Childhood.  That is the best example I can find.  I was lucky.  I was free in the 1970’s to do what I wanted, almost.  It was before the world went mad, before paedophilia was  even heard of and when we could trust one another to be decent and good, at least most of the time.  The best example of the involuntary.  That inner knowing and complete incarnation of the spirit in every cell of my body, where it had a home and belonged inside of that little girl.  And her spirit was strong and she knew it, with the northern winds blowing in her tatty pig tail hair and the hand me down shoes with holes keeping her connected to the concrete and the earth.  How she would run, where every living moment was felt in every living breathing movement of her body and she knew no separation, because there was no separation and her involuntary was disguised in the myth of childhood and the escapism of fairytale dreams.

I can not ask you for that which I desire.  I doubt I will ever ask anything of you ever again, such was my trauma.  Adult desire.  Denied.  Retried.  Looted and rebooted, tested, troubleshooted.  I don’t remember the first time, it was the subtly of conditioning, it happened as the pattern in the wallpaper happened and as the water condensed on the window pane.  I do not remember, other than gauging their reactions.  The wincing of their faces.  The disapproval of something they were too ignorant and too powerful to understand.


I would get close to the grass, feel it between my fingers. I’d pull it and hear it rip. Beneath the grass was soil and that fitted nicely under my finger nails and the daisies would close and nod and that’s when it was time and I would run home.

Home in my body. Home in that little girl. Home. That is who I am. Home.


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