Monarch Program

I am the bastard child of two opposing monarchies. Too crass for London, too clothed for LA. Those who are strictly internal, are hiding something, and those who live solely as extroverts haven't found anything within them worth keeping hidden. London and LA are prime examples of these polarities. London is stern, upright, and callous. And Los Angeles is a carnival of curated charisma. 

I won’t ever fit in here completely. For one, I despise actors. Professional liars. I always felt that people who wanted fame only wanted to be loved,  and required incontrovertible evidence. And if you are famous, you never have enough close contact with anyone for it to be real.  Why would anyone require unanimous proof that they exist? Why would you need to be recognized en mass? What a bizarre affliction, to expect your reality to scream and swoon your name while remaining curiously devoid of any intimate contact. To be pedostolized and worshiped is the same as being objectified or demonized. It will rot your soul. What a psychotic affliction, to yearn for fame. Only to have your name trail behind you in rooms, in a finite flatulence, gregariously bouncing off the walls. 

London and LA share a caste system, but in London it is unspoken. It is silent and hereditary,  embossed into ancestral lines, determined by nothing but fate. Your social standing is omitted in the stature of your schooling, your ancestral acres, and the connotation of your cadence. This social order is heavy, shrouded in slave labor, and in dire need of sanctification. Anciently etch-sketched into the unanimous status quo. Being at the top comes with a price that only your predecessors will ever truly know. 

However, London is honest. Upfront about its depression, as its taciturn temperaments scamper through both vile alleyways and pearly manors. Shameful family secrets are shared in a pendulous fog.   Familial disappointment seems to collect in an invisible firmament, looming over the kingdom while people complain in unison, adding dark witticisms to conversations. London’s ashy texture and grubby bosom have braced more wars and woes than eight LA’s. A silent resilience can be derived from its antiquity. I attribute London to my brute honesty and the sarcastic semantics that have characterized me as a bitch. But only in LA can I be vulgar. Only in LA, can I  abuse my pretty privilege to the fullest extent. 

In LA, facial attributes are designed by both doctors and divinity and thus, the hierarchy becomes illusory. Everyone begins to look related.  In Los Angeles, you are free to attempt to become anything.  Aesthetics precede ethics. Not without its nepotism, nor its imbalances, but with much greater odds. Celebrity Children weave elbows with orphaned prodigies, and they take on familiar demeanors. You could become a TikTok prophetess, an onlyfans sensation, or maybe even immortalized in an Oscar-winning film; so long as you stay in the current of desire, without precise direction. Just wait your turn, and the digital age will ordain you divine. But even at the apex of the food chain, there is a sense of fragility.  It's rush hour traffic, and if you pause, someone waits behind, studying your position, ready to occupy your space. You can merge with the crowd, but you can’t slip under its bestial appetites, nor slow down, for the status quo reconstructs by the minute. A seasonal reshuffling ensures that status in Los Angeles stays fresh, and promises richer rewards. 

In London, you must act like a wife, and in LA, you can only ever be the other woman. In London, you must prove your longevity, and reliability, as if you are a sturdy plot of acreage-  able to weather the passage of time. London is humble and horrified by sex. But in LA, you have to steal the spotlight, tempt fate, and present your radiant God-shaped void. In Los Angeles, your relevance is temporal, and you will never have the city’s undivided attention. But if you flirt enough, if you can hike up your skirts, and reveal your secrets,  Hollywood will have you. Even if it's just for a few hours. 

Enough charm and determination can get you just about anywhere. You will be welcomed into rooms reserved for the pretty and powerful, by curtseying wide-eyed hostesses and accommodating affiliates. NPCs and extras wade hopefully in the background, awaiting instruction.  Unconsciously, Hollywood assembles a variation of an English aristocracy. Committing a cross-continental transference, they hold court, inbreed and interlace. There are no Dukes nor Duchesses, but fuckable musicians, prestigious producers, actresses and models in waiting. And of course, the people who seem to survive like impossible holograms, with no viable means of income. As if it is embedded ancestrally somewhere inside of them, the anointed attendees congratulate one another, with surgical smirks,  for having made it here, despite the odds.  Aggrandizing the affluent, they repeat unresolved rites, climbing up the staircase to become a local legend. Successfully, they have reassembled a fun-house mirror of the food chain. A distorted, yassified version of the same monarchy their predecessors fought against. 

But in LA, we are politically correct, and we are definitely doing our part.  See, we have transcended titles, and become egalitarian in our extravagance.  Actually, at least half of our nobility are former nobodies.  The conquest is not for the crown jewels, because we’re better than that. We do it for the culture, and our greatest conquest is for clout.

Dance Of Reality

Once upon a time, we belonged to a conscious electromagnetic field which for the purpose of simplicity,  we will name “Unity”. Unity was pure energy, formless and blissful. It was an all-knowing, all-encompassing, field of information. In this state of Unity, we knew God and we knew truth. Unity acted as a formless quantum field of Pure Awareness and Pure Love. But- it was a bit bored. Unity  yearned to experience form, to generate story and experience the varied wonders of physicality on the earth plane. In order for Unity to create Matter, and for the purpose of self expression, Unity would have to split apart. Specifically, into two. So, in a singular moment of imagination, we divided into two parts, consciousness and consciousness. Form and Formlessness. Thought and Feeling. Electrons and Nuetrons. The Masculine and Feminine.

The Feminine part, was feeling based, containing the ideas and dream elements of creation. It was an unconscious a numinous field of emotions, dreams and ideas. This was the vast subconscious from which all ideas sprouted. The part that was Masculine, constructed form out of these subconscious ideas, and developed linear thought-  enacting the feminine’s imagination by building physical things in reality. It constructed identity, ego and the concept of self. 

In order to construct this  holographic world, the two had to split apart. The rupture from Unity, formed between the Masculine and Feminine, resulted in the creation of everything in our known universe. After the invention of the holographic world of Earth,  Consciousness could construct personality, stories, and adventures. It could play with identity, and stimulate the senses. It could act out virtually every set of experiences it was capable of dreaming up. 

As an intuitive Mother, the Feminine knew that there was a part of herself departing. She longed for the familiar feeling of belonging to Unity. She remembered Oneness, and when the Masculine aspect of her left, she felt a part of her wholeness slip into amnesia. She felt abandoned, betrayed and neglected.  She was traumatized by this split, but also the only one who remembered it occurring at all.  This created the “Mother Wound”, a wound that would be passed down generation to generation, and when properly felt, revealed the virtual remembrance and truth of Unity. 

The Masculine Energy had barely any recall of his experience of Unity. Why would he? It was his job to experience separation, to strive towards physicality and construct form on the World's Stage. He was driven by the urge to explore his surroundings, to establish identity on the earth plane. His purpose was to separate, so he could make the feminines imagination, physical. His was the compulsion to construct character, ego and tangible matter. 

The Feminine principle began to long for Union, and decided, through her powers of immaculate seduction- she would attract and draw the Masculine back to her. This created intercourse, or the exchange of these two energies. When these energies momentarily melded back together, the Masculine was scared of the intensity of the Feminine. He was reminded of the space before creation. He started to recall the bliss of Unity. But if he was in Unity, he would have no identity, no ego, no form. It reminded him of both death and birth. 

She could feel his panic- and predicted that he would leave her again, and as she had never mourned the initial divide, it emanated in her core. Unaware of her own power, she manifested JUST THAT. So the Masculine left again, out of fear of Unifying, and the cycle repeated. They had break-ups and make-ups, expressed through many different forms, over centuries. 

It was the dance of duals, not just the battle between sexes. It was the story of the colonizers and the colonized, the oppressors and the oppressed. Every possible expression of polarity was played out on the earth stage: narcissists vs empaths, black vs white, carnivores vs vegans, police vs protestors for peace, republicans vs democrats. Each pole, unconsciously playing out the origin pain, performing a part of psychic disparity. 

They spent 25,000 years asleep, and 25,000 years awake. Equal eons of complete awareness, and then of barbaric amnesia. They repeated the cycle over and over again. 

Eventually, the time arose, when these two energies remembered that they were unconsciously working in perfect unison. They mirrored each other, worked in tandem as two opposites. Each polarity evolved, the Masculine, inventing more complex forms and identies, technology and architecture. the Feminine began experiencing increased octaves of emotionality and imagination. They spent 25,000 years asleep- and then 25,000 in complete awareness, restored to loving unity. Their love affair was repeated  many times over.

During the last cycle of remembrance and unity, universal energy ran through this planet in ultraviolet freeways, dancing above and below the earth in sacred unison. These meridians were like crystalline waters, intertwining in geometric perfection. Congregating on mounds and neolithic sites, configuring perfect patterns. Beings plunged into these stargates, aware it was an extension of them, connecting them to the body below and the soul triad above. Our governance was overseen by Spiritual royalty, servants of the truth, who understood that reality was a configuration of masculine and feminine energy. A compilation of two duals, dancing, fragmenting, yearning to restore divine union. It was a paradise, referred to in myths of the Garden of Eden , Atlantis, Hyperborea, and Tara. A time when thought was actualized in real time, when entire kingdoms were built in the blink of an eye. 

The leaders at this time came from a bloodline of seers, and as such, knew that an era approached in which humanity would forget it's origins. They anticipated an eon of amnesia in which humanity would begin to act out separation .  So they stored their wisdom in the meridians of the earth, in sacred sites, which acted as a virtual library. They hoped that one day, these power points would serve as a memory, to be accessed by anyone who sought truth. 

Consequently, after the fall of consciousness, these power points were inverted with bloodshed and dark ritual, and the earth took on the pain and grief of forgetfulness. Gaia was forced to act as a messenger slave, impressing knowledge of gruesome acts enacted on her surface through the entirety of the planet. There was too much for her to carry and transmute, so the incarnate humans were forced to reenact stories of division between the masculine and feminine for centuries. These were the stories of war, the colonized and the colonizers, the slaughter of prophets, and the grief of separation from God. 

Once stargates of divine forces, these energetic centers became worm-holes. Entry points for interdimensional parasites that used earth as a farm of heartache. Every religious and political institution became inverted, distorting the natural flow of energy due to unconscious rituals. 

These rituals were used to further the collective into mass amnesia and prolong the process of waking back up. and incite even more separation between the two masculine and feminine duals of reality. The dark lunar feminine replaced the solar feminine, seeking to manipulate the masculine. The solar masculine was weakened, and distorted, forced to abandon organic timelines for artificial ones. As the Masculine got more technologically advanced, he aimed for world domination and the militarization of society. 

Imbalances and reversals in the masculine polarity lead to the expression of more forms of violence, especially towards females, competitors and during sexual conquests. This violent mutation served to shut down the inner female aspects and spiritual principles such as the heart complex, stunting emotional development, higher sensory perception and intuition.

The Feminine got more forgetful. She blamed him for the state of the world, without realizing that he was acting out her pain.This made some males highly susceptible to the inner emotional sensations building into aggravated impulses- manifesting as violent mutations and emotional body distortions.To become a fully conscious human, a soul realized being, the masculine and feminine aspects must be addressed. The inner masculine aspect must be willing to clear and heal the emotional aspects of your being. For this purpose, you must be able to contact and communicate directly with your soul, the higher self and then potentially recognize the inner female aspect. Using drugs as the short cut to release or to escape feeling deep or painful emotions, repressing or denying emotions, fearing the discomfort of feeling emotions will not support or promote authentic emotional healing. This actually generates more buildup of aberrant and chaotic emotional residue and miasmatic debris in the lower emotional centers and sacral area.

Now is the dawn of such a time, where we graduate out of the ancient amnesia, and step into rememberance. As you read this, mass coronial ejections are billowing through the ether, causing satellite outages and burning up the past with a hungered velocity. They are breaking down the heavy metals in our body, shaking us awake. This is the dawn of an eon of awakening, a bridge into total recollection of humanities hidden history. You are a Volunteer soul, who has  flocked to earth, eager to rectify it's body, and participate in the party of Awakening. As Earth's magnetic poles prepare to shift, and the true feminine principle ignites within the human race. As beings began to notice the synchronicity between their inner and outer state, they remember the union of the Masculine and Feminine. The dance of reality.

California King

I lived in that house for over a year, above the sonorous moan of the freeways. When I arrived, it was protected by vines. I was half convinced they sent me messages, as they poked and prodded at my windows. When I left, I took them with me.  It felt like a temporal space, a juncture- heavy with expired gusts of air from destinations past and future, the now and gone, the been and had. I made my bed in an open vortex, an invisible ley-line curled above the lips of the freeway. When I lived there, I was burdened by a supernatural sort of starvation. Not of the flesh, but of the soul.

There was no air conditioning in that house. I could only rely on the shadows of the vines to protect me from the assault of summer. On the worst of days, the heat pinned me down by the shoulders, and glued me to my linen. It sprawled me out like a star on my California king.  And my grief became an open vortex, propelling me into the deepest recesses of grief, so ancient and large it had to belong to the earth herself.

In that house, I was forced to believe against all odds, against all known evidence- in investing in a looming invisible. It was a paranormal pocket of Beachwood, neighboring an abandoned mystery school, a magnet for surreal circumstances. In it’s walls I was forced to surrender the desire for logic, for I had made my home in a portal. I only found my way out by retracing unseen steps, humming blindly  in sync with the static of that which I couldn’t see. Feeling the forgotten grief, the feelings half-felt, the psychic stories abandoned. I tried to interpret the breath of God, as his constellations flickered and hissed into my trajectory. 

Invisible things incite fear because they are not forseeable and not linear. People are afraid of experiences that are not linear, experiences that deviate, diverge, digress. Answers that evade them, ghosts of memories without clear motives- the unknown space between them and what they want.

They worship what is concrete and visible. They crave a single course, stick to the sonorous moan of the freeway that propels them up and forward, promising a straight route. They require sororities and sanctuaries- sects and subdivisions, routes to convert to clout and catholicism..plotted out by a predetermined genetic generator.  

There are two kinds of routes: those you are born into and must escape, and those you choose to enter in as an open channel, without any distinct picture of what lies ahead. 

Apéritif

I should have been your main course and not your appetizer.

You told me I was hard to digest

That I perverted your palette.

I was too rich, too filling.

I overloaded your senses,

sent shudders down your spine.

Bruised your tongue,

stained your teeth.

Rolled around your mouth like a fallen tooth.

A blackberry, plump and sharp.

My juice, dark, burst in the back of your throat.

Sprayed my contents, a delicious diaspora

shot

Down the perfect highway of your digestive tract.

The good wine, preserved for centuries.

Sweeter than a maraschino cherry,

supple and triumphant on your tongue.

I seared your innards with my name in acid reflex.

Stuck to the walls of your stomach,

sedimentary, like a sin.

Left a pungent, lingering scent.

I was no salad.

But you continued, and ate, and I stayed chaste.

I could have been your main course and not your appetizer.

If I wasn’t such a liability, my meat so medicinal, my temperature, so seething.

Instead, I was a prelude to something more agreeable. I never become your bland, daily bread. Your curated comfort food, the kind you forked around. Plated and played with. Prepared for idle-tongues, vegetale, and vague,  lulling you to sleep. I never was your lard to look at, your instagramable dish.

But I am sure as fuck that I ruined your appetite.

It shot through my reality with the velocity of a bullet. Catapulted from some holy and primordial pistol. It shot like a bullet to the brain and broke the bed beneath me. Destroyed what I thought I knew.

It was sometimes soft, lulling me to sleep. Other times it stung electric blue and lodged itself into a new compartment of heart. Somedays, it saved me. Others, I believed it would kill me. It either knocked me down or shocked me into stark recognition, ringing out of me til I perceived. It got me off, it made me weak. Forced me to pray again. It had me on my knees, and kept me high, til I couldn’t speak. And the agony- exquisite pain, kaleidoscopic in its confusion, won’t make sense, just repeats. It fills up my room and looks like me.

I must’ve bled out onto the floor of the canyons.

And that holy bullet, humming through mitochondria, rich and tenacious- melds me into an inconceivable mystery. Vast and terrifying. Moving past the crisscrossing conveyer belts of counterfeit lovers, winding me back to some eerie origin space. Making all other kisses feel like practice runs. My emotions, swaying like the seas arcs, push everyone else out of my bed.

Feelings are Flags

Your feelings are flags, guiding you painfully towards unimaginable and enormous fortune. Stay outraged, stay attentive to the tremors of your soul as you rift through this garbled juncture of time. Where volunteers flock to infect their own blood, where we inaugurate the apathetic, and we supersize vegetables- feeding off the fat of the land with crackhead efficiency. Welcome to earth they say: everyone has autism and the sexless have sex. Even the real wild women are worshipping a satellite shaped like the moon, pedestalizing politicians, sending subconscious strength to the machine. Our doctors, they’re so kind, they supply services for stretching our skin. Our WiFi is top speed, so phantom airwaves can reassemble every revolutionary thought. 

Strategize your celebrity: til you are so big that your childhood is microscopic, til your personality is so perfect and pornographic, it gets showcased in radioactive storefronts, seething an agenda into every else’s living room. Get a manicure and get malnourished, they say. Be like her, the girls’ girl, Miss American Mediocrity. Let a bright blonde angel supply sedatives for your spirit. Inhale until you only cough up culture, until you sink and sulk and forget the truth. They chain you to boxcars bouncing from party to party, shackle your ankles to the cyclical machinery of this twisted cynical scene. There is a camaraderie between those disillusioned by blue light dreams, curating their consumption, given free handouts of MK ultra designer drugs. Provoking suicidal dramas with holy laughter and gossip incantations. 

They always try to take the most from the best. So you think you should pack it up, run away from it all. Try saluting a new sky. A non-choice is the most destructive. When you let water stagnate, it turns sour. A non-choice leads to rot, mold, and decay.. You leave the light behind your eyes on, and ward off wicked men. Don’t accept codeine cuddles from anyone who wasnt built for you. Don’t let them creep into a crater formed in someone else’s absence. 

You are the girl everyone heard of, but the girl that no one cared to hear. You carved your own tombstone too chaotically. You should repent for your relevance. Ask god for a curfew. When you are free from the fixing gaze of spectators, you exist in a space of quantum superposition. Without onlookers in the simulation, you can be all things at once. Condense your resentment in a Dolce and Gabbana dress, wrap up your pretty young frame. Keep strip teasing on telephone poles until they hear your message. Til they’re at your feet, weeping under the steeples of your stilettos.

“Love is alive, God is alive. Steal back your soul. Seek out all magic that isn’t manufactured. All women are demonic and all women are divine, and the men are mechanical mirrors- performing what we hold both rotten and righteous in any given moment and it keeps repeating until we’ve let it all out, every brilliant octave of ecstasy and every devastating betrayal-  and we have to feel it to set it free. It’s the only way out - the only way out is through.”

Pluto

Sex, death, upheaval, and rebirth. Pluto guards the archetypal underworld and the fire of cathartic experience. It rules over the invisible reality beneath society’s surface. It is obsession, the taboo and that which is well kept secret. It is what we cast out, what we fear, and what we ultimately have to meet face to face. Pluto is where we find our ultimate power, through unearthing revelations that expose the substance of the soul. 

A paradoxical entity, Pluto governs both the infernal and celestial. Its discovery as a planetary body coincided with the invention of the atomic bomb, marking humanity's access to forces capable of apocalyptic destruction. Thus, Pluto is associated with inconceivable power, and the transmutation of extremes, making big things small and small things big. It is the brute force that propels the unknowing from one plane to another, supplying confrontations and cataclysms that serve as initiations, forcing us to confront what we keep hidden. In recent history, Pluto was exiled from our solar system and labeled a dwarf planet. The only planetary body to be demoted. Perhaps this exclusion reflects our reluctance to acknowledge its shadowy contents.

The name Pluto comes from Ploutos, meaning "riches." These riches are internal, gained through exploring the psyche or resisting it til the brink of a psychotic break. The underworld, often equated with hell in Christian mythology, is but a pitstop to heaven on the Plutonian journey. The underworld is a cauldron of both death and rebirth, with our existence emerging from its dark, fertile humus. Conjuring up images of what lurks below, Pluto holds an Akashic recording of all that has lived and died. The underworld is the source of emeralds, rubies, diamonds, uranium, and oil. It is not the riches themselves but the messenger of future vegetation. Pluto facilitates the cosmic conversation that transforms gas into liquid, making the inanimate animated, mediating the molecular makeup of all that is permitted to sprout. It protrudes past our parents, through subliminal messages sent down ancestral lines. It melds through the pathways of mycelium, telepathically relaying secrets to the underbelly of the earth. It collects psychic residue in subterranean chambers, driving people together and then tearing them apart.  

Pluto is known in Greek mythology as Hades, the possessive rapist-thief. But Hades was a relatively late formulation of an underworld lord. Before this, the gateway to the unconscious was guarded by female deities. The primordial center from which life emerged was once revered as the great womb, and all that lies beyond its fabric. This is a place we do not recall, for if we did, we would remember what was assigned to us at birth, and perhaps lose our courage to return back. For Pluto is the elemental force of fate, and the primal libido governing the course of nature.

Sex is Plutonian domain, as it is where we reconvene with the womb. In sex, we merge and meld with one another, permanently transformed by the encounter. In the reckless abandon of an orgasm, we forfeit our fluids, skin cells, and subatomic particles. Even if we remain blissfully unaware of this microscopic exchange, we are committing an invisible alchemy. We transgress the gates of a forbidden interior, enacting a mythic initiation. When we become enmeshed with another, it can fuck up our carefully constructed human plans, and even destroy what we’ve known as ourselves.

Through such penetrative relationships, we gain access the deepest chasms of psyche. If we are to confront the terror of being seen, we abdicate our agency. When faced with the potential of love, we are also faced with fatality. We enter a liminal space, where the boundaries between ourselves and another begin to blur. If we attempt to control this process, hidden forces take over. The psychic holes of our primordial wounds can keep us in a tidal lock of jealousy and obsession, enhancing the aspects of ourselves usually hidden. We meet our own underworld and the parts of ourselves that wish to control or possess another.

No, Pluto does not preside over the simplistic love and courtly etiquette depicted in romance novels or fairy tales. Pluto rules the love that takes hold of us, which carries us away from the hypnotic hold of the material realm. It is the love that speaks to us through synchronicities, the love with secret purposes, hell-bent on revelation. We are led by Pluto’s passion into power battles, manipulations, vendettas, and oppressions. Under this invisible influence, we experience the violence and darkness of nature, forces that unleash ancient patterns and spew out psychic waste. Pent-up energies spill out in a purgatorial discharge. Taken over by karmic compulsion, we witness ourselves move from the naivety of earth-dwelling Persephone into the archetype of Hades. Suddenly, we wish to entrap someone, own someone, and hold them hostage to our interior will.

These destabilizing visitations from Pluto emerge not just in love but in crisis, catastrophe, and upheaval. The underworld is everywhere, all the time, inherent in the beginning of every thought, feeling, inspiration, relationship, and sexual act. It is much more manageable for us to think of ourselves as fully realized beings, immune to dwarf planets and the unconscious realms within us. But Pluto has no interest in our preferences. It is a symbol of retributive fate, dictating the journey of the soul. It takes us to places where personal will no longer prevail.

We must embrace this innate plight into the perpetual night to face our shadows. Descending into our despair, we fall to our knees, loosen our grip, and let our monkey minds melt.  Once we secede to the great unknown, we are purified in a fire of catharsis. We relinquish willpower and come to an eventual acceptance of a force more powerful than ourselves. Only then does Pluto resuscitate. Only then can Pluto hand us his power—the power of having endured hell, only to reemerge with latent strength. Then we are resurrected, burning brilliantly with the sweat of a new superpower. Our psychic resilience is our wealth. And somehow, we transmute it into story, substance, and of course, art.

This liminal season is revealing but quiet. The days between Winter and Spring are eerily unpredictable, and pendulous, as the Sun stretches it's sight and the overcast sky hums ancient songs. It’s the season where nature definitively chooses what will survive. Darkness prepares to concede it's territory, whilst the Hollywood hills spawn lavender antenna and jasmine stars, flourishing out of the dirt. I imagine they are fairy megaphones announcing triumph over the wilt of winter. It is that special time in which all creation begins to gestate, that invisible bridge between feeling and form, in which all things mold. 

The sky bleeds tequila sunrise onto the teetering hilltops. First blush, then smog.

In the evening,  lightning strikes, sending varicose veins of information through the sleeping streets. Truth is criss-crossing across the ether, in electric jagged lines that slap sunset boulevard. It’s like witnessing a celestial war between Gods. Static stomps the sidewalk, sounding out like a siren, insisting aliveness, weaving an agile and direct electricity through our labyrinth of characters.

An eclipse approaches, commanding a relational reshuffling, another cruel game of human jenga, severing some ties and inciting new ones. I oscillate between dormancy and delirium, my collarbones, concave like a broken bird on my bed. I am flaccid, on my sheets, caught in a flurry of fantasies that ache for the energy of execution. 

Like all bad women, I resent the winter. I don’t want to hibernate, nor repent for my misgivings.  I don’t require permission to be cozy, or room to be contained. I prefer the bustling, chiming ambiance of a restaurant, to cooking in my own kitchen.  

 I am a Summer baby, a fast girl. Born for the urgency and freedom of warmer months, where I can exercise my right  to roam without restraint. I crave the raunchy revelation of summer, where falsehood falls like layered clothes, disintegrating at your feet. When the sun beats like a snare drum, exposing everything. 

I used to think that being fast was more important than anything. I used to race the fastest boys barefoot on grovel, through battersea park, in London. A speedy, unkempt creature, sporting grazed knees and notted hair in a maroon school uniform. A child of my parents intermittent neglect and bouts of excessive wisdom. I drew maps all the time, of fairy villages, mermaid coves and pirate ships. I was obsessed with having a family and also with orphans, chandelier shops and pink stationary that got lost as soon as it was acquired. I drew scribbled caricatures of disproportionate fat-breasted women on scrap paper, and planned out ostentatious adult outfits. I gave names to the pigeons that visited our balcony, and imagined that they were involved in love triangles, or traveling to far off terrains, recuperating on the windowsill of our apartment. 

I had the unrefined knowings and quick tongue of a child forced to seek solace from more suitable imaginary world.

Turns out, being fast isn’t a trait admired in adult women. Adults don’t race each other, and no one really wants to see your weird maps.  I still prefer my own solitude, enjoy having the leisure and freedom of following spontaneous nudges without being observed. I have mastered the delicate art of becoming my own witness.

I’d prefer, personally, to avoid the petulant impatience that arises when adhering to anyone else’s clock. Even the seasons. 

 But the winter acts an airborne opioid, commanding a virtuous seasonal leave of absence. It's unsettling, like being roofied and resurrected every two hours.  I measure the walls, review my choices, attempt to rest. I reluctantly rearrange my closet, reeling through memories of past lovers and detoured fate. The contents of my closet vary on a wide scale of slut to saint. I’m determining what to let die, and what to resurrect. 

I crave the commiseration of an unbroken dream, a message or a clue. My slumber is intermittently interrupted by twitches and turns, prodded by the growing groans of the spring. I am liminal, too, cracked open by the amber epiphanes sent by the seasons, glowing even in the dark.  Oscillating between wolf and woman, my girlhood still gestating. I have clear knowings about certain things, but never the things I really want to know about. Heaven-sent, these clear knowings are stark and immense. They can only be accessed through love.  

You take one piece of this hologram, a microcosm, and if you love it enough, if it fascinates you enough- you get graced with a deeper understanding of the big picture.

I  need to restore my hope, I think. I have to reel myself back in like a measuring tape, and stop occupying seven time zones at once. I need to restore my drive, watch my life branch out in front of me, paths of possibility resuscitated like a triumphant jaracanda tree. I must be better at detecting delusions from direction. I have got to decide on what it is I want. 

 I study the stars and signs,in feeble attempts to eavesdrop on God. I excert mad methods in interpreting his penmanship, which is frustratingly non-linear. Written in runic nonsense prose and long forgotten hieroglyphics.