Art therapy is...

Sometimes real life

Becomes shriveled and warped.

A red flag here and there... then more,

Fusing into one bloody mess.

Instead of affection

I get indifference or malice.

My basic comforts are sabotaged

Because I refuse to be an accomplice

In lifestyle of self-harm and degradation.

Because I separate myself

From all things repulsive,

I am being deprived

Of the good ones that came

In the same package.

Dance hall burned down,

So I have nowhere to practice.

Sweat lodge turned into a druggie hut,

The sloppiest place I’ve ever seen

So bathing equals battle

Off grid, like the pioneers handled it —

But they belonged in another time.

And to me, being thrown centuries back

In such humiliating manner

Is a punishment.

Now electricity is cut off.

I’ve been without power for a week —

And he did nothing.

A genius of art and science

Turned into a dark elf

In the circle of rotten mushrooms.

I begged him and bugged him,

Pressed into the corner of survival,

The way I used to be back in childhood.

Is this what I came here for

All the way across the ocean and continents?

But just like back then,

I am determined to live

To tell the tale.

I have no solid proof

That he did it on purpose, all those things

But I see a stable pattern

Of ‘I-don’t-give-a-shititis’.

Eventually he did help... somewhat.

But my car batteries for solar storage

Didn’t charge for days...

Most likely ruined.

“You just have to be patient,” he says

And keeps smoking his magic powders

That take him further away

Each day.

This morning I located

Yet another car battery, outside.

He’s been using it but didn’t offer it

When I desperately needed one.

I measured its capacity with the voltmeter:

Way above 12, and mine are only 11...

What the hell, I grabbed it

And hooked it up... finally something.

But boy, was he pissed.

He blamed me of ruining

The other batteries —

Those he most likely had drained,

Negligence or else I don’t know...

Then he took a pile of his dirty clothes

And threw them right in my way

Instead of taking them

To where he said he’d wash them.

Another express-mess in my face

Because he knows how much I hate it.

He figured I’d be forced to move it

While he’s chilling in his lair,

And that would give him an excuse

To call me compulsive.

I did let people know...

Everyone agrees

That the drugs had hijacked him

And help is needed.

Yet he thinks everyone is wrong,

He is misunderstood

And I am bossy.

I’ve been offered a temporary shelter

And storage for my valuables,

In case things go to hell.

They’re on their way.

But I am reluctant to leave.

I’ve been down that route before:

Couch-flying, transitional housing... Done with it.

Seriously, are ALL men defective

When it comes to relationships,

Or it’s just me picking the wrong ones?

Is all they do is — make promises, then break them,

Leave a woman destitute

And go for the next one (or a fix)?

Is each man I ever choose,

Over others btw,

Going to be toxic to me?

Shall I give up on them all together,

Because I’m too tired of crap

And trying again seems like the dumbest shit, ever?

Like — Foxy, time to learn:

Men are damaged goods, and don’t you touch them

With a six foot pole.

That is, when a loving touch is needed

But all I get is ‘meh’.

What I need is a plan,

And plans without resources are no-go.

I asked around about jobs... Nil.

Not that I want one,

But I need money.

Funny I know.

But these days it’s all dark humor.

I can’t just move and be stuck

In a dead end, nowhere,

Without my own place or income,

In times of global plague.

Here’s the thing:

This place owns me.

Those mountains — a huge dragon-cat,

Evergreen trees its fur,

Gentle wind — its purr.

Sun, moon and stars — its eyes,

Watching over me.

Plants, animals and birds its agents,

Protecting and providing.

Whatever the new place might be,

It doesn’t know me

But here I’m cared for and loved

By nature spirits

And a couple of true friends.

Yet the most important is missing

And this is when art steps up,

Like the fairy who had the last word

When Sleeping Beauty to be was getting cursed.

I write myself out of pain,

I dance myself out of the dark,

I paint myself out of despair

But none of the above is enough.

Because, as my book hero, my Animus had admitted,

He was only singing for Her.

To be heard,

To be noticed,

To be loved.

Each poem and story,

Each Dance,

Each art piece

Is my message in a bottle.

What are the odds

That He will read and understand it

In that one-of-a-kind way:

“OHMYGODHOLYSHITICANTFUCKINGBELIEVETHISPINCHME!!!”

That’s what I mean.

I want my message to strike him like lightning,

To set his heart on fire,

To make him long for me

Like I’m his air to breathe.

To fill his mind with ‘impure’ thoughts,

Because to hell with piety.

I want him to lose his head over me

And come get me

While I’m still holding on.

I’m a Sleeping Beauty all right...

Decades of forced slumber

Count as centuries.

I don’t know who he is.

My Animus has many reflections

And the one meant for me is... which one?

I ran into mirrors before

As unyielding as brick walls —

Frozen, brittle, leaving me out in the cold

So alone I could as well be marooned

On the dark side of the Moon.

I feel like my time has run out.

I’m inhaling cosmic emptiness

Numbing my insides

With the touch of death.

I must be frozen solid

But somehow the tears

Always find the way out...

Salt repels evil.

There must be enough

In all those tidal pools over the years

To put a circle around me

And work the magic.

But my battery is running empty.

DC power cords, tongues of sun serpents,

Are split in two — positive and negative.

As a female, I must be the latter

But it doesn’t matter —

The other end is lost,

And there goes my positivity...

No spark, no life.

I gather all my might,

All my remaining courage,

All my skill,

And put it to work,

While I still can.

I only write for Him,

I only dance for Him,

I only make art for Him —

To be seen,

To be found,

To be held,

To be loved.

While I’m still alive

And it’s not too late.

Because each art piece, dance

And written story

May be the last one.

Here’s my message in a bottle,

Or prayer, same as magic spell...

The point is, if it works.

If you’re the one for me,

If you exist,

Whether I know you or not,

Let it be loud and clear.

The way you do it best —

Sing Dreams to life

Sing Dreams to life

Sing Dreams to life.

November 29, 2020. N.B.