Coughing up clovers

i did irish dance for years growing up and really (really) liked moss;

in green plaid pajamas, i dreamt of laying on moss beds in deep forests—consumed by the quiet embrace of the Earth under fungi blankets knit by the pagans. hair woven into soil. the moss would become my veins, green and corrupted with an inkling toward fog and uncertainty and i could die happy; sygils will appear atop my toes and eyes of deer become my own. it always sounded nice.

and irish folklore was always of interest 2 me. i loved how mysterious knots and Finn McCool [//Fionn Mac Cumhail] were—the culture is as complex as its natural history which made me curious as a daughter of the Earth and Art.

“nobody cares for the woods anymore [//as i care for them],”

was burned under my fingernails the first time I ever saw the ents in LOTR: The Two Towers. hearing it made me realize i want to be as tree-like as possible. whatever way i could, i would try to turn myself green or carve bark in my arms just to be like them.

and as i grow, old and marked with lines of age, i want to do so like a Burr Oak—twisting, crawling, inkling slowly toward sun and moon while haunting prairies and rabbits.

“don’t forget about me,” it whispers.

luck is fantasy and everything [un]fortunately tastes [un]lucky.

when i was a senior in high school i lived with my grandparents in Dayton, OH, spending every night in front of the tv watching Food Network or shows about Alaska with my grandmother [Savage].

every morning i would walk down the carpeted steps to Savage’s room—her alarm, Celtic Women, playing in the background—and she would ask to look at my oufits b4 school. she loved fashion and maybe that’s part of the reason why i do too. i’d do a little spin and explain my intention//pop-culture inspiration behind the fabrics i combined and most often she would smile gently and just stare…other times she would laugh at the ridiculous jumble of Gen Z jargon i would put together at 7:45am on a Tuesday in October. she always wished me a good day and told me she loved me.

i didn’t (and still don’t) wear things to make myself look good or pretty—i wear things i like. but Savage always told me i looked good and was pretty anyway.

and i would say she looked good and pretty too.

the world is savage—but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.

the wisdom of my grandmother that impacted me most was derived from my family line’s fault of fate and intimate relationship with lucklessness. for a reason unknown, our blood has always been unlucky—cursed, as i thought of it when i was little. family reunions in hospitals and habits with no escape—complex cruelty and the nostalgic smell of chlorine on musty towels. unlucky. unlucky. unlucky.

however, the person to rebel against this inevitable force was Savage and she did so by living off of one philosphy: don’t be boring.

when you live an unlucky life it is better to play with and not against it. boredom means it (life herself) has consumed you. simplicity is underwhelming and minimalism, lazy. celebrate everything. wear anything. talk 2 people. eat as much food as possible. surprise people. wear funky glasses to dialysis for the hell of it. do things people are too afraid 2 do.

—rebellious spirits make the world turn [the other way].

girls of rebellious spirit and Savage hearts;

they are the ones who carry ammo like no other—a fearlessness to originality. the carrying of excitement in bones that shatter those of aggressive fragility; no more sexual imprisonement//no more lifeless bloodflow of kitchen murmurs. let us see farther than what is told and attempt to unknot the world.

2 be curious and show it—that is cool and rebellious and that is making luck.

dry, sarcastic, UK __ Hu·mor [/ˈ(h)yo͞omər/]

i felt it ironic to get a tattoo of a symbol of luck as someone w/ so much experience with it’s foe.

<must we define ourselves by our aquantainces (both spiritual and material) or will we ever gain the wit to do it of our own volition?>

idk. getting something sarcastic permenantly inked on my body felt super funny to me//and life can be funny if u make it so, so i did.

the first moment i stepped on European soil was about a year ago. i lived in a rural part of the Netherlands and the initial action i did upon arrival was opening a Dutch dictionary—that of which, tbh, i didn’t even know was language prior to my landing in the country—my b. this prompted the final convincing for me to get this trivial symbol on my hip 4ever.

klaver. klaver. klaver.

out of all words in the world and in that very collection of Dutch definitions which spanned hundreds and hundreds of pages, my thumb landed upon the Dutch word for clover, right on the dot.

maybe lucklessness doesn’t have to follow us all the time?…

i got my first tattoo about a year ago in London.

this ink of permance resides in my cells now, reminding me that my hips carry more than just mother/daughter/grandaughterhood—

my hips now hold a clover [//klaver] of pure Savage Luck.

and I think that’s pretty dope. Thank you @annapokes for making my skin so pretty.

and don’t forget,

u must thank your lucky stars every day.

i know i do.

 - C8 ☘︎