A half a stick of trident...

I've got my half a stick of trident and I'm ready to roll... What is this imprint of shock you keep dragging near to me? I see a chance to make my offering and there among the ashes she rises again and again reminding me that there are hurts that have not healed. Somewhere underneath the scars are buried and rise up to the disapproval of certain others.

I am not the kind one she thinks and seems to want to place her arc of feelings in front of me. What happens to make them keep dragging these moments up as I am trying to make the gift of love and healing. Is it in the eyes of disapproval that I must be released?

I stand before him questioning and he seeing my uncertainty becomes impatient. He seems to know how much I have been given to understand, but does he know that I have also had the pain of the world dredged up from the inside?

No, probably not the worst of it. Enough? How much? How can I know what it is relative to? And then I have the desire to show how beautiful those imprints are that cut into what never was a "normal life" Why do they seem to resent me?

I feel myself walking out in the cold but unable to withstand the harder of the two kinds of cold. My hands shake now? You have no idea how happy I have become. If you read this then how can you know how beautiful my life has turned out to be. But still she pulls from the inside of me to get out somehow to find her own place in it all.

I can't tell you who or what she is except to say that she is like the tangled strands of my own DNA and RNA the places where expression began. The places where I in haste shut down until further notice. How does the soft continual support reach in and soothe her? She accepts the offer with the edge of grief that is hope in a darkened corner.

I have failed to show you how beautiful this is, at least for the moment, but I will keep trying. Perhaps the day I can reach to the angriest youth in the room and make a difference, perhaps then she will accept my success as meaningful.

The day came and went. I did not think I could be happier. It was a day of devastation 33 years prior. That same cold and wet November day, even a Wednesday. Wednesday November 17, 1977. The punk rock scene was exploding in Bromley England, but I didn't know their rage overseas could match my own in that little room of confinement. That room that set the boundary I would never forget. "You are not acceptable to society as you are." Of course it was my behavior, but it was also my beliefs and it was their pathologizing.

Four years later she would speak from within, telling me of this future happiness that I knew was true but could not believe. And now that so much of this is behind me I am still searching for my place. I get little glimpses that I have managed to do somethings of value, but this pressure persists. Divine dissatisfaction?

Oh, I forgot I was trying to reach for a way to show how beautiful even the most painful parts are. No, I have not succeeded yet. I will try again, perhaps even tomorrow. The thing is that the cuts cut into what could have been a "normal" existence and there is a sadness to that, but they revealed not only the hard painful side, they also revealed the exquisite light and beauty in an immediate and breathtaking heart opening big gasp take it all in kind of way. I hope I do find a way to tell this story because it really is beautiful and it is the only one I have to tell. For now I will compare it to the contrasts in the Lord of the rings when the darkness threatens but the light of the elven realm shields the innocence at least for a time.