Poems From the MHU

Welp. Had a psychotic break again.

If you follow me on Facebook, I let you know as much details needed. The good news is, I’m home now and enjoying being in touch with the spirits of the home, as Jung encourages us to do soon after separation.

Here’s some poems I crafted during my descent from psychosis. Please critique in the Comments section. Love you all.

 

I am. My Own. Percussion. Instrument!


A skeleton woman

does not need music.

She needs laughter.

Then,

Music.


I you miss pianos,

look for Dragonflies.


The sound

of a piano’s keys

is like

playing a beat in my heart,

wishing

it was a piano.


3.28-29.2017

Ivonne Simeon

Inanna

White Lotus

White Feather

Mother of Dance


2017

Empowered By The Goddesses

Last night can’t be undone.

Magic happened to this scraping-by artist. Months of anxious planning and preparation, interrupted by life and health events, and here it was: my poetry exhibit. Performed beautifully by goddesses of their own caliber, embodying influential archetypes much needed in this post-election week. We gathered to share, we’re not scared. When challenged we have the greatest weapon – our divine sisterhood.

I hand picked artists of diverse creative influences with one common thread: a genuine respect for the power of goddess energy. Allowing them the freedom to choose their artistic interpretation made the project a communal experience. Everyone provided me input as to how they envisioned their deity within the story, based on the loose script I had provided. By the time I met with each woman, got to know her at her craft and on a personal level, and scripted her part, I had the complete story. Using a community-oriented approach to playwriting was a great experience.

And then, showtime. I was not nervous at all. My faith was so strong in these actors I knew I had nothing to worry about. Healthwise, my body had reacted well to new medication, so I didn’t have to concern myself with erratic movement or confusion. Mind, body and soul clear, I took to the stage like I take to my bed at night; cozily and comfortably! You know what? I felt redeemed. After a shitty Wednesday morning feeling tense and scared about my future, I have this moment of success that can’t be taken away. I achieved this, in America, as a disabled person, as a woman of color.  It took incredible fortitude to get here, and I championed that. I’ve arrived at the station I’m meant to visit.

My art has elevated my mood once again. I’m wrapped in the embrace of creativity, considering how to replicate the show for a wider audience. Or, shall I write another performance poetry exhibit? I love mashing music and poetry together, maybe a joint exhibit with live musicians, like how we incorporated a drummer into Pomba Gira’s performance? Wait, wait…let’s bask in the glow of success that was last night. We can do all of that battle planning later, Inanna 😉

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Me dressed as the warrior goddess Inanna
The Show:
 

Last night, the beautiful high priestess Enheduanna, troubled by her Moon Temple followers, found relief in the love, compassion, and commitment of her beloved goddesses. First, Persephone, Maiden of the Underworld, arrived as soon as Enheduanna begged for Death. She brought forward the Matron of the Crossroads, Pomba Gira, who offered the high priestess quite a wake-up call! Upon Pomba Gira’s departure, the Bringer of Light, Brigid, softly stepped into the high priestess’ chamber and blessed it with a light-welcoming poem. 

 
She brought forward Hecate, Great Crone, to call the powers of the four directions to Enheduanna. Her poetry reminds us of her all-knowing power. Relieved, Enheduanna takes a moment to relax, but is quickly interrupted by the powerful Kali, Governess of Time. The intimidating mother reminds the high priestess of her natural divinity and urges her to use it. Glamoured into a sleep state, the goddess Ix Chel visits Enheduanna’s dream. Her poem forecasts necessary change from disillusionment. 
 
When Enheduanna wakes, she is reverent, washed over in love and appreciation. To enhance those wonderful feelings, Yemoya emerges from the water to the high priestess, and they share a dance of divine feminine love. Finally, Enheduanna is entreated to the presence of her personal goddess, Inanna, who shares knowledge of the high priestess’ own written words. Inanna passes on her pure lance to the worthy high priestess, then sends her back to the moon ceremony with a poem of spiritual encouragement.

 

Random Sketches

I’m working on two poetry exhibits for the coming Fall season. One to do with the Divine Feminine and the other on mental transformation and healing. Yup, big topics to chew on, but like my large five-rose tattoo, when I do things, I do ’em big.

Pulling some sketches out for inspiration, and others to revisit. The continuing visitor in my book is “the purple woman,” so named because she either appears bathed in purple, or she’s cloaked in purple. I’ve been seeing her all my life, yet in the past six years, she’s been manifesting in my visions quite regularly.

Hoping to try other mediums and tools to convey my visual art this year. Perhaps need to wander over to the Arts District and learn from the local masters. Won’t you join me?

Bless the Zeitgeber

BF enters our home after dawn, returning from the previous evening’s menschkeit. He finds me wide awake, sitting up in bed with the overhead light on, coloring in a black-and-white picture on my lap table. “What time did you wake up?” “5:50…” I respond, as I fill roses with crimson. He groans. “Go back to bed…”

But I can’t. I’m as alert as a track runner about to sprint off the blocks. This has been my life for the last six weeks. Med changes bring about biological changes. The answer the medical team had regarding my situation? Take your pills earlier. Nope. Still wide awake before the sunrise.

I am maximizing the utility of less hours of sleep. I conduct yoga stretches, tai chi walks, centering exercises, meditations, channels, mudras, anything to get that energy to go anywhere but within. I’ve gone through the Rolodex of morning star deities and have gained much insight, especially on how to merge the primordial with the 0s and 1s. More details on that later. What else? I’ve written poetry, I’ve paid more attention to emails, and yes, I’m blogging more frequently. Again, gotta ground all this swirling energy, and the mood stabilizers just ain’t doing it. Thus, the reason why I approach my mental health treatment plan with Western AND shamanic medicine. I try to compensate one’s failures with the other one’s practiced successes.

medicinewoman_archangeloracle

Yesterday was a full moon in Sagittarius and I thought, “Alright, cosmic buddies, I’ve been told a Sag is good for me. Let’s take advantage of it.” After an attempt at a nap, we headed to our municipal pool and enjoyed a dip before the Father’s Day rush. I flung myself off the diving board, slithered down the water slide, carved ten ½ laps, all while earning a lovely glaze of a tan. Later, we met up with our closest friends for a Sunday cookout. The moon rising, I spend as much time on the patio and walking about.

After our delightful evening, we prepare to depart with filled tummies. Standing by the car, I look above at a clear, inky blue night and a bright Sagittarius moon.

My feet plant in second position. I feel my body sway.

The top of my head feels like a tendril of ivy climbing upwards towards the moon.

My arms begin to flutter in rhythm; eventually they rise and sway, Parting The White Horse Mane.

My eyes close. I begin to hum.

BF approaches. “What are you doing?”

A moon dance.”

Then you are an Airbender.”

I say nothing, then enter the car.

This morning, I receive loving kisses, then collapse back to sleep. The next time I wake, it’s because the dog wants to go outside.

It’s 8:53am.

We’ve made a breakthrough.

The Heat Is On

My hornets are thirsty.

I can tell this morning as the long legged, wide winged, red boy who lives in the nest in the upper join of our front door hovers in front of the A/C unit, waiting for the fan to spit up the condensation building up from our constant usage.

Yep, it’s that time of year. Three-digit utility bills. Constant moistness, especially in the naughty bits. For me, it’s a little more detrimental, as a new medication in my treatment plan requires me to, and I quote, “avoid becoming too hot or exposed to heat too long.” These mental health practitioners in Florida are absolute geniuses.

But that’s how it goes when you are depending on sliding-scale, high-traffic, short-timed resources to get healthy. Things fortunately are going to change for me next month in the insurance department, so let’s all hope this means I can receive better quality treatment for my condition.

Knowing what I went through this time of year in 2015, I’m scared to overheat, literally, scared. BF is concerned about the rising costs of cooling the house, as any responsible neurotypical should. But I’d so rather pay a $100 utility bill then try to pay $800 for an ambulance ride because I overheated. Dems be da breaks..

The unit has kicked on, so Red Boy and his suitemates can get their morning drink on before heading off to terrorize children. I managed to sleep in, but awoke with a dull headache and a very hot spine. This week I’ve been on the go; while impressive since I’m still dealing with insomnia, I’m not doing myself any favors by not resting. Today then, I dedicate to staying still and cool. I’ll follow Red Boy’s cue and drink ice cold water. Certainly, going to avoid the outdoors.

The lesson was learned hard last summer. I implore you, neuroatypical especially, to be careful in the heat this summer. Don’t deny yourself the cool you can afford. Remember, you’re not good to anybody dead. 🙂

Happy Friday all!

The Notebook

I thought the pile of administrative trash was a touch too heavy…

An interesting habit of mine when I’m in the hospital is to collect magazine pages. It seems I had ripped apart an Italian Vogue magazine in this bundle before me, the bundle I’ve been avoiding since I came home March 16th.

It is not so much the content as to the constancy of these bundles. Every hospital stay, a folder with my name on it. Hoarded inside, my daily schedule. Journal entries. Poems. Rants about my roommate(s). This last bundle, though, was different.

Somebody else’s journal entries, poems, rants were tucked in with mine. As well, a purple composition book, bent vertically, with a sloppily-written title on the outside cover. The best I could make out was “The Realm of The…” in whoever-the-heck’s handwriting. To be sure, I turn the pages of the heavily written-in notebook. I see my barely-inked handwriting, a side effect of strong anti-psychotics. Whoever-the-Heck marked my entries with faces; many sad, some with a line for a mouth. Either way, Whoever-the-Heck didn’t like where my mind goes when my mind goes.

Neither do I.

When I finished reading through it, I made a mental note to try to recover the small poems I had written while psychotic. Lovely little pieces, small and neat like the tiny white fish of St Pete Beach. Then I busied with following up on past due bills, organizing them by hospital (which was tricky because hello! I was out of my mind, how would I know where I was??) and chasing down hospital administrators who owe me explanations.

Knowing that BF would be home shortly, I pick up the papers to shred and take them to their resting place. I finish labeling half my rolling file folder cart. I cast aside all old, unrecyclable folders. I stack the folders and the box the new folders came in atop each other, then walk it out to the trash.

Today, intended for a post, I find that the poems are lost to the garbage. The notebook, it seems, was in the same pile as the unrecyclable folders.  I am relieved. RELIEVED. The reason why I hold on to advertisements and scribblings is because I know I won’t remember the experience, and a part of me feels as if I have to, as much detail as possible. But why do I have to remember? Being double minded means, one mind functions in society and the other mind doesn’t. So if that mind segment isn’t conducive to social interaction, then surely, the other segment shouldn’t fight so hard to retain useless data! Perhaps that’s the keyboard key stuck in a pressed position, the piece of spinach jammed in that impossible crevice of the teeth. Treatment needs to get me there – to a place where I know nothing, I am nobody, I am serene.

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…

Feeling Poetish

These last two months had me scouring for sample poems to provide for review. I haven’t published any poetry outside of horror, so it’d be interesting what comes of this master poet’s opinion. If he finds me talented, I should go ahead and toss up some poems, I mean, this is my thang, this is my wheelhouse!

But I must stress that my poetry, as intimate as it is, is not for profiteering purposes. That’s what sci-fi series are for. My poetry, I hope, is respected in the same way the woman who composed it is respected for her bravery. Not everyone can emote, not everyone can poet, and certainly, not many are fain to evoke authentic feelings.

For those who do, I hope you look forward to future installments. I speak in a talk-story narrative that fits better in poetry than prose. Won’t you relish these stories with me? Here’s one I developed years back, shuddering in complete fear of the monsters in my head:

Death of Calypso

Exploring the Divine Feminine

Today is one of those, ‘the mind is flying, but the body’s too weak to react’ days. So I do what anyone in the bed at 3pm does…look up ideas for a gallery wall!

Remember last year about this time, I was talking about designing a throne room, and how successful that came out? I feel driven once again by the interior decorating bug. Already on Facebook I’ve demonstrated a rapid return to the visual arts. Kinda like the movie, “How to Train Your Dragon,” I’m attempting to train my mania to divert into something useful, even creative. So far, so good!

The wall theme is “Divine Inspiration.” I want to display a mix of my personal art during moments of mania, intertwined with iconography and archetypes whom either visited me in my manic form, or channeled with me during intense meditation. This area of my home will serve as a cosmic altar! ‘Thank you for keeping me alive, and here’s who gets to be on my Wall of Fame…’ 😉

Let’s go through what I’ve picked from Pin thus far. Comment on which style you think works best for me!

Prince and Other Ps

This week, Thursday, is my 39th year on Earth. It’ll be a Taurus Moon, and, at its setting, it’ll be the 1st new moon of the month. So, with my return from WordPress hiatus, I warn all of you I may turn into a Minotaur. Don’t let that stop you from buying me a margarita.

The demigod Prince has entered another realm. A day out thrifting, my partner-in-thrift answers a phone call from her roommate. A quick ‘okay’ then she hangs the call. She turns to me and simply states, “Prince died.”

“Uh uh,” I scramble for my phone and seek 3 reliable media sources. I’m not convinced but Yahoo News has it splattered front page. Then other sources turn up. I feel my chest sink. The overhead music shifts to “When Doves Cry.” Just like that. Phone call. Statement. Funeral song.

Screenshot_2016-05-03-12-12-02-1

This is where I share my Prince-related tragedies. Flash to high school, 1994ish, and Excalibur Color Guard is entering its winter season. Traditionally, the juniors and seniors of the troupe put together solo or combo shows for UIL competition. I had a wonderful vision for “When Doves Cry”: a gossamer flag with matching, fluid dress, a thunderous dance routine with a recruited male dancer strong enough to execute lifts. The recruited dancer was my good friend Shamon, who was not only openly, proudly gay but also did. Not. Give. A. Fuck. Shamon’s vision involved much pelvic thrusting and grinding, which, for the music, I felt worked. My director, knowing Shamon, instantly shut us down. Didn’t even get to demonstrate our crotch lift!

Fine. Gotta come up with something…softer. I go to Prince’s “Diamonds and Pearls” era, the song “Seven”:

All seven and we’ll watch them fall
They stand in the way of love
And we will smoke them all
With an intellect and a savior-faire
No one in the whole universe
Will ever compare

I am yours now and you are mine
And together we’ll love through all
Space and time, so don’t cry
One day all seven will die

Can you envision a trio of fiery young women, tossing sabres up around and in exchange with each other, sylphs, seers, soothsayers, aflame with cosmic veneration? Oh! How lovely. Yup, that got shut down too. The music, it turns, was too “sexually suggestive.” Not to soon after, I quit the guard. My farewell solo was a boring sabre-flag dance to Boys II Men.

Thank you Prince, for teaching me to stick to my artistic guns, and not give in to other people’s preferences.


Hospital visits were at an all-time high this year. BF and I are fortunate that we had one solid month of no hospital journeys, but that doesn’t mean we have an all-clear. It is the stuff of all treatment plans: doctors diagnose, assign medications, see what works, and then keep mixing it up until something sticks. My meds have caused terrible difficulty with memory and focus (which is why this blog was put on pause). It’s as if I’ve inherited an attention deficit condition. Thus, I’m not writing much other than in my journal. However, my interest in other mediums has increased. I’m hanging out more with my visual artist friends. I’ll be signing up for some paint and photography parties this summer. Just because I’m not writing doesn’t mean I can’t produce quality art, nor does it mean that my other talents can’t be sourced. I’ve been helping out in various community projects and I’m tickling a proofreading/editing gig which would help finance a Busch Gardens visit at minimum. I’m not giving up on me by a long shot, people. Don’t you dare give up on me either.

And now, random photos for your enjoyment. Happy May, everyone!



 

Just In Time For Halloween

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NEW Anthology available thru Thirteen o'clock Press

Inside this anthology you’ll find yours truly in both prose and poem form!

The story I submitted is from the perspective of a social predator locked in a holding facility, terrifying residents and staff alike. Oh and the evil person happens to be female 😉

There’s three poems dedicated to women in the throes of mania, circumstances varying but each known too well in modern society. I consider A Coterie of Diamonds a forewarning to readers…if you push a woman too far, prepare for major consequences!

Thanks be to Thirteen o’clock Press for publishing my art, my 2nd antho feature with this press. Support your favorite indie artist and many others by purchasing through Lulu.com 😀

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