11 days fey – writing

For 11 days I posted a paragraph of fey writing, writing that is otherworldly and eccentric and gives voice to the parts of myself I would not usually allow to speak. Here are the posts all collected up for you to read.
1.

The whistling wind sends the voices flying into my face “you’re not good enough! You’re so annoying! Oh my God just stop talking.”

The hydras smarmy heads slither out of the black pit and bob around my face, their high pitched whines piercing my skull.

“NO!” I yell, drawing my sword.

“Out! This is MY space!”

I slice with clarity and precision, feeling the core of my purpose giving weight to my blows.

The hydras heads double in number, each bloody neck sprouting two more whiny voices.

“Where’s your anger Kiri? What about all the things you haven’t done? How come there are so few people on your email list? You’re such a fraud!”

I do not duck or weave, do not let them finish their sentences. I raise my sword and release a wall of firey energy, forcing them back into their evil pit of despair.

“I stand for healing. I stand for life. I commit to my path.”

I sheathe my sword and turn toward the path. The hydra lie silent but I can hear them breathing, poised to spring back at the slightest whiff of doubt. I feel my sword grip, solid in my hand and take the next step.

2.

Cut off my feet and tickle the roots from the stumps. Tease them out into the soft earth. Bury me up to my knees.

Let me raise my hands to the sun and produce leaves from my fingertips that I might know the alchemy of transformation.

Let me take her bold love into my system and store its creative power.

Let my roots tangle in silent cooperation with mycelial networks.

Let life find a home and an expression in me.

3.

My womb is stone, dragging me deep into murky depths, limbs trailing limply, hair washing like seaweed. Fish nibble gently at me as I dissolve into colour. Fizzing clouds of purple, green, yellow, blue, red expand as they rise caressing the skin of a behemoth.

4.

Slivers of self peeling away. White haired women in indigo robes sit weaving at my side, weaving blood and bone, hair and sinew. Creating one long thin thread from my back. Layers fly on cosmic winds, basking in the light of foreign suns. My hollow earthen form blows music to call them back home.

5.

A guard stands at my neck, blocking the path, blocking the return of my gliding sacred selves. It hurts, the pain of resistance, the pain of struggle and survival. I arch my back and cry in pain. I don’t want them home, don’t want them here with me, don’t want that sensitivity. It’s not safe, it’s not safe, it’s not safe.

The more I push the more it hurts, descending from my head into my shoulders, into my back, my spine wants to crawl off on it’s own, pop out of my flesh and slither away. I can’t let it in, I must let it in.

5a. (from the week before)

My teeth are chalk, brittle and cracking, dropping out of my mouth onto the ground. Grinding themselves into dust under my feet and spiralling upward in misty apprehension. Rain falls, delicate nails of insight, drumming on my head, sinking into my skin, drowning my brain.

6.

Flying and falling, flying and falling, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

Full weight of being, the weight of life, of aliveness. Every breath is bringing me home.

It’s so scary to be here, little insects in my belly, crawling away from the weight of life.

It pours in anyway, molten metal landing heavy in my feet, filling me up with presence and power.

7.

I am an old man, resisting death with my last breath. It takes me anyway, makes me one with the love of a thousand suns.

I am a destroyer, deathmaker, lifetaker, desecrating the land. It feeds me anyway, nourishing and supporting the life in me.

Earth unyielding, all pervading, constant creation. How do I compost shame?

8.

Butterflies stir, an anxious tornado of delicate colour. Fountain of goop pushing up like a geyser from my underbelly, filling the sky with gelatinous sludge and raining down on my parched self. Let me sink into the mud, let me wallow in filth, let me be buried in cool, dark earth. Surrounded by stillness, heaviness of gravity, warmth of the earth.

9.

Flowers blooming, exploding all over my body. A hurricane of petals, whirling in wild frenzy.

Be still, love.

Be gentle.

Floating, lazy spirals of colour, coming to rest in flamboyant drifts.

My ear lobes know their softness.

10.

A whale, sliding gracefully by a sky scraper. Schools of tiny fish, dart in and out through broken windows. The old crone looks me in the eye and plucks out my tongue. She cackles loudly in my belly button and the sky whale swallows her whole.

11.

A white stone skips across the face of the moon and plummets into the depths. My heart weeps tears of kombucha. I’m only half here. Gnarled shoulders pour themselves into the Earth. They stretch out toward distant galaxies. Shrink and expand, shrink and expand, the endless cycle. Bitter, exhausted tears, look away! Look at me. Don’t look at me.

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