i
The last time I saw you was the last time I saw anything at all. The image of your face, body and spirit was the last thing I saw when the bomb dropped in my hand and exploded my whole world and all the surroundings around me. The explosion lost me everything but that’s also what it taught me. To lose and to choose who gets lost and who you take a hike with. The whole screen went black. The christmas lights hanging on trees in the middle of June, all went black. No one saw a thing, it was just black. All around us. Illusionary visions, the writings on the wall. Now glowing, all around us. And the stars above showed us there was a direction. Somewhere to go, a moment forward in time to each. We learned to look up.

Then the ground taught us where we were. The direction below. The land we sit on and the life we grew from. The plant breaking ground, turning roots into beauty above. More than neural networking, roots grew into something to see. Something beautiful to look at. Dancing my way, up, through the wind - growing as a stem, never knowing where I’m going just growing, up. Like a ribbon flowing in the air, I moved like a blade of grass never knowing where it’s going, just growing. And growing. And up. And up. And up. We go. Growing taller, never knowing who we’ll be or what we’ll see or who we’ll look like and who we’ll see and what we’ll be and who will be and who will be by forever and who is just passing by like bubbles floating in the parts have parks that are floating - the space in between land and sky, you and i. Us and that “up there” the young asian boy uses his whole body to point up and touch his swirling rainbow creation of nothingness and everything and he pops it. A clear blue hologram of liquid love, pops. Explodes. The hymn of innocence, the sweet beauty of gentle things and soft feelings. I think, “to be a child again” as I begin to dream. 

Growing like a green ribbon of grass floating in the air, I see who I used to be. All the things I used to love and the feelings I use to love. I see the way I used to see and the visions I had and who I wanted to be when all I knew what my own thoughts. Those years when everything you dream was yours because your dreams were yours. Those unspoken languages between babies and their kin in the pantry closet, wearing diapers telling one another without using words what they want and what they need. Those years when giving was a natural current to swim on. Those years when things are moving and your grooving through the world. Those years when all you have to do is pass the day. Children. Childhood. Being young. Reaching for love. It’s the beauty of the world that makes us want to know more, to live more, to see another day. It’s seeing two people kiss and wanting that day for yourself. It’s seeing two people on the street as in love as two ever can be and wanting that day for yourself. It’s the aim of love that keeps the world spinning, twirling, living and feeling alive. It’s the beauty of the world that gives us reason to do anything. It’s god giving us the hummingbird so that we had something to see and to be and to admire and to aim for.

We look at the hummingbird outside my window and I think how peculiar, I’ve been here for 274 days and only 2 of those days have I seen a hummingbird. One on August 4th and one the other day. I had thought ‘how peculiar’ to see a hummingbird outside my window when I saw the hummingbird outside my window in August. In August, I thought how peculiar - this rare moment in time. An innocence on earth, I hadn’t seen before. A hummingbird floating in time and space while holding it’s pace and place in time and space and he’s just floating there. I lay there as my mother does her hair in my bathroom and I wait for my few minutes in the bathroom after her long time in the bathroom and it doesn’t bother me because I need the rest. I need to see what’s outside my window because I’m prone to madness when I’m around my mother and I think how sweet it is to see a hummingbird, floating, outside my living room window in the apartment I love with my whole heart. The apartment of my dreams. The apartment I never really moved into. The apartment I never got to share with loved ones or new friends because as soon as I made it to my dream apartment my love imploded. Exploded in my hands. The bomb I was holding, now shattering my life into blackness. Darkness. The drop into the underworld. The tunnel like everest that lived beneath my surface.

I had to learn to see again. To learn how everything looks when there’s no light around. No love to be found. No one surrounding me. All alone, just me, a bud in the soil. The dark walls, pressuring me to grow. To get bigger in size. To be taller in statue. They asked me what kind of flower I wanted to look like. I said a new rose. The ideas of roses and not one red stem but bunches of roses in different colors and isolated rainbows of tie-dye finger paintings. Roses to take photos of. All sorts and kinds of roses. I wanted to be the next great Rose. I wanted all the goodness of my grandmother and the power of my mother and father’s love to blossom me into being. To teach me to see and to be and to live and to laugh and sweet kindness gentle cleverness remarks and rewards. Everything to be and for all to see. To be as big as me. To be Me. To be me and to have the me’s and to be me and to be we and then we be me’s. It’s gibberish. It has no flaws but it doesn’t make sense. There is no language but so much has been said and spoken. 

It was up to me to figure out the rest and I hadn’t a moments notice. I had barely caught a breath since the fall of last year’s autumn. The devastating debate between man and woman and work and money and the power that divides us and takes us to ideals of conquer - destroy and destruct. Rebuild and resurrect. The holy journey to light and love. The thing we’ve been searching for since we saw the stars glow at night. It’s been a year and a half of living off my optimism and imagination and reaching terrifyingly new heights. I was just as scared as you but I couldn’t speak my fear aloud. It was a kingdom come, a dynasty of love, emerging from the ground. From flower bud to roots grown to growing and growing and growing and up and up and up and up and up and up and up and up more and more and more and more and more and more until finally after all the walking and waving, on the ground and through the air, reaching the height of all my greatest lengths. The light at the end of the journey, a star to see in the tunnel and wish to be at the end of night. 

The initial earthquake, ground shatteringly painful rebirth of being bursted every mirror surrounding me. I couldn’t see, I had to just be. I had to just be me. I couldn’t be anything I see or anything I saw, I had to choose for me to not be lost. To be on a path. To walk towards something. To learn to see and how to be. To learn to keep going. To keep walking. To keep being. To just be. Be. Be. Be. Me. Me. Me. The words rang in my head, do you know who you are? Do you even know who you are? 

All of my surroundings gone, I hadn’t a moments notice. The world that lived inside me and my whole heart - up in flames.  A worldly disaster playing on the television screens and screams. One by one, missiles ripped through me. Taking out my lungs and my airways, the kidneys and the layers of womb I shed every 28 days. The masculine, the woman, the being and the them. Me. It. The one. The only one, me. Every bullet damaging my self-worth and inner being. The things I grew to be before I grew again. The work I did every day after the darkness exploded into black all around.

Not just scars or wounds, bullet holes of me - taken out. Laying on the cold, hard floor next to a pool of my blood. The color of wine. The color of red pouring out - the image I hate to see. I never could love a red liquid. The wine was all I was able to consume of it.  The oath taken between two souls, the markings of red on the inside of me - of obligation. Of responsibility. Of the holyness of the holy journal. Of how to be me with a me and we be two with me’s and be a we. Heir of hearts, the Jack of Rose. A bunch of roses coloured with mother’s earthly imagination of nature and beauty colliding with kaleidoscopes of color. Skylar Blue Raine. Blossoming rainbows in the name of love.  








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The Mask of Anarchy