Tag Archive: dreams

Sometimes You Just Have To Channel The Fire


Sometimes you just have to channel the fire
Of dreams you have dreamt; of all you desire
Into the heart of a phoenix whose song you hear true
And let hope spring eternal, like the flame within you


Engagement Rings and Feminist Things

If I am to be bound by the hand
To a lad to share my life
He’ll wear a ring to tell the land
That I have yet to be his wife.

There is one way I’d let this slip
And be the sole wearer of ring with rock.
Surely this is still a feminist quip —
He’d be wearing my ring around his cock.

Some Thoughts on the Rethridgerator.





Neurotic Insomnia

Is tomorrow the day
I’ll wake up and say
“It’s really okay
That I am just this way” ?

The Drafts That Could Still Be: A Writing Discovery

I have discovered something about myself. 
Should it be discovered or uncovered?
Rather than ask the questions I have in my head
To another person
In real time 
That could garner potentially hazardous consequences for the future
Of such a meek and budding relationship
As is any relationship on the brink
Of being anything more than it is
Where the two souls are alike
And amiss and a-twitter
Because they can’t seem to communicate
Even though one knows the other intimately in structure
But not in content
That is where the insecurity rises up
The fear that I can read the inner strings of his heart’s song
No, that can only be sung by you 
In the form of words, notes, tears
Many instruments have you
And many instruments have I

One of these instruments is through bravery
I can instigate a battle, I can
But just because I want to know the answer
And have the capacity to ask the question
Does not mean that it was mean to be inquired
Yet, anyways

Instead, I shall make it a story.
I constantly fear that my writing about what happens in my real life will make the people I love angry with me if they ever find out. That includes the content of this blog, the contents of my diaries, the contents of my plays, and some of my songs. Some are in code, some are poorly in code, and some are so exposed it’s like that moment you realize the pantsless dream you’re having is actually your wedding. Which is why they cannot be seen. 

But I seem to have forgotten something about myself. Let me remind myself, and you, dear reader, of what it is.
I, as my mother says, have a vivid imagination. 
I can predict the highest achievement 
And the most tragic defeat
The exhileration courses through my veins 
As sparks shooting through a cannon’s barrel 
Sometimes I am kept away by this electricity
I cannot hold it inside
I burst out with delight and force 
Somewhat haphazard in my release I will admit
And I maybe singe some of my constituents sometimes

Instead, strike that match onto the page
Rather than sending a burning arrow to another heart so soon.
Let the vivid imagination
The world that I long to create to be my own
Let it come alive in my stories 
Until those characters I am to play along with as myself
Arrive in my scene

Until then, all the drafts that could have been
Better yet, those that could still be

Catharsis, Come Relieve These Weary Bones

I have fallen out of writing about myself.
I have fallen out of writing about myself, for myself, and for no one else.
I started this blog as a space to tell someone else all the things I couldn’t tell PM
(even though I may have been entirely in denial about that at the time)
and I realize now that the loss of such dedication, such maintenance, of a private journal is one of the relics of this relationship.
He and I have just started talking again. I can’t tell anyone who knows all that we’re civil because they will think I’m softening my constitution, I can’t tell anyone who partially knows because they don’t care enough to want to listen, and I don’t feel like telling any more strangers. I’m tired of being that girl, who has that baggage, such that I’ve even stopped mentioning it to playmates except in the context of “What, you don’t want commitment either? Great! I’m toting around all this emotional baggage; let’s definitely not date; do not worry about me as clingy.” … which is so much better than being that hot mess of feelings, even if they refrain from including ‘weepy’.

I am still so angry at myself.
My roommate my junior year knew it; she watched and she spoke out and still I didn’t listen. God, all that feminist spine just crumpled. Wilted at the sight of beautiful big brown cow eyes that I got a jolt of electricity, deja vu even, the first time I ever made eye contact with. Is that just what I’m destined to carry as a curse; the ability to fall in love at first sight? See, while I tote around a whimsical mental list of future fiancés, I’d never had someone reciprocate. Or even respond to my pursuits.
What occurs to me now is that perhaps I misinterpreted his general ambivalent tone to mean compliance, or even interest. Did I think I snagged the world’s biggest procrastinator, the world’s biggest shmoozer, the world’s best politician (oh my goodness if he ran and had good political stances I’d be his domestic partner in a heartbeat. he’d actually be getting stuff done and I could do plenty of “culture” to give him mad bonus points and I’d get lots of funding in return! For the arts! … this entire idea, for the uninformed, is ludicrous because PM is about the least actively ambitious people; he is all talk and no walk. Unless it’s to the fridge to get a Diet Pepsi … or a beer. And so when I say that I’d be the wife to his politician, I actually mean it. Because his pursuit of something like that (while of course a popularity contest and pats on the back all around if you were picked team captain for kickball!) would mean that he was … getting something done. For someone, maybe, just maybe, other than himself.

So what am I doing for other people that’s not for myself? Isn’t an unpaid internship, rather than merely being free labor, a complete and total desperate attempt to say PAY ATTENTION TO ME PLEASE I WILL DO ANYTHING EVEN BARTER MY GOD GIVEN TIME AND TALENT TO YOU FOR NO RETURN EXCEPT THE VAGUE PROMISE OF TOMORROW IT BECOMING BETTER?? (Mind you I just wrote an article for an up-and-coming socio-political blog about this. See if you can find it.) … I don’t want to get into that now, except to say that both of the design jobs I’m doing are for theatre companies whose missions I believe in aka they produce new work potentially by people like me, ergo one day me if I keep sucking cock. Does the cock taste good? This time better than last time, but ain’t that always the way when you know what you’re doing…

My handsome harem, whom I can’t quite call my stable mainly because they are not all my subordinates I mean my submissives … they are good.
My one sub seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, making me surprisingly glad I didn’t take him up on his offer for cyber-commitment … a sliver of my devil pries as to whether it was that lack of affirmation and public posession that has caused him to disappear but then I remember that his mother is dying and … that is probably why he hasn’t been in touch. Sometimes Lady Ray can remember her place. As a person. In the context of other people, rather than as Princess.

Some of them are swarming. I am overwhelmed, mainly because while I enjoy the attention, I want the commitment. Honey Jay, let’s call my ballerino sub, stood out (I think I’ve mentioned this right here before) at the beginning because he was paying attention and called me out. I stated what I wanted and he retaliated calling me out on fallacy. Which is funny, mainly because no one had ever questioned me. Probably because I’m trying to want what I can, in fact, have? Or is it I am finally wanted by the men who can’t or shouldn’t or oughn’t have me, but want me and pursue me anyways? Those guys are fun as playmates but I don’t want to be by myself all the other times…

My friends are busy and popular. And I keep trying to invite new friends into my space, but they are all busy and popular too so I either need to go out and keep them company in these spaces where they go for social world and networking, but I don’t need any more extension time out in to social space — I need the introvert’s Claritin — the one-on-one or maybe a group of three. And I know I could have it with someone I’m related to, many of them are just a phone call away but the phone is not the same.

I’m hoping the presence of this roommate will improve this, because it will be realfacetime with someone else. I’m apprehensive because she has stated she wants to keep all things separate, which is fine with me for food and toiletries, but for cookware too? We’ll have to clarify when she gets here but I was hoping to live with a buddy. When will my casserole dinner living partner come in? I think that’s living with someone you love. Whether you are also (sexually) naked with them is a different question. Or want to be, anyway. I’d like that, please. Whether it be friend, or honey. No more foes. No more discomfort in the home space. I am apprehensive but not without benefit of the doubt.

It is with heavy lids (after two early mornings for open calls where non union were dismissed after many hours of waiting idly by … I am also feeling discouraged in the world of one of my professions. It may be about time to start working on a very exciting, very ambitious project that I will be writing that I hope will embody everything that is to Eve Ensler’s Vagina Monologues AND Lin-Manuel Miranda’s In the Heights. Plus they both starred in theirs. Rock on.

I would like to start imagining my celebrity doppelgänger is Lucy Lawless.
Lucy Lawless in Xena: Warrior Princess. MCA
My first reaction: A girl can dream
My real reaction: …oh wait, except there are so many reasons why it’s okay and no one will actually bat an eye so calm your titties Lady Ray, you’re awesome.

It’s kind of awesome to be your own cheerleader.

The cure to cooking food you’re bored of is to make something that you do not know what the taste will be.

Lend Me A Chisel

POLL: Please give me the best playwriting prompt you 
(a) have ever received; 
(b) can think of off the top of your head; 
or (c) both and any in between. 

Thank you kindly.


There are a lot of things
I want to be when I grow up
but if you ask me
how I wish
to be remembered?

‘A poet;
she sang of beauty.’

Here, Where the Letters Began

Dear You,

I have decided to write you a letter every time I have something to say to you. I will not send them. They will go here. Every time I would have otherwise texted you something about my life, I will tweet it. It will go out into the ether and therefore no longer be inside of me.

Each and every day I grow a little closer to the day I am a tattoo’d woman, marked and scarred by choice. Something I’ve always aspired to be: a woman with enough of a backbone and hide to do what she wants, even if it means self-mutilation against her mothers wishes. Doesn’t it sound crass if you put it that way? But her philosophy, as you and I are well aware, is why would a person pierce her ears either; “would puncturing holes in your body make you feel you feel more beautiful? I think you’re beautiful just the way you are.” 

But, as Ingrid Michaelson says, “If I was stronger then I would tell you no / If I was stronger then I would leave this show   / And I was stronger then would up and go / But here I am and here we go again” — Except that this time I really have done it. And it is the right thing. Then why why why, PM, am I so devastated?

My heart; my heart feels like it is being encased with lead that is slowly being cranked tighter, with every breath I take, every thought, every image, every memory. I can’t escape you because I let you in too deep and so now you are stuck, swimming in the murky waters of my mental health. I am just as responsible for the co-dependency, perhaps not the emotional manipulation, though. You crushed me all on your own and you are crushing me now.

I must extricate myself from you. And so instead of pouring this intimacy, this mind speak, this utter truth to you, I will leave you to your libido and your narcissism and your self-service and I will be free. And someone, somewhere, I do not know how or who (and I have to find Myself Within Myself first), but someone will love me exactly as I am, including how not only to avoid the triggers but how to soothe them. This person will anticipate my every fluctuation, better than I know my own pulse, because I’ve always been better at watching and remembering than paying attention to my own tides. And so I will carry this person as this person carries me. 

What I am learning is that in order to be happy, of course I must be functional in my own independent right. I never lost that during our time; look at the credentials I racked up. And so good for you for barely scraping through; I understand, finally, that we simply have irrevocably different units of measurement when it comes to evaluating success and purpose. You have been holding me back from one thing (and that is not my acclaim): my happiness. As in, my bliss. 

I have spent too long wanting you to just fucking step one more foot my direction, instead of resisting all the time, ignoring, arguing, sneering, disregarding, sleeping through, smoking through whatever it was. And yes, thank you for laughing, thank you for loving, but now PM I am sure when I say it was not enough. It was more than I’ve received ever in one concentrated stream from one person and being the person that I am I lapped it up.

But what I am coming to know now is that I deserve and will find so much better. Better than you, better for me, better to me, meaning which in turn why will I ever have a reason to tell him that he is inadequate please give me more [ time / affection / focus / space / insight / truth ? ] — Oh god, the questions I have asked of you that you never even tried to consider. 

I have been stunted and I have been manipulated into being ashamed of my self. My reactions, my interpretations, my ideas, and my intensity. I have been cast about as a fragile, melodramatic snapdragon trampled on the sidewalk. Yeah, cool, I can do this fun trick with my mouth but — you didn’t even last to watch the end. 

The end will be my transformation. What I will become even I do not know. 
Did you know that I have managed to still be creating during this intermediate time? Even as I have had to blaze my feelings away, even to write this post. Catharsis comes in billowing clouds of Maine fog that blanket over the frigid saltwater of my Emotional Self. She warms me, the fog, thereby not only lessening the sharp pain in my extremities from how cold this inner hypothermia is but also to shield me from … being seen. I am trying to reach out, but everything is so black sometimes. At least when the clouds come in, there is a plushy sort of comfort, like a down pillow against your cheek. Did I tell you I finished my quilt? It is a masterpiece. 

I can’t believe I’ll never speak to you again, PM, but you can know that in my heart at this moment that is all I desire. Never to hurt. 
I want you to crash and burn a little bit. You are a lazy, manipulative, lying son of a bitch. I hope someone, somewhere inflicts as much pain on you as you have me. It won’t be me though, I have come to terms with the fact that you render me harmless. 

So carry on with your newest fling and may you never get emotionally attached to anyone ever and merely continue on this ambivalent sex accepting half assed life you lead, where you magnetically attract beautiful women and suffocate their independence with your impartiality to her worth. Why must we prove anything to you? You are worth nothing. 

I am worth more than nothing. I am worth something. A whole lot of something.

So fare ye well. May our future contact be brief, such that I may retain my pride and composure and you may suffer for all that you never appreciated before: My Emotional Vulnerability. 

Once Ago With Love,

Nightmares and New Conquests

I dream of many things. The future is a mirage of beautiful potentials. My dreams pour out of fountains, streamers of color, each a different, fully realized possibility.
But I do not sleep. I am exhausted, from all of this inadvertent creation and emotion. 
I understand that it is good to plan ahead, but must I really be as prepared as a Girl Scout on cocaine? 
I dreamed of you last night. 
First I kissed your pillowy lips, gently, lovingly.
You stroked my face, my waist, my ass.
And then I remembered how I feel.
How you make me feel,
When you blindly announce all of the reasons I shouldn’t be with you
They sound an awful lot like bodies, minds, souls, hearts, names. 
And I shove you away from me.
You protest and I attack,
Paddling, clawing, pummeling,
Whatever physical harm I can try to infringe so that you might know how the inside of my emotional body cavity feels, every day. 
But you hold me at bay.
Somehow I am unable to make contact, 
You deflect my attacks and I have to approach with a loving hand in order to attempt a slap in the face.
But in your aura, your ozone, your magnetic field, 
I cannot touch you with harm.
My insides writhe with fury
And still no good comes of it.
I awake with a feeling of dread
When I went to bed with such delight.

I met someone else. 
And last night we had an amazing time.
I enjoyed his company
I enjoyed his attention
I enjoyed his touch
I enjoyed his body
And most of all, I enjoyed his empathy.
Oh, believe me when I say that I am sure he has a whole host of unenjoyables, but for the moment, I am delighted. 
Especially because at so many of my self-announced red flag moments, 
For instance, when I mentioned you,
He shrugged them off, or,
Suggested some sort of thoughtful reason why it was alright. 

I would like to see him again. 
And I definitely do not want you to be in the way,
However subconsciously. 


Who knew that it would take another possible realized potential to get me out of this rut of you?
I need to be careful.
I need some space of my own.
I need space to see other people, remember?
I need to be clear with him. 
And myself,
And therefore you,
That other people I do not believe can include you anymore, as much as it pains me.
Because of course I miss you, 
But as this dream burdens me as dead, rotting weight
In my heart and in my gut
I am beginning to realize that the pleasure might not be worth all this pain
Especially since you do not seem to be able to receive any when I try and dish it back.
I am growing weary. 
In fact, I am exhausted.
Give me back my dreams, and give me back my hope. 



PS – I think the reason I hate kissing with as much tongue as everyone else is that because of my acute sense of smell, I also possess an overwhelming capacity for taste. Which makes saliva a little more potent of a substance than some may think. Breath odor is a real thing, people. Ugh.