Cisgender: denoting or relating to a person whose gender identity corresponds with the sex registered for them at birth; not transgender.

Philosophy: the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality, and existence, especially when considered as an academic discipline.

If, as a species, we ever come to the point where the phenomena of men identifying as men and women identifying as women becomes a philosophical study, as if reality were something subjective, we will have achieved a level of hubris beyond even biblical proportion.

We might just as well spend our time asking why an acute triangle identifies as an acute triangle and not an obtuse triangle. After all, it's just a label. The conversation would be a waste of every single moment spent. Change the acute label all you want, it will not change the fact that none of the angles are equal to, or more than, ninety degrees. Nothing would change the facts.

If, however, we were to discuss, academically, the phenomenon of non-cisgender, philosophically or psychologically, we might actually come away with some new areas of thought. Likewise, we could discuss the psychological integrity of a person who genuinely believes that an acute triangle can become obtuse simply by demanding that other people refer to the acute triangle as obtuse, but regardless of the academic conclusion, the conclusion will never be anything other than academic.

Put a stone in my shoe,

walk a mile or two

and let the cold air brace me,

take me far from nothing

to something else entirely.

And the sun shines in uncovered eyes

my breath takes on it's own life

burning muscles tear against the ground

somehow I'm running and chasing the clouds.

Wind up bleeding, breathing hard

and the feet are in pain, there's a dagger in my heart

and somehow I'm suffering all over again

found through the pain, and grounded again.

Clinging on to life, precious blood and movement

even in routine there can be sanctification

somehow all roads lead to home

and the fire in the sky guides my walk by night

as I hold on to that which rends me and

lends me a perspective that I hope to understand.

When you're living still there is no loss that can take you

until the time comes to go over that final hill

and be acquainted with the maker.

Oh, the faith it takes to live that way,

and the trust that comes with answers

undeniable guideposts and bring purpose to pain

so we only suffer shortly.

We will only suffer shortly.

i thought i saw

in the window

my lost love.

my doctor told me

it was grief.

i thought i saw

in the window

my old enemy.

my doctor told me

it was bitterness.

i thought i saw

in the window

a glimpse of the Grim.

my doctor told me

it was fear.

yet the last thing i saw

was the worst thing of all:

i thought i saw

in the window

myself.

my love, gone.

my enemy, gone.

even death,

the uncomfortable comfort,

gone.

i was alone.

and as i watched myself i saw

my skin begin to ripple,

my eyes began to bulge

my hair began to fall.

i was aging before my eyes

each second a decade of time.

with the last of my strength

i clawed for the door

took the bus into town

and knocked on death's door.

and my doctor told me

with a youthful smile,

that he appreciated

my donation.

my words are a CABLE,

tying together PARAGRAPHS

regardless of the DISTANCE.

each letter is an EQUATION

built up of imaginary numbers.

my words are my

vulnerability,

opening up the beating heart

and hoping that no one

will BAN my existence,

or enact my PROSECUTION.

my words are

rolling hills

for children to TUMBLE down

and scrape their knees

on PATTED-down dirt.

PRACTICE for the DESPAIR

of the modern world.

my words are

far from DEMOCRATIC.

they are the kingdom ruled by me,

their monarch.

they rise up in honor of me,

and fall in honor of me,

each day a new form of SACRIFICE.

my words are here to PROVOKE,

to PREDICT a world beyond our own,

like an impending asteroid,

threatening to obliterate us

while we wallow in CONSTRAINT.

my words do not QUALIFY

on their own.

they must be SQUASHED

together with ideas to be

brought to life.

without it, they are INCAPABLE

of growth.

my words are my GENES,

stories of families and worlds,

experiences woven into fantasy,

each world a new ASSOCIATION

between me and my dreams.

my words are my own.

cradled in my hands,

i cultivate them to perfection:

not perfect, but instead

strengthened by

their flaws.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Getting situated here at the SW HQ, but we wanted to throw down a video featuring one of the talents on this beautiful ocean of words. Author is tagged in the comments below. Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJfxRU7hqvc

And, as always.......

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Staring at an empty pitcher when you're a thirsty crow

Or expecting harvest when there are no seeds to sow

Imagining, eating a freshly baked loaf of bread

While not having money to even buy a piece of thread

Expecting an 'A' when you skipped the exam

Or expecting an investment return from a scam

Praying that money falls into your pouch

While you haven't even left the couch

Being a hero on screen or as they say, in reel life

But not having done any charity in real life

Do you see where I'm reaching for?

Vicarious life is not worth fighting for!

From out of the sheets of rain emerges

A new found frame of mind...

Where once a burgeoning hate had slipped

Beneath the loose folds of flesh behind the neck...

Now all the barnacles have been scrapped from the Bilge, and the

Sun can shine down

Through the windowpanes, and every reflective

Surface that hastens to be found is afforded this light...

Ah, is not this frame of mind so precious?...

It glitters like the diamond in the rough...

The blindness turns into a myriad of flashes,

And then the images come swimming in in droves...

Because awareness has now risen

Like the phlegm from buried depths

That is launched out of the lungs, and clears

A pathway for what's next...

The man in the raincoat and fedora is unbuttoning his coat, and

Glancing round...

He sees a way out in the clearing,

And he is thinking more profoundly...

From out of the sheets of rain emerges

A new found frame of mind...

3/22/23

Bunny Villaire

Edit#3

Gentrification...

It's a sick, sad situation...

Playing the game of real estate,

And cutting out the human aspect

With a scythe...

It's the reason I left Grand Rapids...

I needed a new lease on life,

And I was tired of witnessing

All of the authentic local businesses,

And real people get cut down

For an exchange in capital...

It's not practical...

Gentrification...

It's killed the artist life in so many configurations...

It's not regulated, because it's not considered a thing,

And it's hard to see with all of life's distractions...

But it's there...waiting to strike...

Like a saw scaled viper in the night!...

I saw it happening on Wealthy Street...

The resident African American and Mexican, white poor artists all

Were cleaved

For a new upper class aesthetic

That the real estate agents were going for...

What a fucking bore it all is when

Money is the deciding factor over life...

Gentrification...

It's a sick, sad situation...

Playing the game of real estate,

And cutting out the human aspect

With a scythe...

I saw it happen on Division street

Where the upscale pseudo New York lofts

Moved in that only the rich college kids

Could afford...

But they had a sliding fee scale!...

Let's give the motherfuckers an applause!

They favored the trickle down theory economics

And the human side was forever lost...

That shit could only be understood by the

Highly privileged and the conspirator from the inside

Who choose the right proportion of ethnicity

From a racially biased list...

The lifeblood and the grit was squeezed and many

Neighbors were given the heave ho!...

Not a pleasant way to manage life...

A Falsetto of a human gesture

Disguised as progress and renewal...

And slipped up the patients' arm

Like an I.V. for a dying breed

That will soon be sent to pasture...

The new blossoming artist is introduced

To life through this imploding factor...

It is disgusting, and I pray that something changes...

Where the arts are once again championed,

And we're all not stuck living in our nostalgic cushions...

While the real estate men take a gluttonous bite

Out of the world and won't look back...

I see New York's Big Apple in the trash...

The remaining real human beings will be toppled...

As the rampant Privateers ride on!...

3/22/23

Bunny Villaire

Edit#5

I love the physical book, so when we speak of Publishing that is my preference... in the long run.

In generating my own day to day writing I am satisfied with online formats, because I am not focused much on permeance as on the practical discipline... I'm content to produce the content, even if it will just languish in a drawer or on a shelf or dissipate in virtual space.

I suffer from sensory overload and it seems that creating artifacts helps me encrust the things which have crept too close to the skin. However, when it comes to other people's work, I want to be able to take my time and turn paper, page by page in any tangible format (zine, paperback, hardcover, etcetera).

So personally Publishing to me means... a home business prompted by my adoring husband who puts so much faith in my creative being (as you can read on his Prose posts!). Our company is called Bunny Village Press. It's direct print to purchase publishing, middle manned by Amazon, with no overhead, and no stock piled copies. The art, design, layout, editing, writing is done in house... We've put out three books, and have two additional in the works, one of which I hope to wrap up over Spring Break next week. I regret very much that I can't breath as much life into the venture as I would like because I work full time, and have a toddler (: the previously mentioned Rémy Niko who will be three next month :) but still reassure myself that I can do better, one day, one day! ...and for now we accept and give thanks for this Snail's pace as a success in itself. Forward motion a sign of continued momentum... God bless!

It’s approximately twenty-four hours since the best mistake I’ve ever made. I’m holding out hope that it wasn’t a mistake, and everything will turn out fine, but that would be uncharacteristically optimistic for me. Now I can only hope that it doesn’t turn everything I’ve ever worked for into dust.

Darian Russell is a charming man, and I’m an even more charming woman. Not to flatter myself, but we all know it’s true. So put two and two together. He texts me, we have wine, we end up sprawled across his hotel bed, all clothing and dignity long forgotten. I can only hope that, despite this, he still agrees to turn my book into a movie, what with him being a producer and all.

God, I hope this deal still goes through.

The waiter puts my salad in front of me, which I’m not very keen on eating, but I’m meant to look like some kind of polite, regular, not-falling-apart woman, and those kinds of women eat salads.

The two men across from me have finally moved on to talking to someone further down the table, alternating who asks the questions. Both journalists; I’d accepted business cards from them both earlier, with plans to recycle because I may be a bitch but I do have a green thumb. They had asked me questions about my upcoming novel, as if I know any better than them.

It’s a work-not-work happy hour, meaning I get told it’s not work but I get yelled at if I drink too many margaritas. It’s actually a networking event, and I’m stuck at the end of a long table full of potentially important contacts, as Bram put it, trying to make charming conversation.

Bram, always sticking his nose into my business, leans sideways into my personal bubble. His pasta dish has just arrived. “Macie, what’s going on?”

I sip my margarita, smiling pleasantly over the rim at nothing in particular. “Whatever do you mean?” Sometimes in my attempts to stay civil I begin to talk like a Dickens character. Or something. I haven’t read Dickens since high school.

“You’re checking your phone obsessively,” he hisses, flattening his napkin against his thigh.

I turn in my seat, accidentally bumping his knee. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mother. Is it no phones at the table?” I ask, setting down my glass and giving him a pointed look.

Bram purses his lips and breathes out through his nose. “It’s just that you’ve been making a face like you’re about to pass out for the last half hour.”

I face forward again, accidentally catching the eye of one of the journalists–either Houston or Riley, I can’t remember because they both had such awful names. He smiles and lifts his glass, holding eye contact. I quickly look down at my salad, which has not gotten more appealing.

“I’m waiting for someone to text me back,” I mutter to Bram, looking up just as Houston and Riley lean together, one of them whispering a word that sounds horrifyingly close to ‘smash’, as their eyes dart back to me.

“Can it wait?” Bram asks, stabbing at his pasta. They’re the bow-tie ones, all dressed up just to get eaten. Me too, I think.

“Hey, I wanted to ask, what inspired the The Lakeside Haunt?” asks one of the journalists suddenly. He’s got a little slug-like mustache, makes him look more like a Houston than a Riley. “It’s my favorite of your books,” he adds, leaning in.

I nod and take a dainty bite of salad, making him wait. Then I smile placidly and say, “Oh, you know. I think trips to the seaside as a kid was a big inspiration.” I twirl my fork in my salad. “What kind of writing was it that you said you did?”

I could hear Bram sigh next to me. Luckily most men don’t expect us pea-brained women to retain much. Houston says, “Gossip column. Fanfare Today Magazine.” This is new to me, actually. He hadn’t admitted that before, and that’s a fact.

“How fun! The gossip column, why that’s fantastic.” I smile stiffly as I turn to Bram. I cannot believe he thought a gossip columnist could be an ‘important contact’. I’m about to get a movie deal, for god’s sake.

Bram raises his eyebrows at me, which usually means behave. Instead, I lay a hand on Bram’s arm, which makes his body freeze up and his mouth twitch down. “Actually, Bram was just telling me an amusing story. Probably nothing as good as what you write, of course, but surely he’d love to tell it.”

Bram’s jaw is tightening, which means I’m breaking him out of his professional nonchalance. A personal victory to me. “I don’t think–”

“Oh, you know,” I goad in a sultry voice. “The one about the fisherman. It’s hilarious.” I turn back to Houston and Riley. “You’ll both love it. I’m just going to go to the ladies’ room real quick.” I wink at them, then pat Bram on the hand.

He glares at me as I stand, and I smile back.

The harsh light in the restaurant bathroom makes me look pale. Which should be impossible due to all my hours on the beach. I’m nothing if not tan. I check my phone again, swiping away notifications from my sister, who wants money again, missed calls from my friend Jamie, who probably has dating drama, and reminders for me to do thinks like laundry and buy shampoo because I keep putting them off. No messages from Darian TV Producer Russell. Not a single word from him since we’d slept together, which I don’t know how to interpret. Good thing? Bad thing?

The bathroom door opens, and a woman in a leopard-print jacket gives me a once-over, one white tennis shoe holding the door open. She looks out into the hallway and says, “Yeah, she’s in here.”

“Tell her to come out. Please.” Bram’s voice. My whole stomach feels empty, and not just because all I had was a single bite of a shitty salad.

The woman raises her eyebrows at me and holds the door wider. I close my eyes because my head is churning like a washing machine. I double check my phone. The woman shakes her head and enters, the door swinging behind her, and locks herself in a stall.

“He seems worried,” she says to me through the stall.

I sigh. “Sorry. Thanks,” I tell her, trying to sound sincere because I mean it. It’s not her fault tonight is shitty. Why is it so shitty? Not enough alcohol, maybe? “I like your lipstick,” I tell her as I’m leaving, because nothing says thank you like a compliment in a public restroom.

Bram’s got his arms folded, trying to make himself smaller in the space of the tiny, tiny restaurant hallway. He’s not doing a good job of it because when I come to stand next to him I’m close enough to smell the pasta sauce on his breath.

“You done hiding?” His eyebrows are lowered, and his hair is in wisps across his forehead. He’s exactly the kind of person that writers love to describe, because he’s got all the right features for it. Golden blonde hair and piercing eyes and cheekbones, yada yada yada. I’m annoyed with him.

I adjust my crossbody bag across my chest, but his eyes don’t leave my face. “Why are they here? Is there anyone out there that’s worth my time? Why am I here?”

Bram shakes his head. His posture is stiff but his voice is surprisingly gentle. “Do you have better things to do? What’s going on, who are you texting?”

“More like who am I not texting,” I reply bitterly, checking my phone one last time. Another text from my sister, and an email from my credit card company.

Bram straightens to his full height, which is about equal to mine because of my excessively tall heels. He’s very much in my personal space now, but I’m not backing down. “Well?”

The space in my head shrinks until there are no more thoughts, and I choke out a laugh. “Darian,” I tell him.

“What?”

I jut my chin out so our faces are inches apart. I make sure to enunciate every syllable. “I fucked Darian Russel, and now I’m waiting for the consequences.”

For a moment I think Bram’s eyes are going to fall out of his head. He’s looking at me but not seeing me. He recoils. “What?”

The women’s bathroom door opens, and Miss Leopard Print walks out, stopping to eye us both. Bram and I press ourselves against opposite walls so that she can squeeze through the space between us. She gives me a single eyebrow quirk as she passes, which I think is supposed to be reassuring, but really I’m not sure.

“You didn’t.” Bram’s turned back into Professional Bram. His words aren’t even clipped; he doesn’t sound angry or disappointed. He’s just stating words. Like facts.

I hate to talk to him like this. Like there’s no reason or emotion to any of this, like following a specific path–shake that hand, say this, smile for the camera–and everything will fall into place. Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with Darian, but I don’t regret it. It was amazing and I’d do it again, theoretically. And I don’t have time to listen to Bram tell me that this isn’t the ‘right way’ to do things. Or that it’s ‘unprofessional’.

I give Bram one last look, chin still raised. “I did. But don’t worry, I won’t be taking any of the losers here today home, you can be damn sure about that.” And then, like a badass who just delivered a clever line, I walk away.

When I get home I stare at my computer screen until I can’t see anything, then crawl into bed and dream about sea monsters dragging me underwater and watching me choke.

--

pt 1: https://theprose.com/post/642933/living-in-the-moment