will become ill, and can even be driven insane, or become so depressed that they die. Not suicide…just die. Most people don’t think of these things because for them, they are touched every day. One way or another. A quick “snack” during the day. A handshake, a quick hug between friends, even a bump from a stranger on a bus or subway. And a full meal, at home. The loving touch of family, birth or found. The surety of knowing that you have permission…you have the right…to touch and be touched. That you will not be winced away from, or avoided, or rejected, dismissed, or reviled.
However, when people touch, something is transmitted, from skin to skin. A basic assumption, a sort of signal, that no matter the relationship, age, or physical condition, says the same thing. “This person is capable of physical love…this person is normal.” You’ve seen what happens when someone in whom that signal is missing or corrupted touches someone…or attempts to. There is an almost automatic repulsion, an anger that borders on fear…because they feel “wrong”. Instinct says “This person is an evolutionary dead-end…a thing to be avoided”.
Of course this is all hooey…straight out of the “Sour Grapes” file that lives in my twisted little mind. I mean, really. I told you I was nuts! But think about it. Watch for it. And if any of that hits home to you…don’t let it. Fight it. Work for what you need…or what another needs. Thank you.
Frantic and flailing, panicked and pained,
she moves through her day like a whirlwind in chains,
Her body is fragile, and so is her heart,
her eyes burn in her face as they scamper and dart,
Her mind searches, desperate, for something she’s lost,
letting the ones she has left pay the cost.
Constant apologies fall from her lips,
as she races, and runs, and falters and trips,
One day she’ll fall where there’s nowhere to land,
and I’ll lose yet another, a thought I can’t stand,
But for now I’ll stay constant, and help where I must,
and try not to watch as she crumbles to dust.
Where are the words to reveal what I hold,
the stone that sits on my heart?
No, not on my heart, but on my entire…soul?
On my mind, on my every last part.
There are no words to scrape off the web,
the cocoon built so strong long ago,
to show you the shame, to open the box,
to think that another should know.
I cannot think past the weight of the stone,
I fight and I bite and I hate,
but all that there is is the pain and the rage,
and help is too little, too late.
Too late for the one, who so long ago,
was caught in anothers sick game,
buried beneath the muck and the grime,
till no one remembers her name.
Too many new names have hidden her now,
created from hate and despair,
facets of what was a shining bright jewel,
now fractured beyond all repair.
Squabbling all in the depths of the mind,
spiraling out from the stone,
protecting and hurting and living and dying,
ensuring we’re never alone.
Talking around it can only disclose
that a void in the middle remains,
but for all that it’s worth, I give you this sight,
though it’s tattered and covered with stains.