#i feel like given the right headspace and enough time i could write several pages about that

[umilily]

Soooo what are your thoughts on Shinsen hold me tight

i'm not okay 😭

like, i was sure i'd love it from the preview and it absolutely delivered. why does he sound like that, i want to cry. i had to do so many mundane things today, all while just wanting to scream at the top of my lungs. i'm still processing. i did read a translation earlier, but my brain is still just going brrrr, so i'm not going to go into depth on that right now, but aaaaaaahhh- i like that from a random person's point of view this is going to sound nothing like what my himeru-filled brain is going to do with it. i like the ambiguity. much like himeru, it walks a very interesting line of real and not quite real. i think it suits him that it's written in a way where it's so undefined, generally speaking. makes the contrast of him wanting something more tangible all the more striking and painful :'( also raises the question what that 'clearer outline' is supposed to look like or if he (or anyone?) even knows? i also find the notion that one's 'shape' is created by their perception through others really intersting here.

i'm gonna need to ponder this for a bit longer.

[tickle-her-senseless]

Important

Hey all. Just wanted to respond to questions from members of a couple of Discord servers run by the same person following a chaotic couple of days. I’m putting all the info and screenshots (minus names, pics and locations) here, so I can just direct people to this post if they have questions.

I had been intending to just head back here to Tumblr and let the situation lie, but unfortunately the reason given by the automated bot for my ban mentioned “crossing consent multiple times”. Today, friends have been sending me worried questions relating to this, so I’m concerned that the server owner may have made a similar claim in public. Now I pretty much have to say something as that’s such a serious thing to say about someone, particularly on any kind of kink scene.

The mention of consent actually relates to the server owner. Near the beginning of the lockdown, she and I were speaking a lot, she began to tease me in DMs, I responded with a piece of writing dedicated to her, we exchanged pictures - and eventually confessed a mutual attraction. We made plans for the end of lockdown, she talked about driving through Europe and showing me her favourite places. Although her English is perfect, I began learning her language through an app as I wanted to make the effort (Brits are renowned for being lazy with languages), and kept it up every day for months, amusing her with my clumsy pronunciation on calls. Sometimes she would send me explicit comments/thoughts, although I was always nervous to initiate that kind of thing.

One day she sent a message saying that she was still coming to terms with the end of her last relationship and would need to take things more slowly, as she was finding romantic sentiments (as opposed to kinky ones) hard to deal with. Naturally I replied “Of course, in that case I’ll wait for you to initiate that stuff once you’re ready”. At some point afterwards, she sent me a message out of the blue saying “I want cuddles ❤️” and I thought “oh, this is a level she’s OK with” and responded. I think it was the following day when I tried to pick up where we’d left off (without going any further, just cuddling in bed type stuff). She reciprocated and we continued. I also (in an attempt to consider her feelings) asked her if the idea of me posting an old session video on my blog for an American friend would upset her at all. Intending to reassure her about my intentions, I mentioned ”...not wanting to tickle anyone except you and saying no to all of the other UK people on the servers who are asking about post-lockdown sessions”. I also said “I do feel a commitment to you”, which (with hindsight) was probably a foolish or misleading word to use in a purely ler/lee sense.

A week later she sent a message I didn’t immediately understand along the lines of “I thought you were going to let me initiate romantic stuff, you don’t seem to have understood me at all”. I wasn’t sure what she was referring to - the recent story I’d written for her? Use of the word “commitment”? Something else? I tried to talk with her on the phone as some wires had clearly become crossed via text, but she refused for five weeks (citing not being in the right headspace), before finally calling when I sent a message explaining that anxiously waiting to mend the friendship in lockdown by myself for over a month was having a terrible effect on me mentally, and I was going to have to “throw in the towel”, wishing her luck and every happiness.

During our phone call, she claimed that the main issue had been the fluffy cuddle messages which she took to be a serious and repeated boundary/consent violation (citing her wish to avoid romantic talk). This was the last thing I expected and really shocked me. Of course I apologised frantically, repeatedly and profusely. I also said I hoped she could see how I’d made the mistake innocently and honestly when:

- she initiated it the first time, so I assumed it was something she was happy to talk about.

- when I picked up where we left off, she didn’t say “Actually, d’you mind if we don’t today?” and continued the cuddle talk instead.

She said that because she initiated it one day didn’t mean that she wanted to continue the day after - fair enough. The difficult thing to accept was the idea that she felt so violated by the attempt to carry on the next day that she found herself frozen to the point of not being able to say “actually I’m not in the mood just now” and carried on with it, and that I was at fault regardless. She even used the word “harassing” to describe it, which I found very harsh considering my inability to read minds over hundreds of miles. Especially when I couldn’t see or hear her to pick up on body language, tone of voice etc to guess that she was saying one thing but feeling a different way. She said, word for word, “It’s like when someone’s choking you and you can’t speak, you’re literally choking me!” As someone who, as a teenager, was once choked on the ground by my own father until I blacked out and lost bladder control, I did see that as a stretch at best, but chose not to challenge it as she was upset.

I also suggested that, looking back, we probably should’ve clarified exactly what was meant by “romantic stuff” when we almost certainly had different takes on it eg. I’ve cuddled after every 1:1 session I’ve ever had, even platonic ones, purely from the angle of aftercare and a sense of having shared an experience. I was told that despite our different ages and experiences of romantic love, there was only one objectively correct definition of “romantic” - hers.

We went around in circles for over four hours - I apologised over and over while explaining how I got the wrong idea and asking her to understand and forgive, while she tearfully called me a gaslighter, a consent violator, an excuse-maker, a harasser ... eventually I collapsed into tears myself (I’m ashamed to admit), totally worn down, and she softened a bit. She finally said she didn’t believe I’d done anything intentionally, and she still wanted to spend time together in the real world. We made up, spoke warmly as friends for an hour, and I left the call exhausted but relieved. After a few days’ reflection, though, I decided against ever travelling to meet her for real, as the experience had shaken me considerably - and I figured it’d be risky to meet someone in real life when I didn’t trust her completely not to accuse me over either nothing or an innocent misunderstanding. I was still wondering how to explain this to her when things got wild on the server.

A few days ago, a Tumblr user with a stated age of 18 contacted me to say nice things about my blog, which (I hope this doesn’t sound conceited) isn’t out of the ordinary. When she told me she was English and totally new to the scene, I suggested the Discord server as a place where she might make some friends (given the large UK membership) and sent her an invite link. The rest is set out in the mega screenshot saga below, which begins in the staff chat. I’m “SwiftX”, my real name is in teal, the server owner is in blue and her friend and co-moderator is in purple. All other names and locations are in black:

Before sending the last message, I actually typed out five different versions of a counter-argument before eventually deciding to step back. Being totally dismissed and lectured by two people about British labour laws and pub ID measures by two non-Brits nearly a decade my junior was irritating, yes, but the baseless suggestion that maybe I’d done something in private with the new member and was somehow “arguing against” ensuring she wasn’t a child because of that horrified me. As if I’d allow a child access to explicit content to cover my own discomfort - and anyway, I’d done no more than exchange greetings with the girl and point her towards the server, where she was actually verified and granted access to all channels by the guy in purple, not me! After a couple of hours’ contemplation, I politely asked to be removed from the moderator staff, but a disdainful response to my request prompted me to explain it, and why I was upset. Not all of what I said was necessary to say, but all of it was true:

She immediately muted me for 48 hours - “staff disrespect and degrading comments”. Not a problem, I had work to be getting on with. Late that evening, however, her friend arrived in my DMs:

Him: ...it’s creepy that a 32 year old man is potentially teasing a minor

Me: Well I can prove I haven’t teased her, her profile says she’s 18, and the person who exposed her to explicit content was you when you verified her - despite admitting to having had doubts about her age.

Him: ...I’ll drop that subject

Moderator of the year, ladies and gentlemen 🙄 Anyhoo, later that day I received a ban notification from both servers run by this owner, citing “crossing consent multiple times, guilting and being degrading along with causing several conflicts”. I was surprised to feel a flood of relief, but the consent mention really disturbed and worried me, as I’d been under the impression that the server owner had fully accepted that the earlier stuff had been an innocent misunderstanding. Later that day, good friends of mine began sending me worried DMs questioning my record and asking if I’d been inappropriate with a bunch of people, so I’m concerned that the staff may have said something that (deliberately or not) has encouraged speculation. This post is intended to be a landing page to which I can direct anyone concerned about my character so that they they can form their own opinions.

When my follower count began to take off, I became determined to avoid any kind of rift with another prominent member of the community. It’s so frustrating to watch an already niche subculture splinter into factions over needless disputes. This is why I’ve kept names etc. out of this post. If anyone suspects they might know who the server owner is, or actually knows who she is because they’re here from Discord, I would implore them not to out or target her in any way. There are two reasons:

- I don’t want to start a flaming war, I’m desperate to move on and begin improving my mental health after an awful couple of months ... I just need to protect my reputation first.

- I don’t actually think she wanted drama ... I think her genuine perception is that I’ve said something horrible to her. That’s more upsetting than the idea of her trying to smear me, to be honest. I suspect she feels like crap too, and I don’t want to add to her mental load. I honestly hope she’s OK.

Hopefully this will reassure my friends and anyone else questioning my character because of whatever’s been said in that server. I’d also hope that my history of positive interaction here, including being on great terms with everyone I’ve ever had a session with, supports what I’m saying further. It’s a shame this had to happen, but I’m trying to think positively about what lies ahead and trust in my real friends. I’d also like to thank the other members of the server staff who’ve privately sent me messages of support and sympathy having already seen the entire exchange.

[fortheloveofeos]

The Vanguard - Chapter 7

Happy Holiday Season, y’all. I’ve been doing some writing that I’ve forgotten to post. I’ve got a few things up my sleeve I hope to have up over the season. Hopefully, the girls will be back in full force along with a new story that I intended to be one chapter per Chocobro but probably will be longer because my brain takes off sometimes. 

Get ready for angst and backstory.

XXX

Eirwen had been silent since the incident several hours before. Gladio had steered her away from the training area of the Citadel and into the back garden in hopes the quiet and seclusion would give her some peace. For hours he had watched her pace, absently trailing fingers over the stone walls and leaving a trail of ice behind her. Finally unable to watch her self loath any longer, Gladio had dared to speak and ask her where she wanted to go. Her answer had been a vague “anywhere that’s not here” before he had handed her his extra helmet and they sped off through the busy streets of Insomnia. She had followed him almost blindly until she heard him rattle his keys as he opened the door to his apartment - conveniently across the street from the building Prince Noctis had recently taken up residence. 

The apartment was entirely decorated in dark leathers, navy blue, and dark wood. Photos of scenic mountain views and pictures of his family were scattered along the walls. “This is...impressive,” Eirwen paused as she caught sight of the floor to ceiling custom shelves that housed an incredible number of books - most bound in hardbacks with titles covering subjects ranging from history to culture to largest number of war and strategy books she had ever seen outside of that section in the Citadel library. She also noted the fair number of fiction books scattered throughout and couldn’t help but see that more than one seemed to be romance novels. Trailing her finger over their spines, she was shocked to see how immaculate the collection was - no creases or signs or weather and absolutely not dust to be seen. 

Keys clattered somewhere behind her as Gladio deposited them into the bowl by the door and removed his heavy boots. “Bit of a hoarder when it comes to books. Coffee or tea?” 

Pulling an old leather-bound tomb from the shelf, Eirwen scanned the pages of a guerilla warfare strategy written in Ancient Lucien. “Milk?” 

“Coconut.” 

Nodding, Eirwen carefully thumbed through the yellowing pages. “Coffee, then.” Various sounds of cabinets opening and shutting and then of a brewing coffee pot filtered around her as she scanned the old runes advising on the importance of partners and scouting teams. 

Minutes late, Gladio handed her a steaming cup of fresh coffee that was just the right shade of dark caramel. He took up residence on the couch beside her, careful not to touch her but remaining close enough that she might know he meant to offer her comfort if she needed it.

Looking at her now, Eirwen looked nothing like the ice goddess she had appeared to be earlier in the day. Currently, her skin was flushed pink from worry and the heat of the coffee, her blue eyes bright with something akin to anger but without such force. She had tucked her legs under herself and curled into the corner of the couch as if trying to take up a strategic position to protect herself. Gladio had never witnessed such power before today - not even when King Regis had renewed the power that held up the wall protecting the city of Insomnia. It was incredible to think that any mortal could wield such power.

Exhaling, Eirwen closed the book with a sense of finality and caught the slight jump from Gladio out of the corner of her eye. Rubbing at her forehead, she forced herself to speak evenly. “You’re scared of me now?” She hoped she hadn’t sounded angry when Gladio was the only person who seemed willing and eager to listen to things from her perspective without jumping in and trying to give her advice. He was her partner in battle. 

“Scared of you?” Gladio readjusted himself so that he more easily faced her but did his best to appear relaxed as he reclined his arms across the back and sipped his cooling coffee. “I’m not afraid of you, snowflake. I’m worried for you. There’s a big difference.”

A humorless laugh escaped her. Leaning forward, she twisted the length of her pale locks between her fingers and focused on controlling her emotions so as not to turn the Shield-in-Training’s apartment into a meat locker. “Don’t worry about me. I’m always ready for battle.” In fact, punching something sounded like a wonderful idea at the moment. 

Finishing his coffee, Gladio deposited the cup onto the coffee table before making a show of giving her his full attention. “I’m not doubting your training and abilities - a few rounds with you on the training mats has proven you’re more than capable in that department. What happened earlier between you and Amira has me worried. I felt...whatever that was that you pushed out at her. I watched her freeze over. I saw your expression when you pulled yourself back out.” He didn’t ask her to explain, nor did he demand answers or promises that she wouldn’t do the same to him. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Gladio. I can’t explain it. It happened once, years ago. Amira…” trailing off, Eirwen raked her hands through her hair in frustration as if hoping to pull the words from her head. “It was like she 

 me when I was completely broken - or at least patched me back together. I wanted to try to do the same for her but I couldn’t find it, I couldn’t find what hurt her.” Tears of frustration threatened to spill from her eyes and she angrily wiped at them. “I couldn’t do the same for her. What good is this power if I can’t even protect the people I care about.” Forcing herself up from the couch, she marched over to the large window looking down on the busy streets below and pressed her forehead against the cool glass hoping to calm herself down. “She’s the only family I have.”

Silence rang out through the apartment. Distant sirens and the sounds of city life filtered between the two warriors to break up the deafening quiet. Gladio, for all his reading and knowledge in how to handle emotional trauma when related to combat, loss, and injury, was at a complete loss. Another not so well kept secret of the Twins: bad family relations. To his knowledge, Eirwen had none to speak of. In the file Cor had given him in preparation for his first mission with her, she was listed as a ward of the Citadel until she had become of legal age. Gladio, on the other hand, was fortunate enough to have an actual family. 

“You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. I’ve got your back now, Eirwen - on and off the battlefield.” Gladio walked past her to the kitchen to put away the dirty dishes as he spoke, hoping not to make her feel pressured or closed in. “People care about you.” He had seen the way Crowe, Libertus, Pelna, and Nyx were with her and it was clear they had forged a bond that was deeper than camaraderie or friendship.

Across town and shaking from over exertion and residual tingles of forced magic, Amira leaned against the window from her perch. Purple lightning cracked in the distance each time her fingers twitched. It had been hours since the incident and she could still feel the sorrow in her heart left by Eirwen just before their connection snapped. The bone deep chill had left her almost as soon as it had arrived but now she felt oddly warm in a way that reminded her of post fever.

Nyx had been kind enough to make her a pot of gunpowder tea, piping hot and slightly bitter. She also vaguely noticed that he had switched on the radio to a low jazz to fill the ringing silence of her mind. He moved with familiarity and confidence in her home and she couldn’t help feeling both grateful and annoyed at the same time. 

“You don’t need to stay.” She hated how quiet and weak her voice sounded but she felt the need to at least offer him a way out of the current situation. Other than Eirwen, she wasn’t really accustomed to anyone trying to take care of her even after her injury.

“And you don’t need to catch the flu pressed against the window, princess.” Nyx chuckled at the obscene hand motion Amira quickly shot his way and was relieved to see she seemed to be clawing her way back out of herself. “I’m not going anywhere until we figure this out.” When Amira opened her mouth to argue, he was quick to stop her and refocus her attention on the larger goal in hopes of getting her to face the current issue. “We’ll be called back into the field any day now and since you’ve been cleared, I need to know you’re in the right headspace.” If he couldn’t get her to consider the issue as a work-related problem, he would have no hope of getting her to open up about personal issues.

Nodding, Amira worried the warm mug between her fingers. “I told you, I felt something snap. I’ve never felt her so far away - not when we’re separated by thousands of miles.” Assuring her that the connection could be fixed, Nyx urged her to continue. “Whatever she was looking for...something seemed to break her heart.”

“I’m sure she’s just worried about you. The two of you have always had each other -” Nyx stopped short as his phone vibrated in his pocket. The only people that had his number were Glaives and other work associates and the only time it rang was due to some work related issue. Fishing it out from the pocket of his jeans, he was surprised to see Pelna’s name lighting up the screen. “Report,” he offered by way of greeting.

Amira watched and Nyx’s eyes narrowed slightly and his stubbled jaw clenched. Though Pelna couldn’t see him, he nodded several times and made agreeable noises to urge him to continue. After a few moments, Nyx ended the call and ran a hand over his suddenly weary face. This time, it was Amira who was concerned by the sudden quiet. “Seems we have a bit of work to do.”

“Pelna cracked the firewall and found some sort of list he immediately sent to Cor - who informed him that several emissaries from the Empire are planning a visit to attend the Foreign Relations Gala in a few days.” A crease had taken up residence on Nyx’s forehead as he repeatedly ran the conversation through his mind. 

Shocked, Amira was silent for a moment as she processed the information. “They’re not planning a confrontation in front of a room of international dignitaries. Could they have realized that I copied that file?” 

“There’s no way they’re that stupid. They’re up to something, though. Pelna also reported increased military activity at the northern border - encampments, patrol, the works.” Sighing, he leaned back against the counter and studied Amira closely. “Looks like the vacation is over.” He paused momentarily hoping to choose his next words correctly. “You’re not going to...like what I have in mind.” 

Sighing, Amira pulled herself up from the window and stood to face her partner. “I rarely do,” she reassured him.

XXX

Unlike her Twin, Amira had grown up in what anyone on the outside looking in would consider a perfect home. Malcolm and Nadia Everet were the storybook couple - Malcolm hailed from one of the richest, self-made families in all Lucis while Nadia, coming from old Lucian nobility, had been raised as if she herself were next in line to the throne. When the two had married nearly three decades earlier, neither bride or groom had ever laid eyes on the other prior to meeting at the altar and both had approached the scenario as if it were a business transaction to further themselves and their families. When Amira had been born, she had instantly become the new bargaining chip for her parents and had been ushered through years of etiquette classes, ballroom dance lessons, advanced tutoring, fashion and beauty seminars, and all the formal parties her parents could drag her to. Amira had grinned and curtsied through it all, praying to the Six for a way out.

Things had remained tortuously the same until her fifteenth birthday. For years, she had begged her parents to allow her to train with her paternal uncle and member of the Royal Kingsguard, Declan - her justification being that she should know how to defend herself should her pedigree ever put her in harm’s way. Finally, after much pressure from her uncle, her parents had relented and allowed her to train two days a week for a few hours in place of the cardio workout her personal trainer had devised for her. Immediately, she had fallen in love with the raw violence and unstructured chaos that came from physical combat and had shown real promise for someone so young. Her uncle worked with her continuously had been able to nearly ensure her a position within the guard after her college graduation, even going so far as to go against her parent’s wishes for her by involving King Regis himself. She couldn’t have found anything more removed from her original life if she had tried - or at least she had thought until her training accident had sealed her fate. 

Uncomfortable falling back into bad memories, Amira kept fidgeting in her seat and pulling at the garment she had hoped she would never wear. The couture gown had been stashed away in its original box since her parents had sent it to her over a year ago in hopes of enticing her back into the spotlight her family thrived in. The saving grace was that the dress was at least mostly black. Made of the highest quality black satin and an overlay of organza, the floor length gown possessed a custom fitted corset with an off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline that dipped between her breasts exposing a bit more skin than she felt entirely comfortable with. The draped split sleeves fell beyond her wrists, perfectly displaying the tattoo of delicate roses twisting and blooming down her arm, and a careful slit ran up the long skirt to her mid thigh on one side. Hand embroidered gold applique leaves and vines decorated the bodice and skirts while the sleeves and trims were encrusted with shimmering gold glass beads. She had paired the dress with a pair of black designer pumps with a scarlet bottom adorned with a criss-crossing straps that buckled just above the ankle and glittering gold and diamond drop earrings. She’d had to buy new makeup as she had avoided wearing it as much as possible in recent years and had opted for a heavy-handed winged eyeliner and a dark plum lipstick. 

“If you pull continue to pull at the dress, you’re going to end up ripping it before we get to the gala.”

Sighing, Amira arched a perfectly filled in brow at her uncle Declan who was comfortably dressed in his usual Guard uniform of black slacks and dress shirt. He’d only added a jacket and patent leather shoes to his daily ensemble. “You know how much I hate this. I thought by becoming a Glaive I could wipe my hands of all this.” Contempt leaked into her words as she studied her black and gold manicure. 

Chuckling, Declan straightened his jacket and offered his niece a knowing grin. His salt and pepper hair mixed with the warm gold of his eyes had always made him so much more inviting than her father. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to walk in heels already? I thought we raised you better than that.”

Immediately, Amira flipped him off with her glittering gold-tipped finger and flipped her half pinned up hair over one shoulder. “Please. We both know I came out of the womb wearing a pair of six inch pumps.” Thankfully, the sleek black vehicle came to a stop and the back door was opened by a smirking hero. “Don’t start with me tonight,” Amira warned Nyx as she slid across the leather seats and carefully out onto the sidewalk before the Citadel. 

Flashing lights erupted from either side of her. As if flipping a switch, Amira smiled for the photographers pushed back her shoulders until she felt the familiar ache beginning in her spine. Declan was quick to take up her elbow as he too paused to allow the paparazzi a moment to capture his image. As the two moved forward towards the grand entrance, Nyx moved to her other side as if to shield her from the cameras. Speaking quickly, Nyx spoke just loud enough for the two Everets to hear him. “Many of the foreign dignitaries have already arrived but no one has spotted anyone from the Empire yet. The others are posted up inside and I will be positioned to see the entire ballroom.” Holding out a gloved hand to Amira, Nyx offered her nearly perfectly clear earpiece. “Pelna just finished these this morning. Don’t worry about it not picking up your voice if you speak quietly, it’s been calibrated to your voice specifically.”

Declan ushered Amira through the glass door before heading to the elevator and pressing the correct floor. “I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but your parents are here and they would like to speak with you. Try not to get blood on the dress.”

Groaning, Amira thumped her head back against the onyx wall of the elevator during her brief moment of normalcy. Tonight, she was once again Amira Everet, heir to the Everet fortune and darling daughter of Malcolm and Nadia. Of course, they had not been briefed on the plan the Vanguard and the Kingsguard were to execute. To them, their daughter was finally coming to her senses. “Six, I am going to need an entire bottle of champagne.” She could already feel the headache beginning to bloom in her temple. 

[castlehead]

[BENEATH THE PLYMOUTH. chapter nine, conclusion]

I.   Can’t life end again, before the sun Goes down over the hills like a parasol? Life polluting our heads with questions That don’t know their own answers …

  Then why give it us? the private said. I mean,

Armies kill and are killed for these, and ya En’ up with what monstrous

Bleakness stripes in blood; that is your prize. With flagging limbs I speak my Rage at the enemy. My True Veteran Rage, Which is my food and drink, I cross the

Battlefield and I singlefile my bros And doesn’t this matrix of bootstring Done up on you quicker now if We get incoming fighter jets? You are Meanwhile living it up like a damn Yossarian with them foolish virgins The new recruits till I

Send again for u to drive another imbalance right Weepwoop weepwoop weepwoop

Tried and true are the men to get killed first After all, nothing like

Deaths of  honorable   men To stew up the lesser rage of cowards for to deal In lamenting them, as if it were for fun, sportiness,

Oratory, red and blue lights! crack Open a cold one with the boys! magnifico! raises

Chalice to those sent to a Rightful place in the heavens, those Weak mounds or plots now, some Severed from life by the single nip Of severe pill intake after the war

You’re too fucking good for a life of Seizures take this xanax instead.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .

What am I doing I am here, I am atop a mountain, lets call it, Am breathing full for the first time, In my headspace I persist An effluvium; while a desperate gush’f a need For sanctuary tells me I am far from Ahead of turning this damfool twilight In my head away from its Croaking doubts, and guilts, Can barely.

This Twilight, What have I left to examine of you? I say Sagely to the private, do all that you did, as well Upon / A separate, spent drift, perspective, etc.,

While the wolfish / Folk don caps Of what they wrongly think they

Are. This could be a story about why I wanted to kill myself Or it could be about whatever I want to make it about, Hopefully something, something less dramatic. Well. I hope you like it. I worked very hard on it. It Makes me want to weep to think of it, and yet I must, I want to tell you all of what it means to make a difference Atop a mountain, I see you there, my love, Please, please love me, there is not much I can say Except, love me. All this daft World. All of its haunting Contradictions, nifty spools out of sense I cause

Rounding the corner, get them, chase them, Go deep into the forest, up the climate. Up, Up

Have you found, the little that speech can give you             back is width enough for a heart in grief to corrode Or two? Sleep, sleep, dear one. I have ye, ye is   much obliged to nurture me myself, but unlike I you, u dont have to me, For I nurture myself well enough already. This someone else in this                 house of mirrors you keep talking about, quaking With unfed genius, and whom is monster, monster,              knocks upon the head, to heel up This phantasm, intimidate it backwards          a little, scorn its brunt, then deftly reconnoiter With it later back at the chasm’s lost wrinkle there where not           one minute of time is spent not laughing about the situation. A light could swiftly get penetrant the brains of the                   unfed genius, the wreck, The wry one, the lost thing betokening all worlds’     wishing that human vanity hath brayed like a horse for, and Prayed, prayed for, to congeal as even the protozoa of a spark at the top of a mountain; to let hope congeal in plenty as the blizzard Of the century to garnish the summit.

You have the prototype, but it is a him, and he is to love what love         had always needed to Be! We mold and mold what we want the world to           be, mold it out of a wish                       Or three,

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .      

II.   Each interesting temperament says hello to me, Before fleeing from me,

They pass and pass like they meant something once but won’t tell Anymore, as I wait to be given back what has been once robbed, still

Hell. What’s the difference really? Been once asking me for the last Of its energies, itself will change, always change. So it goes with The whims of opinion, as to what sits well in one’s stomach,

Or if not that at most just rumbles hungrily there, or gets one’s noticing Depreciating, or not. Anything wld lead me to an answer I’d get besotted of,

Ornate reasons for expression are my thing. Showy excuses for my skewed bind called my life.

That rattle here and there around the point I try to make a success As the voltage is turned on I mark my last of humanity goodbye,

As I remember ur indolence / I so forget my Thoughts, feelings, guilts, shames.

And it is mostly all the same. Watch me empty buckets of sorrow! My eyes. My continual essence is such a pain in the ass. I prefer Additional things in the mix, more than mere sadness. But Our relative experience, though relative, would try to deny Us that even, wouldn’t it? That all could simplify into an urge For relief, something that goes against the little voice That says, These are more than just

Words. But I want them to mean something, really, I really do; want them to bring you places, string You along on their meanings, bobbing and chafing:

Even by faith there being a verbal string to the argument Makes an argument. Reason’s transcendent like That and can make for bitchin’ metaphysical

Recognizingz. What. Something crucial loafs In my empty canister called body. So sue me. It, that is, What I am, doesn’t do anything there but magically

Stays aloof without disappearing: this buried thing: well I Daze myself off into space and meet you there, like, In space: and anyway waiting too long would

Be a rightful hazard for my personality to squeal about In being aloof. I have no ridiculous thing to write But instead forth go into magnifying what is said

Already like a patient requiring ibuprofen by exaggerating The pain that is still pain. More fun is this, this getting Shot with a gun-syringe of aenesthetics: they

Say “Ready for time out” when they do it: You wake up later feeling licked

Like, like a trainwreck, vibrating in freezing AC cold.

Yet if the headache’s needed, then, getting It treated should squelch the purpose. Leave my maladies There, you kno, safe in the trinketbox. Leave me traumatically

Unaided. Like until I hanker badly for an answer myself That I try and remember to give after the longest Period of time possible. So if I can’t,

I want. Feel so stifled. What is important to you: Making sense but making sense new: making poetic Thinking a type of poetry in itself: it works after all:

Let’s ask that question: if I am ambient in my relative Nature, or if the vibe is something more jagged, Which is already something wavy and ambient, An eccentric trick of the mind to woozle itself Into angles of self and pithy creation would Eventually present itself; but do not do it. Yu will not remember how for the life of you. It will just be a picture you see of what you want.       Such ignorance

Fascinates one into playing, like, by their own rules, starting To play with concepts. I want to stick to one but Don’t even have one. Strange taste

In my mouth there is. So much there is of self That committing to one thing, even per page, is Backwards, bawdy, bluntly reasonable tho

Past its secure, random prints the weird entry Glamorizes, then makes a thing: I went to those to Mean something, like, went to the words, I mean:

What of it: this is going to be something I Hopefully do not regret, that my large, shiny being notices as Light through the window, getting reflected on by the closing

Door of a car: don’t doom me to just that though: I am a searcher: I’m trying really hard: doe a deer, Blabla: I have the right wrinkles for to

Explain my argument sideways: planecrash: Runtish reason, bleed me out of you into a body My own, hopefully: fuck my answers

For everything: I don’t care about the bad choices. The, that is, horrible reasoning, is not, is a Way, a new one, to work my way

Through poetic thought: my elbows hurt for example: My back does: a weird taste in my mouth: righteous Diligence, give me some rapport with

These words, craft em like gems that are squeezxed And tormented to life, force it, force it to live, I need This living thing in me to express its repressed

Stuff so long repelled: don’t do me like A normal, hoggish perspective on the matchlit Cave we squander through: through and through,

I impress upon myself impressive gonging shouts, Right?: or do I never mention the invisibleness of What I speak of, you know, outside of just then.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .      

Despite my own personal dilemmas, I have An element unknown by this practice,

Settled in decisive waves of calendar And rotation, space and juxtaposing,

Retracted stuff and statements left bled till Steam lost. I have these unknowavles

Without constraint as things my diction nails To the wall of the page. But I have

Dilemmas, things I create for to Be baffled by them, scorn, growls,

Soggy mittens in wintertime. Nothing Counterintuitive, I always say, gets past me.

I allow those confusions room in my material Cell, breathe out flowering my spent

Petals to a floor of verbiage. OK. What can I say ?? Though ?? Really,

That the cricketsong is unbelievable, The night drinks up that thick

Music; that everything now is considerable, And I decently understand; and that

Everything, even what I do not know, Is important. So as to this,

III.   Constantly, barely on a cuticle Would reality seem to stand for us;

You are not so fine, so tenuous as your situation, which is reality, And which offers up zero places for you to trip and fall into the sky.

Regretfully at that would the whole of reality disappear, as Soon as there were not these gravitational beings humans are, To classify and disseminate reality, which is in other words not What you think it is but what you will never see it as and more,

More than just a pretty thang, due to a sounding sunlight, due to, To say, an obstreperous daygloss over the city; but is in the worlds Behind admitting a lack of a name for this non-language, which Although remarkably loud on the still, static eaves, seems [yes] To have come overnight with the junipers. But the sense of sight,

The sense of sight simply was not auditory. And other things, Were fine, were fine as cuticle. Now, as for the problem of sight,– It was already a completely different sensory-experience, one I watched at once go wither off many roofs like flakes, go silent By the weeping mud round their walls overtook by river, but This not immediately. A sourceless jangling like of jewelry first:

Shattering out-seeming a white sun: a wake of these fragile things. Like paint-chips. Saw something, somehow ornamenting rays,– Wither from my grasping. For back then I’d left the peanut Gallery as per usual, my focus on imagination’s latest fare,

As I walked away from my cute little fucking friends or whoever. They went off none wiser, lolling their tongues At stonyfaced adults, so

I chose pursuing possible phenomena: I sense-guessed some Strange thing off there to my side, and in my sight alone:

It was as light, yet if light had A sound, a fastidious muttering to,

To complement its urging bright, and Brilliantine crisp form, giving

Marker in particular, as I noticed more, those looser, tattered Parts of sun and chidden dun. So as, in physicality or Whatever manifesting this gets called, to make

It sound its shifting throughout all degrees, cajoling and Maneuvering almost as if it had feet tapping steps to take.

I was 10, and though I kept awhile that booming stepping light In thickspun places for my mind to go and mend an ear for, And. Back me to that spot, so that itself the unilateral instant

Of perception would not dim, well so it dimmed, And I forgot the noise;

Cotton fills between my ears at the thought, to the point I you know like wouldn’t barely hear a foghorn; then Aggravation past recalling. I can’t now even know if

Anything is absent. That’s how bad it is. Events, E’en if they’d been in paint, certain ones’re more Past recalling than the bluntest detail

Of whatever I’d kept warm enough of it all, by The fire of possible to picture, there, you Know: in the mind’s eye. More important to Remember the erasure electrodes could feed Than the one they could stifle with a ball-gag.

That raged-out delight in your eye could Seed in you and with enough

Of this obscure hallucinogen consumed, zoom the pneumatic Parturitions what had been waiting to canter out out in hot Speech straight from braincavity, for

The benefit of your local Shaman: Into the brushy groins thus go

The Cocky British Adventurers, searching for the fountain Of youth, or at least some village where they can get high. The voodoo dey is pay to see, like, to cure incontinence;

Don’t tell! By the barrel in transport go things to forgetting; A given day, from spore to spore remits; direction is avoided Like a bad thing so we all go back to where it growed from

In the states. More than inner leagues of a breastbone, This is a serious matter. Or rooms we might Could spend all day a-lounge

Upon our rucksacks waiting for inherited luck To be what haunts us, that to crumble, buckle, Quick to breathe, then nothing,–would not so Succeed: spirit pulls us from the fingers of spirit With grand tweezerpairs,

But: what of the dangerous chemical overlapping, could that not Melt any elated feeling straight between its own two hands Lifting it, fruiting out the cracks, from that elation, once again, Which: are nay pieces of the will to dry up the anima/animus For good: like British testicles in the Rainforest its, your Very hands do not, refuse to

Let you handle, now, because, you Know, it will burn for awhile if even it, whatever is Controlling the nefarious block between

Whatever happiness of a sort and their significant Person: birthed into that happy flesh, that skin, That thing that will remind one, you, of the fabulous,

Unshed lair at the foot of the mean, corrosive stairs, Pregnant with mercy for the steps of light on it only.

Listen: go by that so as to seize new life: if wholly for more Artful-slung ascents, wax the temples of yr head And go under, and send accents of voltage, Pole to pole to pole.

WE ALL OF US are of what WE were,

Which cannot gather ‘mustard’ nor In mustering it up should you go without A sort of wheeling will: well: no soul should be Without a healing will: it which fights between Your lungs and what your heart insists

Was, has been there before: they, uh Will know they are observed And know not to do so There now; this too

Comes as natural As all these, as ventricle. There’s An aqueduct to tamper with.

Mine and mine through it–all the overwhelming shit of it all, For stuff yours. Just, don’t

Besiege, sweat and Sweat to illness; or make it yours; or do you and I,

Walking down the dirt road with our selves styled right in front Of us at the edge of madness–meanwhile, the road is at the edge Of the psychiatric hospital–pursue towards our to us so-so Talismans, like the reveille to break ‘us all’ into morning,

With an empiric dournesss and a poetic somberness like dirty rocks? Nay hope to find for this or that eclogue, a meaning punctual, as

We clean them like pissed Jockys, Answering only for the gold but in a

Locked eye–or interminable, breathless moment. These could Be spied by some among

Us less romantic as the crummy afterburners Of a godhead: but to us and others like ourselves not morsel at all, But at the very head

Of the war, and us the blood-mud of a battered theatre, rocketing For battlefield-next; to capture a frantic vibe or two

As might well make us frantic? To display The snack and succor of our wellbeing again, that is; Perhaps in a happiness the other there, at least

–Amongst these mossy graves: where yours, my, and Our ideologies get bestowed on, stoic although out of order, us, Again. Like some gift cherishing its other one,

We blind to our own cherishing. We tempted to hunker into place

On the flat of a large rock: and still we worry of A frightening mishearing of the argot from the first

To spell you out as tending to follow your arbitrary wisps again, Dodging the spitting of these asps forlorn by the same proxy Sense walks out to let fill for it too, whom try and try in fidgets To tell you realistically: you is, uh

Mercurial to sell your snappy deathtraps To the others sitting hunching In the back of the light, awaiting the unveiling Of The Random Vision: it all, and it will, flies back at you, The one elated: from their dark shelters it comes To make that noise you knew only light to. Then, as the speech

Of one given so much to dreams that it were a Sickness the mind ingratiated unto the Rest gives up the ghost and calls itself the same thing

Given to these corruptible seconds you’d happened to get The high beams on at the correct angle of phrasing-light, and Especially since it was not found, and by it I mean, this

Especial species, while scoping out out of greed for an exotic Metaphysical animal rustling softly somewhere dangerous along The curtain, made entirely of infinities: you

Waited for to steal the show, but, then, kabamm, And we lose it: our salutary mistresses

Delayed the minstrelsy, time melted, weak shooting At a fenced-in target: as we themselves blast

All motors, play chicken with feelings fine as cuticle: the Cheering to get mutuality in a busted zipper halfway Down the coat: I sleep in a cot: don’t feel sorry: for you:

Our someplace mistakes beautifully without any Communication’s dotage, without interest, In it for the art: usher us along this rock a bit, And all to stomp down the feeling.

The freckled derelict impetuous parts Our molded forming spits panoply to graciously, as Our freeze of eye at each other, and with that a dolor of collar And crimp at the shoulder, and hands to arms clasping Tenderness to the hilarious sound of trombones:

To filtered, moribund animosity all is as spiritual adiposity, and to The spine’s own place in hurting is there a weakest when true

Hue. Trickling Minuses down each disc, doth it, doth it doth it, and Bring you to the tomb the tomb, tomb, tomb.

Happiness focused atom-wise to blathering lambs’ limbs’ Context pillowy gets us confuséd fledged from right to left

And then to do, uh, do so is Yet the where where is someplace stronger, smaller. Right eh ?? The speech, argot, recommends its woes Like fashionable trinkets at a gas station. And decides

Us to go down the drain like toiletflush these untimely Dissimilars, once posh, now as but the gourmand’s Misery. Before the game, he ate a bunch of hotdogs,

Came to the eating contest for a snack. Yet which is of tidings Is that being flatlined on nonbeing like a medley of thrown

Sounds through to the end of the roll of the last toilet -paper in the WholeWORLDEver. Crates us as off

We go like in a box to nice otherness, while Seconds remind us of the ghost

In the moon we forgot to call mightily and we are Now stuck in this bricklump desuetude.

In the very moon our trembling lips lie about knowing it Afar, and I care not how long the line spits landscape; Don’t; or does perhaps. I want to speak visions Of colors. And now for another

Thing: this is different because it leaves up to discussion The rather ornamental debacle. Dry squalor.

Heated up desertions of eye. Fickle hold, o hold. Broken record you is. Well: my army had Nothing with it come to much

But a father what that grabbed the attitude off The collar of the young punk with spots on’is faythe. Like golly.

Repetition you let us pay for your drinks And get stabbed like Marlowe in the eye. Shiver, Species. For it is what we tell you do.

Collective unconscious needs dramamine stash, before All civilization hurls into the closest bucket and- -Frightens the children. Pellucid is the sky’s heart. He’ll know what to do and, uh, what forgive.

Something cold in this heart. Heal me, heart. Respond A bit too soon to the call. Discuss politics. Fuck you. And be Young Joyce uncomprehending at the

Christmas table with Old Dante Muckering up the gaffe of talking blunt about

The PRIME MINISTER Bad gaffe made the more.–

I took a thousand stout men and made them soldiers. Still the question was not solved: do we or do we not Exist: I founded lackeys like the Prime Mover I is. I am, Tell me, young lamb, [eyecontact] I am like

Roses sweet-smelling yes. I have an ankle that is a chip off

The shoulder and there is so much you’d never suspect through The blinds: you are blind to much: anything but old rinds I give

You to see. Of cataclysmic woe, Is uncouth to say it comes, betimes Betimes.

I natty up the RansomStash of money, think I hurl in some other dimensionanony

Rubbled out of zeitgeist. Like what’s left of what Was once important. MAKE EVERYTHING EXPLODE Says the mind, to the maker, and dirigible the static Plane being’s on or is not on. I have a backache. A good part of the poem is that you do not

Know who the referent ‘I’ is. Wonder retracting statements From itself is and remains the wonder of those statements It did not pursue, nor highlight.

That’s what I tell yeh. My GOD who how he did it ?? Till next horn’s blowing.

The new fodder’s here.

I look at my watch all pithy. I want to talk about something

Different, Now:

IV.   These moving things, in

Front of my memory are in front there, as if they could be In front: preparing to be remembered. As like water floating On air, an air once obvious lightness, now heavy but only as Waged by its distinction plashing down weightless;

A rose fighting God for a crumb. What I thought mine,

The diviningrod for the gold that is as it is, while The dappled glinting hurlings-out of sun its Buried symbolism: the rod was looking Surly and sad at me

With its inanimate, punk-poker countenance, asking an Arresting conference between myself and all What is in the coming-trough of that

Empty ray my sun begins behind, waiting For the lordly entropy unkind bids for power Wreak of all over the mystified Others’ whispered Commissions to blesséd rekindlings of an ease For suns as mine, and for them

Eagerer plumbs the problem into the general, poetic Selfhood you and I equate to the choral bastion For all the body politic to get unto itself

A final haunt for meetings with those in the field; First, get me to the shallow symbol quicker, for The more is, within, that is

Our fighting, unfound parts, found Out to their believing-to-be-seen, awkward, Aggrandizing root, the more is seen Human all our trickling signs;

As, for example, the professor nodding Dipping glasses from eyes might say

Profoundly, You have me breach into your sociopathy: Behind these displayed tears eyes mutely Carry over bucket by bucket

Past the lids, then Closed goes your roving imagination To the many grunted teachings, wanders to

The place affect and displeasure dwell In commune much as the sun and moon Are. You contrive and contrive Despite a lack of closure. Evil

Grunts; then, the old magician steps upon his Own tricky sidewalk, back broken, spine Flailing out of the flesh like

Sides of things intentionally prized, for Being many-sided, being peripheral, being thus The clamp-down on upon the rift between a Self and self, the murderous wage, a drifting Buoyed survival technique, culminating In the petty boutique where make fancy our

Designer desires. Manically let you grin, let you-

-And find me there and bitterly beneath your skin, Interred, an errant bug clutched by the teeth Of cells, entirely made of mature dismay

At this rattling feature or that, a singing twitch Ersatz dissolves in simply prudery, although the Match is boundless once uncovered to its Eloquent extremes, its funny bets

Atop a covered wagon on the turnpike to Work, ensuing gases here and there, plucking Marred hairs and ingrown nails from the More similar decripitudes of life, yet leaving still

The undone pyre of waxing-worship to Intend itself beyond, beyond a folly, and beyond An enigmatic coach a breed of stag gallops With, like a friend, a friend or fiend,

A whipping to the nakedness our traveling, A scorching of impassioned earthen to What’s the sillier darkness of conceit, deceit, Received by amplifying weeping, or By entrancing the metaphoric tides an Element-electric wouldn’t send

To the chop-house. Let whom lay beneath The tarpaulin conceive this second poem with Next day’s wrathful heat to incubate

Idea, idea of shrouded modern people Messing with themselves with chemical And flirty doctrines flirting on the bilious; We are about what sadly is not serious.

And you, cheap gourmand, upon his food And slaughtering by the minute every truth His 'times’ replayed like plays in college football

Or, which multiplied disheartening with Kids; which antiquated meme and vine impelled To the furnace, and were meant to be an irony Without a foreground, or just merely funny Will, in time, call all of itself lamed

By richer generations whom do not tie severely The knot so early, nor that one of frame-of-mind,

Nor vicious as the adding of more poem to This poem, this tape, this wrong, this blare,

This carousel, could our analyses of flickering face Be less human than the rest. Dispassionate tools.

.   .   .     .     .

To jealous the color of every real ordinary. Mass composites are what the want want To be: load up my carriage, run faces by me For the right one to win

Me over, roam grim sealingwax doubles Like they were the robotic asswipe Your linear ability commands to howitzer The shit out of. I want

To destroy all the air. Then of course, would fain destroy This feigned couscous, by words Jellied in the fridge next to the words, and which gets Warmed up, connotes feelings words alive Trumpet menagerie by menagerie. Flown out of itself

The memory wants back to mentioning, Dries off on the water: the weight of all of this Wants to invite God and the rose To brunch, you know, just to talk

About maybe focusing instead on the sad Memory, unsaid. Split like atom

The discontented flash of thundering. The only thing deeper is unwanted

By you, though you think you do, but no, you Do not, do not know what you

Want from these tears the Result of a brief squabble that should Have been rightly emptied into

The Well Of Lidded Impactfulnation, I mean, man, imaginpainshun. The sidewalk entered a flaccidity unbefore Seen, saturated by these decked freckles of Unbelievable, haunting rain as

The city burned just to get some light On this one page in shadow or Night merely spilled,

Rotting, all over this oops And contracted by the mean tacklers Of bulls. Then revert to those gutted, realize

The pen is dusty and empty, the tears A stupid fragility that makes broke the back Of a mountain not included in

The latest Jake Gyllenhaal deluxe set Of withered, weathered - - sexual frustration In the form of abstract painting full of themselves That is, mainly stuffed with their own selves, Which, pretty much, is everybody you Just had fight with, like, what

They are like, since we’re filled with Ourselves or at worst another fills or is filled By us, which is dangerous especially For emotional bohemians on the klutzy radar Muttering germs of new shit In the corner, like, the

Corner of the crooning voice you can’t place, Can’t raise, faze, amaze, or daze; What ridiculous fun it is to chop the world in half, Leaving only robotic faces tunefully chosen In essence. Maybe you lose the song But it comes back early once That nifty ‘copsiren simulator’ busts Everyone fleeing from the party, and an Avalanche of high folk pour out

Like tears of once what was, unto lids, The resultant dripping, squeezed into their lighted Aspect, performing light again

On the random Chair of Life where drunk poet sit, Whispering saturated sidewalks, eating couscous

By themself, since everyone of us has turned Into a wax rendition of the invisible, and by this Needle of a difference doth split the chained

Opines of unhealable hunger’s dust Where the bulls we fear once were, are not At present.

Dance, dance, ludicrous, failing mind, for nigh you won’t again So mourn, you, rebel from the rest of yourself and die,

Remove in revving happiness up what hath Embraced you, baffled, from two steps away.

It is the corner’s voice. It is the coroner’s voice, bespeaking Valuable Soul, but sans shirt, shoe

. .  .   .    .     .      .

truly keep me in your bad massacred heart that lunges against your ribcage like it’s selling something it’s like an animal against you you know

find out what lingers between you and beats and stales there and planetary in the dust without a friend but the one you pay for

without an anchor you live your life to listen for some kinetic power somewhere there

unduly and lacking but what you have pawed at for so long now you have

it so live to stir people do such well this man is a tired broken thing wearing an old tattered coat he is grimacing against the bitter cold and

of his way of writing he is sure that he is without an echo back to himself peacefully he lights a fire beneath his fragrant ass he is of the metronome of fart and feeling in feeling

it is in the basics you reach for the flower in my lungs through my throat you have an ascertaining of body in your body

you wild as fire wrinkle orange and yellow separately of it you are the fire of beauty of both

you stick to listening to what’s between the chambers of desire your mind goes crazy and gets stuck in yet

without feelings without the hope of feelings you still feel you are the argot of feelings you want to waste your life trying to fix me I want to taste my life in your ice cream’d hands I want to desire the reality behind things a bit

I want to hire another human to attend to my morals and come upon a spree of finite conclusions for me

our register of voice makes enough of that for the two of us to hear it however low

to wander throughout and divide the equation we would have solved using another’s breathy brain

tell me I am true for what I think of that is that I am untrue tell me my own wrinkles of fire again despoil meaning from the craning of my neck to look upwards at a sky filled with myself filled with the clouds of myself and it makes

me go away into the feelings try me with those feelings and keep my hunch cracked like the tar across the road reality follows

driven by those high and fruitful voices…

[theherblifeblog]

Spotlight Series: Amie Jay of Mommy's Inside Voice

Amie Jay is just like any other woman out here just trying to live her life and love her family. The difference though, is that she'll happily show you her dorky side, her vulnerable side and sometimes even her angry mommy side. Amie is the writer behind the wildly inspiring and downright ridiculously funny blog Mommy's Inside Voice. She shares stories of raising three little boys and of her sweet marriage with her husband who grows medical marijuana for legal cannabis patients. 

Recently, Amie came out to her audience as a cannabis advocate and although she was worried she would offend some readers she tells us that she hasn't seen a whole lot of pushback and that in general her community - made up primarily of mothers - has been nothing short of gracious, curious and accepting.

We think that its great that women like Amie are using their platforms for healthy, honest dialogue, not just about cannabis but to help show all of us that we're all dealing with challenges and that we will all be alright. 

 Visit Amie on her website or here on her Facebook Page  or here on her hilarious Instagram feed. 

How did you get involved in the cannabis industry? 

I met my husband online. I was living in Calgary, he was living on the coast. We chatted for a few months before he decided to hop a plane to see if "this" was as real as we thought it was.  Spoiler alert... Sparks flew, guys.  My new hottie boyfriend was a successful musician, and I was jazzed!  I moved out to the coast shortly after meeting in person, with an acceptance into the University of Victoria. A few days after moving in, he took me for a little drive, wanting to show me where he works. I was picturing a recording studio. Or a lounge. Instead, he walked me into a great big government regulated medical marijuana grow.  As a sheltered farm girl from the prairies, I was raised believing that "pot" was a dirty drug for lazy people. Obviously realizing that the man that I loved was not only a "pothead" but growing it was how he made his living, I was forced to confront my own opinions on marijuana.  He helped me open my mind up to the possibility that what I grew up believing wasn't factual.  With his help, my own research and spending time around the plants myself, I began to realize what a criminal LIE I was told. WE have been told.

Tell us a little bit about your website

I write a blog. I make people laugh. I speak hard truths, and I have a passion for connecting people. I want to open minds, eliminate judgment and encourage people to embrace themselves for who and what they are. Each voice, unique and authentic, is SO needed. Especially in our world right now.

What time does your day typically start and what does a normal day look like to you?

My day starts whenever my children come and poke my face, usually tattling on a brother for stealing a Lego or asking for cereal on repeat until my brain has been jolted enough to respond.

What is your vision for your company going forward? 

My blog was a journey of passion. It was an outlet for a young Mom of 3 little boys under 3. I was drowning in my newfound responsibility, struggling to figure out who I was as a person, not just Mom.  I had no thoughts for what it would turn into. I honestly doubted whether my own friends or family would read it. It was just for me.  Once it was live, I realized how desperately we all need the realism. My hard, ugly, vulnerable truths were making people realize that they are ok. That there's nothing wrong with feeling anything but perfect. That we are literally all living parallel lives with minor differences. That we really all have pretty much the same goal...to be loved. To be safe. To be healthy, and to be happy.  Now that Mommy's Inside Voice has become bigger than I had anticipated, I'm just riding the wave of where it takes me! I'm still a work-at-home Mom to 3 little beasts, and they still have my number one priority. But I think that I can use my platform to spread a really important message. No matter what happens with this "career", I want that to maintain as my motive.  Having "followers" makes me feel highly uncomfortable. I am no different than any of you. I am just an ordinary person. I want friends. I want connection. That's what I'm trying to build. Acceptance. Of ourselves. Of others. Understanding. Empathy. Open-minded growth. Empowerment. Community.  That is my vision.

What would an ideal post-prohibition society look like to you?

EDUCATION! We have been denied basic FACTS on an incredible medicine for way too long. Knowing firsthand the power and potential of marijuana, I'm really hoping that the government switches to sanity and funds in-depth studies on it.  We deserve to know. We deserve to feel comfortable exploring a natural alternative, without fear of judgement from those that are ignorant to the truth. That has been a consequence of the wrongful prohibition, and it is the responsibility of the powers that be to reverse it and equip all of us with the opportunity to utilize it. Parents need to be advised on how to speak to their children about it, given facts to share so that we can all move forward feeling enlightened and secure. Safe medicine. Newly regulated pesticides and fungicides that lead to quality product. Craft markets that give consumers choices on medicine and whom they want to support.  SMART technology that keeps people on the roads SAFE without incriminating wrongfully.  Ya know...I could go on and on. Such an exciting time!

What was your first experience with cannabis like? 

I remember one of my best friends was a HUGE fan of cannabis. He was a regular user, raved about how much it helped him and how he way preferred it to winding down with a glass of wine like I did.  I decided to let him pop my green cherry.  We equipped ourselves with a ridiculous amount of snacks, several frozen pizzas, and lots of water.  I didn't realize that, as a first-time toker, I needed to go SLOW.  I got out of my freaking MIND high.  I was convinced that the painting on the wall was moving. I thought he had laced it with something. I made him take me home, I got butt naked, climbed into bed but couldn't sleep. I kept waking myself up because I was paranoid that my friend was still there and was going to see me naked.  It was a terrifying experience! It left me wondering about the sanity of weed-enthusiasts. Ya'll are crazy.

Tell us about some of the challenges you face working with cannabis

I have recently decided to go public with my involvement with cannabis.  A vast majority of the readers on my page are mothers. A lot of them American.  I have to try to keep in mind that the headspace and opinion that is widely engaged here in British Columbia isn't adopted in most other places. Weed is still highly shameful. It's still viewed as dirty and for "drug addicts". I knew that coming out about my own experiences with cannabis, I would lose some people. But to me, staying quiet about what I know was only fueling the fire of ignorance.

What are some solutions you've found? 

Accepting that not everyone is going to understand you and your choices is a must. That goes for everything in life, not just the cannabis industry. Hoping that speaking intelligently about my relationship with it, how it has helped me both physically and emotionally, the miraculous medical advancements that I have seen firsthand (through my husband's cannabis consulting)...I'm hoping that it urges more people to do their own research. I don't care if you're not interested in using it. I don't care if it's "not your thing" or you don't like it. All I want is for you to understand it, and let other people do what they need to do.

What is one thing you wish everyone knew about cannabis? 

I wish everyone knew the science behind cannabis. I wish they understood how it interacts with the body's endocannabinoid system, how it heals, reversing both symptoms and cause. It isn't just to get "high". It isn't to escape. It is a genuinely potent medicine that interacts seamlessly with the human body!

What is your favorite way to consume cannabis?

I take Charlotte's Web CBD oil almost every day. I find that it really helps me manage my anxiety and pain that I experience from endometriosis. If I'm having a particularly hard day, I sneak off and take a puff or 2 from my vaporizer. I'm not someone that likes to feel "out of it", so the vaporizer is a perfect solution for me! It leaves me feeling relaxed and happy, without putting me on the couch.

Concentrate or flower? Why?

Flower! For the reasons I listed above ;)

Do you think cannabis legalization will change the world for the better? Why?

I think that, if done properly, it has the potential to change the world. If education is highlighted and valued, if people understand it and use it responsibly, it can shape the future. Eliminating the need for harmful and addictive pharmaceuticals, providing a safe alternative to alcohol. Inducing relaxation, creativity, connection and interaction. All things that we need right now. Honestly...how cool would Trump be if he started hitting the bong? Not cool, but not as much of a dick, I'm pretty sure.

What advice would you offer to another woman who is looking to get into the industry?

Work hard! Don't be intimidated. Hold yourself with confidence and let your voice be heard. There IS space for you. You ARE needed. Being open, speaking with intelligence and integrity. You're a fuckin' rockstar and we need badass feminine voices ringing loudly in shifting times.  Get it girl.