Because I forgot that, as a registered member of the Mountain/Green Party in WV, I can’t vote for a presidential nominee. We ain’t got any. Apparently. We did… I dunno what happened to Jesse Johnson. I realized this yesterday. Quite a hell of a  lot too late to switch. But OMG did I need to. Read this, from Salon:

“They won’t go for a black man, that’s just it,” R.K. Horton, a retired heating and air conditioning business owner, said of his neighbors. “I don’t think it’s being racist necessarily, they just don’t like black people that well.” For that matter, it’s not just his neighbors. “The arrogance and all that bothers me more than black, but black is a close second,” he said. “Our generation was back when blacks were the back of the bus, and it’s hard to change that outlook. I just feel like I couldn’t vote for him.”

Italics by me, whose head just exploded. There really are other non asshat West Virginians, I swear. Fuck.

Every single time I make a pot of coffee, I think of mom. She was, if possible, worse at waking than I am. I remember being trained as a kid to make her coffee. We had a scooper that, filled to heaping corresponded to two cups of water. Because of the silly private language we used, I remember being directed by a sweetly groggy mom: “Three spooks and six bucks!” A bucka fockeee was a cup of coffee, adapted from a younger cousin’s toddlerspeak.

I remember the little artist’s pride I had learning the exact shade of light brown to tint her coffee with 2% milk or powdered creamer- the cream wasn’t important- the color was. (My nod to Dad is my love of black coffee.) Aunt Pea drinks hers like mom.

And here is a post embryo that has been hanging out in the womb of my drafts folder, unfinished:

One of the things I miss most about Mom is the dreams-and-coffee ritual we shared. Like I do, she always had vivid memories of several strange dreams each morning, and we’d swap dream stories over breakfast or in the car on the way to school or work during the times when we lived together or close. (Read: my entire life except for the nine or ten months in Pittsburgh. My two on-my-own apartments were within a city block of my mom’s and brother’s home base.)

I’m missing it a lot this morning, drinking my coffee and sharing my thoughts with the aether while my babygirl runs wild. Bu doesn’t have the intense dreams or the fascination with them that Mama & I had. I should write about them more.

And now my coffee is ready. It’s a lazy sweet morning. he Bird has a late morning appointment with Dr. McDreamy (I’m not a Grey’s fan but Souster is- he’s her pediatrician. Nurse Crunchy is not in today.) The poor boo has the worst diaper rash in the history of the yoni. It caused (I guess?) the tantrum that almost had me googling exorcism last night. FYI, the Wicca-tarian approved method for exorcism: Aristocats VHS tape, volume low, water sippy.

(I was so desperate I offered the nummins, but she refused. She said “NO!!! DONE!!!!” but of course at 4:00 am was not so over the boobs. I think we may have wee hours breastfeeding until infinity. I knew they would be the last to go, hope though I did that the ones I enjoy would hang around longest. Meh.)

I spent the better part of an hour yesterday talking Bu into the perfect Mother’s Day gift: a morning wandering around the East End Yard Sale. (The hipper side of town, i.e. the one I do not live in, has a huge yard sale the day before Mother’s Day every year. It is teh awesome.) I won a $10 spending limit, as- yes- we are that broke. I was going to stretch it to $15 though. That was what he spent last year on my iTunes card

However.

There were three really strong rum drinks and a (studio cleaning dust necessitated) Benadryl last night, which caused 1) a fabulous night of sleep and 2) a rock solid conviction that at six o’clock a.m. on a Saturday I should be in bed. So it is nearing eleven and the cool shit has been bought by bushier-tailed shoppers. I’ve been stalking Etsy while I chug my coffee, but the under $10 stuff I found isn’t screaming at me. Bu asked my half-conscious self on his way out this morning would I mind finding a little something for his mom today.

So. I am planning a shopping excursion. (Alone: w00t!)

I really want to get her stuff to make virgin margaritas at home. Been dying to do that, actually. OK, truth be told, I’m really dying to get her tipsy on real ‘ritas. It’s like a mission. I truly believe there will come a day when Papaw is out of town or something and I will make her favorite drink for her. She refuses to drink them in public. It would be unseemly (because they are LDS, remember?) and she’s terrified of even ordering a virgin drink that might possibly look like a real one. But chick is jonesing. She mentions it every time we’re at a restaurant that serves drinks.

So I think I will get my lazy ass in the shower and head to KMart to see if they have drink mixes and a cheap romantic comedy or drama on DVD. Mamaw lurves her some cheesy kissy face stuff Then I may head to the thrift store to see if I can find a treasure there for my own Mama Goddess Day present. Then I will reunite with my munchkin and do some laundry or more launch another offensive into the studio mess. If I shove a few feet worth of floor-cover crap to the side, I could set up the Bird with her easel and probably be productive.

I need to see if Mamaw has a blender, so she can make her yummy drink. What else goes in a virgin ‘rita- just ice & the mix? Will have to research.

Whatcha doin’ this weekend? I am inundated with tasks, so am doing the list thing:

• Brewing more coffee
• Using the one Fly Lady trick I’ve stuck with: the timer. I use Time Left, a free app I snagged online. Now, and for 26:55 more, I am allowed to be online
• Drawing/scanning/vectorizing a Grass Ninja. It’s not a goat. (It totally is a goat, but the boys DEMAND that it be called the Grass Ninja. It’s for Bu’s buddy’s grass cutting crew.)
• Planning a meeting at church about earth centered, co-ed scouting group
• Cleaning the studio. Again. Trying to make room for the colossal art easel and drawers I brought home for the Bird as well as making the room actually function as a studio
• Starting work on a text/visual something for Weave
• Hoping to pop downtown to peek at my art on the walls at the cafe/gallery

And the smell of coffee and productivity wafts through the house, calling me to drink and work. I love coffee. Coffee loves me. We are in love, coffee and I.

ETA:

• Doing something about the mofo dots. I promise. They are inexcusable

Yeah. Or I could blow all this off to go see Iron Man with Bu. It was good. But the coffee made me have to run out to pee four(!) times. But…fun date day. And we did go in to check out my art.

Did you know I’m eligible for sainthood? Yes. I am. I’m pretty sure that mothering a child for 23 months, 6 days, 4 hours, and eleven minutes without doing any of the following qualifies one for sainthood:

1. Losing my goddamned mind
2. Slapping, spanking, biting, or otherwise hurting the child
3. Killing, castrating, or divorcing her father
4. Selling her on eBay

She is in a spitting phase, she has a cold, we did not sleep, she will not eat, she will not be anywhere but my arms or [out]“side.”

Speaking of religion… she insisted we say grace tonight before she ate adamantly refused to eat dinner. I did a generic improv thing with generic “Lord and Lady,” which always makes me feel so old skool trad Wiccan. Which I am not. But I was charmed that she likes to say a meal blessing- the grandies have taught her.

Google turned this up:

Mother of Plenty, bless this bread
Father of the Grain, lend your seed
Let it nourish heart and head
Let it nourish thought and deed
Let its breaking be a spell
That hungry mouths be fed as well
And let its eating keep us free
As is our will
So mote it be!

Cute. I like. My searches for bedtime blessings yielded more poetry and made me say “aw…” and leak breastmilk they were so precious. (Argh! Where are they? I saved them… Oh. I’m a dork: My Docs->babybookofshadows.doc) OK. Look how adorable:

Day is done, it’s time for bed
Goddess bless my sleepy head
Earth and Water, Air and Fire
Bring gentle dreams as I retire
When the morning sun does rise
God will bless my open eyes

Now I lay me down to sleep,
Please help me learn my world to keep.
To guard the air and skies of blue,
The oceans, lakes and rivers too.
Save the mighty forest lands,
The plains, the shores, the desert sands.
Protect all creatures, wild and free,
In air, on land, and in the sea.

Sorry Gwen Didn’t meant to slight my beloved Canadian friends, or those from other countries. The Etsy stuff now has international shipping rates. I was just in a whirl to get things set up, and had very hastily guessed at US shipping and called it done. I spent a few minutes researching today and now have fixed the oversight *sheepish apology face*

I give you my fine art:

At least, I give it to you for now. I might get shifty and remove this post if I freak out about having my name up for real. So bookmark that baby Also, marvel at my fetching use of “Etsy Orange” to make my banner look like it regularly meets Etsy’s logo for coffee and bagels.

Synchronicity swirling around me again, I am having the Week of Addressing Disabilities. My supervisor recruited me to speak about the clinic at a middle school for a diversity workshop they held yesterday. I decided to integrate some talk about myself too, and it worked beautifully. I was able to start with my arm and then use that to talk about visible versus invisible disabilities, and then segued into what we do at the clinic. [Sorry, but I gotta leave some vagueness about work intact for Secret Identity Purposes to protect my beloved work place from being associated with a Radical and Highly Controversial Blogger and Purveyor of Subversive Ideas. *snort* Read: Mommyblogger with delusions of awesomeness who is so undersexed she thinks lists of hot chick crushes is somehow revolutionary;)]

I had dreaded the speaking part, but it was groovy. The kids had insightful, intelligent questions and there were a handful of kids with special needs throughout the day and that plus me equaled a successful discussion of various abilities and disorders that pretty much completely avoided “other-ness” language.

So, I survived my uneasiness with public speaking, which is not terrible, really. Just butterflies and a dry mouth. Then this morning I sat down with my cup of coffee at my neglected computer to read my poor ignored feed reader and saw that my beautiful Soul Sistah Lexie had written a BADD post. Having a bit of extra time this morning, I decided to write a post. Which, it now seems, has been quite overtaken by its own introduction. So quickly, let me repost, again, my sexy self portrait that was my own personal One Armed Sexy Witch Mama coming out party.

Only, wow. I do not have one arm. I completely negate my right arm all the freaking time! I have two arms, and two hands even. Meh… is it just shorthand? Because I could spend all day explaining myself into circles. Seven fingers, one long arm, one short.

And without further rambling, I give you my actual post:
—
Here is the state of my consciousness regarding my birth defect about a year ago:

It was seriously, asskickingly empowering to create and post this piece. I love that it ended up so sexy. It really was only revealing skin to show my arm off better but yeah. Owning my own image and really synthesizing my arm with its strange look and the sexual side of me was kind of huge. I’ve always had “sexual being” and “mutant arm chick” as wholly different selves in my brain, until that self portrait. In fact, I think mutant arm self had its very own tightly guarded box that was separate from everything, actually. You can see the entire original post here.

So forgive the indulgent reposting of the portrait, but I offer it in celebration of BADD and badass mutant hot people everywhere.

Hi, I totally misquoted Rusted Root, I discovered today. And not just in the middle of a wordy post all hidden and hunkered down hoping you wouldn’t notice. No, it was right in the title. It was the title. If you see Rusted Root, will you please tell them that “lick from the wounds” is a way better lyric than “leap from the wounds”?

Sigh. I hate when I mistake lyrics and think mine are better. I have other examples but I can’t grab them just now. They are swimming in a puddle of tired monkey brain. Bedtime now plz? KTHXBAI.

it’s nearly the end of april
rain keeps calling: dig deep,
go within, and rediscover
that serpent coiled and sleeping
too soundly, a knot
at the base of my spine.

it’s got me on a kick
painting in binary code
blasting tori, screaming
all off key and laughing

(the names of our daughters
are pins in a map
to find this:

who are we now?

motherswomen)

where is my sex, in
banshee wails and curtains
of rain and the temperature
in wild flux?
cocooning in quilts that
smell of the dog and
baby’s bath and
our last sweat?

is it there, bled out of me
with the moon and just too tired?
or leaking out slowly with
a mother’s tears and milk?

are you there, still, in the painting of red and blue? these colors

you used to show me in tantric visions
when i was a gateway and
atheist lips called me goddess
while strong hands washed my feet

snakes used to writhe so hard they stung and bit
and now their slumber is a lullaby
of heartbeats and exhausted sighs
did we lull it to sleep
with our familiarity?

have i known you too long?
(and now you’ve seen inside me)
and emptied of secrets
and wearied of shared worries
can we find the madness
that pulled us in to it?

can we spark and spin
and wake the snakes wound
tight in sleep inside us?
can some art or artifice reimagine
and rework the passion
and heat that slumbers?

can i build new secrets
to draw you back
and shimmer again like
a careless thing still
smoking and glowing
in the shadows?

can you cry out
and wake it and can i
let go what sent the thing to
sleep and just watch

the fires rise again and twist?

—

More Kundalini musing…still blogging for RAINN, still chasing my tail, still writing poems about snakes and moons. (Morrison… Doors… Blake…) I invoked William Blake in ritual when we were calling our ancestors. Seemed strange to never have thought of calling to him in circle. Wonder what his mystic Christian soul thought of this, a funky witch in fake ivy and nose ring invoking his presence all uninvited?

________________

This post is a celebration of the Sexography project in support of RAINN- the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network. RAINN provides information, education, outreach and other services. Among its programs, created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1.800.656.HOPE. Please consider a donation to RAINN. If you donate, please mention the Daisybones blog and note “GBBMC:08″ in the “donation in honor of” section (in addition to anyone you want to honor, including yourself.) This will allow project-related donations to be tracked, and every donation sent from my blog will be (to me) regarded as honoring my mother and all others who were kept silent. Thank you.