all that I have


34,939 words. 121 pages in a ten point font in a little more than one and a half years.

And that was a low point. I’m just getting started again. Quite honestly, I’m fucking done of playing the victim, this role that was ingrained into me while the Doctors, Nurses, and everyone who didn’t believe doted on me, answered my every whim, and expected me to die.

Sure showed them, didn’t I?

I showed them what is possible when you know, with all of your heart, that you have something else to live for – and are willing to fight. I showed them the power of determination, and was more than once called a miracle – but honestly, all that happened is my unfailing passion to live, to teach, to grow… and to forever be able to see the simplest of things and feel humbled.

I must admit that it appears from what people incessantly ‘share’ on Facebook that this world is going to shit, and if you are only able to see the evidence of the masses – well, so long, and thanks for trying… but really, did you?

Do you have even the slightest idea of who you are, what you can accomplish? How you are so incredibly connected with everything and everyone around you? You cry, you complain, you imagine suffering. Wake Up.

Magical power in sounds and words. Perhaps the link between sounds and words and quantum physics existed in the observer of these vibrational patterns. All organs and cells vibrate. Perhaps when an organ is diseased, it is no longer receiving vibrational energy from the rest of the body. The Qabalists believed that the universe was created from sound. Thus by reciting sacred sounds, changes or transformations of matter could take place. Healing could simply consist of reinvoking those sacred sounds in the body. In other words, by singing or reciting the correct sounds, various parts of the body, out of harmony, could be brought back into harmony. Perhaps this is what the shamans do when they chant. Shamans invoked changes in nature by calling for them to appear. They didn’t just call out, they sang the words. A word, when spoken in a certain way, invoked the thing spoken and not just a symbol of the thing spoken.

Fred Wolf


At this point I must interject – as no one has ever been able to describe love or passion using a scientific method, but if you are fortunate enough to suffer for love and/or passion, let it be your muse. CREATE.

Create life, create love, create passion. Express them. The world calls it art, creativity – but those are only words we formed to dumb our senses. It is life.

Here’s a really simple quiz: Could you live (or remain somewhat sane) without creating… anything? If the answer is ‘Yes, you could live’ – congratulations, you are dead – but except for the emptiness in your eyes, you look great! Just please, don’t try to talk to me – I am forgiving for so many things, but… I also am a very skilled archer and shooter – yet words are my primary weapon, to create, destroy, or just simply remain the Fool.

But I digress.

Stare at yourself in a mirror, and then close your eyes. What do you see?

LIGHT, stars, infinity. Hear the words you say out loud or to yourself. Never deny that you create the world around you.

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself” ~ Leo Tolstoy


I changed myself. For better or worse yet I do not know, but the challenge comes back – to change myself, to write, to inspire. To forever travel the roads, the sacred places, and as long as anyone lives in your occasional thoughts, they will always live.

I am not a victim anymore. I love, I feed on passion. Yes, I have been through more than many, yet still I persist, I find the warrior inside, and…

and give myself to you.

Never hide who you have fought so hard to become. I lost everything but you – and in reading all of the writings over the years, I have no question I would be lost without you, ashes spread in the Sea.

You are all that I have

all that I have besides me.

Three weeks and forever


You have blessed me with life, gave me a reason to conquer the horrors and see with immeasurable pain the hole that brought me clarity, brought me to you…

yet still you leave the glass half full in finding, deny me

the face I have never drank my eyes from.

You gave me her, my entire life wanted, a quest for the chalice  of my own life, found but not satisfied. I have heard the truth and she is close, she asked me not to forsake her and still I have a feeling that chews upon my bones that she is short for life.

I read once, long ago, about a woman after years of searching, finally found her father.

She found him three weeks after he died. Three weeks.

You take my car, my freedom, my peace. Is there any question why the anger still seethes?

You have taught me to live, brought everything down upon me and gave me a heart full of one thing missing.

I begin to think that the most dreadful mistake I could have paid was finding her,

the emptiness that drove me to become what I fought with, the tooth and nail, the yearning, the loss of just once, looking into her loving eyes, was all that I was.

Please, please prove me wrong.

Let me know that I have not been searching all of my life

for nothing but an unrequited dream.


to remember…


I heard. I heard and it gave me life. Outside my kitchen window in a home barely big enough for my body, let alone my heart, the music found its way through the sorrowful leaves of the weeping willow tree into my home, into my soul. I understood then that my body was simply a mask, a shield, and I constructed it. Strong and standing, I watched the world go by and fell in love… but the music, the music of the marching band, the second line, as they practiced a few blocks down and the brass notes swirled through the thin  leaves into my ears reminded me of love. I was in New Orleans.

On quiet days I jumped the rocks to the Mississippi and sat, alone, in the darkness of moonless nights, and watched. I looked down the bank to strange and beautiful marks to remember how life never ceases to flow, the ripples on the river hinting to their purpose as they gave way to rocks, to markers. We all must flow, seeing the obstacles and wrapping around them, embracing.

I believe this is why New Orleans is so filled with magick – the music is the river, the river creates the music.

The second line still finds me, through the leaves and years. I remember you clearly, though some think I drink to forget. They are wrong. When I drink, I drink to remember.

Small piece of the rage inside.


I began with a scream

a wail

thrust into this new life

pushed out of the comfort

and the warmth

and the security

in to a world that screamed back at me

and for a time

a very short time

I had the comfort of her arms

around me.

The arms that held me

and let me know

that it would be all right

because she was there

and my screams


soothed in the heartbeat

the voice

and the scent so familiar

and it started to get better

and the comfort was coming back

wrapped up in the nurturing arms


of my mother.


Then those arms

and everything that was peace inside of me

were torn away

no comfort no understanding why

nothing  made sense anymore

and the screams came back

got louder inside of me

and that gnawing pain

was something that I learned to hide

so shut away so that even I couldn’t find it

didn’t know it was there

at such an early age.


They said I was such a quiet child

seldom cried, seldom complained

so everything must be

okay, right?


in a way that so few can understand

the arms of my mother

the arms of the womb that

I became in


handed around to so many

such a precious child

look how good he is

so quiet

adjusting so well

give him no history and call him theirs,

pay the money, sign the papers

and hand him over.


He’ll be fine…


Taught how to completely fucking


before I even knew what it was

that I didn’t feel

kept away in a secret fucked up place

that I didn’t even know existed

for these thirty one years

Nothing was right

passed around and cooed over

patiently waiting for that comfort to come back.

My first taste

the time I discovered how to be who I am

the year that all of the actions in my life became what I became

and even as I grew

thinking so logically

in order not to feel

Past the “Baby Boy Mathern”

The “Baby Boy Stenerson”

of screams (an identity even then of no-one)

past the knowledge

of nothing but loss and anger

I came into this family

of a man, a woman, a little girl

but they didn’t know, though they tried

and the screams inside grew louder

they didn’t know

that to raise a child

it takes so much more than discipline

they didn’t know how to nurture

this new life in theirs

Or maybe it was me

in a subconscious solitude

in a subconscious anguish

that would never let me open

that could never let them

or anyone

become my friend

become someone who I could talk to about


but I don’t think so.

I’ve never had

the words of wisdom

that a child so needs as it grows.

words that I could listen to

and remember

when things just didn’t seem right

inside of me


and things never seemed right.


Never words

of how to believe in myself

of how to love my Self

never words of strength

or words of how to know

that feelings of hurt

and pain

and confusion

and anger

were okay.

were normal.

So feeling alone

was all I ever felt

and alone

was all I ever knew

and the years went by

but even with the sorrow

even with the constant pain

by then so much a part of me

I learned

I taught myself

I dealt with everything fucked up inside


I tried to make sense of it all

and I began to become me


I taught myself warmth

I taught myself love

and what I think it means.


I made myself

into someone I thought I could love and

I made myself

a king

in my own heart

in my own soul

in my own life

and even though at times I have forgotten

even though at times I have let myself down

and had my doubts


who I have the strength

who I have the power

who I have the love

and who I have so much passion

to be

and no one can ever take that


I have this knowing

that has come from no one except myself

because I am the only person

I have ever




Casey ~ 1/99

and… Sing.


The only thing you need to do is walk out the door. Look. See. Ask and be. Be your fucking beautiful self.

Minutes ago, I took the three flights down, relishing every step with Ruby bouncing and running in front of me, remembering that just over a year ago I did not the strength to walk up them… and up did not taint my mind with the possible fall from the weakness I had become. This time, no cane, and three steps at a time down. I mean hell – my legs are long, and simple stairs should not terrify me like they once did. I grow. I get stronger, more confident and assured. I am not the pitiful shattered person I was.

Ruby was waiting for me at the top of the foyer stairs, just like I taught her. Five marble steps to the first door, I understand if you see another dog and want to play but if you do not, stop and let me bind you to me, hooking your red leash to your collar, searched endlessly for and found with skulls and fleur de lis. But I regress. she doesn’t give a damn about her collar…

I attach her red leash on her (always thinking about style) and this gorgeous black and tan creature knows that is the sign, gets ready. “Okay, walkies.” I say in the most commanding voice I can muster – and as usual, she leaps for the door nearly ripping my arm out of its socket. I have learned this and give her freedom. for a few thrilling steps…

But then we saunter, and she sniffs the world outside, and I recognize a good acquaintance walking down my street, MY street, at this hour, this moment, this – is perfect. A brief conversation and I find that he may be moving away from the City, and

and now he has bestowed upon me HIS brilliant sight, (I accept no credit for this) to be the King Fucking Shit (aka artistic director, choreographer, song writer (to those we don’t cover, permission already granted by someone who I hold in dear and everlasting esteem, Mark Growden to honor -) ahem… King Fucking Shit – Rec Les’s vision, to form and create THE DEEP THROATS, your everyday raunchy acapella group.


Look for us. I am making changes and have the blessing of the brilliant mind who conceived it. His birth, my milk.

Oh yeah – did I forget to mention that my voice can find its place and depth? I think I did – but from the start, this never would have been more than an unrealized dream without Mark and his singing workshops. Quite honestly, as much undying spirit that I have, I would not be able to find the courage to sing without him – and once found, things just happened.

Just walk out the door and realize how fucking beautiful you are. Open your soul and find good people, or find anyone and ask them questions. If they are walking a dog with love and care, love them, admire them, pet their dog. The pup is a reflection of the person that cares for the dog. Love the dog, then try to love the person.

And sing.

here are the thorns


These are the thorns.

Push, push it down deep inside then further

because so few are willing to see this, so few

want to be reminded of who they are.

How silent, how loathsome

how pitiful in who they have become and

I refuse to be one.

I refuse to be one of them but

my mind will not be quiet

there is no hatred anymore only

only questions,

because I am and I need to be

what you hate.

I am unrestrained, I am fuck you and this and fuck that and

and where is your voice? Copy paste share fuck you, and you, and you. These are the thorns.

I hold my breath and scream as loud as I can please. I am the part of you disconnected, disenchanted, disillusioned.

Let me die to be real, let me live in your grace, call me a miracle and I will do everything to deny you, I have travelled beyond hope and in doing so, found it again. Through you, I found me.

Life is a circle that I need to break out of, holding dear my memories of death, of life. In the belly of the beast I find myself and I see you. I see you so unreal and I will never be able to quench my thirst for calling you out. The sheen of my spittle makes you a star, the life that you have denied. Whoever you are, you are a star.

These are the exquisite, deadly sharp thorns of what lies inside, lost inside the soft bloodred pedals and the turmoil of the Sea. Still and forever, the thorns will always desire to draw the silent hatred of your blood, see it run. I have seen enough of mine.


Tell me still that I am a miracle, and I will swing on you, lay you down. tell me of your disdain for my drinking and I will listen, understand, and in a twisted way, forgive. In a backwards journey this is here and there and back again and I am back.

These are the thorns, this is only a knock on the door of my past. I live in the present, look towards the target, but my past gives me strength. I drink to erase it, but honestly it is my past that you see in my eyes, read in my words. Peace is a world, a work in progress. I will find its elusive grace.

These are the thorns. Please remember the pedals. I am the painful bloom, the flower that people see without seeing the growth. I

am you.

my kingdom for…

So. I had a dream last night or this morning or for a five minute nap that Ruby was a horse. Really. Don’t ask – it was a dream, and she loved running behind me as I dangled my legs off of an old dump truck as anonymous driver drove (Sorry, Zac) on the way that you just simply know in dreams, to the beach. To the Sea. (Gods, her mane was a jet black *exquisite*!)

Anyway, I sold my tablet to John Paul, which will juuuust barely cover phone and interweb – As an amazing artist, it serves him better than I think me. Crazy low cost justified… but I still need a car, as it looks like the City has chosen to make their living off of taking my vehicles. Yeah, I have my faults, but I have been SO FUCKING GOOD at waking up at 5:30(ish) in the morn to move my car when necessary, and in over a year, have received only three valid parking tickets. The two that made it the final loops in the hangman’s knot were from when my cripple card was stolen out of my broken window (there was nothing else to steal) and I thought that they were my aces. I have my disabled placard, I don’ need your stinking meters! Read my writing – I have a heart crippled with life, you farging bastiches!

So, I need a horse. That is what my dream told me. Either that, or buy my “95 Nissan Maxima for $1000, sunroof, dog hair, stick shift, maybe a slight leak in the radiator or reservoir. Quick as hell. Standard shift. Good on fuel. Fell like you’re actually driving. No extra charge for the dog hair, but the City does not deserve this prize and you do.
You can look, test all the controls, but there is a big yellow thing on the wheel that prevents you from giving it a test drive, unless you like going forward and backwards about six inches and calling that a drive. I don’t.

I love this city, but they don’t need my car. You do. I loathe the parking. You won’t, because you’re smarter than me. Buy my car…

or give me a horse. the one that the parking bastitches rode in on. We will unsaddle these… these people who are just dong their job (I say through gritted teeth).

I am selling things that I love and constructing a new and better future through my talents but that takes time – and a car. My current ride goes away by Thursday, mid- morning… unless I bring $845 to the transit authority to snuffle their devious plans.

Honestly, I would rather have a horse. Who can ticket a horse? I’ll teach Ruby to ride, live in the country and hitch rides on the back of dump trucks. But for now…