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July 2012



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vaalski: (Default)
Hello Livejournal friends! I know some of you are in Boston. 

Would you like to live with two excellent people in a nice apartment with two cats? Mitchell and I are looking for a third roommate starting as soon as possible. We live near Sullivan station in a pleasantly quiet neighborhood with easy access to like four bus lines, seriously they're everywhere. If you're looking for a place to live, please drop me a line for details, and put out the word. It's really important for a perspective roommate to be queer and trans friendly (hopefully not a problem with my friendslist!), and we're pleased with basically any combination of gender and sexuality in a potential roommate :D

Apr. 18th, 2012 06:33 pm


vaalski: (Default)
Eight and Two

Here's the thing: I walked away, back
straight and ready for the blade that sunk hilt
deep into the base of a ramrod spine, walked
away and tried my hardest to not
look back or raise my hand to stem the tide of blood. Watch
the way I move, stiff
and stilted, like there is still
something left unhealed, not
all the time but often enough, one knee
gone out from me, paralytic, weak and wounded
down one side, and I limp, but less with every year that passes.
I walked away, brother, walked of my own free will,
and I have payed my blood debts, and I
will heal and rise again.
vaalski: (Default)
So I've been radio silence since January. Everywhere. 

I have a valid explanation for that, I promise.

...okay that is in fact a total lie. All I've been doing since mid-January is writing lots and lots of Sherlock fanfiction and I am not even the tiniest bit sorry. And reading Sherlock fanfiction and theories. And talking to people on the internet about Sherlock. And admiring Sherlock art. And reblogging pictures of Jim Moriarty on Tumblr. And ordering all my friends to watch Sherlock. 

Hello, my name is Edie, and I have a problem.
Jan. 23rd, 2012 08:48 pm


vaalski: (Default)

So I was going through my livejournal looking for a poem the other day (shut up), which involved trudging back through the archives all the way back to the beginning, because I was pretty sure it was an early piece of writing. This was like two weeks ago, and I noticed idly that hey, January is when my livejournal started ages back, I should totally mark that occasion. Today I was sitting at work, writing dates on things, and thought, hey, the 23rd sounds familiar, why is that? Took a look on my phone at lunch, and confirmed what I'd already suspected.

I do love anniversaries. 

So it's been eight years since I first started. I would have been about sixteen; if you're at all interested, the first post is here. I hadn't quite learned to drive, I spent a lot of time with my horse, I was a less than a month away from my whole life cracking down around my ears. I went by Talia, and I picked this username because none of the other ones I wanted were available. I originally write on, which I never properly learned to use, and switched over to follow Cristina and Heather and also because I was totally hopeless at using the system. 

My pony has since been sent to retirement; in the end, he was mine for a little over eight years and I love him still, and miss him like I'd miss my heart. I plan on a tattoo of his brand come spring, once I've gotten the dermatillomania I've struggled with since I was a kid under a sort of control. I don't drive, but that's because I don't have a car these days because I live in Somerville, and my partner drives me where I need to go. (If I ask nice.) 

I'm still small, still five feet, and my hair is brown and just brushing my shoulders. I've grown into a stocky young woman, broad across the ribs and shoulders by genetics and a little curvy by good living. I'm called Grace, mostly, or Edie, or Mama Hyena or Boss Mare or Bones. I sing less than I should but better than I used to. I dance contra with skill and grace and a sincere and total joy, have learned waltzing and blues and a little bit of tango. 

I sidled my way out of the closet starting not long after I joined, part by coaxing and part by being dragged, part by manipulation and part by my own free will. I identify variously as a dyke, a queer woman, and a lesbian; I've been through six partners of varying seriousnesses and genders, and am currently living with and crazy for a transguy named Mitch. He's my world. He's my femme and I'm his butch. 

I don't talk much to Sean anymore but I miss him; formal dances are now an opportunity for hilarity and to dance with pretty girls. I'm currently read The Kingkiller Chronicles, Lord of Light, and the Shoebox Project. I still love Pratchett and Pierce, but Lackey and Atwater-Rhodes are increasingly obvious as the semi-schlocky fantasy they are. 

I'm graduated from 4-H (and high school and college), but I still teach and judge public speaking, supervise horse bowl and hippology, regularly work with members of my old club, and help run and judge horse shows. I'm over a year into my first job, at a medical journal; I commute to work daily and probably don't sleep enough. I do aerial acrobatics and am learning to paint. I'm a poet, and finally starting to examine my work for the best of it to send out to literary journals. 

I am almost eight years past Cristina, who was my first girlfriend. I didn't call her that at the time, but looking back, I can accept that's what she was. I'm probably as close as I can come to peace with what happened, and how shattered it left me. I've gotten some good poetry out of it, at the very least, and I suppose that's good. 

I'm settled as a female spotted hyena, I am horse-hearted. My totems are Cougar, Badger, and Bear. Inside my head, I talk to a Utahraptor named Red and a genderqueer person named Ruth. 

I currently live a life of Sherlock and Skyrim. 

I'm very happy. 

vaalski: (Default)
Twelfth Night

I remember the day we burned the trees, reeking

of pine, our clothes scattered

with sap and needles, the heels

of our boots braced against the trunk to help us

saw the firs to pieces, freeing

the ghosts of witches from their limbs and boughs. That night

we watched as they went up in smoke, my hand

in yours, the stars all bright and cold, the new year

laid out like roads before us.

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Aubade (in progress)

My lover makes me breakfast in the dark, four
a.m., me shivering in boots
and breeches, the sun not even up, helmet
tucked between my knees and hair half-braided. 

(And her in flannel shirt and pants, a blanket
wrapped around her shoulders,
squinting without glasses into oatmeal
coming to a boil.)


I've been working with variations on the first line, tossing it around in an idle fashion, for a while now (one is here). This is the farthest I've gotten with it, and if it works out I'm planning a companion piece called Evensong. I think this is still very rough. There's another stanza or two that I don't know yet. 
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In this world I will be the beast I want--shoulders
maned and heavy, hips narrow, tail swinging, spotted
brutality and brawn. I will choose 
sisters and my mate, touch
the flanks of brothers with my nose. Together
we will drive our enemies before us. Call me
hyena-mother, warrior, careless and ignorant 
of everything but what and who is mine. 
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Last night I threw myself at the silks as if climbing them would erase the last ten days. My feet are bruised, the muscling of my shoulders and knees strained, my hands rough with half-formed callouses. For an hour it didn't matter that my grandmother died, that my father asked me to be a pallbearer and I feel like I'm too small and awkward for it but I want to do this thing for him, that people called my job and yelled all day on Friday, that I keep breaking down at weird moments and can't cope with anything more difficult that deciding what to have for lunch, and sometimes not even that--it was just me and the silk wrapped around my wrists and hips, the mat beneath my bare feet, the worn boards of the ceiling inches above my head. 

It was the first time in fourteen weeks of lessons that I'd done a hip key perfectly, managed most of an invert, done a fairy descent all the way down, climbed on my bad ankle halfway up the silks, got all the way up into a Rebecca Split, the fabric pressed hard all down the middle of my body.

And yes, my heart is aching, and yes, I am exhausted, but I finally feel better.
vaalski: (Default)
In the end it was so quiet, his knees
soft against the dying grass, my hands
hard against my sister's back. 

...I miss him.
vaalski: (Default)
Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Upon request, I will post a random line or two from any of these you choose. Assuming that the file adds up to a full line, that is.

Feel free to request as many times as you wish, and it's okay to ask for the same file more than once.

(Cherry picking the best, because guys, I have hundreds. Some are poems.)

1. Stardarkhistory
2. Annie Majesty 
3. Children of God
4. Oslo
5. Things You Should Know About Westford
6. Death We Are
7. Secret of the Sphinx
8. nagacreationmyth
9. electricity
10. Inaugeration
11. Beltane
12. Zaia and the Magpie
13. Hawk-Eyed
14. petgirl/petgirl_weres
15. The Unicorn Defense
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I have both an iTouch (semi-elderly) and an iPhone (NEW AND SO EXCELLENT) that I keep with me fairly regularly, and I find that I compose poetry on them in place of the scraps of paper I've traditionally used. It's sort of a weird way to write, but I'm slowly getting used to it. 

Here's one--a tiny little love poem--from late last winter. 

Snow Day

The city is still half-helpless
with snowfall and you
are a long time gone already. 
Come home. The bed
is cold and I am empty. The snow
muffles everything when you
are not here and my back
hurts less from shoveling
and more from missing you. 

There are several scraps from around the same time period, which I present to show you how I make notes about what I'm planning to write. 

3 Feb 2011

my lover eats her breakfast in the dark
silk and lace against
the curve of hip and breast

10 March 2011

in the halfcold of night
sailboats on the river
and men in them

The rest of the notes/finished work mostly concern the daemonic/totemic poems I write on commission for my forum. I am verrry vaguely thinking about doing these for money or for proper art trades, but that is maybe a bit of a risky road to go down. Thoughts, TDF folk? (And I suppose anyone else who likes my work, but mostly them.) 
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 Halfway down a piss-poor beer, belly empty and knees
weak beneath me, head already pounding, three quarters
of the winding way to drunk, a Tuesday in the summer, everything
catching up to me at once--home and the day steaming brutal behind me
like smoke rising from a ruined car, tears
rainbowed like coolant on the sunwarm pavement, everything
in pieces. Let
it go. Let it go.
vaalski: (Default)
I am much too proud of this very ludicrous poem.

I Don't Make Fun of Your Coping Mechanisms

I am the saddest crocodile.
Since I was young all I've
ever really wanted was to 
be able to stick out my tongue
and touch it to my nose, the way
a little boy did once before
my mother rose from shallow water
and dragged him down to visit.

And of course no one takes
me seriously about how upset
I always get about this. You're only 
crying crocodile tears, they say.
But reptiles have feelings too.
I can't help it if I'm hungry even 
as I cry, and if it looks as if my tears 
are just a lure to bring you close.

I suppose that you could say I eat
my feelings. Do I judge you for the way
you deal with your emotions, the strange 
and sharply human way you wail?
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I have noooo idea how this got here.
vaalski: (Default)
One Year

Dust we are and to dust someday
we will return, I know this even as
I am on my knees before you, hands
clutching forearms, laughing, foreheads
pressed together, unable to get up or move
despite hunger, straining muscles, book edges
digging into knees and the room
getting cold from open windows, I am helpless
before the way you love me, and when we
are dead and dust together the wind
will blow us away and upward towards
the open, waiting sky.
Apr. 23rd, 2011 12:24 am


vaalski: (Default)
 Heavy little warhorse, standing foursquare
on rocky ground, impassive
as the stone around her, head like an anvil, legs
like young trees. She
has never been a beast of burden, never known
the hand upon the rein. Shay. Buff-colored
as the sand beneath her hooves. She is
the wind that strikes your face, the storms
that break along the steppes---as ruthless
and innocent as every wild thing.
vaalski: (Default)
Safe Passage

In one motion the door open, hips against
the seat, the engine coughing over, Jim
up front and the boys in back,
half-falling in, all of them drunk
and laughing, the rocking half-wild swing
of long-limbed weight in darkness--

--and me with fingers checking radio and dials,
reaching up to ask safe journey from the feather 
hanging down to brush my cheek, all this as I
breathe in, then let it go. With one
hand I drop the brake, and with the other 

flick the lights as I back up. In
the yard across from mine, the Virgin
Mary sudden-spotlit in the winter grass, hands
and face and rounded belly
half-shadowed, or half-worn.
vaalski: (Default)
 1. Virgin in Headlights (Edie)

In one motion the door open and
my bag thrown, back hitting soft, swinging 
my legs in and settling
hips and shoulders against
the seat with the rocking swing
of weight that lets me slam the door with the same
momentum that's carried me so far and then
keys in hand, the engine coughing over, Jim
up front and the boys in back, half-falling in, all
of them drunk and laughing, and then me
with fingers checking radio and dials, reaching
up to ask safe journey from the feather
hanging down to brush my cheek, all this
in one breath or two, no more. With one
hand I drop the brake, and with
the other flick the lights as I back up. In
the yard across from mine, the Virgin 
Mary sudden-spotlit , face and hands
half-shadowed, or half-worn.
2. Untitled (Jack)
I notice without noticing
that sometime in the past
half hour my low-level limp
has faded, sun sinking
into mending bone like
the slowest realization, and I curl
my fingers against the handle
of my third and maybe final
cup of tea today, knowing
is wasn't just the weather. I shift
my weight, testing. The pain
will return in days or hours, this time
and always, but for now I watch
the two of you and how you move
with me. And for a while I forget, 
and put each small foot in 
its place, one after the other, slow 
and even, equal weight
on right, then left, so that just
this once we walk together.
3. Untitled (Quinn)
On the way home I stop
three times, once for each
of us, on stranger's stoops
and steps, in bits and patches
of reflected sun, notebook
on knees, back bent, lower
lip caught up in between
my canines, my whole body
focused in on pen and paper
and I know
each stranger walking by
sees and notes and wonders
but I also know that even one
more step will carry me on and past 
the place the poem belongs.
vaalski: (Default)
Ten Months

The night is dead dark and all
around us, heavy as the flannel sheets
I never want and you always do, worn soft
by the sharp points of hips and knees, and which you
have wrapped cocooning around us both. I love
you, and the way you cling when cold, hands
slipping up my shirt to rest one just
above the dip of lower back, the other
lying flush between my scapula, where
my wings would be if we were angels. Our knees
lock together and I can feel the soft rush
of breath as you relax. The dark
is the same with eyes open or eyes
shut, but I know each shift and easing
of your long lean body, the smooth way
your ribs rise and fall, and I
can hear your heart
vaalski: (Default)
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Ohhh yes I do. And not just straight sex, but LGBT sex. It took until I was in college to really work out what the hell was going on with my desires, and how to act on them, in a safe and sane manner. I wasn't taught about healthy queer relationships or coming out or dental dams or anything. We didn't even particularly learn much about straight sex! And I had a fairly well-done sex-ed curriculum. 
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