You enquired regarding my current place of residence. I beg your pardon for this delayed response.
I have informed you that I am uncomfortable with life in the USA. Were is not for work, offered even at my advanced age, there would be no compelling inducement to remain.
It is not only that black lives matter not, no life of colour matters. As a third-gender Brythonic Cymric Celtic pagan, my life, too, does not matter. In all of these regards, and so many more, the States Once-United of America has never been and will never be my home. Hence my discerning logistical means of decampment, of emigration, of disappearance.
Prelude to revelation –
Under the duress of the times, misguidedly seeking a refuge in a hell camouflaged as heaven, psychologically vulnerable, mania prevailing only intermittently over depression, moderation nowhere to be seen or found, all in the context of a world grown ever more inhumane, my arrival in Seattle ushered in the worst period of my life, the most unguarded period of my life.
It was in Seattle that I surrendered unto an abyss of despair deeper and darker than any I had ever known. More mistakes were made in Seattle, one after another, than in all of the years of my life preceding that fateful encounter. Further compounding my tribulation, it was as if all reason had deserted me.
Redemption would come only with karmic debt paid, emergence and escape possible.
Few, if any, other than you, my beloved, are aware of the few pleasant memories I still harbour of the entire time I spent in the Pacific Northwest. Few, even you, my worshipped, could imagine the extent to which deliverance has been granted me in fleeing Seattle forever.
The land that held my captive – the Pacific Northwest, as American, as such –
Belligerent white supremacy, Aryan-Anglo-Saxon predominancy, Protestant fundamentalist evangelicalism, sinarquistic authoritarianism, mercenary capitalism, socio-economic élitism, hereditary oligarchy, debt pimps, debt whores, debt pushers and users…
Forsaken dreams, forsworn promises, broken treaties, flaunted chauvinism, brandished imbecility, squandered hopes, misplaced faith, belief abandoned, a heroine betrayed, a disappointment, a laughing-stock, a misfortune, a pity, a shame, a tragedy…
Prevailing hypocrisy, perpetuated by a white mis-ruling class, promulgated through mass hysteria and mass indoctrination upon a white under-class, fearfully, mindlessly, senselessly, sycophantically supporting and following, in blinded delusion, all it is perniciously, toxically fed – food that flatters taste, that immediately gratifies, that benumbs the senses, that intoxicates the mind, but feeds not, satisfies not, inspires not, swollen insufficiencies swallowed as names of better things…
Cowardice for all; truth and justice for none.
The land of my current burgeoning – the New Mexican Southwest, only miles from the border with Mexico, un-American as such –
Life, liberty, equality, tolerance, compassion, the pursuit of happiness.
Las Cruces, predominantly Hispanic; prevailing language, Spanish. My home, the historical Mesquite District, an original, genuine adobe, over a hundred years old, surrounded by age-old tress, an oasis in the midst of seeming desert. The neighbours, Hispanic. My livelihood, punctuating my writing, driving a school bus amidst the cultivated fields and orchards of the wholly agricultural Mesilla Valley, on the banks of the Rio Grande, the Rio Bravo of Mexico. My commitment, my promise, my responsibility, the lives of bus-loads of stunningly beautiful brown Hispanic children, elementary and middle school. And I, their old, uncharacteristically white driver, wildness and wiseness personified.
Lest rage urge me to react violently to the vanilla hatred seething in my blood and brain, I had to leave. I had to come.
Already, as nowhere else in this country, able to depart to the south at will, I feel embraced anew, at last. Again, I am the outsider, the foreigner, the Celtic poet in exile, forbidding only to those who would harm others in my presence, or me – politically confirmed white-trash Anglo-Saxon Protestants all. If home is where the heart is, my heart has found a home here.
‘Til I may return home.