The sky above her head was Brilliant. Blinding. Blue. Her eyes in mine brown and golden and green. Seelie Eyes.
The Seelie-Eyed Grrl held my eyes in hers. Rascal behind me in the clear late summer sky, holding my head, my hands, stroking my face, my breasts, murmuring sweet words of encouragement and praise.
And Seelie between my legs. My legs open and afraid and lost in childhood memories, stored deep within the tissues of my legs, my pussy holding onto events from oh so long ago.
For fifty years I have sought, without knowing, a woman to hold me in love. To hold me in this tender place, my vulnerable child crying hysterically.
Rascal stroking me with his voice and his hands and Seelie between my legs. The masculine to hold me, the feminine to love me.
Two fingers. Three fingers. Four fingers. Fist me. Fist me. Fist me.
Blinding intense pain. A Physical Pain. An Emotional Pain unleashed in the memory/ in the rememory that fills the little girl, strapped to the kitchen table. The cold grey formica against her back, the mommy holding the child down with her strong hand, her face contorted in her drunken insanity, in her rage. Shoving objects into the little girl, screaming at the little girl, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? A broom handle. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? A rolling pin. TRAMPWHORESLUT! Her hand.
My back is arched so high I can see into his eyes. I see that he is weeping silently, tears running down his face, as Rascal holds my hands and holds the space for this healing. And Seelie's right hand deep inside me, reliving her own traumas with the feminine, sobbing.
And suddenly, I come back to myself, to the now of this scene here on the lawn at Summer Camp, my first fisting in 50 years. I am gasping with the intensity of the pain. Let me breathe you out, I beg, and she does.
Her hand from my vagina, her hand is blood-streaked, and we are both crying. I hold her as she holds me and Rascal holds me and we hold Rascal, and we rock together in the surrender of all women everywhere who have been hurt by another woman. All women who have hurt another woman. All the girl children who have been hurt, and all the boy children who have watched feeling helpless.
As an adult, I have done tremendous amounts of work to understand the memory, to accept and learn from it, to exorcise it. And everything I have learned about myself, about my childhood, about my mother, is suspended in this aftermath of this extreme surrender.
In the aftermath of this extreme surrender, the feminine, the masculine, and the child, together on a blanket in the sun, holding each other...Seelie and Rascal and dangerous in the space of our own and collective healings, from the physical tissues to the emotional vulnerabilities to the space of no-thing, no-judgment, no praise, no condemnation.
Nothing except the feminine, the masculine and the child, sleeping under a brilliant, blue, late summer sky.
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