It's Time

As soon as DT won, I knew what I had to do: Disassociate. Already, I’ve found it necessary to take steps to filter my news - even just hearing about his Cabinet picks is too much. So today I:
1) updated my Apple News app to only show stories from my specified news sources,
2) moved my NYTimes app to my Home Screen (The Times doesn't have a partnership with Apple, so they can't be included as a specified source),
& 3) explored The Times app to determine the best way to avoid anything DT related.

If you, like me, need to Disassociate to survive the next 4 years, know that doing so is OK. In fact, it is GOOD - mindfulness and attention to your own needs is healthy. If you have any other ideas how to Disassociate, please share!

How it Was

His smile met my smile and our eyes locked. Like we had our own spotlight — that’s how it was. He walked me to my car and we laughed until the allure between our lips won the conversation. Two nights later, we got dinner, and the waitress asked how long we’d been together. That’s how it was. We laughed then too and talked about kids. He taught me to love the sound of rain. And I taught him to love the sound of joy. He hated cast iron. He said, “Every time I wash them, they rust.” and I laughed. Once I climbed his fire escape to surprise him at his kitchen window. He jumped and stifled a scream while talking to his father long distance. Love scared the shit out of both of us. I still see his smile waxing and waning in crescent moons. 

Torrents Reign

American flags fly
at half mast most days.
Children and parents cry –
torrents of tears stream.

At half mast, most days
see bullets drained –
torrents tear and scream
from the hands of fragile monsters

who are bullet trained.
An American tragedy:
the hands of fragile monsters
shake in rage –

an American tragedy
befalls another unsuspecting town –
shaking, enraged.
”In our hearts and prayers,”

befalls another unsuspecting town
whose calls for change echo
in empty hearts and empty prayers
for Columbine, Virginia Tech, Sandy Hook

calls for change echo
and echo and echo and echo –
Pulse, Century 16, Walmart
Uvalde, Parkland, Austin –

the echos continue to echo and echo –
the post office, McDonald’s, Fort Hood
Las Vegas Lewiston Maine –
the cacophony of gunfire succeeds –

SynagoguesMosquesTexasFirstBaptist!
Even within halls of worship
the cacophony of gunfire proceeds
to echo and echo and echo

within the walls of our hearts and homes.
American flags fly
in the face of every echo
while American children die and bleed.

Electromagnetism (or, When We Met)

[an erasure. click HERE to read full prose poem]

Screen Shot 2020-01-26 at 1.07.39 PM.png

Sanguine Heart


Part 1

I am not a pink
girl. Red is my color
no need to dilute,
add white to temper down
my intensity.

If we friends,
you already know:
I’m passion incarnate—
red is the color of love
& I got nothin but love
for ya (baby ;)


Part 2

I temper down my color
with color:
red + orange = red orange
red orange + yellow =
outrageous orange* = me

on fire, energy bursting manic
you can’t help but feel it

ignite the red in you—
enkindles light/in your heart
smile spark, laughter soothes

any fires burning blue in you—
whatever’s got ya flushed
got ya mad in yr heart,
got that choler boiling hot—
ain’t no thang, if

you got red in you, too.
If you got blood in your veins,
ya got hope. Tap that
sanguine air—
breathe blue sky in, feel
your belly expand,
spark light in ya heart,
smile on yr face. Hug
your favorite Libra & laugh;
feel that sanguine smile, that
sanguine hope, that confidence
seeded deep in your core:

that’s the red in you—the love.
Feel it warm in your breast;
let it glow—
a beacon, a guidepost
to spark smiles, give
the only gift that matters.


*www.crayola.com/explore-colors
www.color-ize.com

Be Wary

Be wary of those
who refuse to pinky promise;

they be comrades with those
whose trip wires trigger fast.

Be wary of their promises
fickle like those who trigger

past — trenchant into battle zones,
quick to spit fire, red hot

burn scars.

Manifest/o

 

The lufare vnicorne,
That voidis venym with his euoure horne.
~ The Kingis Quair, 1423

Baby, I’m magic—
I’m product of a 6-year void:
product of a number less than zero,
A negative number
multiplied by a positive = a larger negative—
but I came out absolute, I arose
from a vacuous chasm, exist
in body mass and brain matter—
I’m an algebraic equation
even Einstein couldn’t fix.
The Universe aligned the stars
on 1/23 at 1:23 and Abracadabra!
Conjured me to life!

You can’t hex me—
modify my memory
with an amnesic curse,
gas light your way out
of the halls of your heart, pretend
our love doesn’t subsist;
I am of opal, see only truth—
so I deflect your spell
cast back unto you!

                        

You awake in the waterfall woods,
and I emerge from the crystalline
air, shimmering iridescent
I appear to you—

The hidden treasure
you seek in every dream,
your Crown Jewel
your Fabergé egg
your Holy Grail
manifest!  

 
Baby, I told you, I’m magic—
I’m a fucking unicorn!

Dear Proud Tinder Girl

Dear Proud-Tinder-Girl-Who-Clicked-“Unmatch”—JustLikeThat!

Fuck yeah you did it! The red flags glaring, you called them out and bounced. Didn’t it feel great? Didn’t it feel amazing to back-hand compromise?! Remember that surprise when you realized the power of control, felt the strength potent in your chakras—the heat rising from your root, ignited your manipura and heart so fire that your throat unfettered wailed ~ I wanna dance with somebody ~ as you danced your way down the street, ecstatic to be dancing with yourself. Ever mindful, you literally felt your third eye open and wise to the breakthrough, light burst through your crown and you witnessed an evolution between choruses ~ Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me! ~ when you realized the power in loving yourself.

Remember all of this—hold tight to those bodily sensations until your muscle memory holds them stable, til you’re rock-steady in your worth. Do this and you will find yourself in Oz wearing the ruby slippers and riding a horse of a different color into every sunset. Be sure to wave hello to The Wizard, nod him Namaste, but trust that you do not need his help—you are enough and everything.

Enjoy today & always,
Raina

Taken

A super raw piece, written at Vox Ferus, Marty McConnell’s writing workshop, in response to “houses all the way down, or, the slope mine” by Nina Puro.

Whether or not my house is on fire
I've taken to enjoying my mother.

No longer an optimist, I've given up
on photography — trust my way
through the labyrinth and accept
the fall of each turn. Some days
my mother greets the morning
and clears the path, almost a blueprint.
I've taken to drawing doors where 
they should never be. Sometimes
after walking through, the fall
turns golden, a compass. Sometimes
the fall a wrinkle in time.

Projects to Come...

Reading and writing yesterday really motivated me! Today, I rifled through various lists stored on my phone, computer, and (gasp!) actual paper and have compiled a list of writing projects that I will tackle soon/ish. Being out of school and dealing with seemingly constant chaos in my professional life has taken me away from my passion for the written word. But it’s time I return and am looking forward to fleshing out these ideas that have been on my docket for years. This poster-size Post-It now hangs in my bedroom, opposite my headboard — a reminder of the brilliance yet to come.

Projects to come.JPG

Real Talk for a Night & Always an Evolution

...I know I'm not even close to a *ping* on your radar, but when I come across you on FB/IG, my radar sounds and I can't help but think of you. I think about seeing you at X and the obligatory hello you gave with the not-so-subtle vibe that smelled of no-I'm-not-interested--not-even-in-conversation. And then I think of the day and the night of YZ's failure of a surprise—and how my anxiety grew roots all day and blossomed once all of the oxygen imploded—and how not you or any other person who helped plan the party was there for me while I spiraled in and out of hyperventilated sobs, closed behind my bedroom door while my home was full of people—and how not only did none of you check in on me let alone help, but instead talked shit behind my back while standing huddled around my kitchen sink. And how you especially hardcore failed me, when you should've been the one person who cared enough to place your palm on my back. Yes, I realize there was more, but not really. It was all my anxiety. And while you write and perform your knowledge of PTSD on stages and preach about the compassion needed to overcome, you offer/ed me none. But instead look past me with an insulting indifference when our paths align for a night. And whether social media thrusts you in my face or we meet IRL, it hurts despite time passing, cuz you still sexy as hell and I'm still full of heart and always an evolution.

The Beginning

2018 whispered and flashed The Beginning across the black screen in my brain, like light
onto film. An explosion, the light like glitter embers turned quick to ash / residue blurred
the print, but the film / still captured / my interest.

The Beginning stewed like garlic in oil with brown rice and chicken stock basil, and all I
could do was wait until the rice devoured the garlic before lifting the lid—let time and
patience develop the film—

A body in motion stays in motion and morning cake is finger cake. But I don’t have to
tell everyone so. It will be / because it is, and they will see or they won’t / The Beginning
with glitter embers—one step closer to an opportunity that just might.

Today, On Understanding Thanks

Today, I may possibly feel more grateful than I have ever felt, for I am grateful for myself—content in spending the day with Frankie, free of anxiety and triggers of need. For this watershed moment, I am thankful for the progress my mother and I continue to make, speaking honestly and hearing each other with only love in our hearts; for the friends and colleagues who have supported me and known since our beginnings that I wished for nothing but joy and honesty. And today, I wonder if this is what self-love feels like—and if it is, I am so grateful to have found it.

Carrying the The Fountainhead Curse

When I read Ayn Rand's Fountainhead, I knew nothing of her politics and read the novel free from preconceived notions and the knee-jerk recoil of a liberal consciousness. Instead, I waded through hundreds of pages, and my affinity for Howard Roark grew resolute as I witnessed the protagonist lead readers through a social commentary aligned close to my heart. A visionary, Roark's unique perspectives, creativity, and conviction placed him alone at the forefront of a counterculture, opposing the dominant behaviors of his contemporaries and their predilection for popular demands, subservient to herd mentality.

Often in society, people claim that to be unique is to be special and rare, exceptional and extraordinary—something or someone to be exalted and praised. However, far more often, the mass subconscious aligns with the negative connotations of being truly unique and result in one being perceived as anomalous and strange, unimaginable—and as such, alone. Even the Oxford English Dictionary classifies this reality, and first and foremost defines unique to mean "of which there is only one; single, sole, solitary." To be solitary is to be alone, unaccompanied—the harsh reality of those who are considered sui generis. The unenlightened masses, unable to comprehend the possibilities proposed by visionaries and fearful of risk, deject that which is unique and cling to the security of that which is commonplace—forcing those who are truly special and rare, exceptional and extraordinary to defend their convictions and fight for what is handed out freely among pop culture artists.

Today, perhaps seven or eight years since I first read The Fountainhead, I find myself again feeling aligned with Roark's crusade as I wonder how I might possibly convince literary agents and publishers to consider my manuscript worthy of their risk. It's well-known that publishing is a conservative arena, a commercial endeavor with very little guarantee of ROI (return on investment). How can I convince anyone to publish my book, Mantra'matic, when the odds (and rules and restrictions) are stacked against me?

Notably, the most essential requirement for submitting one's manuscript is the condition that the writer send the first five pages of the document within the body of a query email; it is noted in the instructions that if one sends an attachment, the query will be disregarded. This stipulation alone excludes Mantra'matic from the submission pool as it is uniquely like none other even in its formatting, which eludes any possibility of conforming to the rules with its puzzle-pieced preface and substantial redactions that black-out most of chapter one.

When I try writing a query that communicates the brilliance of Mantra'matic, which my professors, colleagues, and friends have deemed "amazing," "successfully complex," "transcendent," and "like nothing [they've] ever read," I find myself writing in circles trying to explain the complexity that is so eloquently laid out in the quick-read, which is the book itself. 

One professor, who closely advised me in the early writing of the book, once said in awe that it was "going to be an important piece of literature [to the cannon]." Feeling the poignancy of life experience that Mantra'matic offers coupled with its original system of writing, I agree. And again and again this ideation is reiterated from both readers and audiences who have heard selected excerpts. Yet, like Roark, the genius of my creation may never be realized—forever in search of an extraordinary publisher willing to take a risk on a book equally extraordinary.