[oaugreer]

Rough road into Arizona

October 8 2024

Sedimentary seas stripe the last leg of this part of the journey Strawberry rock is sweet on the eyes Blue shadows loom quiet, silhouette of a wall Fire danger MODERATE today! Northern Arizona is greener than you think I stink Smiling Less than half a mile now I could drive forever

[oaugreer]

Lone yellow house in a wide open world

October 8 2024

Brush and bramble Clouds like heaven And rich red rock somersaulting down the bluffs I didn’t expect to love Utah

[oaugreer]

Made it to Colorado

October 7 2024

No mountains yet But I think I’m on an incline now Billboards line the roads “Choose Life” one says “Kill yourself” I echo back It was the graphic of the giant fetus that pissed me off Everything has felt dry for a while I love to see the haybails It’s nice to know Minnesota’s not alone Dad called to tell me to look for mountains through the fog I wasn’t convinced at first but they were there Oh wow! And there they are. Straight ahead now I’ve never been here before Somebody gave me the finger for no reason Welcome to Denver!

I did end up crying with the beauty of the trees complicated feelings, Nature offers humility Wanted to text Anya and tell her By the mountains I feel held

[oaugreer]

Nebraskan oceans have smooth waters

October 6 2024

Amber sprouting green Thick brush camouflages I dance the shimmer of the leaves I’ll be happy now to lay out To stretch Under your rains any trace of restless regret is quickly washed away comes and goes in a flash Relief falls in many forms Bellow bellow bellow I smell McDonald’s fries But there is only one building in sight and I can’t tell if it’s a grain elevator or a barn The smell of Horse shit comforts me Did I just see a tumbleweed? I thought someone stole my cat while I was in the gas station. The cashier wanted to talk politics And I listened for a minute. What do we do about it? When he brought up fertile soil he had to look away. explained that it’s a metaphor for our minds these days. Some sprout more than others. What do we do about it? He shrugged and I wanted to get back to the car to open up the window and let some air in That’s when I thought she was gone but just hiding away from the sun Golden Acres cropped short frame the mass air This free space is not empty Applebees was pretty bad but the people here are friendly Overalls are easy to compliment It’s a broad world out here And these cows have a great view.

[oaugreer]

Iowa's eyes are vivid blue

October 2024

and I see every standing thing Laid out naked and lanky Under a wider paler sky Dropped on us like a thumb Stern and gentle Somehow lonely smelling sulfur and berries The Distance could be close quarters I’m either big or small and giant throwing stars spin ‘round to blink at me from above That earth I am so tempted to sweep my hand clean across i’m ready now to fly that low Blotches of asymmetric gold I press up against the quilt Body, Land, Mould with the force of a machine I drive my shoulders to the ground Swimming through the fields that push me up as I bear down Pat pat pat pat Grain sparkles in the sun And when I’m done I can taste the wind only reaching thing moves on I lean against the stuck trees watch and we know how

to Arch for the open sky

[oaugreer]

I Love Minnesota

Waters rush and pool

The river takes her time

We reflect together,

There’s nothing like knowing where you’re going

[oaugreer]

The Wizard's Spell

I never leave my hill unless I have a graver need than to Listen to the winds for them to tell me what to be. But lately I’ve been worried For my nation and my mind— The winds, they seem to whisper things the sun reveals are lies. I simply don’t know what to believe—and at my age, that’s no good! So I’ll prance through the puddles in the field on my walk And pray to guides as I gaze at swamp wood.

In truth, it’s just, I cannot trust when records don’t align. I’ll have to ask my guides how one interprets troubling times. I’ve never felt a fear this false, a patronizing paralysis. When is it that we will revolt: release our own resistance? Until then I know I must go forward on my own. Who else can protect, or indeed, redirect, the fools looking up at the throne?

If I’m to stay atop my hill until the end of time, I simply must eradicate the frothing spew of lies. It can’t go on, this age is done, from leaders to the rebels-- We, the people, cannot accept the acts of cheating devils! No matter your lies, for the gods, they prize loyalty to the truth above all. I don’t mean to tattle but I’ve a spell that’ll draw the baffled to a battle call! Today I embrace a clever plan to expose and remove the corruption. I ask upon my honored guides to aid in truth’s eruption:

Oh, mighty sky-- Mighty sun and all the mighty stars Release your mighty majesty upon these flighty farts. The people demand its powerful: Accountable Transparent And Kind. The people drown in simple pleasures Unless we shock them into line. Honorable sky, fall upon us; flood light into each crevice. Once the truth has been set aloose each moment then is precious.

Thank you, sun Thank you, stars Thank you for your guidance Thank you for eternal peace in defending all the silenced.

[oaugreer]

Skin

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Schlafende (Sleeping Woman) by Alexej von Jawlensky (1910), cropped by OG 2024

From age 9 I worried about skin. Less white than pink, wrinkled in places, with spots of sun and snow. It was too soft, too plump knuckled, and I fretted for it far too long. I tried to be faithful, to love it for its shivers, for its rashes, for its company, but its presence seemed to idle, so I finally gave up and wished for it to leave my thoughts. I still focus, but now I know I’m wrong for it… and is that favorable? From age 9 I worried so selfishly over skin, bulges, scars. I blamed bones for my fixation. In Fairyland, it was rough and dry, and I could pick it apart because of the heat, so I peeled away pieces of my hands, and plucked the faint hairs from my ankles and knees, let free due to geography. My elbows fell not at my ribs but at my hips, hunched over because I fancied them that way--or because I lost face otherwise. These images were incredible to ignore, impossible to end. From age 9 I worried so deeply about the stretches and slopes of skin. In Fairyland, I learned I wasn’t remarkable in the bites on the webs of my fingers. Now I have a reason not to sharpen my teeth.

Girl With Clasped Hands by Henry Moore (1930)

Femme nue au chien by Gustave Courbet (1861-1862)

[oaugreer]

current state

picture taken Depaul University Lincoln Park Campus, 11/18/17

There are some women with no knowledge of their shells. The husks and hulls that make up their frame are not one with them, but live alongside them, drawn delicately at a parallel so slightly to the right. This may manifest itself in an awkwardness, an ardent dismay that pools at the brainstem while a potent, viscous shame gathers in the gut. So slightly above, so subtly below--and soon, she is not a woman, but a consciousness so precariously conjoined with an undeniably physical yet not palpable being. Tangible and intangible. Numinous due to a depression of an otherwise marvelous spirit, now transcendental in another sense. Adjacent to existence, adjacent to the earth.

This disillusionment is as common as it’s ever been. More common than one may believe, pervasive in our daily lives, we encounter these women all the time. A sigh, a smile… unless perceptive, one may never know they’ve been faced with a person like this. It is not that they are sneaky or in any way deceitful. We are simply existing, as any and all others do, in this world that welcomes and resents us. We are as any other passerby are--though I would not describe us as harmless.

Although it is not permanent, this state is enveloping. It is self-sufficient; it does not require permission, and it exposes itself to the outside observer in a variety of odd behavior.

Newfound habits and peculiarities appear--a tendency to pull at the hair framing the cheek, an itch at the point of the chin. Emotions axiomatic to an onlooker, but ambiguous to the individual--these, among so many other silent symptoms, are indicators of the syndrome both unbridled and isolating. Ultimately violent.

We can be found burning boxcars, setting streets ablaze, and bedazzling ourselves with booze. I find myself bellowing broadly to no audience or avail. I find myself bucking, I find myself...

I hope to one day breach as a whale does. Brim with brilliance, awaken with wonder. And overflow.

I am defeated I am unfulfilled I am typing when i should be carving; there is no relief from the weight of a lack of a something, I am beaten by my own brain and my own blood, I am lying in a puddle of chocolate milk and green tea and sour, molded juice of limes, chest unrising, slowly saturating, meekly marinating, in the 

I fell up the stairs the other day, up concrete brinks with my hands in my pockets. I had no way to catch the fall. I landed like a pin, bowling or needlepoint, and the shame that settled in my stomach was poignant and more familiar than anything I’d sensed in months.

Blinking, burning, as time passes. A glance at the clock makes my face contort. A pucker, a grimace. Back to tomorrow, as yesterday is a liquid I’m trying to collect, to use it to prune my fingertips. It is an attempt to tinge tomorrow with the past.

I refuse to get a flu shot. I figure it is an opportunity to have a reason to identify as feeling weak, as feeling too hot or too cold.

Ultimately, I am disgusted. My apathy. Your lack of fire. Your lack of fire. Your lack of fire.  The sweat on your brow. The spit stretching in your mouth and his and hers. 

I was not meant to be anything but conceptual. I was not meant to be celibate or to wait for the train or to run for my life. I was never meant to be colloquial. I was meant to be a vicious energy. I was meant to be demanding and bloody and feared; not bold, but brutal. I am supposed to be merciless, instead I am at the mercy of other, of circumstance, of condition and situation and this nagging, wearisome body.

I am not God’s eyelash, but God’s tooth. I am supposed to be purled into God’s spine--and instead, somehow, I am here, falsely identified as her single breath. 

I sing for so many reasons, known and unknown to me. Today (recently), I’d wanted a response. I got one--small and brief--but real. And it was relieving.

[oaugreer]

Prissy Girl

Original monologue written and performed by Oau Greer.

text:

I’ve never really thought of myself as a prissy girl. I’ve spent my fair share of time elbow deep in pig grease—don’t you think any different. But this... why, this is barbaric. It really is.

I’ve been unsatisfied for quite a long time with my life here and I felt like it was just about time to move on. So I packed up my things and as sure as the sun rose the next morning I was nowhere to be found. Fakin’ your own death is quite a bit easier than you’d think--folks tend to expect the worst once you’ve been gone a little while.

All was well and good until I stupidly decided to… stay. For my funeral. Greedy, I know, but how can one resist? It was a kind of never-in-a-lifetime opportunity I wanted to snatch up while I still could. I hid behind the huckleberry bushes until the light was drained from the sky and my knees felt like I’d been sleepin’ in grits.

No. One. Showed. Not Billy, not Bob, not Shirley or Alice or Charles or any of them. I think that really says it all but I might have to keep talkin’ about it right now because this is really just bringin’ me down. I mean, I know I was leavin’ um but they couldn’t even be bothered to stay for their own sissy’s farewell from the bright world above? Isn’t this sinful? Are they not God-fearing men?

Oh, but I think I’m alright. I’m gonna be okay. I mean, I made it this far, didn’t I? Whether or not they were off at the hog races or… just back at home, shuckin’ corn… I’ve still got myself. And that’s what really matters, isn’t it?

[oaugreer]

Sonnet 1

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Craft prefers ponderers spinning on loom Favors blushing vessels and worn palms wrought. Haughty spirits too swollen to be flumed Fashion cloth, who puckers dumb at the thought. Tailored men blink glory behind fine plumes, Knit weak nests yet preen cheeks with stiff dowels Weave what but ritual, sure to heel soon? None find ink among feathers, tools of fowl. Sat atop a modest hill, she wastes hours Stitching thickets and grasses to comely. Organs tune to scents of sweet flowers As men sour birdcalls with certainty. She’s an instrument as well as a song— The sound of her, with faith, she has not sewn.

[oaugreer]

I am so awake.

Visit Original Link

In times of crisis: or any time, really—we look to the past to find a path through the present. My name is Oau Greer and I am a lifelong writer. The clarity of that knowledge is searing. Some truth is undeniable, and that makes it love.

From what I’ve seen (mostly the very limited free content on Patti Smith’s publication), Substack is a place designed to foster community and offer writers a forum for multifaceted self expression. Basically, Twitter for adults. This appeals to me. Here at Oau Greer, I will publish journal posts inspired by

→artworks music, films, poetry, museum visits... laughter heard in the streets, sunbeams reaching skin… to this reaction channel, everything is fair game.

→creative movement practice I am a certified yoga instructor and I love moving around*ੈ✩‧₊˚<3 Most people are not attuned to what’s happening within and of themselves. I utilize a movement practice to calibrate, grounding myself into bodily and spiritual unity. I want to share the joy of that wholeness with my communities. The body knows things that the mind can’t. RYT 200 - Yoga Alliance only read this part if you can keep a secret: Deeply related to my love of the body and unlocking its hidden mysteries is an everbudding interest in Jewish Kabbalah and the Tree of Life, which hold truths that our purpose on earth is healing.

I will write about Palestine and Israel. First, I cry.

→America $ome things we don’t choose.

The Awakening of The Forest (1939), Paul Delvaux cropped by OG 2024

This is #bodyprayer content: meant to build rapport and trust with the body I inhabit and the bodies I contribute to. I will also be posting

→Fiction works short form, long form. Monologues for fellow actors. Whatever crops up.

You will get songs and poetry and sketches. Jungian psychobabble. Travel blogging if I’m lucky. Paradox and post-irony, thought and feeling. I want this to be a place to share openly and widely and honestly. I want to contradict myself. I WILL CITE MY SOURCES... even when it’s original.

Untitled, Nicolas Uribe edited by OG 2024

How often will we encounter one another? No promises on either end. Do drop in. come as you are. I only want to share when I know I have something meaningful or prickly to contribute. Silence is for the dead. I’ll take the smoke, but I want a bigger mirror—maybe it’ll help us find the fire. We are here to reflect upon each other.

Together we’ll adventure into territory that the map could only dream of. Let’s delight in the gravity of the fool’s first steps.

°˚✿ °༻ 𓆩♡𓆪 ༺ ˎˊ-⭑ ★ ⭑ ˗ ˏˋ ❀ ´ˎ ˗ ⭑ ★ ⭑-ˋˏ ༻ ❁ ༺ ˎˊ𓆉｡˚ ✧

pc Gaby Proctor 2023

⁺•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺•̩̩͙

Check out this post on SUBSTACK! and subscribe for free. <3 originally posted there 7/27/24

[esseklikovboy]

[dongboss]

ITS A PUSSY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!!! SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A PUSSY!!!!  OOOHOHOHOHOHHH SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!A  FUCKING PUSSY YOU SEE THAT SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[th3rah]

This fucking website is a curse

[compostmodernism]

[amystiago]

Here’s a video of Joanna talking with the fans last night!

[acidbrains]

[theory-of-depravity-blog]