#I love my daughter who's felt a profound loneliness and emptiness her whole life and could never explain why

[nebulousboops]

Meet Willow Dove, my own take on a "Future Flora!"

I propose that, perhaps, Clive was not the only child Constance Dove had taken in. Perhaps she had a grand daughter who was orphaned very young, before she could clearly remember having parents at all. It was just her, her grandma, and their servants in their big, beautiful manor, lonely for reasons she couldn't articulate. That is until, when Willow is ten years old, her grandma brings home a small boy. Naturally, she latches onto him immediately.

She's told this boy is three years her senior, but he still seems so... small. Scared. Something about him, whether it was how he struggled to speak above a whisper, or how he'd shudder whenever he heard something loud, or how she'd hear him crying to himself in the dead of night, made her think "Something's left you terrified. I'll make sure nothing does ever again."

So, years later, when her baby brother wants justice to rain down on the monsters that ruined his life, she's more than eager to play her part and get him the vindications he so rightly deserves.

This was in no way inspired by Franziska von Karma nor tumblr user musashi's video essay on her that I've listened to five times what are you talking about.

[ecotone99]

[MF] Dave

Written by Loren D. Davis

--I-- His A Street condo lay in disarray. The vast space that once remained pleasantly empty was now strewn with empty whiskey bottles, cigarette butts, and ashes. Strong odors pervaded the air, most likely originating from the cocktail of human secretions expelled during the night of revelry. Dozens of naked men and women slept atop one another in scattered piles upon the floor. Dave stepped out to the balcony, pulling out the last cigarette in the carton. He lit it as he felt the weight of his self-loathing sink in once more. Or maybe that was just the hangover. A gentle gust of wind rustled the thick brown hair on his head. The February air was unforgiving, and the sky was overcast to match his mood. His mind had been troubled for some time. Lunging headfirst into sensory overload was his first reflex amid his sorrow, but the booze, drugs, and women only numbed the pain for a few hours a day at most. These comforts always left him feeling worse the next day than the last. The firm would have to do without him today. In spite of his young age, Dave had managed to rack up a fair amount of wealth working in the Financial District. From the large windows that spanned most of the side of the floor he owned, he could see the building where he worked. His visitors had often told him that he had the best view in the whole city, complete with the bay. He lived a comfortable life, yet his career seemed to have carried more significance back when the fruit of his labor went to much more vital objects than Scotch and hookers. He understood that the lifestyle so many of his peers relished--a lavish life of licentiousness that he too had sought immaturely when his income was more modest--was not as great as it had been made out to be. In his view, no man is truly essential. After all, how is man any different than tiny ants? Man is but a pest and a nuisance. In fact, man is worse than an ant. Ants are unwavering in their loyalty to the greater fabric of their existence. Man is arrogant yet parasitic in nature. Maybe it was the deep loneliness he felt. He was surrounded by hundreds of acquaintances that took no issue with partying with him for days in a row. They partook in the many commodities he had to offer, but none of them were true friends. The connection he had with them would always be superficial at best. How could they truly understand? Half the people that partied with him were the spoiled offspring of the world’s elite who had thus far been tightly guarded and now made use of their newly-found freedom with eagerness. Others were higher class junkies, escorts, and cold-blooded businessmen who were only there to get their fix.

--II-- He had not spoken to her for over five months. That last call was about his son’s birthday party invitation. His ex-wife, Victoria, had married an executive and moved to a posh suburb of San Jose, California. From the few encounters he had with Victoria’s new husband, Bill, he had gathered that his two kids felt comfortable with him. Bill had an adolescent daughter, and Victoria spoke endlessly about how great he was as a father. Dave did not talk to his kids much. He knew he should do more as their father, but he still felt guilty for having been so distant when they all lived under one roof. There was a time when he felt that they stood in his way. That man-child just wanted to have fun. He held little regard for whether Victoria would continue to tolerate his behavior.

--III-- To whoever the fuck reads this: More than likely, you don’t give a shit. I know you won’t agree with this decision, but that’s a good thing. Most people aren’t supposed to agree with the poor fuck that shoots his brains out, hangs himself, or leaps off a building to his death. What a fucked up world we’d live in if most people agreed with that. Just because I’m fucked up doesn’t mean I think other people can’t enjoy life. I guess I just don’t think it makes a difference that I do. The way I see it, life is an acquired taste like good caviar, or a rare Bordeaux. They’re expensive, and incredibly sought after by some, but that doesn’t mean everyone will indulge in them. I’m simply not impressed. So, to my son Jonathan, any my daughter, Abigail: You could not have a better mother. Always love and respect her. I’m sorry our story did not play out differently. I wish you the best. To Victoria: I hope you live a plentiful life filled with happiness.

Dave left the letter on his marble kitchen countertop, held underneath the knife block. He locked the bottom doorknob before he walked out his front door into the hallway. He walked slowly to the elevator and stared at it for about three minutes, contemplating what he intended to do.

--IV-- “Can you talk?” Dave had texted Victoria four days before. No answer.

--V-- The stairs seemed to be a more fitting vehicle to reach his destination. Elegant even. So he went up eleven stories to the top of the building. His journey up the never-ending flights of stairs was laborious, but it afforded him the luxury of reflecting on the various choices he had made throughout his life, serving only to strengthen his resolve. He gained deeper conviction of the futility and utter insignificance of his contributions. It became increasingly difficult to breathe, and Dave felt that his eyes were suddenly enveloped in a dense veil. He could no longer see clearly. Dave stopped mid-step, carefully patting the ground in front and around him to set himself down to rest. A cold hand gently cupped Dave’s shoulder in a gesture of pity. Dave knew. “I guess I should keep going.” Slowly, Dave was guided up the remaining steps, until he came up to the door that exited to the rooftop. Dave clutched the doorknob firmly, twisting it while pushing the door with the weight of his body to force it against the assailing winds. With heavy footsteps, Dave made his way to the edge where solid ground came to its end. He paused to inhale deeply.

--VI-- The sun is rising on the West Coast. Victoria awakens for her morning jog. Today, she runs along the beaches of the Northern Californian coast, a peaceful retreat away from the usual noise of the city. Her husband had decided to take the family on a weekend camping trip at a park upstate for a short break. The morning air was cool and crisp, but not unbearable. Victoria searched through her iPhone for a suitable playlist for her routine. A barrage of notifications went off as she entered an area with reception. Deep in the park, there was no service, a blessing for those looking to disconnect from the incessant noise of the modern world. Among the four or five text messages she received was one from Dave. She called him, but there was no answer. She called again. Still no answer. Again. No answer. Relenting, she carried on with her jog.

--VII- The picture of the building’s height could not dissuade Dave from his mission. He was blissfully unaware of the distance he would ultimately travel. He smiled with mild trepidation as he stretched his arms. The winds wrapped his arms and legs like thick frigid ribbons, pulling him downward with force. He floated with a sensation he imagined resembled a feather as it glides gracefully to the ground. He heard a distinct ring in the distance. Was this the sound of death approaching rapidly? The singing celestial hosts beckoning him to respite? As the sound grew nearer, his peace was swiftly seized and replaced with profound doubt and remorse. It was his phone ringing on the twenty-ninth floor. He was sure of it. But he was helpless. If he could have grown wings in that very instant, he would have, but it could not be. The serenity with which he had embarked on his trajectory had quickly been replaced with terror. He was afraid of his impending doom, and he wanted nothing else than to be rescued from this torment and dread. What had once appeared to only take a few breaths to accomplish seemed now to take an eternity to complete. With every passing moment he lived, with every breath he drew, he further regretted the step he had taken. He was afflicted not only by the gargantuan weight of the shortcomings that had propelled him to this state, but by the end he could not manage to see. He yearned for the finale to his pain, but it would not arrive. It may have only taken a few seconds, or even minutes, for Dave to exit his anguish, but he would have experienced it over the course of years in that reality which existed in his mind. Time was very much stretched out for Dave on account of the path he chose.

--VIII-- Rays of warm sunshine beamed through the thin white window curtains. A rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted in as the distant buzz of lawn mowers and the gleeful giggles of children filled the morning air.

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[libramoon2]

Caela’s Story #43

A strangely dressed, obviously old, yet regally postured woman appears on the balcony of the City Council Building, arms outstretched as if in benediction. Calmly, serenely, she faces the uproarious crowd surrounding from below. Caela breathes deeply inward, accessing that bright core she has built from all the loving wisdom discovered throughout her life. "You can be healed." Her simple statement echoing, reverberating throughout the crowd. Everyone within range of her electronically enhanced and broadcast voice feels profound resonance. Every one of them feels tender, loving presence reaching deeply into their secret, festering wounds, bathing their pain in beautiful soothing light. Caela, smiling inwardly in joyful communion with the forest daughter entwining her consciousness, responds to each and every pause of wonder. She sends soothing musical visions with her words. "There is no shame in pain. There is no cure to be found in blame, regardless of accuracy. There are so very many ways to be wounded, deeply injured, horribly scarred. Our natural desire would be to heal, end the siren signal of pain, the suffering of what has been hidden rather than made whole. It is natural for hurting children to offer up their tears and fright and indignation at their wounding to parents who will make them well again. Hiding, making dark secrets of unhealed wounds, is not our natural recourse. We have mislearned, incorporated guilts and shames where openness to nurture was meant to be. Sharing our pain, our stories of wounding, our attempts to regain wholeness, with caring family and friends is meant to make us stronger, individually and together. Go deeply into your greatest, most intractable, pain too intense to touch numbing wound. Listen, intently, to its story. Succor it as you would your dearest child. Then to the next, and the next, until all your despicable woundings are adored offspring of a closely loving family. Share your family tales with the people you see every day. I give you all permission to allow this vulnerability. You are not about fear or anger or intractability. You are alive, growing, changing, learning. Learn to share who you are, really. Magical synergy can give us all everything we have yearned for, felt missing in our lives, individually and together. I don't know when, why, how it began. The social structure meant to house and contain us, safe, snug, happy children growing to become strong, joyful, nurturing families, instead becomes a prison. Structure meant to be loyal friend and servant becomes heartless master, imposing order without thoughtful consciousness, sane flexibility, wise encouragement of playfully creative boisterousness which might lead to inconvenience, mistakes, disorder. We can always pull ourselves together to clean up an inadvertent mess, correct mistakes, make amends, share discoveries. This is gregarious human life's natural course of education. Rote memorization of rules, that is but an exercise in discipline. It is not learning. We feel a need for rules to create a safe structure; but the rules are but tools, not the project itself. What is our project but full, true, glorious experiences of life for each and every? To be full and real, we know there will be pain and wounding as well as love, useful work, private contemplations, fun, frolic, humor, loss, death, sorrow. What we do not need to include is hopeless despair, empty loneliness, unwarranted guilt or shame or restriction of opportunities for restitution and true forgiveness. It's not that we need to avoid breakage, but that we all need to learn the arts of repair, reconciliation, growth that heals and enhances us all. I am here to help you. I offer you the benefit of what I have learned. I am creating a school of healing where you will always be welcome. We will offer you our knowledge of healing techniques, therapy sessions, consultations and training. You may decide for yourself, and redecide at any point, of what offerings you desire to partake. Those who can will be expected to pay for our services in order to keep our operating budget in operation. Those without funds will not be turned away. We expect that what we teach will then be shared, expanding the resource of knowledge, healers, trainers, interactive healing groups. Very simple. Nothing hidden. Though our offerings may only be able to accommodate limited numbers at first, quickly enough we will grow. You, everyone who so chooses, will help to grow us, together. Ultimately, we will all learn from each other. Together we will be able to figure this out, this living thing. We will learn to live with the clarity and wisdom we create for ourselves. We can learn to embrace the bountiful gifts and wisdom of this planet that is our home. We can learn the blessings of interdependency, of give and take based on honor and respect. We can revel in the enlightenment that reveals each of our own self-interests gets better served when we truly, deeply, wisely know that we are all in this together. Can you sacrifice your despair on the altar of such a realization? We can together will a manifestation, of true possibilities. I offer not a vision of idealized perfection; but a readily obtainable viable answer. Guiding a flow of unblocked healthy energy toward the beauty of balanced fully realized lives -- this is a mission I gladly accept. Oh, my beloveds, think clearly about what you have to lose, and gain. Feel the compassion, the challenge, the call. Take what I freely offer out of my own great need for connection. We are family, a living interactive system, able together to achieve so much greater happiness and well-being. You can heal." Thus will it be.