Un-rant Pulse lowered

I’m still angry – it is my body protesting

My Pulse still races with a frustration and despair I cannot name or that words fail to capture

It’s interesting how the world suddenly sees diversity and attempts to explain it away, so many lenses refracting light, colours strong and bright, rainbows lost in the white, no longer in-sight

Not one family member or straight friend checking in – asking – wondering about my well-being, invisible in front of them

Who I am, outwardly concealing a truth that dare not speak its own name, let me remind those who do not get it:

It is a crime to be me in parts of the world, I can be legally put to death, I can be arrested, tortured or sent to a conversion camp. In the past I could have been institutionalised, had shock therapy, deemed mentally unwell

I can be me at a price – always a price – always – but I like me and I refuse to be afraid, but I am wary, cautious, alert, my heightened sensitivity a gift one I would never give up

This event was not bullying, harassment or some bad taste joke to get a few laughs or mock – it is not a misunderstanding. It was an act of genocide

It is what it is – it should not be denied and yet the media continue to side step into the shadows that ignorance casts

But light is always moving, and so is my grief and the patterns of my thinking shift to supporting my community – everywhere.

Bruises – beyond skin deep

I don’t bruise easily. I know that’s a good thing but sometimes I will hurt myself with witnesses who verify the severity of the incident with ‘oooh that’ll be a nice bruise’ and so I would wait…checking daily for the tell tale signs of pigmentation. Disappointment usually ensued as my body refused to give up its haematocritic contents into the interstitial spaces beneath my skin. So even if I wanted to describe the situation my body refused to co-operate and produce the visual proof to go with my usually verbose and ever so slightly exaggerated story.

But that changed recently with the appearance of a fantastic bruise on my arm. Problem is I can’t actually remember how I got it. I love the irony of that. I’ve got a rough idea but really the fun has been in watching it emerge over the last week like a slow kaleidoscope turning greens, greys, yellows and browns. Now fading with the healing process nearly complete it reminded me of how we might ‘bruise’ in other ways and perhaps not see the colour changes but sense both the pain and bleeding of life forces and other subtle energies can be felt. When we are knocked or crushed spiritually it can seem as though the pain might never end. The coalescing of hurt can feel like a physical haematoma, palpable.

In a few days the temporary tortoiseshell tattoo will be no more. Time to spin a few colourful yarns.