There's strange bugs flying around beachwood today, almost flies, but closer to dragonflies- akin to fairies in their movements, almost intangible, almost borrowed from somewhere else. I’ve never seen bugs like this before, but they are migrating, in herds, all throughout the canyon. It’s a good day if I don’t have to leave these hills. I can spread myself out on them, fall into the duvet of earth, winding around the silly letters and fairy houses.
There is a perceptible and apparent shift in the seasons, it’s the time of year where the veils between this realm and all the others are sheet thin. I can feel myself almost peeking over some otherworld, yearning for something invisible. Speaking in a foreign language. Thinking symbolically. Scaring men. There's unrest in LA and people will go out and probably get possessed, because that's what happens when the veils are sheet thin. Invasion of the hungry ghosts.
I have seasonal superstition. This time last year a birch tree split in half over our roof, like an ominous boon from the otherworld. Birch- for fertility, for protection, for the ancestors.
Couldn’t tell you if it was a warning or a blessing.
I tried to burn it, I tried to burn it with a letter to you, but it was stubborn and sticky and hard to ignite. That was around one of our more horrific fights. Fuck Scorpio season.
I’ve scrubbed you from my skin, like you were an irritant. I’ve walked enough to have a body you have never touched. More auroral. More intense.
I hear your crowd sourcing dates. I’m back to doing too much. Someone’s dream detective, someone else’s surrogate mother. An Oracle for gamblers, an anarchistic model. A jaded, reluctant healer. The pied piper of thots.
Women are man's terrestrial link to divinity.