She Knits for all of Us

I don’t have much in the way of religious kow-tow in me. There may be gods out there, but I don’t bend my knee nor mind. I do, however, believe that the universe is inherently female: it gives birth to us all. Goddess poetry. I write it.

She Knits for all of Us

I’m not yet done with the world; It isn’t green
enough for Me, nor for those whom I would create
and leave, pulling yellow corn from threads.

I think I’ll make those people
shit green at birth, brown through life,
gray at death, so they remember to fertilize
after I’ve pulled them from the tapestry.

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The Tragic Truth

There are photographers that you must see. deviantArt has so many. So difficult to pick and choose, track and find.

But The Tragic Truth of Me is one of those amazing people that once found, one must follow. Her eye for color is stark and vivid. Images jump from the screen. While I’ve chosen a self-title work to link to her page, I think my favorite work is White Rabbit.

Browse the gallery of this London-based photographer. Spend time on the sweet and not-so-sweet images.

suzi9mm

 The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste  —  So says suzi9mm, a Finnish photographer with terrible, yet compelling, visions.

I am a fan of much of her work: bloody, austere, strangely erotic. The piece to the left is my favorite work on the Web. What Jenni Tapanila (that’s her real name) managed to capture is a rapturous femme feeding on … Well, I don’t really know. The subject of the blood fetish is left to our imagination. Yet the joy is there. In her eyes, a kind glee only the vampiric could know.

Jen’s murder work is less to my taste. Women are not victims. They are predators.

Making sense of it all

Only now, as I wake up to good sense — or bad sense — do I begin to understand. Do what thou wilt: If you have no afterlife, this becomes an important by-phrase.

For many, death doesn’t end it all. There’s a wake-up after
life ends. A new breath for the same old spirit.

I don’t want that. I don’t think that. I just want
them to dump the dirt on what’s left and let me go.

Not sleep. Not rest.
Oblivion.

I was thinking along these lines. It happens when you get older. Pondering death, injury, how it would suck to live in pain for the last of my days. And I’m thinking about death and gods and belief. And non-belief. When I think about non-belief long enough, I see the logic beyond the passion. See the why-it’s-so and how it can’t be otherwise.

Still, fear and culture are part of every breath. God scares me. (Not the gods. They’re a decent enough bunch.)

I’m beginning to ramble. I’ll stop now and post this. It’s time to move on.