I've had a lovely weekend with the love of my life and for the first time and years, I'm relaxed. Truly chill and alright with not having every little minute planned to a detail. I've had ridiculously crazy sex, fun foods, kinky desserts and plenty of conversation with the someone special.

I wonder...why has it been so hard to stop being in control of every situation? I mean, not like I had to be Ms. Take Over, but I've had a hard time letting go of the past. It's controlled me, consumed me even. I can't remember a time when my decisions weren't wholly based on something that trans passed in my recent history. It's not healthy. Holding onto all that baggage... and I don't want it anymore.

I dream about becoming a scholar. A hip, crazy haired, scattered brained, eccentric scholar who thrives off of firsthand research and can speak various lost languages. I dream of getting lost in some Forest off of some coast or another. Getting married on a Greek island. Storms at sea, midnight salsa in Mexico, getting caught up in the view from the top of some mountain...

It's one reason I want to become more healthy. I want to the time and the body to do all this stuff. Visit all these places before I go. I know, I am rambling... it happens when you're bored/waiting for someone. I'm all dolled up and getting ready to visit UH. The place where I hope to be attending Grad school. Grad school, a PHD, the impossible dream for somebody like me. It would be incredible to walk across that stage and become Dr. Hicks-Courtney. I mean, how many people get the opportunity? I have this crazy once in the life time chance to fully indulge in this fantastic educational experience and become a more thorough poet. Awesome!


Work in progress poem below...

Field Spirits
Moments, lay dormant.
Stop your incessant ticking.

Breathe, hold.
Release unease and tension.

Remember us for a second.

Invoke we field spirits.
Call us by name, by blood, by transgression.

Sheer layers of memory laced along the foundations of this house.
This temple to the gods of small town America.
Spearheaded priests and priestesses.
Their chants and hymns sung solemnly from dawn till dusk.
Chants and hymns sent to us field spirits.
"Come carry the water! Come lay on my bed!"

Their whips, for cattle to be sacrificed, covered in dried flakes of blood.
Stories braided into the leather.
The mouth of one slave slacked against the neck of another.
One vanilla cream colored demon and one muddied angel.
Moans curled and collapsed in the corners of this room,
as one gave Hell,
and the other went Home.

Bones lay raggedly across the hills of this foreign land.
Death and love locked in the turning blades of grass.

And they wonder why we shake our hips and laugh.
We've seeped into the seams of books and minds.
The legends of our lives retold time after time.

It means we field spirits will never die.