In my childhood, we told hero stories around our dinner table. A friend of my father's had been "called" to serve God in the Amazon and died from three arrows by a tribe apparently unhappy to have him there. I never really understood or was told the politics of(more) the story--that it was their home and that this stranger probably didn't even know their rules or want to learn them. What haunted me was that this friend of my father--it was even in a newspaper clipping--had been called to this "horrible" place and died.
I was a skulking kind of a child, the kind who broods and wonders perhaps about too many things. Among my obsessions was this friend of my father's who was a husband and father himself who had been called to the Amazon. Would I be called to the Amazon or to a similar jungle, called inexorably then hunted by my conscience until I went? Would I? My parents had been called, first to Japan and then Brazil. I read stories about callings to distant countries like China and India all the time. There were frequent martyrdoms. It could happen to me.
It was around that time, from the time I could comprehend, and then able to read that I realized that I was not a good Christian. I wasn't brave enough to go wherever I would be sent, and I'd had some fairly bad luck in life so far and sensed that bad luck might follow me onto the mission field. I just knew I would have to be a missionary because my parents were and I would die somewhere alone not knowing the rules. These thoughts followed me around like bats.
when the world's about to end
and everything is crashing around me
i can call on her (if she doesn't call on me first)
she lives inside me, a nice shady little corner
mossy and full of wildflowers
there's tea and chocolates if she wants
(more) but she prefers the combat
the rough and tumble kickpunch
the smell of sweat
you are an amazon, she tells me
stop forgetting what you already know, she says
you are your own gift, she states matter of factly
then laughs, husky, smoky and bullet-like
i can feel her pride if i'm quiet enough
when i question who the real warrior is
she says, you are me and i am you, and you are an amazon
sometimes i remember
that's when i weapon-up
and i am an amazon
ready for battle(less)
said to me
when my user
(more) was busy
"Why were you made
like you are?
You don't look
like a real girl."
And I said
"Oh, no, sweetie,
I do. We were
I am only the petite version.
There are many choices
available. We come in
categories such as
Dainty or Voluptuous,
all the way to Amazon,
though they are more
expensive and less of
User feedback says.
"But you are
We are not
We need a
And I replied, and I may have smiled. An error occurred in my coding just then.
I am here
with a dustpan
to clean up
And I smiled then, for sure, displaying even teeth.
And she walked away, slow like, back hunched
against what she saw
Why do we live after death?
So that what we start may be ended.
Why do we die after life?
So that what we end may be renewed again.
Why do we start what cannot be finished?
(more) So that they journey may continue.
Why do we finish what was not yet underway?
So that some things may be laid to rest.
-Ur-Fabricator Song of the Creatrix, from the time before the Schism.(less)