Explicit Childhood

My mommy used to call me bitch. Little piece of shit and high-and-mighty cunt. Am I your little peanut or a fucking cunt? Scream, slap, strangle--basic domesticity amiss. I tried not to hurt her back--hurt myself--or ruin something out of anger that I might miss. For every try, two more fails, yelling, scratching, high-pitched wails of "Let me go!" and "Leave me alone!" and when left like that, crying and quaking, asking to myself aloud, "Why are you so mean?"

It got old, and I got older. I got out and in grew colder... 

Now I creak from bed onto the floor, then to my door and somehow I'm showered and dressed. There's a pile of envelopes--statements, requests--and I look at them with disdain and pray to myself not to become my mother...


I lived in The Land of The Bills are Not Paid, where the citizens skipped some days of water, or light. And light means heat, so yeah, it was cold. And as I got older it colded much colder--and such woe that sleeping with socks on feels so not right...But the cold subdued the fleas, a nice relief, not thinking about the zillion mini-beasts attacking my skin pink in the night.

Imagine the embarrassment of that twelve-year-old citizen, who, even after shaking her things before leaving home, finds--still--black demon dots upon her school desks. Get it! Kiil it! Catch the bastard before anyone sees--the proof of such shame: we, the people with fleas.

In The Land of Nothing Gets Cleaned, domesticated cats reign on high. There, Wild children exist--one woman's patterns, gone inexplicably awry. The odd wonderfulness of an upbringing untamed, yet, such doubt in my head, nursing silent dread that my life's somehow wrong, wrecked before I could get here to save it, and that these words exist only to make that fear strong...

--Am I wrong? Am I wrong here? Who can tell me what's wrong here, and why does it feel like it sounds like it feels? It almsot feels like it's not even real...

And where are the words that fit such dark margins, to contain in a verse the stains of youth in despair,

And the levity scoured from it?


Now this night, and I feel slightly ill, in my heart and head and stomach--like I want to vomit. It's an ailment that has so quietly bred, spread, placed just between the things to ignore and the things to never think on again. 

I'm cold.

I'm tired. 

And even so, find myself acutely inspired to shamelessly purge-by-truthing:

This sickness from home that isn't my own, 

I'm ready to let it go.



Posted via email from Prosetry


Women's Classes you say?

That's right! Parkour Visions runs a weekly women's class on Tuesdays at 5:30. Are you a woman interested in training parkour? Not sure how to start, or perhaps hesitant about it? Join us for a class that follows the same curriculum as the others in an environment that's designed for a safe, progressive experience.


photo cred: zenobia_joy

If you're still unsure, check out some media of women practicing parkour. (Yes this really happens, and yes you can do it too.)

Vault Week: A Women's class last summer.

Girlparkour.com: A worldwide resource for women who train parkour. You can find blog posts, photos, videos, and articles, as well as a forum to help you become inspired!

FemaleParkour: is a YouTube channel focused on highliting women's parkour videos. It currently only has a fraction of what you can find on YouTube regarding women in parkour, but is nonetheless a stellar place to start.


Now come out to play!




Posted via email from Parkour Visions miniBlog



Now that it's long enough to see without a mirror, I finally upgraded my dreadtail.

Behold: The Utili-Dread!

For those of you who don't know me, my longest dreadlock is at the very base of my skull, and hangs down my spine when loose. It's rather difficult to take a photo of my own back, and I know the pictures are horrible quality, so (someday) I'll update with better pictures and more examples of how I use my homegrown lanyard.

What I did:

I made an eye in my dreadlock by whipping it--using half-hitches--for about two inches with #8 nylon twine. I then folded that section around two small keyrings, and whipped the end down tight. It's not a true splice, but it will more than hold for my purposes. 

Why I did it:

Attatched to the keyrings is a small gate-clip. The pictures show a Photon Freedom attatched to it, but it easily comes off and can be replaced by any small keychain tool. So far I've only really used the light, but soon I intend to try a pen as well. Since my dreadtail previously had an additional nut that I removed to add the clip, the weight is still less than I'm used to, even with the Photon. As you can see in the first picture, I can reach it with ease, so any tool will be completely and quickly accessible once attached.

--What about it smacking me in the face when I move vigorously, getting in the way, or caught on things?

There have been beads and nuts on this dreadlock for years--I'm already used to it. Enough that before any training, coaching, or otherwise energetic physical activity, I tie a knot in the dreadlock to shorten it. (Now I suppose I can clip it to something else as well.) Also, this particular dreadlock was grown with a purpose in mind from the start: it wraps around the rest of my hair as a band to hold everything together, so often it's already out of the way along with the rest.


My first obvious purpose for the Photon--beyond just having it--is to be a beacon on my body when I ride my bike at night. Seattle bike law only requires a front white light and a rear red reflector, however, having a back red light, especially a blinking light (which the photon does) is more obvious than a reflector from a distance. After riding in this city for a few years, I'm convinced that the lights raise my chances of being seen significantly. So? Red light on my tail, white light on my neck, and I don't even have to remember to remove them from my bike so they're not stolen.

This is what tacpunk is all about.


Posted via email from monkEEmade