Easter Monday.

Yesterday I went for a walk in the dark, and began thinking about those things that remain when distraction is gone. A few days ago, I woke up with the realization that, in our consumer society, most of what we spend our money on is unnecessary to living. See, that may seem obvious, that hair dye and season football tickets aren’t keeping us alive, but we aren’t conditioned to thinking about what we take in without needing to. 

We have begun to think that what we are comes from outside ourselves. Beauty is made by makeup, attractiveness is made by constantly working out, health is made by diets, intelligence is made by grades, capability is made by training. That who we are is only anything when there are money and societal conditions layered onto it. 

It is recognized often that Western society is individualistic, as opposed to collectivist, and there is an importance placed on making the self great. But looking deeper into that, individualism is made by societal expectations, and in creating ourselves as our very own brand of a person, there is pressure to give up on our internal supports and drives. Thus, individualism is an institution that makes us all dependant on, and part of, mass society. While we theoretically respect all people as equal, in reality, there is a sense of what is to be strived towards, that has greater worth. This still is equal in a way, because what we value is more often than not unnatural- an unrealistic expectation if we do not change who we naturally are. Individualism is “no purchase necessary”, but in the widest sector of normal society, buying and consuming definitely helps. 

This is what I was thinking of when I realized most of what we buy, we don’t really need. I’ve been focused more and more on the inequality between the 2%, which is what any middle class North American is, and everyone else, and I’ve been thinking about what I take in that I don’t need to. What we all spend money on that we don’t need to live, to be happy. 

Hair dye
All-inclusive vacations
Expensive costumes
Fashion magazines
Expensive cars
Designer coffee
The latest technology
Greeting cards
Air fresheners
Air conditioning
Hair straightners and curlers
Expensive prom dresses
Cologne and body spray
Excessive clothing
Kitsch and throwaway plastic
Video games
Sports tickets
Figurines and collectables
It isn’t about throwing away everything we take in, but understanding how much we consume, and how much of it a) we truly appreciate, rather than just take in absentmindedly, and b) makes us happy and gives us fulfillment, and c) as part of what is in our core, and not a distraction. The third one, for me, includes books, writing, learning, music, dance, clothing that makes me feel good, and appreciation of art. The idea of this is, rather than taking away what we love, to remove the clutter and distraction. 
Society today is built on us not trusting ourselves, on falling into what we can be given, to see if it will make who we are better- we don’t have security or confidence in who we are without. The healthy world involves each person understanding that who they are as their own person is strong and able — and that they will need the support and strength of other people in their lives.
Perhaps we are not an individualistic society so much as we are a society that has looks for support from things rather than people. 


Mhm [from 13.03.25 in the late late night]

You’ll always be the one thing I’ll never get rid of.
The lion in my den that will not, does not eat.
Your resistance is so strong I can taste your craving
It feels like I’m aching for you.

What went through your head was never the idea of hurting me
(oh, but you knew) [oh, but you saw me as I wanted to be]
Oh! but you hurt me!

You’re a good guy, Wes.

I don’t think you should [have to] forgive someone while you can still feel their venom in your veins… I don’t think it’s possible to.
That accounts for me; I don’t have to piece together the mosaic of your loveliness yet, because I can feel you searing me still. But it marks me, I have to try, at least, to be stronger, from the inside, to not let the termites bear me down.

[Do you even know how much I wrote about you?
How much I cried?
How many days you got me through,
How many were my best, (how many were my worst)
Can we please please please both realize, both reflect on the fact that— every second you weren't there, I wasn't a person? You gave me the best, most intricately darkly brashly beautiful things... but you didn't! You made me touch the edges that I'd think were my desires. You only had the ability to give me yourself.

To be honest, I don't know who you are, Wes.

This is something I've come to realize. I know the most serious piece of everyone I know. If I don't know the most serious, deeply pumping piece, I can't find it within me to care. Each time I find myself attracted to someone, my dreams involve car crashes and crinkled up hearts and loveless families and removal from everything good— the trees when their leaves and their light both descend. I can only love you- maybe because this is the only way I know you'll love me back (I'm a selfish, selfish addict, scrabbling to claw at your feet)— if I know how your mind works circles around the world, and if those circles smoke pain from their friction. So yes, maybe you're a good guy, Wes, but there's no way in Hell, Heaven, or this bitch of a world you're good for me.
Which naturally means I'll stalk you until I come too close and your fire singes my dirty innocent wings.

I love you Wes. I feel like we're kin sometimes, brothers in our spoils and the scars along our necks and the way we live when lives are nothing. Naturally, we connect, and naturally, you find ways to not get bored. Sometimes you play, with people who understand jokes. And sometimes you play with those who laugh, who laugh as they stumble from point A to somewhere that was ruined before they started walking,

It's been said, many times, that I'm too serious. It's a fact, that every greeting card I give will outline every fair quality I've known in the recipient, the reasons I think they're a good friend and I'm glad I've known them (I'm the fairest judge of character there is, there's something about the shape around a soul that entices me to subconsciously nibble at it); they will appreciate the gesture, an action that it is very like me to complete. Inevitably, after the receipt of every card and present, I will be in a muddled state, where I've once more remembered the humor and love and colour to their life, and wondered if I know them after all, because every single time, I will have forgotten that is what keeps us friends without growing dark and falling away (off cliff edges, into the sea). I will laugh at my pretence, at my lecturing tone and how never ending it is that my thoughtfulness leads me to a lack of thought.

I know I could never remain around anyone who didn't excite me, or anyone who did not have a passion, or anyone who did not love music and carry conversation far ahead of us on the wind, or who didn't introduce me to leagues of talent and intelligence and carefully wrought worlds I've never known. Never. But even more, I could never love a person truly, care about and for and with anyone, as much as I do when they have within them meanings that I have also found inside myself. When I can share with them, and they become a fogged mirror of me— a two-way mirror, also giving back, showing me new information. Important, that they know what it is to wade through NiflheimAsgardJotunheimMidgard, different sectors of the world and different teachings; existence, and the twistings of mental instability, and the realization that there is a force behind every atom— electrons may or may not be killing Schrödinger's cat. All this mixed up ball of thriving thought, they must be experiencing for the better part of their life. [I've tried to edit this, but it has a cryptic, excited sort of non-sense to it.]

Fuck, Wes. It’s almost funny, but it’s so shameful, so wrong and incongruent, [but actually completely right, which petrifies my brainwaves even more (in their sense probing position)]— I never knew a goddamn thing about you.
Even that is a paradox, an untruth… both saying I know you and saying I don’t, saying I know your mind, or not; your soul, but not; your thoughts, life, reasons, words, answers, or none of these… whatever I say, it is untrue.

I remember it all, but I’ve forgotten everything. I lied to you, but everything I said did exist, was actually there. And I know you lied to me, but I also know you didn’t, and I’m also unsure if I believe either of those things. It’s never either A or B, but always framing the varnished rectangle frame around one ideal, and examining what validity and reasonability is within it— recording, stopping, and etching out a new frame.

So you never could have known me either. But in some moments I was convinced I did show you who I was. And when I didn’t, sometimes you still saw through me, binocular vision on my life.
Smash that ignorance over the head with a frying pan; I was under your influence and my human romanticism, with nowhere to say itself, took me over. Reconsider, because somewhere in there you were a gentleman, and if we look in the entirely natural way [without dyes of emotion], there was so much you knew, and the way you said it was often accurate and even objective. Those onlookers— ourselves included if we ever get out of this labyrinth, and you become more than a finger puppet whose lines are garbled in my pronunciation of them— will wonder if what I said was accurate. Or if I was smart enough, or idiot enough, to twist it so only someone keen and someone keenly aware of me could have interpreted the truth. Was I conniving and coquettish, assuming you would not know, hoping you would? Laughing behind your back and pouting when you didn’t figure me all out, then convincing myself everything you thought of me was truth? Crying at the way I tried to fool everyone, and no one resisted being fooled? Ugh.

Somewhere along the long, tantalizing line, the psychology of the game intrigued me. The psychology of myself, but I don’t know I realized at the time. Didn’t know, either, if the spark I milked was step one, or step n (the last to close up my grave), or found in the vast middle. Unsure whether I had evidence that, stumbling on, led an investigation, or if my patterns led me to create evidence that I could look back at and interpret. Either way, it clearly was an experiment. Maybe not all fun, but yes, a game.

Life is labyrinth, my friend. Are you as twisted as me? See, here’s one of the many ends that lead me to no answers. All I have takes me to a dead end… A piece is missing here, but if your puzzle is separatist, condescending or emotionally clueless, like you’ve been in some moments, then there is a very slim likelihood that what you give me ever could be right.

There, the undeniable… thing, commandment, rule, written out on the stone tablets of my collected overarching understanding of humanity. I am alone. Ipso facto.

The more words I read of yours, unconnected to poetry, the more real you sound, the less… mischievous, devilish… unhappy, cruel… you sound mature, midday light and regular guy-like.
Less mysterious.


It has been almost five months since I came out as genderqueer to the wider world, and two years since ideas began circulating in my mind. I stand by what I’ve named as the two most difficult things to navigate in transition: pronouns and bathrooms. As my best friend begins her transition, still in the stage where every pronoun and gendered thought feels wrongly situated in my mouth, she falls into the third complicated element: fashioning genitals into what is desired. But today, I’m not thinking so much of any of these issues. There’s a fourth thing, lighter perhaps, or darker depending on the angle, which I have found to be surprisingly prevalent. This is the subject of self-deprecation. What terms do I use to make fun of myself?

I remember in grade seven and again in grade eleven attending SafeTeen meetings, where the entire grade was split in two by gender, and ushered in smaller groups into classrooms where someone of our own respective gender would teach us how to interact with the others. Not, in this case, how to be friendly and kind, how to fall in love, how to interact on a plane of shared humanity and of equality (I understand that this isn’t quite so simple as it sounds, but I’m sure my opinions are already coming through). In the girls’ talk, we learned how to be confident, to stand up and assert our rights and our dominance, to be safe when men tried to hurt us, and to stop apologizing for who we were. The reason I bring this up now is because on of the first things we did, once everyone was seated on tops of desks and each other’s laps, and the supervisor had huddled down in a corner to allow the young woman with choppy hair and a Shailene Woodley voice to begin her lessons in girlhood, was make a list of all the derogatory terms it was possible to call a female. Don’t be afraid, she said, don’t censor yourselves. Say anything. And we did:


There were more. I hadn’t heard of most of what was said, and at that time, my innocence was so central to myself that I didn’t realize its existence. But I understood the theme, once the words were laid out and inclusively defined- girls got a bad rap, and most of what they were subject to was directly related to being female. If you went further, those female-salient terms had the implication that many female behaviours could be categorized as wrong, treated and brought to order by those who were not female. We moved on. What terms could you call a boy? It didn’t matter anyway, what words we said. The point of the discussion was that the worst thing you could call a boy was:


I was never subject to sisterhood of those things in a real influencing way. By that I mean, I’ve been called a bitch, but it only hurt so long as I knew what I was doing, and what I was doing was cruel enough to hurt my conscience. Sami, my best friend in middle school, was then, and likely still is a bitch. And she was proud of that, she knew that with most of what she was worth, and she made pretty certain never to be anything else. I mean that in the way that she could be tough, had built up armour from being bullied harder than anyone deserves, she was brutally honest, and she very very much wanted her own way. Bitch was something she’d gotten when she was thin and awkward with fried blond hair and Iron Maiden T-shirts, when she was called anorexic and unwanted and emo and cold. When I knew her, she had an acronym for it: babe in total control of herself. She wasn’t, far from it, but that was what she wanted to preach, to become- and yeah, that made her a bitch.

The first times I was called a bitch were when my whole life was situated right beside Sami. By her, even. It likely did hurt, I can’t recall, but I wasn’t alone in it, and it couldn’t, with this girl beside me, be purely negative.

Goddamn, sometimes I forget, by which I mean I actually never realize, how much I loved Sami, and how fiercely proud I could be of her. And how sometimes when we sat outside, she looked exactly as bright, warm, and strong as dandelions, as beautiful as daisies, and as freshly intoxicating as cut grass in summer. Nothing wrong with her, nothing wrong with me, and nothing wrong with us or the scene we played out.

Of course I’ve been called a girl. Sitting in the SafeTeen presentations alone was a whirlwind of “girl”. It didn’t hurt either. While I’m saying so many connecting things, I’ll say here: until I became genderqueer, I never really thought about gender. I can’t recall a time when I felt attached to femininity or being female, but neither did I ever consider that I wasn’t. Until I was genderqueer, I wasn’t at all.

I had a dress that I got when I was about six, a hand-me-down. It had a red tank top, and a skirt that kept getting dirty or ripped or too short, so I would paw through my mother’s drawers of fabric and extract bolts with jumping polka dots, or crowds of multi-ethnic human beings, or a field of giant yawning sunflowers, and she would measure me in my underwear and sew me a new skirt. And then I’d go dancing on the red tile floors, and twirl my new skirt until I was happy and dizzy and all too pleased.

I also envied my brother’s birthday parties, where there were so many boys, and they all wanted to do things like sword fight and shoot twig arrows from tree-branch bows, and all of them appeared to dress in a way that compelled dirt. There was a rule, for both my brother and I, that if we invited someone of the opposite sex, there had to be two of them, so they’d have someone to talk to. I sat and analyzed this rule, and it made good sense, but it saddened me each year that I didn’t have a good enough rapport with enough (2) boys to invite them to my birthday.

Eventually puberty and hormones and the institution of grade six grad, and I hadn’t been friends with a boy before then, so I didn’t know how to relate to one without those Freudian genital feelings getting in the way. So the person I was, was securely on the side of “girl”, and I didn’t think to say anything about it. I can’t even think that anything that went on was wrong, or there was any issue with me presenting as female, until two years ago when something better came along and I embraced it.

Though this is completely unlike the original point of this writing, I want to make it known that the second child of Paul and Lori, that is myself, has never been fake. Kell Hagerman has never been fake, and nor has Ellen Hagerman to the best of her knowledge. And they are each inside each other, a part of and playing off each other. Now Kell has come to the forefront, but inside, Ellen is still being worked out, and will always play a part. This is a new thought to me, that all I have done has in that moment matched who I am and my reality. That I truly loved Friesen, that I loved and was afraid of both her and Wes, that I thought Jeff part of the same grouping, that I was content without questioning being a girl. And these things that have been are not, in this time, gone, but are the past, and the past is necessary for moving forward.

But, to return to the beginning, we were taught in these presentations that boys were on top, superior in society, and therefore may try to exert their dominance. That within each female there are said to be three persons: the Warrior, whom (in coincidental irony) we referred to as the Bitch; the Child; and the Wise Woman. The Bitch is strong, dominant, but aggressive and angry, unthinking. In contrast, the Child is shy, submissive, and apologetic, unable to fight. Examples of situations were given – you’re being bullied, a stranger is coming onto you in a dark bus stop, someone isn’t taking no for an answer – where neither of these personas is helpful, either aggravating or giving in the situation. The Wise Woman brings out an assertive nature, the strongest and calmest self. I’m saying all this to say that these explanations, while labelled as female-oriented, do present for both genders. I’m told that the boys’ presentation failed to cover any protection tactics, but instead focused on how not to hurt or unjustly dominate women.

It seems to me that where there are pre-feminist doctrines and power differences between sexes, and where there are post-feminist advocacy and ideological differences between sexes, there are equal amounts of inequality. Something I’ve noticed from delving into various approaches of understanding the world is that in all of them, there are sex or gender differences. In Anthropology, gender is one of the three human identifiers. In Criminology it is seen that 97% of homicides are committed by males. Psychology and biology show us body and mind differences that have separated genders throughout time. It always comes back to the fact that in some ways we are different, and in some ways we are the same.

I began this because I have recently been at a loss for what to say about myself, in this case negitively, that is consistent with my chosen gender. (It’s also interesting that I find negative descriptors so relevant to everyday use- that this comes up while we deny and counter-deny and overexaggerate facts to keep outselves healthy, safe and sane). I wondered if “bitch” was negative, more for being used towards females than for being derogatory. If the gender is what made it so bad. But I don’t think that’s necessarily it, I think in some cases the words we use can show difference without showing inequality… and that, in general, equality can show itself without meaning everything has to be the same. There are words I didn’t mention, which cut as strongly as those I have, regardless of gender. I’ve known people hurt by “jerk” as much as “slut”, and there’s something to be said for using neither. For choosing our own terms and defining the meaning as applied to us; on one side, taking the terms we want on ourselves, and on the other, treating people like people instead of stupid names that, when we say them, do nothing more than divide along lines that we ourselves have created.


Today, I woke at four am, and now as the sun does not show but yet creates a sense of lightedness about me, I can say I could not go back to sleep. I did manage to study for a quiz today, somewhat of an accomplishment – every little accomplishment becomes something, when so much of life is sitting still and then tearfully rushing (which it is).

Lying in bed, I began to think things I thought I had soothed in the last couple of weeks – but more likely, I’ll say now with hindsight, just ignored. It seems a life hangs in the balance, my own, and it is an interesting hanging, stranded as a ceiling plant rather than as an unrooted mandrake beast; the happy mandrake is techy, but able to be planted… I am planted, but my roots do not ground me (if that is a workable metaphor).

The two friends I have most closely, and perhaps most carelessly known, have thoughts of where they’d like to find themselves in space. Neither knows what purpose they have for their life, but they can find meaning in earthly places for their bodies: Canada, the road outside society’s parameters. All the while, I am the opposite, with a keening in mind to reach out to writing, to have it come back to me – yes, both to read and to write, and to take in music and movies and artwork and beautiful clothing, anything that has been touched by the writing, the dancing, the choreography of the mind.

With this, I have no placement. I am without a home. In truth, I have been without home since I first found words – for, maybe, I found the home inside myself and not so much of this world – and since that is so, my body and spirit have been led to be aimless (can one by led to aimlessness?) and no earthly place has yet fed me wholly.

I have found elegies of places, caught glimpses is perhaps more apt: a Japanese garden in the clouds of mid-Alberta, unencumbered and richly organic Vancouver, the sea-swept virtue of Victoria, the imagined hollow breadiness of pure and calm Denmark. Describing these places, I wonder if a landmass and its man-made artifacts can ever please me to the degree I seek with my deep ability to feel. Silent and salient gardens of russet monks, Japanese gardens, well-shelved and laddered bookstores. What is the land of my heart?


        Marked incompatibility
           through the lenses
possessing my eye-lids unfolding
                             (blinking forth)
In universal inconstancy
      Telescopic build, and dials twisting
                         sun to clarid               moon
                      Apollo’s might
Artemis’ faithful gloom
                               in spurulous turning
   over                 of tepid time

        flashing between glass hollows
                    on optometry figurines
clicking forth, and back and -


Oh, but at a loss still for days
               when turned to look back
                       future is what is behind
          (not a new phrase – unseen)
     feeling blind across stiff
                   knee-impressioned carpet
into eyes of the past and
                                   foreseen brilliances
                 - reapplied
      but now, now, hands out blind
                                  milky irises staggering
                                  on water-blurry scenes
now, all                                                forsaken


What I seek [and need]

—human – alive – connection

Unfolding of Two Hearts

This is a paraphrased transcript of a conversation taking place in a cafe, between +, a woman in her late 20s with a strong, clear, intelligent voice and pin curl hair; and *, an Asian woman in her early 40s at best guess, with a a voice like she had a story to tell. I have no say in what went on – I feel slightly disrespectful in this endeavour, but I feel it is a good naturalistic observation of both relationships in our society and of people conspiring in coffee shop conversation, in shared experiences. I do not believe these two women knew each other, or at the very least they were not well acquainted, before they began to share their romantic histories. I think that both persons are currently working through divorce. I hope this will be insightful, or if not, will make sense. The end is when I left. 

+ We took a break- he said he didn’t love me anymore – and he slept with her…
I freaked out, because that’s not what a break is – I mean, he was still loving with me, we were still married, and still technically together…
So anyway, for a few months, it was on and off, with me and her – he would be with her, and then decide he wanted to be with me – be with me for two days- then with her for a week – at one point she actually moved in with us…
Because he thought we were done, so I was actually planning to move out – and she gave her notice to her landlord – but then he decided he needed me there – he has severe anxiety, so I decided to stay – but she moved in with us, because she had nowhere to go – and she’s bipolar, so there were so many things going on in our relationship

+ One of the dumbest parts of my life – it was horrible, traumatic…

* He goes travelling, and then says he’s grown away from me – I was thinking, you could not have left, not have grown away – all those years of that, of trying to work it out… – I just feel bad that me kids had to grow up in a broken home

+ Well no, sometimes things just are broken…

I was conceived at a party, when my mother and my biological father were in the process of breaking up – so they broke up, they didn’t know about me – I was a mistake (not a mistake, an accident) – I’m still in contact with my biological father, he lives in Winnipeg…
My mom met my stepdad shortly after that – they’ve been together ever since- so I’ve essentially have had two dads…
I think I’m the closest in my emotions, and the way I see things, to my stepdad… I understand him in ways I can tell other people don’t see?
We had a conversation, with me as an adult, about it – it was hard for me, learning what, what my life has been – it was something I had to come to terms with

* It’s been hard, having to be on my own – learning that that’s how it’s been (For many people, it’s a hard process)
It was physical – he couldn’t mentally abuse me because he didn’t have the mind to do so – I could have fought back, I know jinjitsu – I did block him a few times – but I didn’t – I don’t know

+ At times, I just knew it was done – I was paying his bills, he couldn’t find a job – I actually paid for his bills, after he moved to Victoria, with her – I didn’t want to hear him bitching…
Around that time, with my best friend – he had actually just broken up from the most serious relationship of his life – suffering alone, no one understood what it was he was experiencing, that depth of emotion – and he knew what I was going through, when I had…
At some point, we decided to get together – we’ve actually been together for two years now – it’s his longest relationship – I’ve been in only long relationships – a year and a half, six years…

* My kids are like that – my son is in his third relationship, he’s very happy (so am I) – I had so many boyfriends, my family was worried about me

* When we’d get into fights, I’d say, you stay here – we’ll fight this out

+ At some times in arguments with my ex, it was just name calling – (I just wanted to figure out what was going on) – as soon as it got to name calling, and it was hurtful, I’d say I was going for a walk, just to get out of there – and he’d freak out – get really angry, not let me leave – because he’d have to deal with what he said, and the feelings, instead of having this random rage outlet

* With my husband, I’d just wait for him to leave – there was no name calling or anything – I’d just wait for it to be over

+ Once he said he wanted the bed – I said no, I’d decided to get the bed, and I asked what he needed with it – and he told me he wanted to sleep with other girls, on that bed – I started crying, why would he say that? – I think he just said such things like that, to be hurtful

+ Guilt trip, guilt trip, guilt trip, actual information, guilt trip, guilt trip – so I responded to the actual information, said I’m sorry this happened – and he responded with a guilt trip – so I thought, we’re weaving information into this, trying to make it look like my fault – I said, there’s a problem here, I’m trying to work it out

+ Later, he came up to me, he said “come out with a smaller gun next time” – I thought, sure, next time I’ll come with explosives – but I just worked it out, said the truth


8: Sound [(Laure) Devi]

“Devi?” I called to him, quietly, matching the hushed stillness emanating from inside his room. Rolan was showering. Standing outside Devi’s door, hand curled shyly like the pillow fingers of a baby- waiting- and he inside, between hearing and answering- basking- I again though of his proposal. It had been two years, and I had diluted it in my mind; it had become part of the melange of senses and expressions we shared. I often didn’t think to consider his wanting, his physical yearning, when it was completely blended with… you couldn’t get away from how much I loved him. That was in the spaces between atoms, in our make up, in everything we did. Not in the atoms themselves (not in the identity of us), but in the places where atoms weren’t, between the links of my flesh-made body. I could not exist without knowing he was inside me, in the places where nothing else was. Nor was Devi who he was without my name whispered, flowing between the micro beads of his makeup. That always had been. His need, as it was, was a different thing. 

Becoming something of a tangible reality was something Laure was not expectant of, not sure of. Something other than the flurid, innocently caring relationship of mother and adopted child. In the two years since he had chosen to bring it to the open- not knowing what he said, she was sure- she had found herself thinking of it, irresistibly, deftly, turning it over with skill and calmness as though something that was hers, that she was familiar with. Often she became sidetracked, and only wondered at Devi’s intuition. The moment she had touched him, he had known the feeling, had known he longed for it; though he knew not what that feeling described in the larger world, she felt that he had understood the profundity of his hovered, soft-spoken words. He had known that she was there for him, and that knowing provoked honesty. Even without comprehension of all that asked traversed, he had known that she was so inclined to love him that he could ask- for that love to be connected to his body. He had known she was his. And he had given himself to be hers.

Laure struggled with the weight of Devi’s feelings, for she perceived them as heavy, heavy in their implications. For all intents and purposes, he was her son, she his guardian and mother. She had never struggled with the weight of the boy himself, much as his mind swirled around her consciousness and his thoughts unraveled the fabric of a million worlds. She had never needed to know where he ended, what he fell into when he left out-loud speech, and his eyes clouded into visions of universal continuity. She struggled with knowing the after, what might conspire for him, where it related to her. Laure was unafraid of what might come of Devi in the world, for his depths made him a wunderkind. There was only one depth which she needed to understand, and that was his lust- it was so simply and elegantly impossible, in all that she had learned of how relationships worked, but that was what it was.

Laure stopped for a moment. There she stood, on the threshold of a room in which a boy sat, waiting for her. This boy loved her, and she him, more than anything. And he longed for her, for the touch of her body. There was a question woven into this storyline, and there were only ever two answers to a questions like this- a yes, or a no. Yet so many fractals met and twisted within.


His answer came, and she felt the breathlessness of her spinning mind fade into the sound of his voice. Entering, she closed her eyes, wanting not to see him, to react to his small doll form. She wanted to caress his voice, let it become her senses. 

Laure didn’t know what Rolan did for her, only that she liked it, as a warmth under the cold plates of her armour. Feeling Devi, his voice wandering her bloodstream, she knew he did everything for her. Though, she could not say what it was, there either. She sank to the bed, her eyes still closed, and his hands- he was only eleven, even though his hands were gentle and smart, sensing her with their energy, she could feel that they were small, long-fingered, young hands- took hers. With his touch, she felt a new strand of connection, opening spaces within the already formed bands of their togetherness, where possibilities breathed like saplings. He coaxed her, blind, moving his hands up to her shoulders, and pressing their bodies to embrace.

Devi placed his hand against my lips, and my eyes opened. They opened to see the array of light wave colours that banded into a person I could call my own. Devi. It was difficult to talk of moving to new things with Devi, when the world was such a solid place and we such gaseous forms; but it was also odd for me, suffused with our companionship, to think of parameters, a world where lines weren’t waved as though under water, dancing and looking away when rightness overcame the world. 

I think, then. I think that was when I allowed him to lean forward, allowed my lips to touch his own, allowed my eyes to close once more, and my mouth to taste him.



It’s amazing how you can never stop emotion. Have you noticed this? Some things stop in the summer, some when you go on road trips or vacation, some as you get older, some the more tired, alert, drunk, high, crazy, unruly, tame, the more sleep you get, the more beautiful or less attractive you become; but feelings and heartfelt wants, they never. fucking. stop. I’m counting lust; addiction; those evanescences that bring you serotonin; the wide-eyed wonders of oxycontin; euphoria, joy, hunger that doesn’t reach you physically until its ravaged you mentally and has no other place to turn- I’m talking sadness, self-loathing, depression, loneliness; I’m talking about fear. You could live a thousand years and never would you find a place or a second absent from emotion.

You can’t escape feeling something. It is feeling- having something inside you, that feels- that makes it hurt, makes it hard to live. Emotion makes the world go, around on its axis (an important quotient in the universe), and around in its brilliant cycles (living humanly, affecting each other). However, it exists to be emitted, to be sent out from its body, and received in another form- like energy. 

When it is kept in, pent up, misunderstood, misidentified, not shared, or unable to find a pathway out, emotion eats from the inside. It needs to give and receive, or it cripples and ravages its host- as though a possessing spirit. Exactly like that.

Emotion is a drug, yes, but it is also an animal, one that is somewhat able to control us. The chemicals released and taken up in our bodies often work off other people and outside elements. As we are a social species, and we live in a world that thrives off of connection, emotions need to be let out, allowed to leave the shells of who we are, and in the same token allowed in from the outside world. We swallow feelings from without [where we arent] and speak, love, sweat, bleed feelings from within [where we are]. All of this, cycles of releasing and regaining, in order to find a balance between the acid inside us and outside, an equilibrium on either side of our barriers.

I think that all happiness is released as it comes. It has its own energy, does not need or want to be kept inside. We each have a channel for emotion, and happiness is the river on which it flows. Happiness, by this or another name- energy, love, the life force, drive, optimism perhaps- is easily released if it has a clear path outwards, but all other emotions move on this channel as well; they can both create temporary obstacles for this initial river, and can mix in with it, like oil seeping in. Those emotions that become part of who we are, mixing into the current, and much harder to clean from our systems. It seems, though, that happiness is always there, sent from some basic part of us, like the soul. True happiness comes in a torrent, when no obstacle is large enough to stick, to pull down into the mud and dam the blessed, easy way; when no chemical or toxicity is in the stream to eat at our hearts.

Feeling is the thing that makes us alive. I have a theory, which solves, for my own mind, the question as to the purpose of conscious life. I believe that the spark of consciousness came about, through evolution, and because of the needs and subtle triggers of the universe. Life is a weak form of energy, relatively speaking, but it is an energy that creates and understands itself, and that causes movement in the universe. Happiness, ecstasy, the feeling of enlightenment, euphoria, everything like this- it is a form of energy on a much higher level than simple action and reaction. There is something about pleasure, either from doing good or from receiving great, that has more meaning and more life to it than tasks that simply allow us to live and continue our lifelines. This occurs in non-human animals as well, a sense of play, and of pleasure, that is more than routine, more than goals to eat and breathe and procreate. I think the consciousness that we have, and emotion as a part of it, exists because feelings such as this spark the universe’s movement, and create change of their own.

So going back to the level on which we live, it isn’t emotion that calms us, but the ability to share it. Each of us, sharing love, sharing happiness with and for the world. Feeling the pain of injustice and sharing it through anger- individual traumas and heartbreaks that follow a universal code of hurting. To bond in sadness, to feel together, in order to work together. It is the absence of emotion, when we have released it from where it was stirring and clenching and devouring inside us, that gives us freedom, a sense of calm, a sense of simplicity and a feeling of divine rightness.