What change, big or small, would you like your blog to make in the world?
Hi I’m Axton, and I will make a difference.
I am a transgender man, an advocate, and above all, someone who believes deeply in the power of change. Change, not just for myself, but for every person who has been pushed to the margins of society. This blog exists to serve as an inclusive platform. I want to help build a future where all minorities can live with dignity, respect, and full access to the things that make life meaningful: books to feed our minds, food to nourish our bodies, clean water to sustain us, and electricity to light our paths (just to hit the key points). To me, social justice advocacy isn’t just a political term, but a way of life. And a vital continuation of the ongoing struggle for human rights and dignity for all.
We live in a world that too often judges people based on narrow definitions of worth. One where differences divide instead of unite us. I believe that our differences should be the very reason we love and support each other more fiercely, not less. As the saying goes, “You can’t judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree.” We are not all made to succeed by the same standards or walk the same paths. Yet, that’s what makes humanity so rich and powerful. Our unique experiences, perspectives, and identities are not weaknesses to be fixed but strengths to be celebrated.
For years, I have watched countless minority voices be erased or silenced. Their stories buried under layers of misunderstanding, prejudice, and oppression. As a transgender man, I know how painful it is to feel invisible or judged for simply existing. That pain fuels my passion for this blog and my dream to create a platform where every marginalized voice can be heard loud and clear.
I want this blog to be a beacon for all people who have been robbed of their voice, their history, or their chance to thrive. Through poetry, essays, zines, art work and community projects, I’m working to build a grassroots indie publishing space where creators from all walks of life, whether trans, queer, disabled, Indigenous, Black, Brown, or otherwise marginalized, can share their truths without fear of censorship or erasure.
My vision extends beyond art or words. I dream of a world where access to the essentials of life like books, food, electricity, clean water, is a universal right, not a privilege reserved for the few. This is about equity in the most fundamental sense. No one should be denied the ability to learn, to eat, to light their home, or to drink clean water because of who they are, what they have to offer, or where they come from. These are the building blocks of freedom, and until they are accessible to all, our work is far from done.
This blog is my call to action. It is a place to foster understanding, compassion, and radical love. A love that sees difference not as a threat but as a reason to come together, to fight for justice, and to create communities that celebrate every shade of identity and experience.
I want to challenge readers to rethink what success and ability mean. We don’t all thrive in the same way, and that’s okay. Judging someone by a narrow standard is not only unfair. It systematically erases the beautiful complexity of human life. Instead, we must build systems and societies that recognize and uplift diverse ways of living and knowing.
The change I want this blog to make is a shift toward justice, empathy, and empowerment. It is a commitment to amplifying minority voices that have been pushed aside, to honoring every story, and to fighting for a world where all people have the resources and respect they deserve.
This is not a journey I take alone. I invite allies, fellow creators, and advocates to join me in this mission. Together, we can rewrite the narrative, restore stolen histories, and create a future where every voice matters. Then every person will know they have value.
Because at the end of the day, our differences are not barriers, they are bridges. And through those bridges, we will build a world rooted in love, justice, and freedom for all.
We’re not gonna keep pretending this was about “policy.” That it was “just politics.” That any of this was ever neutral.
Donald Trump didn’t “divide the nation”; the nation was already divided. He just took a fucking blowtorch to it and got rich doing it.
He didn’t build anything. He exploited what was already broken. He played white America’s fear like a damn fiddle and then sold tickets to the concert.
Yes, from the beginning? It was racism.
When he announced his campaign by calling Mexican immigrants drug dealers, criminals, and rapists. It wasn’t some offhand moment. It was the start of a plan. It was a signal to white supremacy: I’m your guy. Given his face looks like that little racist frog meme and all.
This wasn’t new. He’d already been pushing that racist birther lie about Obama for years, acting like the first Black president wasn’t legit because his skin made Trump uncomfortable. It wasn’t “doubt.” It was hate. That’s what got him attention. That’s what built his base.
He kept going.
He called for a Muslim ban.
He referred to Black and brown countries as “shitholes.”
He told Black women in Congress to “go back” where they came from. Three were born here though, I don’t think any of Trumps wives were.
He refused to condemn white supremacists. Told the Proud Boys to “stand back and stand by.” They heard him. Loud and clear.
And this whole time he was being taken to court by E. Jean Carroll for sexual assault. She won. He was found liable for sexual abuse. That’s not speculation. That’s not internet gossip. That’s legal fact. You voted for a rapist and a man who is proven to have said he just can’t help himself around beautiful women and I’m sure you know the rest of the line. I mean for Christ sake your vote was for a racist walking meme.
So while he was out here calling immigrants rapists , he was in court being held responsible for exactly that kind of violence. But the media won’t call it rape. They say “scandal.” They say “controversy.” They say “misconduct.” Nah. Say what the fuck it is.
Your president is a RAPIST!
This country made excuses for him. Over and over again. It’s not “bias” to say he’s racist . And it’s restraint not to say worse, honestly.
And we’re not gonna do the media’s job and soften this shit for you.
This is Poeaxtry’s Poetry Prism.
We don’t worship people who use power to abuse.
We don’t confuse “influence” for integrity.
We don’t forget.
We document the harm and provide a space for those targeted by Trump’s hate to share their own truths and reclaim their voices.
On the way home from Mohican, I took a tiny detour that we have seen twice before : Ariel-Foundation Park in Mount Vernon, Ohio. It’s almost directly on my route and was the perfect actual last stop. This time, I finally got to climb the spiral tower, something I’ve wanted to do for a while but hadn’t managed yet because of the heat. Luna also wasn’t exactly thrilled about it trying it.
Ariel-Foundation Park is one of Ohio’s most fascinating public spaces. Built on the grounds of the former Pittsburgh Plate Glass plant. This park preserves the industrial past with a modern art twist. Glass, steel, and open green space merge here in a way I haven’t seen anywhere else yet, personally. Sculptures made from reclaimed materials dot the landscape, and the skeletal frames of old buildings remain upright. Almost a ghostly tribute to the workers who built the area’s legacy.
Self photo on top
The spiral staircase itself is part of what used to be the factory’s smokestack. Now repurposed into a vertical viewing tower, it offers panoramic views of Mount Vernon and the surrounding countryside. There are 224 steps up and the stairs stop before the very top for safety reasons. It’s high enough that you can see for miles, and the spiral design is open to the air, so you’re just circling your way up the sky.
I’ve explored Ariel before with Luna, and we’ve walked the lakeside trails, crossed the little bridges, and paused at the swings scattered around the park. There’s even a small hedge maze tucked back near the art installations. The last time, it was too risky to climb the tower with Luna all scared, and Luna couldn’t safely wait while I climbed the tower in the heat. But today, the temperature was cool and mild safe for her to stay in the car with the windows down while I ran up to finally see that view from the top.
She and I had already explored the cute lakeside area earlier, and she was content to chill while I made the fast climb. She definitely remembers being less than impressed the last time we passed the base of the stairs. She made it clear she wanted no part of the spiral when she looked at the tower and chose to lay down. Not even trying to come too.
Ariel-Foundation Park is more than just a stop to stretch your legs, it’s a place where Ohio’s industrial history gets transformed into something imaginative and beautiful. It feels both abandoned and alive, which is what makes it stick with me. And if you’re ever headed through Mount Vernon with time to spare, it’s worth climbing those stairs. If you’re chasing a view or even just want to pause somewhere full of memory and transformation.
I don’t wake up every day smiling. Life’s not that kind. But even on my worst day. The one where the burn-out threatens to walk away. The overstimulated days, when even thoughts are too much. The “why the hell am I even doing this” days. I know joy still lives in me. It’s not always some big outrageous show. Often it is quiet and small. Unhinged. Chaotic. Soft. Real.
The following is my attempt at giving at least some of them names(no particular order).
1. My partner Kelso, and the life we built together It isn’t perfect, and we never wanted perfect anyway. What we’ve got is real. It’s soft, it’s loud, it’s safe, it’s feral, it’s growing. They see me in ways that no one else does, and they stay. That alone makes this entire messy ride feel like something worth holding onto. I’d build this weird-ass little world again with them every time.
2. My mom and everything she stood for, taught me, and lived by. She wasn’t the kind of person you forget. She loved out loud, stood her ground, held her people up and never backed down from what she stood on. What she believed, she lived, and what she lived, she passed to me whether she meant to or not. Some days I hear her in the way I talk to people. Other days I see her in the mirror. She’s gone, but her backbone is stitched into mine.
3. My sisters, even if they will grey me early. They’re twins and always have been chaos. A just shy of a decade younger and somehow one acts older half the time. They have always known every button to push, and they push them with glee. But underneath all that noise, there’s a kind of loyalty and bond that’s built into the marrow. They were annoying and loud and infuriating but so very irreplaceable.
4. My friends, past and present I’m not one of those “cut off forever” people. Even if we fell out, even if we haven’t talked in years, even if the love had to turn silent. It was and is still love. Some folks just can’t sit at my table anymore or ever again. Doesn’t mean I don’t wish them well from way over here.
5. My dog Luna and the kitty men. There’s no part of my life untouched by my animals. Luna’s nose on my hand when I’m crying. The cats headbutting me for attention Luna pulling me through dirt paths lined with tree after I’ve worked three doubles. They remind me to eat. To stop. To breathe. To laugh. That kind of love is pure.
6. When different minorities come together despite our differences. Watching Black, brown, Indigenous, disabled, neurodivergent, queer, trans folks stand beside each other is freeing, instead of fighting for scraps. This is by far one of the most healing things I’ve witnessed. There’s something sacred about that kind of alliance. It doesn’t erase pain, but it makes space for all of us.
7. Pop punk, especially Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, and all those dope-ass covers from Punk Goes pop/Country/rock/etc. That shit raised me. I was a hoodie-and-headphones kid, screaming lyrics into the void like they were gospel. I still blast it driving through Ohio backroads,and it feels as if the ghosts of my teenage self is riding shotgun. The first album I remember asking for was definitely “From Under the Cork Tree.”
8. Poetry, literature, journaling… language in all its forms. I don’t always know how to say things out loud, but I always find a way to write it. Words don’t always make sense when I speak them. When I write they land. They hold space. Take your breath and then they finally breathe.
9. Hiking, rockhounding, exploring new places or old, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I just need to wander. Whether it’s a trail I’ve walked a dozen times or a new spot I found on a whim, there’s peace in the motion. In the quiet. In the discovery. Especially when I’m out rockhounding in Ohio and stumble across a fossil or pocket of quartz.
10. When I am turning rock finds into something beautiful There’s something powerful in taking something raw and jagged from the ground and shaping it into a polished, glimmering little thing. Tumbling, slicing, sanding it’s not just a hobby. It’s transformation. I’ve pulled creekside stones from Wheeling, West Virginia and turned them into altar pieces.
11. Spirituality, witchcraft, and nature None of its performative. It’s grounding. It’s ritual. It’s the hum I hear when I’m still enough to listen. My practice isn’t about aesthetics, it’s about stitching the world back together in a way that makes sense to me.
12. My residents, past present and future. They’ve seen more than I ever will. Even when they forget my name. Even when they’re mean. Even when I’m stretched too thin and they’re dying in front of me. They’re still people worth knowing. And I’m honored every damn time I get to know them.
13. Some of the nurses and aides I’ve worked with over the years. Not all, not most, but my few homies. The ones who get it? They become your lifeline. They joke with you, cry with you, hold the line with you. They’re the ones keeping it all afloat when the higher-ups are just checking boxes. And if you’re lucky enough you’re able to extend a lot of that beyond work.
14.. Geek Bars… the banana taffy is the one. Yes, it’s nicotine. Yes, it’s artificial. No, I don’t care. Banana taffy is joy in vapor form.
15. Weeds, flowers, carts, edibles, all of it Indica or hybrid, please and thank you. My brain’s already an overclocked mess; I’m not trying to blast off with a sativa. I just want to calm down and breathe again.
16. The mountains and their views, the air, the cold streams in North Carolina. Even when I am driving through the southeastern Ohio hills or heading down past Yellow Springs, the landscape changes your chest. The air is sharper. Cleaner. The water’s so cold it feels holy. I feel more me up there. Well honestly anywhere in nature.
17. Video games, especially Far Cry and Fortnite. I want story, chaos, bright colors, explosions, and weird-ass side missions. Far Cry’s my jam, and Fortnite’s my candy. And I love to use emotes to be extra sassy!
18. Long drives with good music. Whether I’m chasing sunsets through Ohio or driving toward nowhere just to move, those drives are my church. Sometimes it’s just me and Luna. Other times, it’s the right people. The destination isn’t always the point. The feeling is.
19. Yellow. Just the color yellow. It’s been my favorite forever. It feels like a mood lifeline. As if I can’t quite sink if I can still see yellow.
20.. Kayaking, Whether I’m out on the lakes or on the river trails back home in Wheeling, WV, there’s something about floating. Something about being held by the water, that quiets me. That realigns me.
21.. My partner’s family. They didn’t just tolerate me, they welcomed me. My sisters-in-law, my niece, my nephew… they feel like people I was supposed to know all along.
22. Reptiles, amphibians, snakes I’ll die on the hill that snakes have personalities. The texture of a lizard’s skin, the slow blink of a gecko, the vibe of a chill ball python all beautiful. And something’s that bring me joy. That’s connection.
23. Studying religion and history. Not to argue or prove anything. Just to know. Just to understand what’s shaped the world, and why.
24.. My Honda Civic. It was my mom’s favorite car make, but to me? That thing is freedom. Reliable, efficient, mine. Honda gang for life.
25.. Early morning hours before the world wakes. That weird liminal time between 4 a.m. and sunrise, when everything is quiet and painted in slow pinks and oranges? That’s my peace. That’s when the noise quiets.
26. Hoodie and shorts weather Hot legs, cold arms. Chill breeze, sunny sky. Perfection. Classic ADHD comfort combo.
27. A good bookbag Give me one with secret pockets and big compartments and the ability to carry rocks and snacks and my journal. I’ll never stop hunting for the perfect one.
28. Etnies, PacSun, Hot Topic, Spencer’s all the early 2000s alt mall-core. Yea I am still a poser, still proud. That was my era. And every time I wear some chunky skater shoes or a black hoodie with chains? I’m home.
29. Yellow Springs, Ohio The energy in that town is unmatched. It’s weird, welcoming, radical, artistic, it feels like a pocket of the world where I can just be.
30. Scary books and horror movies, especially splatterpunk and realistic gore Give me the anatomy right. Give me blood that makes sense. I don’t want shiny CGI. I want words that paint images so vivid they feel like memory. Horror is how I process.
Joy doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be pretty. It doesn’t even have to make sense to anyone but me.It is simply holding a smooth piece of quartz I found in an Ohio stream. And it’s yelling emo lyrics into the wind on a backroad. Sometimes it’s Luna licking my face when I can’t get out of bed.
All of that is real. All of that is joy. And all of that is enough.
The Covered Bridge at Mohican State Park was the third and final stop of our short morning out. Which happened to be right after I got off work overnight on Sunday, August 3rd. (Which was Saturday nights shift by night math) I wasn’t sure how long we’d actually be out, but it felt like we still had one last stop in us before heading home. The Covered Bridge made the perfect choice.
Covered Bridge Mohican
This one’s a classic, with the wide wooden beams, but different in lacking the old red color. It sports the color black and though faded it feels right. The Clear Fork River flows right underneath. You don’t have to hike to reach it at all… so another for the easily accessible theme. You can just drive right up, park nearby, and walk across or around it. There is a steady calm feeling here. Even with the few people I encountered around. You hear the river. You feel like the trees lean in a little closer.
Luna and I didn’t take the full trail next to the bridge, just a small part of it. I wanted to get a few side shots of the bridge itself, and Luna was clearly still in an exploring mood. The trail ran alongside the water for a bit, framed with late-summer greenery, and I spotted all kinds of mushrooms just off the path. More than a few bright, orange like those from Blue Rock. A lot popping out from the sides of downed trees like they’d just emerged the battle on top.
Photo of bridge, Forrest, and river taken from trail
Unexpectedly enough it also felt nostalgic in a way. I was reminded of the covered bridge in Belmont County. The one next to my old high school. We took senior photos and class group shots there, but mostly it was where we snuck off to smoke reefers and escape whatever was going on that day. Seeing a bridge like that again, tucked into the woods out here, hit different. It felt familiar in the best way. Even though this one’s in use and their different colors I welcome the pleasure of a fond memory.
River view
This was just one of those slow, winding little forest detours that makes the whole morning feel more complete. We’d already completed the Fire Tower and the Gorge Overlook. This was just the extra bonus. It even reminded me a little of home. I felt relaxed and in my element without the need to rush. Just to feel the forest, with my baby dog who wasn’t quite ready to go home yet. And that’s okay because honestly I never am either.
Sunday, August 3rd. After working all night, I decided to head out for a little fresh air and nature reset with Luna. Our second stop of three that morning at Mohican State Park was the Gorge Overlook. What I love about this place is how easy it is to get to. You pull into the parking lot right at the edge of the gorge, park your car, and just walk a few steps to the overlook itself. Luna was happy to roam around in the shade and sniff the quiet woods while I took in the view.
The forest stretched wide and deep below us, thick with green trees that filled the valley and climbed the gorge walls across from us. You are just able to see a spot or two of the tell tale discoloration that will soon spread to most these trees. Though, the early August sunlight filtered softly through the canopy, casting patches of light and shadow along the trail and the stone wall at the overlook. That quickly erased any thoughts of the impending autumn. We attempted to walk the 1.4-mile loop trail behind the overlook, and we did but I doubt it was graceful. This trail is steep and complete with stairs and a fun swinging bridge.
What made the trip even better was how close the Mohican Fire Tower was, just a five-minute drive from the overlook parking lot. We had visited the tower first, enjoying the panoramic aerial view. Then we came over to the gorge for a different kind of quiet POV from the trees perspective. Doing both back-to-back took less than an hour and a half, including time to soak in the sights and let Luna wander.
Standing at the overlook as the morning sun lit the trees, the scene was calm and alive. The green stretched as far as I could see, the air cool in the shade, and the forest quiet except for distant bird calls. It’s the kind of place where you can pause and feel the size of nature all around you. Where you visibly can see the impending autumn, but still allow the lure of never ending summer steal you away.
If you want a quick, no-fuss nature stop at Mohican that’s easy to access, dog-friendly, has restrooms and picnic spots, then the Gorge Overlook is for you. The loop trail is perfection and chaos. It’s a peaceful place to breathe in the woods or just sit and watch the forest go on forever. Paired with the steepest 1.4 miles of my life and a cute bridge.
I definitely never made a plan to become someone who climbs fire towers, but here we are. And here this was my third one in the last 30 days, and my third ever in life. First was in North Carolina. Second, Blue Rock State Park. Now: Mohican Fire Tower. Each one has something different, but this one stood out before I even took a step. You don’t need to hike to get there. You can literally drive right up and park underneath it, like it’s waiting on you. That’s a rarity, and it makes it hard to say no, even if your legs are tired or your day’s already been full. You pull in, you look up, and there it is. 80 feet of steel, built in 1934, stretching up above the treetops like it always meant to outlast us.
Historic!
This fire tower stands inside Mohican-Memorial State Forest, which covers more than 4,500 acres of wooded hills, winding trails, and old forest roads. The forest surrounds Mohican State Park, which is separate but directly connected. Which leads me to believe that, once you’re in the area, you’re in both. State park on one side, with its gorge overlooks and waterfalls. State forest on the other, with its wilder stretches and fire lookout tower still standing from Ohio’s early fire detection days. It’s state-managed land with a long history of both recreation and conservation, and this tower is part of that legacy.
The climb is tight and steep, like all of them are. Metal stairs, no guardrails and nothing but air between you and the trees. The higher you get, the quieter it feels. The wind shows up. The trees fall away. It always hits me somewhere around halfway that there’s no reason to do this unless you love it. Unless something about seeing the land from above makes you feel like you understand it better. I’ve been thinking about that since the first one. Or it is likely I’m just a little bit crazy.
The cab at the top was locked shut, which is fair, too many people would mess with it if it wasn’t. But that doesn’t mean you can’t get high enough. The last open platform, just below the cab, gives a full view of the forest. You can see the ridge lines layered into the distance, trees rolling out in every direction, and depending on the sky, you might catch light hitting the hills in ways that look like it had to be staged. I took my time up there, just looking. And then I noticed the two padlocks clipped to the wire. I don’t know who left them, but I love finding locks like that in the wild. People leave them without instructions. Without explanation. That’s the best kind of marking.
This was my third tower in a month, not in a calendar sense, but in the 30-day stretch of time where my body remembered each climb. I don’t know if number four will be at Ash Cave or Scioto or somewhere else entirely. What I do know is that I’ll keep going. There’s something here for me. I just haven’t figured out the whole shape of it yet. I do know this: Mohican’s tower, locked cab, two padlocks, full view, was worth every step.
As if the tower climb isn’t enough for your day, this whole area is packed. There’s a big gorge overlook just up the road, right at the stop sign, that you can drive straight. No hike required there either but also there it an optional one. Or it’s just a short walk from your car to one of the biggest views in the park. There are waterfalls nearby too… Little Lyons Falls, Big Lyons Falls. Both on easy trails that don’t take long but reward you well. The covered bridge isn’t far, either, and if you’re paying attention, you’ll find stone walls and old roadbeds winding off into the trees.
I love locks in the wild The tower at Mohican
As always check out my links to see more photos and videos from each spot!
There’s no better way to clean off the week like dirt under your nails and sunburn on your shoulders. Fresh freckles on my cheeks and nose, but that’s nothing new. No version of peace that beats the kind you find halfway down a trail, ready to see the car, as much as you were the view. A fossil in one hand and your dog always remaining leashed by your side.
I don’t vacation for typical relaxation. I adventure. I explore. I curate memories, things at one point were but a dream.
I don’t check into resorts. I throw a sleeping bag into the backseat and head for whichever trail, lake, ridge, or overlook is calling loudest. I don’t go places to unwind like you’d expect. I go places to become more alive. The woods are not a break from life. They are life. The oceans, seas, deserts, mountains, plains, rivers, and lakes all offer beauty. You have to be willing to go deeper.
Adventuring is the one habit that makes me happiest because it folds everything I love into one experience: gathering, building, creating, feeling, moving, being. It’s my relationship with the world, my self-care, my work, my worship, my art, and my rest. Yes, all at once. And sometimes separately.
When I head out, I’m not just walking. I’m searching ways to make what’s around of use. I search for bones to clean and keep, herbs to dry and use(locally grown or to plant my own), flowers to press into pages. I’m rock hounding, fossil hunting, kneeling down in red dirt, eyes scanning every inch for something ancient to bring home. I don’t just collect. I connect. These aren’t souvenirs. These are materials, memories, tools, altarpieces, offerings. Even turning items into finished store products.
When I kayak, it’s not a sport, it’s a baptism. Gliding over still water surrounded by trees is a kind of peace hard to match. My phone’s off. The only sound is the paddle and the wind. If you’re lucky sometimes a heron lifting off from the reeds will share his majestic beauty. I’ve found pieces of myself in those silent stretches of lake that I didn’t even know I’d lost.
When I hike, I’m in conversation, with the land, with myself, and with something older than both. I might be alone. I might be with my dog, who doesn’t just walk with me, she teaches me to stop, and to watch. Or I’m with a friend, the kind who knows how to move in rhythm with the land and say everything without speaking. Even in moments we fill with loudness and goofiness the deeper meaning isn’t lost on us.
Camping is something I’ve done all my life. It started as a family thing when I was a kid, and it never left me. Now, I want to start camping rustically.Right now I have always paid for a campsite and pitch my tent like it’s home for the time being. Sometimes it’s a hammock strung up on two trees. I have typically always camped with friends (when not family) laughing around a fire, sharing stories under the stars, cooking simple meals that somehow always taste better outside. I love camping in every form it takes. I love the rhythm of it, the setup, the simplicity, the quiet. I plan to do a lot more of it because it’s one of the few places where I feel completely myself, without noise, without pressure, just present.
When I forage, I do it with reverence. Herbs aren’t just ingredients, they’re living history. I gather with care and intention, never taking more than I should, always thanking the plant and the place. I also always leave behind an offering. Some herbs go into spells, some into bundles, some into zines or handmade kits. I’ve blended wild mint and clover into teas. I’ve used dried mugwort for protection work. Every sprig, every root has a role.
Bones, too, when and if I find them, are sacred. I don’t take death lightly. When I gather bone, it’s with deep respect. Cleaned properly, they become part of my altar or are used as symbols in ritual or art. Each one carries weight. Each one tells a story I want to honor.
I press flowers like love notes. I stash them between paper scraps and books, wait weeks, and then pull them out as offerings, to beauty, to memory, to whoever needs that small, delicate piece of magic. Those pressed pieces end up in journals, zines, altars, even product packaging. They’re remnants of a day I lived fully and chose to remember. I started keeping a flower journal on my last trip, and hope to continue that tradition on future trips.
Everything I find out here becomes something. Nothing goes to waste. I don’t need stores. I need open fields. I don’t need supplies shipped in plastic! I need time in wild places with my hands in the dirt and a bag full of whatever the land is ready to give me.
My creative work lives because I adventure. My business exists because I go out, gather, and make. Zines, ebooks, wind chimes , raw or tumbled stones, spell pouches, poetic extras, almost all of my items come from what I collect on these trips. Not just objects, but moments.
This habit doesn’t just make me happy. It is happiness. Which is honestly how it became my business. I want to do what I love, and fill it with love.
It saves me money. It gives me everything I need. It lets me spend real time with my dog and my friends without distractions, without pressure. It keeps me off screens. It gives me room to think and space to breathe.
It lets me be a poet in love with the world. And I don’t mean that metaphorically.
I treat the wilderness the way poet treats a muse: obsessively, gently, worshipfully. I follow it, I wait for it, I let it change me. I bring it offerings and ask for nothing back, but somehow it always gives me more than I came for.
I know its moods. I listen when it’s quiet. I celebrate when it’s loud. I show up even when it doesn’t feel like showing off.
Adventuring isn’t my escape from the world. See through my eyes and you see, it’s how I enter it.
So no I don’t vacation in the typical sense. I go out to plug into the only thing that ever really matters to me: the land, the stories it tells, and the way I get to become part of them.
If you’ve ever wondered what kind of life you’d build if you let the wilderness guide you, this is mine. Not perfect. Not polished. But full of magic, movement, meaning, and dirt. Always, always dirt.
Now: trans man, neurodivergent, loud, too political, somehow “too much” and “not enough” at the same time. And still confused.
I’ve seen all sides of this thing. I’ve watched people turn their heads when it wasn’t their kind of pain.
I’ve been told I’m part of the family until I say one true thing too loud, and then suddenly I’m disposable. I’ve lived through poverty so deep it rewires your brain. Go check out some of wheeling and tell me I didn’t. I’ve held my breath through trauma stacked on top of survival stacked on top of systems that were never built for me.
And somehow… even after all of that,
I still can’t understand how any marginalized person can weaponize power the minute they get a little of it. I’m really asking here. How do you explain away your bigotry when you are still locked out? You do get that don’t you?
What mental gymnastics do you have to perform to make it okay when you’re doing it? Do you think you’re “just being realistic”? Do you call it “nuance”? Is it a kind of safety? Self-protection? Power-lust? Do you feel it when you do it? When you side with the abuser? Do you understand the excuses you used are the same ones used against you?
When you push down someone even further beneath you in the pecking order you swore you didn’t believe in?Do you sleep easier with that boot on your foot instead of on your throat?
Because me…
I still flinch when I hear certain words come out of certain mouths. Even if the words are none of my concern. I still scan rooms for exits. I still don’t fully know what it’s like to feel safe in public as just myself.
I still shake when someone tries to take my humanity and dress it up like a political debate. I will always live in intersectionality whether I want to or not. I can’t peel off my gender’s history or identity. I can’t unlive being poor. I can’t “grow out of” neurodivergence. I didn’t choose to be a minority from multiple directions. Though, there is no problem with existing as you are.
But I also never chose to become like the ones who tried to erase me. So again, I’m asking:
What does that feel like, when you know better and still choose worse? When you say you care about justice but it stops at your reflection? When your version of progress leaves entire groups behind? When you build your acceptance off someone else’s erasure?
Do you look in the mirror and think:
“This is what survival made me”?
Or are you still calling it pride?
Because here’s the truth:
I know what it feels like to be left out of even the most “inclusive” movements. I know what it feels like to be used as proof of diversity while being erased in every real decision. I know what it feels like to be expected to understand everyone else’s pain while mine is mocked or ignored! And I’ve never once, not once, thought that meant I should make anyone else feel the same.
So again. Color me curious. Genuinely. What do you tell yourself to make it okay when you silence others, shame others, turn your back on people you once stood beside?How do you justify it? What stories do you spin to soothe your guilt? If you even feel it!
Because me? I still carry the names of those I watched suffocate. I still carry the weight of what was done to me. But I also carry the weight of what I refuse to do to anyone else. And I wonder if you ever think about that, when your feet are wearing the boots now.
I didn’t think blackout poems were for me. I’ve never considered myself a visual artist, not in the least bit. I wasn’t sure I had the eye for it. Then I saw this comment, before work tonight, and something clicked.
It was a public comment on my Facebook, under a WordPress post I’d shared. I wrote the post on a topic that I feel strongly about: that I’m not “LGBT without the T.”
The man who commented wasn’t a follower. He was just some creep who had something cruel to say, like people often do when they’re not being watched. Sending in the comment and, blocking me this afternoon while I was asleep for work.
And before I could even reply. I don’t delete comments, and I usually kill with kind snark. But this time, I made him into forever art.
I blacked out the rest.
And what was left.. well that is the art.
I didn’t expect to like this process. I didn’t expect to feel like I could even do it.
Now I have and, it feels like something I’ll keep doing.
There’s something quiet and satisfying about revealing the truth that was already buried in the noise.
My first thought is let’s make it pretty The art Chris helped me make
