My posts are weaving in and out of the brightly-coloured ribbons of other writers who attended the recent Feathered Seer weekend. We touch upon common themes; we inspire one another; we anticipate the next ball of thread upon the loom.
We, the Clan of the Raven held tight in Hexagram, yet face outwards, a catapult of spinning lore, deep bone rhythm and Corvid cries whirling out from the centre.
In my silence, I connect. My sexual wounds from this lifetime chime deeply with the great bells of past ripping and wrenching of female limbs, of harsh mistreatment of hidden soft parts, of taking that which was not offered. My blood flows with theirs, meets in a river of Maiden, Mother, Crone abuse.
I am not man. Not this time around. And, therefore, despite empathy, I cannot be male; nor can I understand the urge, by no means universal, that…
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