I miss the simpler times when a telephone was all you had to communicate with someone. No social media, no texting, no blocking someone. You were forced to communicate or listen to the obnoxious phone ring over and over until you answered. Heck I even remember tying a string to two cans and playing telephone as a kid (still confused by that as it is a bit too much science for this blonde brain to comprehend how those two cans and a string worked)…
I wanted to reach out to you the other day. I reached out last month on the day of the Star and you forgave me. The intent was not to get a response but to bring something to light. To bring to your attention that I made you feel. And that is why you walked away. There is no other reason. But I chose not to send the email as I do not wish to be a hard limit pusher. You need to heal on your own terms, as I am mine. Please don’t misunderstand this post, for me, to write is to heal, to speak my truth and my needs come first. I am not selfish. That is the dynamic. I am happy you walked away this time as you were correct, I was not healing, you were a distraction. You were right, I wasn’t focused on my work.
I will trust that when/if that time comes I won’t need to seek the cards or outside sources, I will trust myself and that it’s the right time. I will trust that I will know without a shadow of a doubt when the right time will be to post this to the masses. Hoping you read. And it may never happen. Parts of this letter are over 2 months old, from our first lesson. You may just be a chapter in my life. An incredible one but who knows, only time will tell. For now I hold space for you as our story was pure magic and you said you would wait until June. But I have no idea if you’ll be at the other end of this journey, sadly I am not psychic.
I recognize that that I anxiously attached to you. Shut down the entire world except focusing on you, feeling a deep connection with just you, but that is not healthy. I need balance, strength and justice. I need to sit in the space and recognize why I chose you. It is my choice to choose you and your choice to choose me. Free will is a beautiful thing. You’re not the only person in the world. You don’t have to be a mathematician to recognize that there is way more than 1 person in the world for me. The subject of “The One” is beautiful but there are many ones, it’s just about who are we willing to work it out with, who are we meeting at the right time in our lives. So I need to sit in this space and recognize that you were brought into my life. And I was brought into yours. I chose you, and you chose me, and you said you would wait, but you have walked away three times now. Was it truly for my healing, or yours or some other lesson. I currently trust that it is all 3. And it may not be our time. I am doing the work without you, focused on the end goal. Up for the challenge. I heard you when you said I was jeopardizing my healing and myself for you, because by accepting that you are my Sir, my owner, my master and my divine union, I give myself over to you completely. That is submission. You were shocked by the transformation. And I accept that scared you. It made you feel. Not something you wanted. But do you need it? It’s a intimidating thing. I am sorry I triggered you, but to be triggered is to heal. If you choose to process. I hope you see that. Because in order to be in a life with me you will need to be open and honest and true to who you are, you will need to no longer deny your heart, your truth or your magic. To return to me, you will need to walk through the door knowing you’re entering a divine spiritual union.
To know is to enter. To enter is to heal. To heal is to love.
Hear me. I know you listen, but do you hear me? See me? Feel me?
Social Media:@marimondart on Tumblr, Instagram, and Twitter
What brought you into the DC fandom? When I was in middle school I got really into Young Justice and from there I started reading different comics!
What is one of your favorite pieces of DC media? I really enjoyed reading the entirety of Robin (1993), since it was the first time I saw Tim featured!
What are you most excited about in working on this zine? I am just really happy to be working with others that like DC and getting the chance to make a collaborative final product that can be drawn in!
What inspires you to create? The whole feeling of improvement is one of my biggest motivators to create. I also just love the feeling of moving my hands.
What would you say is your best work? Either this painting:
Ok so I’ve been neglecting this blog for.. uh .. a month? sorry? hehe
Been real busy with college and traveling for things so the whole tagging thing was a bit much. TBH once I started doing “tt” I would forget to come back so it would pile up and then I never got the urge to tag ‘em all. Anyways- I’ll be traveling again (starting tomorrow) but I’ll try to get back into the swing of things on the bus so expect to see me sometime tomorrow (roughly 12hrs from now)!
here’s an unpopular joke that you probably won’t like:
I guess my minus jackson tag is gonna get a lot bigger real quick
(too soon?… I already miss him and we haven’t even started yet!!! Japan promotions are usually pretty fun :(
i was going to delete my tumblr acct but instead i’m going to post part of a fic i started a good 6-8 months ago and will probs never finish.
Juvie is fucking boring.
Just a bunch of spoiled kids who got caught on their first B and E’s trying to steal some stereo equipment or something equally dumb. Snot-nosed babies who cry in their cells at night, who wait for their mommies to visit on Saturdays. Losers who try and prove their toughness by picking fights with only the smallest and weakest.
They tried it with Mick, in the very beginning. Before he set fire to Johnny Cortez’s mattress while Johnny was still on it. The kid was fine, nothing a skin graft won’t fix. And those eyebrows will grow back, most likely. But still, they leave Mick alone now, let him fail his GED prep course and run laps around the yard in peace. He does three miles a day, even in the rain. Runs around in a circle like a fucking hamster on a wheel.
One day, one day, one day. His mantra every time his foot hits the ground. Out of this playground and on to bigger and better things.
Or, that’s his mantra until some of Cortez’s lackeys start pounding on the new kid in the yard.
Scumbag guards, they don’t do a thing but pretend not to see as it’s five on one. The new kid is scrawny, but he sure as hell has a mouth on him. He’s taking quite the beating, but he still lets insults fly as much as his attackers’ fists do. And Mick isn’t quite sure why—maybe it’s the fact that five against one is bullshit, maybe it’s the fact that new kid tells that asshole McGee his mother doesn’t suck dick as well as his father does—but Mick breaks out of his rounds at the two mile mark and hits Tim Kennedy in the back of the head so hard he falls right down.
That’s when the guards finally decide to get up off their asses and do something. The crowd starts to scatter and the new kid looks up at Mick with narrowed eyes. Then a smirk breaks out over his face, cool and a little bit scary. “Hey,” he says.
So Snart starts following him around and Mick doesn’t mind all that much, especially after Snart manages to procure a pack of cigarettes (not that hard) and a book of matches (pretty impressive). They smoke in the corner of the yard; they run the three miles, Snart trailing behind at first, until eventually he starts to catch up. They fall in step together somewhere around the second month.
Snart’s mom dies after six months; he gets leave for a week to go to the funeral and mourn before they lock him back up like nothing ever happened. When he comes back, there’s something different about him, something colder and more cautious. Mick isn’t the sort of guy to ask what’s going on, or to pass along condolences. He is, however, observant enough to work out the fact that Snart’s old man likes to use his fists as much as some of the dumbasses in here. Mick doesn’t know how Snart’s mom died, only that she was often on the receiving end of those fists.
“I have to get out of here,” Snart starts muttering daily. “Lisa’s there alone with him.”
Lisa. Mick caught a glance of her once when Snart’s mom brought her to visit. She was maybe three years old, but she clung to Snart like he was saving her from the boogey man (and maybe he was). Snart cares about her like he cares about nothing else.
While Snart tries to get his dad on the phone to check on Lisa daily—there’s never an answer at the Snart house—Mick wonders if it’s better to have parents who disown you instead.
Mick gets out first, but it’s only because he turns eighteen before Snart. He gets a job slinging burgers and a shitty apartment above a decrepit Blockbuster. The guy who manages the Blockbuster is a terrible flirt and also an idiot, so it’s not hard for Mick to lift twenties out of the cash register. He lives on free burgers and stolen Skittles.
He’s not waiting for Snart’s juvie sentence to be up, but he’s not not waiting, either.
Lisa eyes Mick warily. She’s a tiny little thing, all elbows and curly hair, and she has that Snart distrust on her face.
“Who’s this?” she asks.
“This is Mick,” Snart says distractedly as he burrows through the duffel bag on the table. “Mick, Lisa.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
Mick expects there to be italics on the word “boyfriend.” They don’t come. Lisa’s tone stays even.
“Nope.” No italics in Snart’s answer, either. Mick files these things away for later. “Lisa, you have to stay here while Mick and I go out for a little bit, okay? Just stay inside with the door locked and don’t let anyone in.”
Lisa crosses her arms over her chest. “I need help with my math homework.”
“When we get back, okay, Lees?” Snart picks up the duffel bag and nods to Mick. “Let’s go.”
He drops a kiss on Lisa’s head as they walk out the door.
They rob the bank and then come home and work through a first grade math worksheet. It becomes the new norm in Mick’s life.
Lewis Snart is in and out of jail for the next few years. Len claims that he needs to keep a low profile so social services don’t realize that Lisa is technically on her own without any parental supervision. Lisa—twelve years old with an attitude to match—claims that she doesn’t need anyone looking after her. Mick secretly thinks she’s right, but doesn’t dare voice that opinion to Len; Lisa is the one thing Mick keeps quiet about.
So Lisa lives in their janky apartment, sleeping in Len’s bed while he crashes on the couch, and Mick steals what they need to survive. It’s not an ideal situation, and it’s certainly not what Mick thought he’d be doing with his twenties, but it’s surprisingly not the worst.
(Mick would kill himself before he’d admit it, but living with the Snarts, it’s sort of like having a family, and ever since Mick was renounced by his real one, he doesn’t exactly hate it.)
“If the kids in juvie could see you now,” Len jokes one night as Mick and Lisa put together a DNA model for her science project.
“They’d see that I’m really fucking good at science projects,” Mick says.
Lisa giggles. “Hey, Mick. We’re out of tampons.”
Lisa’s fourteen when Lewis gets out of jail and comes looking for her. It’s the first time Mick meets him and god, does he hate that son of a bitch. Len is so tense the entire time he’s in the apartment that Mick is pretty sure he’s about to crack into five thousand pieces.
Lewis is moving to Coast City, he says, to try and get a new start. He wants to bring Lisa with him. Lisa looks up at Len and Mick and bites her lip. It’s the first time Mick has ever seen her look scared. He doesn’t like it.
In the end, Lisa goes with Lewis because he threatens to get social services involved. They’ve been so good and hiding and lying low and now it’s all for naught. Len stops talking for a while, and when they go back to pulling heists, Len has this destructive air about him. Mick doesn’t say anything, just backs up Len as best he can.
When they both get thrown in jail, it’s not too much of a surprise. Mick gets out first, and when he gets home, the box of tampons is still under the sink.
Mick is used to stitching himself up. Needles don’t make him nervous, and when Len takes a through-and-through in the leg it’s a quick and neat clean up. Mick’s the first aid guy; Len doesn’t have the temperament to be gentle with anything when he doesn’t want to be. Mick knows when it’s time.
It’s raining when Lisa bangs on the door, the collar of her shirt soaked in blood. She’s seventeen with a tongue like acid, but now she has tears in her eyes. Len disappears after the story of Lewis and a whiskey bottle, flies out into the rain with his shoes untied.
Lisa looks up at Mick like he’s the only thing left in the world, and he pours her a vodka and ushers her toward the couch. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
She shrugs off her coat and pulls down the strap of her tank top. It’s a deep wound, still bleeding, a perfect line right across her collarbone. Mick gathers the supplies and cleans up the blood with a gentle hand.
“I’d say maybe seven stitches,” Mick says once all the dried blood is cleaned up. “Shouldn’t be too bad.”
“Have you done this before?” Lisa hiccups. She sounds young, more like the little girl who had nightmares about thunderstorms.
Mick scoffs. “Your brother and me, we aren’t too careful.”
Lisa drains the vodka glass and screws her eyes up tight as Mick works. She only whimpers once, when the needle first goes in, and she grips Mick’s leg harder than he thought her capable, but she doesn’t cry anymore. She’s tough. Been hanging around him and Len for too long.
“You’re still here,” Lisa says once the wound is closed. She’s slurring a little, drank the vodka too quickly. Mick thinks she must weight one-fifteen, tops. A glass of something strong would do her in, no matter how many wine coolers she sneaks at parties on the railroad tracks.
“Where am I supposed to be?”
“No, I mean,” she flaps her hand around. “I mean with my brother. With Lenny. You’re still here with him. No one else has ever stuck around before.”
Mick shrugs. “Where am I supposed to be?” he repeats, eyes firmly on Lisa’s collarbone as he ties off the last stitch.
Lisa hums a little. “You’re one of the good ones, Mick.”
He runs a towel over the stitches, cleaning up the excess blood. “No, I’m not, Lisa. You have to remember that. You have to be able to tell the difference.”
“Ican tell the difference,” she insists. “You think me and Lenny would have survived without you? You’re crazy if you do.”
He tucks her into Lenny’s bed after making sure she drinks a full glass of water and swallows three aspirin for the pain. Mick never wanted a sister; it’s just his damned luck that he got one anyway.
