Moments earlier I had gotten caught in the forbidden chest, the one I was not allowed inside unless my uncles allowed. That chest, full of oddities and curious things I had never seen before.

Except this time I wasn’t scolded. In my hand I had a bag of glass stones with markings, they looked runic to me. I would stare at them through the sun in secret—holding the bag tight so as not to make noise. Out of all the curious things in there, the glassy stones drew me. They felt magical in my hand, I liked the weight.

—“¿Quieres aprender?”

Startled, grandma quietly standing behind me. I look at the bag and I say “¿aprender qué, ma?”

I’m not in trouble?

“¡A jugar canícas!” she tells me. I feel butterflies. She tells me to go outside before it gets too dark, and to find a place for us, she’ll meet me there.

I remember the pulsing of the ground I sat on. It felt powerful that night. Something was different.

Do you want to hear the rest of this story?

I hope it reaches those that find magic in life still. Let me first give you context, where it sits in my heart. In my bones. Things that were born from exile and ancestral struggle.

in Táyshaʼ where I played in the dust and thorny grass of my exiled ancestors

I don’t remember being born. Some people say they remember that. I imagine maybe it felt traumatic, very cold and loud. I do recall my life in Táyshaʼ however, and what parts of her I kept with me down to this day. That’s the part of being born I remember. The parts I can still tell.

Táyshaʼ during those days had magic that was raw, instinctual and present. I was born into the barrio and a tiny plot of land made of hard stone and chalky polvo. Arid, and if you had the water for it maybe a patch of grass. Either way, you will have chancaquías anywhere you step. Up close these stickers look like horned goats to me. This is the land I was born into. I will always remember El Rio Grande. That water knows the voice of our family, it knows my skin and it knows my fear.

This is the pueblo that also gave us many natural springs that I tasted, especially from the hose. The same springs that colonizers took and used to develop the town I was born in, San Felipe del Rio.

about The People of this land that walked on it long before I did

The colonizers called the land Tejas because they kept hearing the people use the word táyshaʼ which meant friend. The Spanish couldn’t say shh so they changed it to Tejas. Later, the American colonizers would change it to Texas and then drive my People out further into a nomadic life toward Mexico. The Kikapú originated from the Great Lakes after all.

The Kikapú were one of the last to resist assimilation and I keep that same spirit alive to this day.

However, the land was eventually stolen, pieced out like a good hunt, but done so greedily there was no room for others to also prosper. All of it was stolen with a pen and a gun.

The very land I grew up in has deep history for my ancestors. A lot of roots and magic exists there for us. Those lands still carry the bones of our generations. I can trace my blood to the place my grandmother was born. A Kikapú city Múzquiz, in Coahuila, Mexico. The place where her tribal lineage became severed due to poverty.

When I was a child I was taken to Múzquiz, I was there on that land. I ran barefooted on that land. The land our people were pushed in and out of in the early 1900s, it’s still there to tell its stories through magic.

a prince with the bones of a queen

I lived with my grandparents for a time. As a child I had a lot of freedom. I was well behaved. Matches in my pocket, no problem. At that time the barrio used to call me El Principe. The Prince. My grandmother gave me that title. Prince of what? I wasn’t sure yet but the barrio was my home.

It was through my grandmother I experienced many things for the first time. My first dress. My first smoke. My first many things. Including the magic I witnessed one twilight. That hour never left me.

living with my abuelos, the fragments and racism

For a while it was just me and my grandparents. My mom and my dad were traveling looking for work. For a period of time, they worked in the onion fields, like my grandparents who had picked potatoes and traveled wherever the work was, places where they would hire “wetbacks.” We all have many experiences dealing with racism, but it is all part of our ancestral struggle.

In spite of all this I was given a magical memory. It’s time to tell it.

My grandmother calls out to me and says, “¡ahí voy!” She’s ready.

There’s those butterflies again.

all her magic was in the rhythm of her walk and the intent of her finger

The polvo. Dust. Stoney ground.

Out of the shadows of rosebushes, a banana tree and the orange glow of the front door, she appears. Her gown is light, but the pattern has colors. Her colors. She’s barefoot.

Her feet get closer. She greets me but I hear it faintly. I feel her steps. I see the polvo puff up on every beat under her. Her gown, just above her ankles.

“¿Listo?” Ready?

I cross my legs and sit up. She sits opposite to me. Butterflies. The moon’s sheen, bluish on the fading shadows. She sees my attempt at a fire and says nothing. Her hand comes forward, I follow her finger, it meets the earth. She begins to draw a circle, the polvo rises up around her finger. It’s just like when she walked.

She reaches for the bag of magic glass and pours it into the circle. Glassy eyes open and gleam up at us. Butterflies.

I swallow. My breathing careful.

“Este es El Canicón.” She brings a larger steel marble up to my eyes. She lets me hold it, it’s heavier than the others. It feels respected. It feels like its purpose went far beyond a game. Like it used to be something else. It carried heavy memories. I gave it back.

She explains what El Canicón’s purpose is, and shows me its power. She places her thumb under her pointer and charges tension. She casts the stone and I see eyes scatter into starry galaxies. Some of them go beyond the orbit’s threshold. Beyond the line of a goddess.

She keeps those as her bounty.

It’s taken me about 4 years to really allow my voice to embrace its entire spectrum of registers and range. Sometimes I’ll sing in low chest voice with ranges in baritone, and other times I will slide into tenor, and push into a gritty head voice.

In this clip you’ll hear a tone that somehow developed while I tried to bridge my low vocals with my mix range. I am still figuring it out, but I am a lot more free. I have posted quite a few videos in my other platforms demonstrating my deeper fuller vocals, I’ll share that in another post. For now, I mostly want to focus on the lyrical content and it’s delivery.

on RX GOD, a heretical song

This song is lyrically dense in meaning and symbolism, RX GOD is a rebellious gospel if I had to describe it succinctly. A heretic’s song if you will, intentional apostasy for the sake of living, feeling present, being.

This clip is of verse 2 and chorus 2, but I think this section helps demonstrate my style and intensity. I tend to break out of a cage when I sing a climatic verse, because I lived everything I write about. I cannot present it any other way.

on verse 1 and how the song begins

The song starts in verse 1 describing “falling asleep” and waking up somewhere I do not recognize, a place where they feed you opium and violate your spirit. The first chorus comes in:

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Prayers never uttered, blood grace and water,
      turn to each other, love one another

Love one another. Almost like I want to believe the love is real, but I am not praying, something is bothering me. It doesn’t matter, “love one another.”

It starts quite deceptively, it feels like it’s going for a strictly rap-styled vibe, with some soul/R&B influence in the first chorus (not shown in video.) I break those frames in verse 2 as you can see, even bringing in distorted guitars and some drum work.

I find I like to present a lot of dualities in my art. It is always intentional, but it happens naturally with most things I create in any of my artforms.

on verse 2 and it’s climatic chorus 2

This section changes the song quite a bit and it surprised me when I got it here. It surprised me that it stepped away from becoming a song with some rap bars and an easy-to-bob-your-head-to vibe chorus. It brings energy and intensity weaving meanings within the lyrics. I lean into my gritty head mixed voice in this take.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Give me honest love, fuck me to hell within this cell!

This verse begins what I see as the “apostasy” of the song’s nature. Where rebellion meets compliance. Where I speak truthfully and lean into my primal energy. This verse alone is demanding authenticity, even if it means hell.

I’ll let you digest the rest on your own. The song tends to land differently on different people I have shown it to that I know have experienced religious trauma. It depends on what part of your healing journey you are on, you may take the song as strictly rebellion, but if you’re further along, you may take it as a reminder of liberation and what it took you to get there.

I love writing songs.

prologue:

I have lived a life of danger ever since I was a child, it’s left me with what feels like a permanent sense of anxiousness for safety. Tonight, I was sitting with it, my eyes were welling up and I couldn’t understand why. I wanted to make a video about it for my other platforms.

After the third attempt to make the video, my composure just wasn’t staying, and the more time I spent with it the more I realized how much I’ve had to remain silent about and how much I’ve had to survive. How much I’ve had to fight death in the face of all things.

I breathe shallow, I breathe tense. My voice chokes. My eyes never rest, they chase everything. My ears never feel quiet. The ring. Loud screams. Loud bangs. Loud kicks to the dome. My ears still ring from it all and somehow I maintain an exhausting groundness. It is the best I can do.

I sat with it all for so long and my tears kept pooling like lakes without waves, bodies of water with dead stillness overfilling for no apparent reason, no ripples to mark their fall, just stillness. The stillness of life and death.

if I told you everything ma, it would pain you too much and I cannot bear to witness that

I can remember as far back when I was a little kid. Very little. He tried to kill me mama, and I did not understand why. His brothers killed the kittens I loved, and I figured he wanted to do the same to me. I can’t even describe the kittens to you mama, but it stayed with me, etched. Carved. Singed.

Mama, did you know about the time when I almost drowned? They saw them, holding me down, and they didn’t care. I said nothing. I stayed quiet like a mouse, quiet, so defenseless and easy to destroy.

Ma, you’ve told me this story many times, about when I was a child and I almost died in your arms; I never told you how I felt though, it would have pained you much more than what you saw. I didn’t tell you about the coldness. Did you know ma that the cold will blanket you like a thin blanket made of razors? You can’t tell if you are dying or coming to life, because it hurts, but at that moment, you are afraid of not feeling the pain, because your feet disappear. You see them. Barely, but they’re not there. That touch never left me, it left a mark that never went away.

Ma, I didn’t tell you what I had to do to survive, what the other kids just like me had to teach me so I could survive. I never told you why I had cuts on my hands, my face and elbows. I was a flower, fighting for my life and they trampled it many times, they hated flowers, ma. Especially the purple ones.

Ma, do you remember when I stood between the rage and you? I had gotten taller by then, but I was still insignificant. But I had learned how to bite back and not only bark. I had learned what it meant to survive by then ma. I made no threat to him, I simply gave you a warning to pass on because there would not ever be another warning. Did you see how I changed things? How I stopped something with my own hands? I learned to protect. I was tired of surviving.

Ma, the street taught me things I didn’t want to know, I didn’t know what else to do. My town knew my voice. Whenever I needed, she would hide me. I was hiding in her hills, do you remember looking for me? I’m sorry I worried you, but he was hunting me. My heart was racing, my vision was sharp and precise, you will never know how afraid I was. It would destroy you.

That’s why I learned to walk and talk like them. Men like them.

Ma, do you remember when my voice changed? When it felt like authority? Do you remember when the shift of my walk changed? The grace faded and the aggressive march began. I did not know what I was marching for, but my heels would hit the concrete harder than my toes. My hands became fists, and their delicate touch I had forgotten. You know what I had become, that is when my Voice became silent.

Do you remember almost a decade later when they put me in the white rooms? I never told you why, I told you the story that would keep me safe and not let you feel the pain. “It’s so I can get help, it’s okay ma.” I took their pills. I slept on their time. The man with the voices spoke about the Voices. I don’t know if he hurt me ma. I was a flower and I was put to sleep in the room alone with him. For fourteen days, I was put to sleep every night, at 7:30 PM. He was in a wheelchair, and he could still walk. I would lie facing away, until lights out and my eyes heavy would win.

Ma, for a brief moment, I knew someone I could trust. I made a phone call from there and she answered. She was not my lover she was not a fling, she was my only haven, she picked up the phone and knew it was me as she sighed in relief. Yes ma, I did love her, she made me feel safe. I am not sorry for that to this day.

I know how you raised me ma, but I did not feel safe in my home. It made me into someone else, someone feral and undisciplined with no partner I could trust as home. I was afraid of the knives in my home, ma. I was afraid of small glass items. I was afraid of everyone thinking the worst of me ma. I complied longer than I should have, until I remembered I had a bite. I was a flower, but I was on fire.

Ma the surviving hasn’t changed, the need for courage never waned. I am so tired, my armor is heavy and my blade blunted. My boots are uneven. My breathing is still shallow and stretched. Even now, someone hunts me. But this time, they hunt me because I chose to stay a flower, and now I have thorns, tougher stems and deeper roots. They think we do not belong on our lands, and they think your daughter is an abomination. Don’t worry, I’ll protect us like always. But, I’m just wondering—

when do I get to feel safe?

When do I get to feel held by someone who has my heart in mind? When can I let my heart rest and not feel the edge of betrayal wedging slowly in? I have not put down my tomahawk because I still cannot feel the grass of our lands under my feet. I see my feet, and they still don’t feel there.

Before I think of her body I inquire on her spirit
because I can tell when it's her
and when it's a different soul
that passes through the walls
of my ancient halls.

I can tell when her love has traveled far,
or if I am simply returning to what I'm yearning,
I know when she's someone else
unable to clearly see me
because I court all her tells.

There is a constancy of spirit that I always see,
and if I don't—I cannot bless her erōs 
so I resist returning pleasure sealed in dotes
until I know it's her who believes in hope.

I know a goddess when I feel one,
and I know her divinity in my bones
like a mortal's instincts for serenity
even on the days when I'm alone.

I practice tenderness and mastered patience
I keep wandering and evading the limerence
but there's hope that I still may find it 

but when I do
I know I'll stay silent.

I don't want to disturb a wild flower,
she smells nice on her own
and there's no reason I see
to call her away with me
into the night where I roam.

To my Dearest Virii,

I’m typing this the old way. The comms translation modules are offline right now. There isn’t much that stays consistent in this life after all. Maybe not even love. Still, I don’t make too much fuss. I love the wild nature of things and the chaos that begs for a name as it soars over plains. I know it’s seeking homes to call its own. I don’t mind becoming the teeth or at midnight a tender hand beneath. I’ll pull you out through windows and guide you through Blue Hills and over rocky dry meadows never seen.

I’ve had to see it change and as things went to waste. I was their goddess of Hope and Courage, and when I would speak from the depths they would hear the grit. Something like bird notes, a husky restrain without the grace. They called me Queen, they called me Kalypso the Sweet Queen.

I used to meet the goddesses of this land, and sometimes god-men. The god-men were selfish and wanted greed and drink, I slew most of them there in time through sex and poison magick, witchery and spells that I will not begin tell. Yet still many fled and hid themselves well, and to this day it’s lies that their ballads belt.

My sisters, many of them lost their minds, but more importantly—memory. Divinity faded, sincerity stolen and in me forever I would deeply know it.

Exiled, but I swore on their souls I would avenge them completely, I would hunt the god-men and grab their throats with my teeth given me. My tender hand would be brutal and merciless and I would not feel regret for the meting out of justice.

It’s been many thousands of years now. There are still five left, five of those god-men, wicked things they are, and I have been in pursuit through wood and stone, bronze and bone, even the wheel of long ago who’s cycles have gone digital in this age where there’s nothing spiritual.

I have only come this far for two things, to free you and to find them. You have grown up, I can’t teach you more but I will always love you dearly. I do hope to see you again, but as your goddess, I need to face what’s ahead and protect this city instead.

Virii, tell Haplo not to worry, I found them and I will eliminate them. Haplo knows how dangerous this is but I can’t ask them to come with me. I need to finish this or I will never feel at peace to be called your Queen. I am not your goddess as I am your servant, and I leave you now with my warmth and my raging courage.

I love you.

P.S. I left my monowire-mod in the armory. Please don’t cut yourself. It’s yours.

your digital mother,

KLYPS

[ Content Warning: I will talk frankly and casually about self-harm, ideation, and other shitty things. If these things trigger you, please skip this piece. With that said, onward! ]

Where were we? Oh right—my heart, my soul—a bit jacked up. I was feeling quite empty, rejected, alone, isolated and hopeless. Maybe I was in that survival state, fight or flight. Feeling unsafe. Trapped. Suicidal. A wavering candle.

I didn’t want to die. In all honesty I wanted to live. But I’m a flame, a fire like my grandmother and we can’t be contained. I wanted to glow. To glow on others, glow on things I love, glow on my surroundings. The thing is, a cult will choke that. A cult will reshape that. It will rob a tender innocence about you. Violate. Grope. I hate how it feels.

I still feel it now.

But I’m a fire, and I escaped that prison.

the part where I describe cult life, extra dismally

My gender dysphoria wasn’t yet fully manifesting, I still “didn’t know.” I didn’t know that in about five years I would transition—a complete twist of my fate. It was 2015 and I just wanted my freedom. To think. To feel. To be. There were memories I carried from the past related to gender. Memories of crossdressing, memories of my identity being questioned. These things still crossed my mind but I suppressed them. I am not supposed to “entertain misleading thoughts” or ‘fall into the sin of independent thinking.’ I am a sheep of the Lord, I must ‘put away the old personality with all it’s carnality.’

These are the kind of sayings you end up being programmed with. Men living off the tithes, living in New York with all expenses paid write this kind of shit on globally accessible publications. It’s how they control the large congregation of almost ten million followers. I would even suggest it’s a much higher number, because they count their member’s “active” status only. For example, I was considered “inactive” before I was excommunicated.

I’ve experienced the ritual of being “publicly reproved,” twice actually. It’s a thing they do to “discipline” you in front of hundreds of people. Shame. Manipulation. Gaslighting. All of it tied together like a nice bow on a shit show gift that someone abusive gives you—with a note that says, “I OWN YOUR ASS BITCH!”

The stakes were high during those times. I always felt on edge. I had a family of five. We were considered “pillars.” I was well respected among them. Literally, letters of recommendation about me to congregations across the country, letters about me to those old men in New York, to decide when to ordain me for higher appointment. Which they eventually approved. Twice. After showing repentance of course. After discarding myself again, of course.

The entire system feels like an onboarding and offboarding process in a corporate job, where hierarchies are everything, where promotions come depending on how “exemplary” of a corporate husk you become.

Me. I’m corporate husk. Waiting for divine orders—Brother.

the part about my crisis of conscience, and her

Before my departure in 2015, I had returned to my ordination as a minister in late 2008. I had left for almost a year, but I returned like their quintessential prodigal child, and regained my position as an “appointed shepherd” over time. I didn’t feel right about leaving my family who was deeply entrenched into the cult’s system. I wanted to believe. I wanted to keep my family together. I wanted to believe the god I was worshiping gave a fuck. I wanted to believe everything she believed. I put in my time from 2008 to 2013 trying to save them. But God gave no fucks and gave my spouse cancer instead.

I felt so alone. The more I prayed, the less I wanted to.

I made myself hard to find. Nobody could really open me up or hear my true thoughts inside. I just kept following protocols. I of course stayed, for her. I was not about to leave my spouse when she needed me most. It’s not like I didn’t love her. That’s what made it heartbreaking when I decided to act.

She believed the doctrines, the dogma, the promise of hope. I don’t blame her. She wanted hope, she needed hope. She had a wounded soul too, just like me. But I can’t tell her story for her, so that’s all I can say.

Eventually I ended our relationship, I could not see us ever leaving the cult. I placed my ring on the dresser, and we had our last fight before I walked out the door and never returned. My shit was flying out the balcony. Culty people almost immediately began showing up to my apartment. I could not see us ever having a normal relationship without the religious guilt always present, always aware of our choices. The way we love each other. The type of sex we were allowed. The kind of things we could talk about. The kind of goals we could aspire for. It was all dictated by the cult. Our closeness was gone for me, it felt shitty. It made me a shitty partner. My soul became unavailable. I felt empty. My unbelief was on the brink, and I felt entirely alone.

(If you need a little bit of warmth in this dark tale, in the end, her and I remain friends. We are still healing, sometimes we talk about these things, a way to let each other know we are okay now. Sometimes we do need the reminders, the chronic survival state is hard to unlearn. We even still co-parent. I like to think we beat those abusive motherfuckers. I like to believe we won in the end. :)

        Let me bring you back to this dark tale though. I am sorry.

I was waking up. In a lot of ways she was too, but our communication was restrained by doctrines, beliefs, expectations and the dissonance. The dissonance, you don’t forget. It’s always there reminding you that your thoughts are being monitored. By you. A version of you that rats you out to the elders. The clerics. The enforcers. The wolves.

Years pass, her cancer in remission, and I am barely there anymore. We got through it, I honored my vow, in sickness and in health. My soul was entirely sapped. I existed in a different world in my head, where I had freedom, and love untethered by dogma. I was awake, but I couldn’t let on that I was. After all, apostasy was enough for your family to disown you. The dissonance was exhausting.

                                                      Pretend. Pretend really good. At night, we sigh. Sigh a lot. Cry secretly. Do it quietly. —October, 2013

But I’m a fire, and just as I can warm things, I can destroy them too.

I disappear, become a scapegoat and regain my family

I eventually did leave the cult. By mid 2015, I had been gone months now, with the intent to stay gone. Since then, I slept in my car, in a shitty roach infested room from some stranger, and eventually my sister’s place. Thank fuck, because my idée fixe was on offing myself. I was tired—suddenly my grandfather dies. We were very close. I sink deeper. I am very tired. I can’t even see my own flames anymore.

I was alone. My extended family was 1,200 miles away, my sister was in the cult too, no one to turn to, all my “friends” treating me like I have leprosy.

My children were being told I was a lost sheep, and that I was living unholy. My spouse, completely devastated, and the cult, there to tell them I was being pulled away by demons, the Devil himself. Suspicions of infidelity were high, rumors and accusations were swirling. I mean I left “God’s holy arrangement” how could I not be sinning? My reputation was destroyed through rumors, so many rumors.

I’ve had people find me in public to only condemn me, embarrass me and question my character. I’ve had people knock on my door to “see for myself” whether I was truly a heretic turning people away from the Lord. Some even suggested I was a psychopath, and that I lost my mind, that I had no empathy for my family or my spouse. I was told I was a narcissist, and only cared about myself. Yeah I was ready to end it. I didn’t want to though, but I could see no relief otherwise.

                                        I made myself even harder to find.

I was so deep within myself, the only way out of this hell was through it and I was preparing for the pain. I wish I could tell you the conflict with the cult was over when I left. Unfortunately, it would be years before I saw relief from them, and in particular toward my family.

While I was gone on my own, I changed my life as slowly as I could. I could see my ex still struggling to keep the faith. Struggling to treat me balanced between former spouse and possibly an apostate. My kids, confused to complete disillusionment. These things still hurt me for them. I felt like I failed my role at that time as their guide, their spiritual lead. Like I failed to protect them from wicked men.

                                                How could this happen? I trusted those people.

I stayed isolated, trying to build a life while seeing my kids on agreed upon days. The days that they did not have mandatory night church. Mandatory “ministry school,” where you’re trained from infancy how to manipulate conversations.

Eventually they started slowly leaving the cult. Very slowly. Very painfully. I was to blame for their “falling away” of course. I was the “head” that took the entire family out of “god’s grace.” Truly a mother of heretics as my sons continued to slowly leave the cult and be labeled accordingly.

I didn’t mind being the blamed reason, I was just happy they were waking up and acting. The first one was my first-born. He tells me, ‘mom I never believed that shit, but it did rob my childhood.’ Then later my older step-son left. Then lastly, my ex and then my youngest son.

My youngest son came up to me and apologized for how they treated me, and for how they did not believe me. He even apologized for challenging my identity when I came out in 2020. He did not leave until 2021. Even well into 2023, the cult has been a problem, but at least now we can resist them as a family united.

Like I said, I still talk with her. She has thanked me multiple times acknowledging that had I not had the courage to leave, she would have never left. She said she was too afraid. I know that fear too, it’s taught to you. We sometimes share a tear or a sigh over the phone about these things, it’s hard not to feel it’s lasting effects. But I’m a fire, and I broke my family out of a cult through blasphemies and motherfucking rebellion.

                                             Heresy if you will.

Now, I just stay easy to find, hoping to be found by someone. Someone that may yet be tender to these things. Found by someone that loves me for who I am, and who I’ve been. To be found by my sons whenever they need me, to trust that I will guide them better than I did in the past. Found by god, still cursing his name and turning his sheeple away from his faith.

Thanks for reading.

                                         I am alone, and I do not know for how long I can stay this way. I hope they leave and still love me one day. —April, 2017

[Footnote]

*Cool Stuff: a thing I explain in an earlier piece, I included it below. Go check it out!

I've written many notes when the clouds were low
and I would talk of the shimmering roads
sleek lights, black mirror street heights,
the secret places—I'd tell her that no one else knows.

At midnight and above my city's plight
I choose the hour when there's no one else in sight.
I crack the windows, a chilled stillness blows
and I tell her it's a place nobody knows.

     The blue hues that won't dim
      they stay lit and glow within,
       but outside the dust puffs rise
        red lamps behind and starlit skies.

It's been years and there's been no sound
no sharing of fears or laughs out loud,
the seat is empty—its been quite lonely around
and there is nothing there
except for a city—and a glassy view of my town.

I talk a lot sometimes, usually with the wonderful help of a neurodivergent brain. It’s not like I talk to fill space with empty words. I love talking to educate, elucidate, juxtapose, hypothesize and often—over explain a tiny detail. I’ve come to the point where I embrace it, but I still find myself trying hard not to apologize every time I do it. I really don’t like small talk.

Most times, I actually don’t talk much. I spend most of my days doing things, and while doing them my internal dialogue is always going. I have entire conversations inside, I have entire sessions of problem solving—an eternal self exegesis. Sometimes I begin talking without the context I had within, and my best friend has to ask, “what did you say?” or “what…?” I often reply with, “oh you heard that?” It doesn’t happen much with strangers as I try hard to mask that part, but if I am comfortable and barely masked, it does happen occasionally. Sometimes I don’t want to explain and so I tell her, “cool stuff” and she knows what I mean.

Cool stuff. Here’s one of those tiny details that I will over explain.

The part about taking THC with bestie

One day, it had been months since bestie and I had taken THC together. I was very excited. On THC we mask very little. It’s exciting to be that way with her, I feel incredibly comfortable in those moments. The thing is, as I told my son once, “the autism comes out more when I am stoned.” I was explaining to him that since the tism is more present, then I have to put in more effort to mask if I am in public or around strangers. When I told him this, I was in a patio at a bar. He asked me, “you’re masking now?” and I just replied, yes. This can go into a whole different rabbit hole of discussion, so I’ll pull it back. I bring these examples up because it is important in describing “cool stuff.”

The part when I’m cute at the bar

In the patio, the effort in masking was making me anxious, not the autism. The social element had me excessively worrying that I was being too awkward and in some moments I clearly was. A girl asked me to have a drink with her shortly after that conversation with my son. I go with her and we share some time together listening to the music in the bar and just chatting. The masking at this point is making it very hard to remain relaxed. My social battery starts to dwindle very quickly, and the anxiety is rising—in turn my masking begins to be more obvious. I worry it’s too obvious, so I drop it down a little, she notices and says, “you are so cute!”

I get this a lot from people, even strangers. “You are so cute!” I can no longer count on my hands and feet how many times I’ve been told that. Some have described me as, “baby” and others as, “I’ve never known anyone like you.” I got a couple letters on my corkboard from kind people saying similar things. I found it so odd when I began to notice this occur a lot. I eventually embraced it, okay fuck it I’m cute and interesting.

Here I am, in a bar with a cutie really digging me for being me. However I begin to think. I tell her, “I need to go back with my son and friends, I just wanted to at least talk with you for a bit, you can have my number, maybe we can hang out some time?” We exchange numbers and she’s totally cool with it and waves to me as I skedaddle across the pulsing dance floor like a dork.

My son, bestie and friends are there vibin’ and he asks me, “how it go?” I tell him it was fine, I tell him I was awkward, I tell him how I feel and continue to unload and they see the meltdown coming, I feel it coming, I know it’s coming, goddamit Kalli not here, not now. My eyes well up, bestie is reassuring me I am fine and that the girl likes me and likes me even if I was awkward. That’s the thing though, I don’t want to be cute for being awkward, I just want to be able to socialize like everyone else does. I am so exhausted at this point, and I end up spending the rest of the night annoyed underneath my exterior. I had fun, it wasn’t a bad night, but these moments are hard, and despite my ability to manage, it takes a lot for me to socialize. I prefer the quiet. Unless of course I am allowed to be completely immersed in what I am talking about, such as one of my many interests.

Enter, Cool Stuff.

The part I take bestie for a walk down my brain

Bestie and I unwrap the edibles we picked up, each of us swallow about 10mg of THC and the vibes are extremely chill. We’re in my room listening to music, got cozy lights on, it’s dim, we’re snacking on stuff we picked up at the Qwiki Mart. Her and I always have things to talk about even the most mundane things, which I appreciate about her. Then after about thirty minutes I am suddenly talking in hyper-detail about something she mentioned that triggered a connection to something I am very informed about.

She’s listening very intently, and I catch myself and stop and just say, “cool stuff.” I realize quickly I am like a hundred levels deep into one detail with all its branching connecting details, and stop. Then I say, “oh fuck we’re stoned!” and we both start laughing pretty hard.

She doesn’t know how far I had her and how much further down I could take her, she just knows I started doing the thing. She’s used to it, but when I am not stoned, I do pretty well to rein it in. She asks me, yeah but what’s “cool stuff?” I look at her with a do you really wanna know face and I’m like okay I’ll explain.

Since I can tell her attention is quite focused and I am quite unmasked I indulge her question. I take her from the initial word that triggered it and to what connection it made in my database of brains. I walk her through every single detail, every thought, ever bit of context as to why I chose to say this or think that, and what options exist at a certain moment, and how I decided which dialogue option to go with. The entire path of my logic to simply answer a question.

When I finally hit the end of this path of subfolders and branches, I walk her back upward this cascade of thoughts, ideas, words, patterns and feelings. Gently collapsing them in the order I brought them up. A lot of time has passed by now, likely the weed made it feel even longer to both of us. We reach the surface of this deep dive into my brain process, and say—that’s Cool Stuff.

I explain to her, “and whenever I don’t want to explain something you heard me say that was out of context, or maybe it truly is irrelevant to our conversation, I don’t want to explain all that. So, whenever I say “cool stuff” just know I am not ignoring you, I am sparing you.” Still high as shit, we both laugh with absurd appreciation for what just happened, and we continue the rest of the night having a blast, unmasked and untethered. I hate small talk.

There is more I can say, but…

Cool Stuff.

I’ve never been alone this long,
I stay busy and occupied
I place things the way I like
and I really don’t make a fuss
if I don’t get home on time.

My home is bold and womanly,
My space—safe for my feminity.
I love the way I take my time
And how I bless myself in candlelight.

I’ve had time to adjust,
it took me longer than I thought
to clear away unwanted rust
and raise my frequency by a lot.

Even if some nights are quietly long,
and no one hears my belting songs
I romance my time—
I stay in love with me
breathing poetry and rhyme.