Futures Past

Just a place for writing words a little rough around the edges. More at write.as/a-pattern-person/


In the old world we had heroes. There were great men and their millions, who, like stoic fathers moved to a moment of warmth, turned the great eye of capitalism toward us, granting the gift of being seen by a world that would ignore us. In return we granted them praise and adoration, returning to them the virtue and privilege we longed for them to share.

There were martyrs and soldiers, heroes risking themselves to save us. They granted us the gift of being loved by a world that had dismissed us, told us we didn’t matter. In return we took their lives and their stories, writing them as we like, so we might never have to feel that this love was undeserved.

But these are the stories of children, longing to be seen, longing to be loved, but hiding from the world under blankets of fairy tales, unable to see and unable to love back.

What if, in the new world, there are no heroes? No great men with their millions, praised for meager sacrifice. No martyrs, no soldiers, no one asked to give more than we would give for them.

And if anyone ever had to risk their lives, we would do everything to offer them safety, to act with the love we each deserve, and to listen to their stories when it is done.

What if, in the new world, there were no heroes? Just people helping people, in the best way they can. And the great men and their millions, were merely paying the price of admission to a world where everyone is seen, everyone is heard, and everyone is loved and fed.

June 1st

Remember this moment

soft and full your child playing in the yard neighbors out on walks almost like the life we used to have

Remember this moment

a new world is being born with shouts of pain and blood and rage with sighs of exhaustion and tenuous hope

Remember this moment

as we wait to see if we cry tears of joy hearing the sweet sound of the world’s first breath holding its tender body safe in our arms

or if we cry out in sorrow for a future lost in stillborn tragedy

Remember this moment sunlight through teardrop leaves the chaotic refrain of a 4-year-old’s song

Remember this moment the touch of a hand laughter drifting by

Remember this moment it may be swallowed up in the end

#revolution #bookofpoems

Outside people rush to get their hair cut Like their overgrown and poorly-shorn-at-home locks are not a badge of perseverance or a mark of passage still unfinished

Crying out they rush ahead to the end when they are only just standing at the gates

#bookofpoems #quarantine #pandemic

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