There was a time that I could appreciate things such as ‘beauty’.

Beauty, they said, was in the eye of the beholder.

Was I beheld? I think there was a time when I was the axis to an orbit of eyes that cast both judgment and admiration with something they would call envy. It was when I did not bear keen claws and carnivorous fangs.

I no longer envy. There was a time when I did; for power, wealth, reverence. Then is buried by now with tragedies both inflicted upon and caused by who? By me? Yes, I should think so.

There is no forgiveness for monsters, betrayers, beasts. But if I recall, there was a time I had been the elusive ‘beholder’. For many at once, sometimes. For anyone who would display themselves on a proverbial silver platter for eyes to wander and hands to devour. Until my own admirers feared me instead of treasured me.

There was a time when I was alone. My palace empty to even whispers, for my furniture cannot speak, cannot laugh, could not have told me how to reign myself in from destruction. Because the time after she arrived had been so fleeting.

A tale as old as time, a beast in body, soul, and mind. She should have been treasured. She shouldn’t have been a victim of the hurricane of rage that I should have kept behind a storm door. A curse it is, to love. To love so wholly that it cannot be contained. That it burst forth through the doors of the manor we had called home and ravaged her like a pack of wolves.

The courtyard snow made fractals of red. The same hues that made warm cheeks and soft lips so captivating. She was beyond beauty, for it was not my eyes that appreciated her, but my softening heart. If only she had known what would come from desire surpassing control, perhaps there could have been salvation for us both.

Flesh was like butter under the maws of the insatiable.

There was a time of tomes read by firelight and stories shared between head seats of the dining chamber. A time that was lost. I can still remember the warmth of devastation spilling across my tongue, and the beast remembers the satisfaction.

But I had often wondered if salvation was ever an option for a creature like me. Fate had said otherwise, and I had followed in the steps it had laid out for me—The sliver of hesitation I held snapped like an autumn branch unprepared for the weight of a blizzard.

Sometimes I wake to a hunger as the fragrance of blooming roses seizes my senses, only to lay down my head once again with the memory of my curse unbroken. There was a time this den I rest in was deemed a home, but that was before sharpened talons found resistance against tapestries and delicate linens. I have since forgotten regrets I had of the riches I was destroying. What good are portraits and vases to a collection of walls doomed to trap a scourge?

There was a time when I had hoped for a second option. Could I really have lost so easily? When only one attempt had been made after the deprecation and mourning of self? Of course, the first would be futile. It takes more than one chance to outlearn habits of a lifetime. But the curse of living doesn’t care for fairness. Nor does it care for the loss of man when its reality is far bigger than its victims can see. The beast I have become is but a flea on the back of a far greater one, which deems its will more important.

Time has dulled the remorse I felt for the inhabitants of my castle. There used to be parts of me that wept for those more deserving souls, those that should have been spared from my punishment. Now had filled me with something primal and without reason. A house that could not talk back could also not beg for repentance, and I had lost the voice that could help them ask for it. I do not care for their woes; despite the times I could remember that I did. Emotions seem fleeting—more like wisps of ideas than things that can be acted upon.

I feel needs without regard for want. A place to shelter from the blistering winds, something juicy to fill my mouth and stomach, and a cozy perch for limbs aching from the hunt.

I am unsure of how long it’s been since my transformation began, but I can feel my pelt weigh heavier on my bones than it once did. The persona of a prince can only hold out so long before the act of a monster overcomes it. There is no salvation, I’ve come to accept that at least. Past that revelation, I care less and less to understand the curse that I have come to call living. There was a time when I wished to control the beast. Now is the time to embrace him.

All were warned to never enter The Jade Forest.

It was a caution that even the elders heeded, no one daring to take it as a tall tale. It had been named for its brilliant hues of green, deeper than any lake they could reach from their landlocked mountain village. Though beautiful, no one could deny its ominous presence looming on the edges of their paddy fields and pastures.

“Only fools step away from the path!” the farmers said.

“Come home before dark lest you get lost in Its shadows,” the mothers doted.

But those who wandered just a step too far, a thought too curious, were not the people who received those warnings. The stragglers, the downtrodden, orphans and the hungry; those who would not be missed, not be noticed for their absence.

All had heard the story, such as a teen, on the edges of maturity but with not a soul to guide them over it. They heard through thin walls by the beds of other children. Children who still had parents to read them stories at night. They had no name to be called by other than “Hey you!” or “lazy scoundrel!” Not a thing in this world to call their own; they had nothing to lose.

Awaiting the sun’s descent past the horizon, they took themself and nothing else to the edge of the forest, to the edge of their life.

It called to them. Not by a name, not with words, but with a longing for what they held within. They felt the tug in every corner of their human shell. Just one more step, one more step to find freedom. And they knew the freedom they would find would be worth every aching moment they survived to reach this cool breeze and this view into an unknown that would welcome them with open arms.

And so that step was made.

The sun shone through a cascade of leaves, the moon and the night sky left behind to a world where these stories weren’t real. Warmth flooded their skin, a hug they’d longed to receive. For it was not a numbness they found, nor a gate to a foretold land. They found purification running through their veins and an optimism that had never before graced their senses.

Here in the forest, they found people! Many people just like themself who had lost their goals or their freedoms, perhaps loved ones or homes, something so fundamental it could only again be found here.

The teen met a soldier, first, who welcomed them without a second glance. He bore just two limbs, a left leg and a right arm which carried the weight of the others he lacked. He seemed gentle, the type of gentleness one found after years of coping and then forgetting the horrors others dreamed to never see. There was a vacancy in its place that made his eyes shine in the mysterious light of day, but it was the first hello they’d ever received, and they’d cherished it.

Second was a frail girl, holding the even frailer hand of her sister in a stone-like grip. Though thin, the energy and excitement they both held beneath their brightly coloured skin filled their bodies with more power than they would ever need. The two of them pointed them in a new direction, leading to a small trio which surrounded a fire pit. A stringed instrument in one of their arms lent serenity to the air around them, and they called the forest’s newest lost soul into a circle of friendship. It was unlike anything they had experienced. Butterflies of joy tingled through them as they took in the smooth shapes of their new comrades. Grins on each face to match their own, gleaming to each other with nothing but acceptance.

This was a place in which they didn’t need a name, they didn’t need possessions or blood connections. In this forest, happiness filled their every molecule, and with each crystalline particle of delight, a piece of their loneliness was replaced. Every fragment of despair, and terror, and hopelessness found its due escape.

This garden of jade statues became their home. And so there they stayed, frozen in their happiest of moments, surrounded by newfound friends and their permanently chiselled smiles.

The Jade Forest sang of triumph for another soul saved from the treacherous hands of life.

I am a zombie.

I am but a droned-out voice among the masses, moaning out my grievances to unlistening ears. The parts of me that were once whole and unique wilt across my bones. I am numb to the resplendent sunlight of the days that I eternally chase. Never again shall I grasp what was once mine, for each taste I salivate for is a wisp across my reaching fingers. Gone are the days that I can feel in my heart were so exuberantly fruitful, but with each passing moment my recollection fades away. The necrosis of my memories turns every shining light of my old life dull and black. I can feel myself becoming nothing more than another nameless face in the hoard.

I work tirelessly for every minute that my existence remains; moving and moving and moving. My brain is consumed by the competition for survival. What does it mean to live? Is living truly defined by a beating heart in the chest if reality doesn’t lend itself to your eyes? By the second I seem to care less about the answers to the questions that once filled my every fibre. I am giving into the hunger of which the world is built upon. In the way that the stomach continues to groan despite what it’s fed, we are all greedy for each severed piece of the structure that’s left to stand on. It crumbles. And I crumble. Oh, how much more human I feel with this end.

“Stop, Felix. You don’t have to do this!” 

“HA! That’s bold of you. Why do you think I’m here at all? Do you really think your words can change what you’ve done, James?” The manic look in his eyes told James that there was little hope for reason, but what option left was there than to try?

“I know nothing I say can repair the past, but that doesn’t mean the future is fruitless. I was a different man then and you know it. I know I’m still not worthy of your forgiveness, but I beg of you to change your mind, please, Felix.” He pleaded, heart heavy in his chest with more guilt than it could contain. He could only pray Felix would listen to him, give him the smallest crack of an opening.

“It’s really too late for that. They’re waiting for me. They expect me to succeed, and if I don’t? Then we’re all doomed to waste. Don’t think I want to do this. I need to do this. It’s far bigger than you or I. We can’t be selfish.”

James’ face softened, “’We’. You said ‘we’. I must believe that there’s still a part of you that believes we can finish this together. Felix-“

Felix threw his fist against the wall, chest heaving, but his voice was meek. “Of course there is, James. But what I dream of each night is far from reality. Please just- just stop reminding me of what we can never have.”

“I am Henry Joseph Theodore Baldwin the Fifth, not some provincial lout!” He exclaimed. Although fierce and with grit on his tongue, the statement fell with a quaver. Henry swallowed down the cracks that risked insulting what left of his pride remained.

A family bankrupt and in debt, a set of ‘parents’ absent, and an estate hollowed out to leave only himself in occupancy post the debilitating repossession.

He maundered his anguish out into the cavernous halls, pacing from room to room. Disparity takes over with each shockingly vacant chamber. Wherever he passed through was more disrupted by the splitting of his tearful yells than the echoing of his footfalls. The boy had even gone so far as to explore the rooms he’d never have dared to breach in his lifetime before. The boiler room, the cellar below the kitchens, and most importantly: a cleaning pantry. A choked breath smothered him as he scrambled towards a shelf holding the only item seemingly left in the graveyard he once called home.

Henry’s gathering tears distorted the delicate gilding upon its creamy surface. Though beautiful still, it relinquished the immaculate polish of the numerous collections before. This one had been overlooked, allowed to deteriorate in its stagnating surroundings. A single slanted crack made a seam towards the base of the handle.

“And what do I have left?” Henry’s bitter query echoed out into the empty vestibule. In a pathetic crouch, where he clutched the last remaining objet d’art from his once spoilt arsenal: “A teacup,” he answered.

Tell me, I’m curious, can you hear the soft crinkle of the wrapper behind their back when your parent tells you they have a sweet surprise? They cast their searching gaze down to your face in hopes of finding anticipation.

Only occasionally did I have that experience, though rare, it remains precious in my memories.

The thoughts I’d have on summer days of dipped cones and banana splits, turning my stomach the same gooey texture as the treat that filled my daydreams. Cozy nights in the living room, curled in a safe bundle of blankets, cradling the mug that warmed my face when sipped and heated me from inside out.

The bitter variety was for celebrations. It was the crumble at the top of extravagant cakes or maybe swirling through fruity puree, featured in the deserts that tasted decadent to the eyes alone. These were the occasions that made me swallow down my imagination in favour of the edible art pieces that would be rolled out for my consumption.

But sometimes, the overly sweet was what I needed, rather than wanted. Those days were soggy; covered in tissues and perhaps with a ringing migraine to match the mood. When no matter how sunny it was or how many birds chirped, the only redemption to the glum was methodically unwrapping each piece for the minute satisfaction it would bring.

What a versatile food, I have always thought. How can chocolate have more emotions than I as a child could dare to comprehend?

My favourite shade is pink, not blue
My favourite things are those that sparkle
Dainty crowns
Bulbous gowns
My room a princess’s castle

And then my female parts are there
And then with pink, I cannot hide
Breasts would grow
Blood would flow
That castle starts to crumble

So black clothes are much more comfy
So much I rather hide than share
Boxy shapes
Tension tapes
Like “princess” was consent implied

I wanted hobbies without pronouns
I wanted clothes without long stares
I’m not “woman”
I am /human/
Conflicts bound on every corner

With age, my person fortified
I only want to be myself
Have no shame
I keep my name
A non-binary activist born with pride

Children do not think cruel things
Wind comes natural, bright and true
The autumn changes coloured leaves
Let them still play grateful

Living things hold unique hearts
Born to love and born to grow
Lack of questions torment to
Watch and see all queries come

But darkness shrouds forgotten lands
Mountain ridges curve the breeze
Tectonic plates so forceful shoved
A hike so long and treacherous

The valley filled with flowers still
With fewer travellers forth unto
The fruit of favour grows anew
Approaching desolate harvest

Cobbled terrain versus fine adventure
Truest hearts meet fettered minds
Adult shoes find hard to climb
Abound earth some slip and crumble

Heads filled with mighty tension
Rising altitude, short of breath
To summit means full clarity
Halfway there, halfway to see

Descent brings so much promise
Despite thankful tender legs
Crippling wounds are what remain
And cloud the brightening day

What delicious fruit we’re tasting now
Seasoned with our trauma
We claimed the peaks, we ‘won’ our battle
Though aid we can’t refrain

Children do not think cruel things
Wobbling bodies still untrained
Who will help them climb the mountains?
So let us do it once again.

My father, you could never be
For the lessons taught to me
Of women, men and children free
In all our righteous sanctities

I was born to be called “new”
I’m not the straw you thought you’d drew
And with my siblings all here too
We mourn the parents all too few

I wish you could be with me now
The chants for freedom much too loud
Your hearing aid of hate turned low
You’ll not let go of what you “know”

We move forth with chins held high
Chosen families, all new ties
Loving fiercer than old blood
Lack of cracks you chose to flood

With new advances, we will reign
Crucial lessons taught again
Our ancestors vowed to share
All the wisdom they could bear

All our kin, skin black or brown
Did not deserve to be let down
We mask upon our youthful frown
Seek to banish your old crown

You are not one who promised love
You cared far more for god above
True colours on your canvas shown
We start a fruitful journey home

Introduction

When asked for the definition of ecofeminism, no strict words come to my mind. I see fragments of thoughts that lay together to make a mosaic of concepts instead of sentences. I see people, of all shapes, sizes, and configurations, I see land, forests, and deep-sea creatures. But the one thing all of these have in common, is I see the haze of oppression clouding over them, and the sense of imminent destruction. My thoughts fill with a pressure, not a physical one, but a threat that I feel in both mind and soul.

What is that supposed to mean?

To me it means the injustices of this world are so interconnected, there would be no way to fill a map of their destinations.
The Merriam-Webster dictionary definition states ecofeminism as a movement or theory that applies feminist principles and ideas to ecological issues.
But how can just one sentence hope accomplish that message through to thoughts, feelings, physicality, life, action, sustenance, accessibility, equality, spirituality, faith, identity, (should I go on?)
Ecofeminism is something that impacts every living being on our earth, whether or not they know it, or their beliefs have taught them so.

Like Valerie Kaalund dubbed ‘environmental racism’ within Witness to Truth, I feel like many in the Western world and beyond are also victims of environmental prejudice, entitlement, bias, and so on.
As a queer person myself, I’ve learned to ignore the influences of homophobia, transphobia, sexism, etc., throughout my life, and although an individual can be easy to defend against, there tends to be an ever-present and overwhelming force from within organized religion or corporation. Those of this sort which feel near impossible to combat when the aggressor has no desire to listen. I have been forced to endure the concepts of the mob mentalities and systematic patriarchies teaching those around me that I’m not who I claim to be, that my identity is sinful, and that I am desecrating the body god gave me.

I am one in an infinite sea.

When does the “god given right” have the ability to override the surrounding world? Who lets a king decide a forest is less valuable than his courtyard?
The catholic church is amongst one of the number one influences on the Western world, and I believe that the psychosocial role of religion within our day-to-day life is one of the foremost antagonists against theologies like ecofeminism.
One might ask, “what does belief in god have to do with ecofeminism”, but when put into the perspective of someone’s religious or spiritual values, that guide their daily action and thought, it becomes self-evident. Evident that those values will rule over all factors of ecology and feminism that one interacts with in the world–their guide to life, if you will.
To the hyper-vigilant believers, there is not one facet of life that was not influenced in some way or another by the structure they follow, and this book seeks to go into an abstract investigation of how said structures impact a person’s life, merely by existing around them.

My perspectives can be widened, but my reality is still my own. Thus, I composed my thoughts of the subject matter within these pages, using my journey of discovering gender queerness amongst catholic oppression, as a parallel of my own interpretations upon the world. My body is our earthen body, and my personal oppressions are the worldly oppressions of capitalist, patriarchal, and religious varieties.

This book was originally bound to be titled “Holy Father” by Greg Tobin, an account of the historical Papacy and a biography of Pope Benedict the XVI. Using its original landscape, I endeavoured to remodel it into an artistic analysis of the effects of Catholicism on Ecofeminist subjects, as a euphemistic placeholder for overarching oppressors in our modern world.

Let me disclaim by saying this collection has no intentions to mock religion, but rather, with a critical eye, understand the façade that has been built around religion to excuse the actions of some believers. In the same ways that corporate patriarchy is able to fly under radar using political loopholes and conservative rulings; in this book, belief in God acts as the moral perpetrator for all these seemingly external forces.

My number one inspiration for the medium of this novel was the blackout poetry I had yet to write.
I sought to take this environment: paper written on by the white, hetero-cisgender man, and cultivate within it, new, intersectional meanings, and art, founded upon the voices of my peers.
Within each page blacked out, that had been written for the Pope, hid the words of another and their lived experiences, that I would hopefully be able to bring forth to become the book being read now.

6 of my peers were generous enough to sit with me while I asked them their experiences with Catholicism and patriarchy within their lives, in which they each have a dedicated “chapter” of the book.
The other sections of the novel are short introspections on the content of our ecofeminism course, in the context of this book concept and of myself.

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