Write an aubade. An aubade is a poem about dawn. It has no specific rhyme or rhythm scheme.
Today's aubade praises the dawn, something I never thought I'd do again in this lifetime.
"Well, who hates the dawn, Ornery, you crusty old owl-crab? What kind of misanthropic curmudgeon doesn't love to see the sun come up on a new day?"
One who knows they probably have yet another day of bullying and abuse to look forward to.
One who will go to a job they hate.
One who is grieving.
One who is traumatized.
Someone whose first waking thoughts are abusive rhetoric that has been drilled into their psyche. It has only been during this past year that my first thoughts on waking haven't been something along the lines of "you fat, disgusting pig, nobody could possibly love anything that looks like you. Eww, you're so gross! Why don't you just stop eating, Fatty?"
I didn't stop having these thoughts because I lost a semi truckload worth of weight and now I have a "revenge body." What a wretched concept. I'll likely always be fat unless my zombie thyroid suddenly revives and revs up my metabolism to transwarp 666 gazillion parsecs per nanosecond, turning me from a portly and perpetually pissed-off prairie witch to a svelte Borg siren existing for the sole purpose of serving man.
In other words, not gonna happen.
Nope, I finally realized how horrible and shitty diet culture really is and concluded that anyone hell-bent on judging a person based on their physical appearance rather than their personality is someone whose opinion matters no more to me than a gnat's fart in a category 15 hurricane. In other words, less than not at all.
This realization was even more freeing than the day I decided I was tired of being blonde and stopped bleaching my hair to hide the gray. I started going gray at 27. I have thick, somewhat coarse hair that tends to be resistant to coloring, so I started bleaching it. My hair became very dry and brittle, having the approximate texture of straw, and it was falling out. I decided I no longer gave any fucks about people thinking I'm (gasp) old, and I dropped the bleach habit.
I used henna to color my hair for a while, not because I cared about hiding the gray but because I found it fun to dye my hair different wild shades of blonde, brown, black, or red. Unfortunately, I developed an allergy to henna, which caused big flakes and scabs to form on my scalp. I now use silver brightening shampoo and a color-depositing conditioner to enhance the silver tones. I'm pleased with how shiny and soft my hair is since I started this routine.
I really don't care if anyone thinks someone else's physical appearance is unattractive or "unhealthy." Let's face it, the "for your health" screed really isn't about health. It's code for "but fat people are ugly and you have such a pretty face and if you'd just lose (insert arbitrary amount of weight here) you'd be fuckable." People are going to think what they're going to think. The more enlightened among us check our prejudices and call ourselves out on our bullshit.
People's bodies are nobody's business but their own. If you feel the urge to insult someone's appearance, whether simply to be hurtful or because you believe you're being "helpful," I suggest taking ten steps in the other direction and going in search of your beeswax elsewhere. Other people's bodies are none of your beeswax.
Nobody deserves the dawn thoughts I woke up to for decades. Don't be the person who awakens such thoughts in someone else.
Here is some gorgeous background music from Mirror's Edge Catalyst.
Here is the link in case you can't see the player.
Good morning, Poetry People. I started this morning on the Debussy train, but the poetry prompts put me in a different direction as I recalled a dream experience I had on the night of April 7 into April 8.
I write often of Gem who is no longer of this world. There was pain between us at the time of his departure because of my jealous and insecure nature. I believed he wanted to put as much distance between him and me as possible, but this dream/astral experience told me something else.
You're getting extra music today because I've a story to tell. I sang this second song a lot after Gem left because it reminded me of his beautiful eyes that seemed to change color depending on the light and it also speaks to the pain that remained unresolved between us. Ronnie James Dio's vocals are a treasure beyond measure.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but I don't give a rat's ass what you think about my experience. Yes, it's possible that I concocted the whole thing in my fevered subconscious, but it was real to me, so don't be a cunt.
My experience was simply this: Gem and I danced together. He held me close while Catch the Rainbow played and I realized he didn't hate me as I feared he did. He really didn't recognize me or anyone else at the end of his life because the disease that destroyed his body also destroyed his mind, at least on a physical level. I was so grateful to him for bringing this dream to me.
At the end of our Earthly experience together, Gem's and my relationship was more Still Lovin' You than Catch the Rainbow thanks to my jealousy and insecurity. He did nothing wrong, but I feared he would find someone younger, prettier, better. He was always having to soothe my insecurities.
For the people who love to plop down platitudes encouraging those who have lost a partner to "find love again," please secure that shit. Overall for me, the love game has been a losing one. I have a long and storied history of picking truly awful men. The scars on my wrists are a testament to how that shit usually ends up.
Gem is not my sweetheart's real name. I called him that because he was a "Gem" among men. He was one of a kind and I won't find another like him. Also, in point of fact, I don't want to.
By the way, if this experience was simply a manifestation of my subconscious, I think I would have dreamed about the person who was the inspiration behind Ketil, a hero in my Tales from the Dreamlands series. April 8 was the anniversary date of his suicide 31 years ago.
Had "Ketil" appeared in my night visions, I would know better than to write him off as a figment of my subconscious. He wouldn't let me get away with it.
I hope that today's intensive session brought you some inspiration for your own poetry. Don't trouble yourself to give me romantic advice, just keep writing! I promise you I'll return the favor.
Anyway, I'm closing in on 60 years old and I have a fuck-ton of health problems. The last damn thing I want or need is another relationship to potentially fuck up. I've had the best. The only other men out there are either related to me or they're The Rest. Either way, it's a no from me.