September 10th, we feel as aliens belonging in a natural habitat of another dimension, as if a regression through a memory line lands us in a one-room schoolhouse with all our disowned brothers and sisters. Looking around, we can’t quite believe that we belong, and our shifty eyes around all the scarred comrades’ skins take awhile to adjust; the concentric circles of our souls and minds take time to land in this space of sibling recognition.
All the unwashed faces betray lonesome experiences in the trenches, manipulated by sleazy politicians into unjust wars. Those conmen still slither in the tall grass outside this place of learning and solidarity.
Surrounded by woods teeming with warrior-priestesses smeared in goats’ blood, we hear the cries and yawps of our more elemental brothers and sisters, howling to the skies, avenging all of our unloved soul-parts and those parts that were forced to remain in a place that made us into killers.
We listen in awkward, human, embarrassed horror, with no teachers lecturing—just the silence and embarrassment of mutual love trying to shield itself as the screams through the woods envelope us, retrieving those fragments that had once been beaten into submission.
The walls come down; old traumatized skin comes off, and those always-feeling-left-out selves land into our embrace. Their act of landing shakes down the weeds where the malice that pretended to defend us hid itself. After non-belonging, home again.