Stop Fucking Children

I posted this today on FB:

“What’s the one disease you wish you could get rid of? Cancer? AIDS?”

“The desire to fuck children.”

after this hit my stream:
http://www.local8now.com/content/news/TBI-Knoxville-Police-arrest-23-men-in-human-trafficking-sting-380265771.html 

The question about disease curing wasn’t prompted by the article. I’m asked about it every now and again and usually decline to answer it because, well, it just annoys me.

After sharing this, I was asked “Couldn’t you say it differently?”

My response:  “How much more comfortable would you like me to make this for you?”

No. I will not say it differently because the physical, mental and emotional ripping apart of children for the sake of one’s orgasm or control or jollies isn’t ‘having sex’. We are so inured and numbed to the word rape that to  ‘raping kids’, in my opinion, has made no impact.

There are established, not-under-the-radar pipelines that feed young boys and girls to Buddhist monks, preachers, police, teachers, the Taliban, and tourists that work as smoothly as those moving water and oil. That movement requires conscious collusion with those mentioned above and the refusal of other citizenry to be consciously aware.

I wrote this two years ago on these pages and am putting them out there again:

Please don’t.

Please don’t fuck your children.

Please don’t fuck your friend’s children.

Please don’t fuck the friends of your children.

Please don’t procure children to fuck.

Please don’t put on the priestly, monkish, motherly, doctorly, lawyerly or powerlike vestments as a way to fuck children.

Please don’t procure children to be fucked by those in the uniforms of seeming safety.

Please don’t purchase travel from companies that promote those children’s procurement.

Please don’t support those governments that actively encourage the procurement of those childern to bolster their tourist trade. As if the intimate touching of children is a trade.

Please don’t use your leverage as terrorist to steal children to fuck or as teacher to fuck children.

Please don’t rent your children out to be fucked. Please don’t trade your children for rent.

Please don’t finger or fondle your children.

Please don’t finger or fondle your friend’s children.

Please don’t finger or fondle the friends of your children.

Please don’t procure children to finger or fondle for yourself, your friends or those who create a false sense of safety for the rest of the world. Please do not support agencies and governments that do so.

Please do not use your finger to entice them into being fucked.

As if the parting of the softest parts are separate from the heart.

Please don’t use your finger to threaten & silence them after you’ve fucked them.

Please don’t ignore that knowing that says, “I know that child is getting fucked.”

Please don’t ignore the child that tells you he is being fucked or she has been fucked. Whether child or grown.

The pain you cause lives on–whether you do the fucking, procuring of fucking or ignoring of fucking–long past your pleasure or the lack thereof. It lives on in psyches and cells; in muscles and memory. It creates chasms for those withouth strength to fall into and fight out of if they can. It lingers in language and fear. It doesn’t diminish with time but diminishes the glorious being they were gifted at birth and can only reclaim by working much harder than you did to create the fuck-fact and facade behind it.

The sorrow, grief, despair, disappearances and disassociations, rage, sadness, stoney spine, armoured and broken-hearted, guarded natures grow up and into selves that cannot see their original & lasting sanctity because your sin has obscured them.

How simple is it to not. fuck. children.

For those of you who have sought relief from the secrets, the invasion of your sacred space, and need sanctuary: I see you. I feel you. I am you. I believe you. I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Beyond measure. Beyond all boundaries.

For those who rescue and resuscitate those whose pain is enfolded in the fabric of their being: I see you. I feel you. I am you. I honor you. I love you.

Beyond measure. Beyond all boundaries.

Please, please. Whoever you are, in all of those places you are. Please don’t fuck any more children. Please don’t begin fucking children. Please ask for help. Please, by all measures and definitions of what we all consider holy. Please stop. Please don’t.

Because fucking children is fucking them up; some for life, some into an early death; some into the despair and disease of withholding weight of the secrets that their bodies can’t handle. Because fucking children fucks up families and communities and safety zones and security blankets and sexualities and futures for healthy, yummy, exploratory, orgasm into the universe sex.

Stop. Fucking. Children. You’re uncomfortable? I won’t stop saying it because it’s devastating in ways you can’t imagine unless you’ve been fucked as a child, it can’t be cleaned up, it’s not meant to be meme-ified or prettified.

 

Deadly Devotion

To  cry “Save our Mother”

while prying

open the thighs of her daughters,

slashing and burning through souls…

 

To dance for Durga and honor the cow

while murdering

their  brothers in skin and sinew

incensing  streets with iron-clad odor….

 

To dutifully bow to the East

with desire

to bend little boys over at the waist…

 

To lay flowers at the feet of the Virgin

while planting Los Desaparecidos

and mulching them with lies….

 

To pray in my name for  bounty

and well-being

while blaspheming the same

 in bloodlust…

Devotion was never meant to be deadly. Those who let the blood of others in any holy name, in any name of any god or God, are beyond hypocrisy. Those who would diverge from their devotion to cause harm to the least of these are apostasy in action. Those who praise and bully from the pulpit are neither prayerful or praiseworthy.

Belittling or betraying the connection between humanity and the holy, to serve as fear-monger, lyncher, and liar and money-changers at the temple of greed does not offer hope, share love, or imply sacrifice worthy of divine notice.

Supporting and replicating those processes and their perpetrators in the here-world, does not give one special access to any after-world. Nor  is it an loving reflection of spiritual communion or any kind of community.

These are not acts of any devil other than ourselves and we have reached a point where we need to decide if our ‘devotion’ is of that replicating the fierce love of those we claim fidelity to or if we’re going to continue false offerings for favors while acting in opposition to those loving aspects they represent. Do we choose to help and heal or harm?

 

Joy Abandoned

Taken from a FB Q & A yesterday:

Joy left in November and only shows her face briefly. Holding it together doesn’t seem to allow for joy. How can I invite joy in to my life again and trust that it will come?

Joy doesn’t leave. It’s not the emotion’s responsibility to show itself to you. And, it doesn’t have a singular nature of, say, showing up in a high or grandiose action or activity. It’s there. There’s no need to ‘trust that it will come’; it doesn’t abandon or retreat or hide behind the couch waiting to jump out and surprise you. Why are you not seeing it? If you want to, all you have to do is look and allow yourself to feel it, that’s your responsibility. You can start with the mirror.

 

Saying What?

It’s been nearly two years since I first heard my Beloved crew collective shout “SPEAK” to me. As I watched coverage of the Charleston church shooting at Melynnda Button‘s house, that command rolled through my head and heart and I shouted right back, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?1 DON’T KILL EACH OTHER!! THEY FUCKING KNOW THAT!!!”

Then I stomped into the kitchen for coffee, the universe opened up and the Old Ladies rolled in to get my ass to Sundance. But, still, that command rattled the head and heart. Say what, exactly? To whom, exactly?

A month later, at a burger joint with a friend–gorging on burgers and fries and her awakening experience–Black Elk joined the fray and said to her, “Ask her. She knows.” In the ladies room, no less. What.the. FUCK DO I KNOW!!?! said in return, quietly because this time we were in public.

The Old Ones came down from the hills of York, MT (again, while there was burger eating happening) to say, “Speak, child. Speak.”

My big-ass, burly Wankiyan interrupted comings and doings at Standing Rock last autumn to say, “WE TOLD YOU WHAT TO DO ON OCTOBER 4, 2013!!” And, of course, he interrupted someone else to pass this nifty, angry nugget on. At least it wasn’t in the ladies room this time. My response was only to shake my head, wonder about how I could be fucking up something so simple, and head to the only way I could find what they were talking about–to my blog and here on good ol’ FB (because, God forbid, I actually write all this shit down.) And, I found it: https://www.facebook.com/groups/442500839195758/?fref=nf And, I shrugged with something resembling shame but had no outcry b/c ‘what the fuck do I have to say?’

Two weeks ago, another lovely of the invisible persuasion, entered into (blessedly, a willing and unafraid friend) to say, “Grab a pen.” And, she did. And, among other things, said, you guessed it, “Speak.”

And I asked again, much more quietly than two years ago, “What the fuck do they want me to say?” There’s been a progression of anger, incredulity, shame to regret. Regret that I only know what I know when I know it. And what I do know and it’s expression of it hasn’t been enough.

At one point I thought by sharing here interesting and inspiring stories from others was the way to share/show the blessing that surround us. I don’t know if others felt the way I did when I read with fascination, interest or awe those things that the artistry of science, sculpture and movement of bodies–human and non–, gifts four own natural state and the nature around us. But I shared hoping that they’d survive in the heart weather than be lost in the chaos and cacophony.

I’d previously given up on sharing my own explorations and unfolds because there didn’t seem to a healthy response that I felt I needed. But as they keep pleading and demanding i speak, I keep stumbling. I thought that last summer’s public Clarion Call (https://godatthekitchensink.com/2016/06/16/clarion-call/) would be enough or that this past March’s speaking myself into existence (https://godatthekitchensink.com/2017/03/13/before-and-again/) was enough. It’s apparently not.

I no longer wonder who I am or why I am. Those are clear to me. The how of it is not. I thought that others who can see would share that in a way that would help The Voice not feel so lost or alone while the throat burns and chokes. I mean, it must be right here, right? It is electric, it’s begging to be released and I don’t know what to say. Sometimes it feels like it’s merely a case of the glasses on top of the head or keys right there on the dashboard–so close and yet so far away–and other times, like now, it’s nothing but a mass of confusion. How to be that which has been prayed into existence but not believed? How to say what has already been said in a way that will be met without fear but with hope? How to speak softly enough to inspire conversation, not add to the cacophony? These are the things I don’t know.

I do know that if I don’t engage somehow, I’ll wither like those who’ve come before me who, in their fear, refuse to be who they are. Their bodies and brains begin shutting down as their heart-fire begins to dim when it’s their time to shine. The fiery pinprick in the throat will morph into its own version of dimming if it’s not given voice. I just don’t know what to say. Except: I love you. Maybe for now that’s enough.

Speaking Silence

The waters wend

their way around me,

Wrapping around my legs

with a ‘shhhhhh….

Speak.’

Snake and otter stand

on end,

Hood open and head cocked

waiting…..

‘Speak’.

Ancient echoes and memories

course through veins,

entering others uninvited

saying…

‘Speak.’

 

Old Ones come from the hills

with a gentle plea to

‘Speak, child…

Speak.’

 

The throat burns

yearning to know

the words to

‘Speak.’

 

This thing, these things that

the heart burns with

 a knowing I must know

somewhere these the words to answer

‘Speak.’

 

With something more than silent love,

to speak those things for which there may be no words

but they are waiting to be heard again.

 

Hiding Places

Tucked away

beyond the reach.

Reaching out to give

succor and safety.

Only momentarily, though.

We were always found.

 

Now, we need to be found again.

Seen.

For ourselves.

To replace fear with love,

Pity with compassion;

To air out the dark corners

and step into the peace we are,

the peace we bring.

Be found. Be seen. Be loved. To love.

There is no longer any need to hide.

Rise.

Come out from behind the hiding place.

Shine, love.

Love. Shine.