Dear one, Years ago I was in love with my friend G who introduced me to the band Woven Hand. Yesterday I got a weird craving to hear them again but didn’t know the name of the band. I tried searching “dark country” and “dark country guitar” and finally found a playlist with a Woven Hand song.
I yelled with joy and listened to Dirty Blue by Woven Hand which used to creep me out in such a powerful way.
That trip was a big deal. G was mean and I stopped being in love with them. We listened to Woven Hand on the road, the last time I saw my mom before she died. G was driving too fast in a rainstorm, and I was scared they didn’t value my life or their own. I’m afraid G didn’t love me or anyone.
Yet I invited them into my family and persisted for a time. I remember jewelry I made for them and a Valentine’s Day date–I wore my black dress with pink flowers. G wore only black and blue clothing, so it was easy to make jewelry for them.
The Woven Hand moods and sounds rearranged something inside me with a shiver.
dark
Some dark part of me is undernourished these days. It’s not honest, to feel this wholesome. That might be what I pulled the Tower about, then asked if you notice something I need to burn down. I strive to be a good person, but the bad parts are real too. The bad parts of me are important.
I visited fetlife and realized I need to do something extremely dark. You know I like impact and power play. My spouse could hit me more than usual, so I would need a clear plan for aftercare the following morning and afternoon.
Today in bed I asked my spouse if they would bruise me. Something in me wants to be marked. Not for any role, because I don’t identify strongly with kink roles these days. I’m looking for intensity and honesty however that arrives. I want to be marked just for comfort, like a wedding ring to fidget with when I think.
When I’m frustrated that you only love part of me, I think you only see the warm abuelita in an apron with a wooden spoon, cooking a delicious food. That’s really me. But the dirty parts and rage, you’ve never met. The altered states, you’ve never met.
Can you imagine them? You don’t want the dark parts of me, and that’s ok. I’m happy with what we have.
content warning: death
Is death a neutral transition? Is it like giving birth–intense, transformational, and surprising, but totally normal? Or is death broken, wrong, disgusting, revolting, horror? Is the grave ok? Is death valid?
“He died peacefully in his easy chair after dinner, watching tv,” is supposed to be desirable.
I might enjoy an easy, unexpected death in my sleep. Or I might prefer some loud struggle with puddles of blood and shit. Something extraordinarily painful in the worst ways.
Or I could die by my own hand if it comes to that. For a long time I didn’t understand “death with dignity” suicide, but I understand now. Death is often a gruesome ending to a rich life. Why should the final act be traumatic? If we end it early that could save tons of suffering for everyone involved.
Horror is something I find in war and many types of violence. I don’t need to seek out horror because I lived it. I can see a horror movie any time by closing my eyes and remembering my childhood. Sequels are my teenhood and young adulthood.
I endured violence no one should endure –I survived the unsurvivable. I’m a vibrant, living person. But how apparent does the darkness hover there? Do you see the ghost part of me? There’s a reason I think about the spirits a lot and talk to them.
content warning: mention of violence against a child
To reclaim my sense of self-worth and heal confusion caused by early trauma, I had an idea I could ask my dad to confront my grandfathers. They’re all on the other side. My dad made domestic violence in my family, which seriously harmed my health. But my dad never hit me directly. He said cruel things to me, and he was mostly a nasty person. But my dad didn’t molest me like both my grandfathers did.
If my dad loves me, maybe he would confront my grandfathers. He could avenge me. Maybe just visualizing it could help, or I could ask my dad in a direct way.
Spirit avengement on the other side sounds like a video game I would never play. But I need to heal those wounds. I need to correct the errors I carry today about how safety can only be found with people I have sex with, and that my self-worth is contingent on my sexual desirability. Especially being desirable to people who have more power than I do.
scene
Yesterday I had the idea that instead of my dad avenging me, my spouse could try. In a dream space, we could go to an underground cavern dimly lit with candles, and my grandfathers could be summoned.
One white, one brown–my grandfathers are cowards in death as they were in life. Selfish men who thought the world should revolve around them, they surrounded themselves with semi-obedient women. Deep inside they hated themselves and were addicts both. Their self-hate led them to violence me and other family members.
What is brave? True love is brave. Doing the work of consent, caring for people, and telling the truth are brave. My grandfathers went to work and earned money for their families, and thought that made it ok to abuse their families. Like normal men. Unfortunately that’s normal.
belonging
My spouse would use a sword to eviscerate my grandfathers and kill them (though of course they’re already dead). Then my spouse would proclaim that my grandfathers had done unspeakable wrong and harmed me spiritually, I was an innocent child, and the curse was now lifted.
Then my spouse would proclaim that I belong to myself, and in a ritual space, I belong to my spouse. The grandfathers never afforded safety. Love with respect and consent is the only true safety.
Then my spouse would command my grandfathers to watch my spouse fuck me. Our sexual energy would strengthen the intentions, and orgasms would seal the deal. Afterward I could approach my grandfathers, flushed and complete, dripping with my spouse’s semen, and physically attack my eviscerated grandfathers. My grown up body would cause them pain–they would be helpless as I had been.
They would recoil and fade away. Hopefully my core values would be transformed, and I would be a happier person.
glow
What do you think of that plan? Maybe it sounds weird. But it makes sense to me like only a dream can. Sounds wonderful–worth a try if my spouse is up for it, and my spouse is up for almost anything.
Going to a dark place to try something new is a risk. Hearing the Woven Hand songs again after five years felt like risk as well. I went to a scary place, but life keeps happening. I visit horrific memories but have to do mundane life tasks immediately afterward: talking to a neighbor, making lunch, packing socks for a trip to the land.
It would be helpful to have a retreat for feeling, a cozy spot by a river where we can yell and pray, set aside for emotional / spiritual work. What if every park had a portion set aside for that? Our culture neglects the inner life. All we get is church, which works for so few people.
True honesty about feelings is not allowed. Not even for fresh grievers. You could shed a tear at a funeral, but demure is a joke. We’re animals. Our feelings go up to 10 out of 10, but only 3 out of 10 is welcome.
thank you
Thank you for hearing my explanation. I love what’s dark. The seed rests in the dark earth ready to sprout. How dark is the womb?
Happy Imbolc. I’ve been to some extreme places, and I think you have too. Thank you for helping me have a good life as I heal. I love you.
Nest
