Soap for Jesus

...And the guests were all gathered Staring at the door. The footsteps tripped lightly onwards A hand on the lock, And it opened. She stood there, gazing around In mild surprise Her hair put up, make-up correct, A long beautiful dress She smiled; "Hello! How do you do? Would anyone like a drink? Something to eat?" They responded, normally, Her cordiality breaking them from Their time-locked silence. She moved into the kitchen; They looked at each other, Unable to believe That the screams and wild tears Wrenching though they knew not the cause Had come from this Self composed woman. They began to believe That they had imagined, hallucinated, Laughed at each other, Compared stories and found the fallacies - I heard two wails, I heard one scream. She heard them as she boiled the kettle, That smile, soft, fleeting Edged with bitterness and cynicism Flew over her mouth And then she sighed For what were they but human, And so was she, she who k

Lady. As a little girl, the word conjured up images of aristocratic society women with high piled hair, dainty hats and pretty Victorian-y dresses, complete with parasols and fans with refined accents. I was a very girlish girl, and deep inside had a longing to be like that. At the same time, strangely, there arose the wild me, the one with the crazy urges to do daring things, but that sat on them and hid behind long hair and long skirts. Then I joined cadets. I realised that the world of wild and daring antics didn't just belong to boys. And the tomboy in me jumped up and down on the girlishness as I backslid, sneering it for weakness. With backsliding and hardening as I hit the world full pelt came jeering at womanly things. I didn't need to be some man's meek little wife and everlasting baby factory. I was _me_. Individual. Strong. Able to face the world on her own. I was a woman. No lady. My actions degraded me from the Queen of Purity and Virtue to a tag-al

But as I post that and mean it from the bottom of my heart, that one can never have too many true friends, and one can never have too many messages from them, sometimes physical limitations get in the way. :P I have posted this on my G+ Wall and my blog, and am emailing it out to all my contacts as well. I've just taken on a secretary to deal with my rather large amount of messages/chat notifs/emails. I'd like to introduce you to my dear friend and adoptive sister Emma Alabaster, who will be answering some of the messages that come in to me. I will still be attempting to respond personally as much as possible, but sometimes I can't complete it on the weekend before the working week begins, and if this lapses too long, well. Some of you are waiting for a response after 2 years. Em will be operating on my FB and Gmail (and occasionally to perhaps answer blog comments) ONLY WHEN I HAVE SENT HER a private message stating that I need her to clear something for me. THIS

People have posted and I meant to the night after OYAN ended, but stuff happened. Y'know, like stuff does. And now I'm curled up for half an hour, trying to think exactly how to say the stuff in my heart. Friday night, June 21st, ended OYAN Summer Workshop 2013. I'd gone back to my dorm to put some stuff down before coming back, and missed the prayer over Mr S. As I wandered back around the outskirts of the group praying and singing, eyes closed and tears streaming, Jonny came over to me, pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. I crumbled against him and started crying. When I finally looked up as the crush of bodies increased, the OYAN people were three deep around me. I was nose to nose with Marybeth, also weeping, with Kristin's expressive chocolate eyes fixed on me with a sad, trembly smile on her lips. This place isn't just any place. This place is our home because we are all there. No, not even that. We could all be there and have no bond