Don’t force your artificial longing on me. These bones, this blood, this feisty face is not a bargaining piece for the disgrace of your misplaced face.

I am not just a wild woman, no, a wild woman has a home in the air of the people. She dances in the villages and the forests, I am not there. No, I am a dirt woman. Better yet, call this old soul a Dirty Crone. I am not needed nor wanted, they say. I was pushed to the outskirts where nobody roams.

This home is not a forest, it is not flourishing with a world wild with those pretty birds, and luscious leaves surrounded by a quaint cabin that rests aside a flowing stream. No, the filth that I live in is stripped, bare, it is a mud hut made of sweat and crud.

You think your black-and-white rules apply here.

The rules pervading your life that sustain you in your so called center are the same rules that actually keep you from the edge of your being, your potent dirt-wise nature. The rules that have defined you keep you hostage in an adopted environment. Construed by the taste buds of the change-makers and paper-shufflers that enforce the strict upholding of marginalized living.

Your strength seems to be derived from this center, a place you name your life. Your black-and-white living keeps you elevated from leaping consciousness. Where spirit meets flesh. Where above and below can connect. Where the seen meets with the unseen.

You think you know me? You know the wild chase. You know not what draws me weak at the face. Because you think you know all, you know neither this nor that. Your beautifully curated social media images enforce your dis-figured messaging. You say, Yes, I am all. Yes, I am trying to be all. Yes, I am not myself. Yes, I do not know who I am because I am too busy trying to please and appease you.

While here you stand, trying to reach for the light. Here I crawl, scurrying across the mud on a darkened new moon night. You reach proudly, trying to touch some unknown light, while I, the Dirty Crone, take the dampened road far from your sight. You are still flying high trying to free yourself in this earthly granary.

No, you don’t understand the way out is not through the roof. The way out is not at the top. The way out is not by seeking the light. No, you will not understand this unless this message meets you in dire need, your breath held, your life shattered, your face ghostly from a beating heart that drowns you in your own blood.

Now, you must be ready to get down on all fours and crawl in the crud, cradle the messages of your mud. Your face covered in a blithered sandstorm of shit, sweat, semen, milk, ash, honey, tears, and snow. Blind, you will see. Now, come with me. Take my hand. I will take you home, smelly one.

The rat knows, the mole, the grasshopper, and those dancing in the unforeseen face of what lies on the bottom, where so few trace.

Dirt is revolutionary. Can’t you see your black-and-white ways feel fake to me? Where is the meaning, if not in lunacy? Where does the darkness crawl out of you in the moonlight? In these dark hours, seek solace and comfort in the great deformities of your heart. The temple of your unique tempo is here. Do you hear it?

Face me, child. Face me, sister. Face me, brother. And tell me your black-and-white rules that contain your well-oiled orderly life can contain the crud that has no sense of a clean compass. You kicked me out because you wanted order. I am not order, and I will not succumb to the land of containment.

You think you know me because you’ve read books about me, because you messaged me on Instagram and I said a sticky ill-pieced thought-through comment. No, those words are not me. You don’t know me. Where your life ends, mine begins. Your land of longing is contained by the clean world. I am not from that world.

You thought you kept people like me at bay. No, it was I who kept myself at bay, away from the weakened systems that marginalize the meaningful. The dark, low and smelly is a portal, but those that roam in order will never know the things they kept at bay. What is kept at bay? It is I, a dirt woman, Dirty Crone, crowned by paradox, shadows, contradictions, orectic and inverted thinking, kaleidoscopic in nature.

I am cosmic. I am free. I am dirt.

So the next time you try and force your artificial longing from your ordained and contained existence on me, keep your mouth shut, because this so-called asshole that is me, the Dirty Crone, speaks the tongue of the way-back-wild ways.

Sarah Marie Liddle roams the Underworld regularly and the Dirt world daily. Her life is hand-stitched by her wounds, her hair is thorn-drenched, and her nails dirty with the soil from her garden. She writes for her sanity, but often it increases her lunacy. When she meets with the world, she meets with creatives, mystics, and witches. In this world, they meet to honor their wounds, to sensually open, and live wildly. Meet Sarah in her Instagram Cave where she amplifies the dirt drumbeat.

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