Futures Past

A record of the past to come. Earnest but dreadful writing.

In the past I was made of chaos and darkness Held together by stories that were not my own

Until I found the words That spoke me into being

For years I searched, unknowing for what made me

Along the way I collected all the detritus bits and bobs garbage and treasure that makes people And when I finally became I found I was already full of humanity


My father has died. How do we mourn when there is no grief?

Mom visited last week for Halloween. She said back home the deer now are birthing 4 months out of the year. It's supposed to be just 2 weeks. Young does born in the late summer are going into heat too young and having their babies too early. The babies are too small, so they abandon them. Squirrels, raccoons, birds, they are all having more babies every year it gets warmer. Except the bobwhite.

There are no more bobwhites in Missouri, and no one knows why.

A stone in my heart cracked open into me



planting seeds of radical joy radical love for self love for others creating space for seeds to grow cultivating + creating growing my own garden, too

love is joy turned outward love is liberation love is changing the rules (for everyone)


39 is for...awakening

40 is for... becoming creating being achieving speaking

Words bloom in my heart and rise up to wilt on my tongue frightfully I cough out petals into the space between us



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