Vortex

This is a strange plane, with rust red rock towers that teeter over the earth, some menacing, some so holy the desert air seems to pick up your breath and steal it. Until you are one with this strange plane, the desert that was once underwater. The crimson rock seductively twisting around scattered trees and cacti, howling an echo of the harsh wind. I found a coyote femur as soon as I got here, the trickster spirit, decaying in a casket of red rock.

I’ve seen twelve deer this week. They are elusive, poised, quick- the Celtics called them fairy cattle, and said that they could be milked by strange and otherworldly women. You go to these new places, and this whole thing is a hologram, so they aren’t really places, just new neural pathways, weaving out and calibrating in front of you faster than you can blink. And the animals are symbols, and so are you. The shaman told me, when you go to the mountain, you are accessing the higher realm. The mountain winks and grins back at you. When you dip down on the trail, and enter a low place, a cave or a river, you are in the subconscious. And it's all you. All of it is you. So listen.

I can fan myself out and make myself bigger, amplify the light quotient and capture the sun. I dialogue with my oversoul.

She says, 

Be brave, resist, don’t burn yourself at the stake, swear off the small minded and close hearted people. Abandon your propensity to apologize for occupying space, for being loud and red and wild like the Scottish moors you were woven from. You were sewn like a quilt into that land. Don’t apologize. Set superficiality on fire, abandon shame and guilt, roar and climb and learn to fall in love again and again. To feel pain is sometimes the way into the heart. The keyhole into the next plane. There will be others.

The vortexes here amplify everything, the good and bad, and I oscillate between insane sensitivity and impish reactivity. I want to live days like this for eternity, where I can lead with childlike curiosity, explore and walk and climb, look for faces in rocks and lend shade from strange desert trees. 

I found a coyote bone, and I will bury it. In a low space. By the winking of the water. I will use it to commemorate being the fifteen year old pin up girl of inconsolable rage, fury, and unfair projection. Bury my rage with Los Angeles. The never ending psychic attack. Cheers to being unmanageable, to being paradoxical, to being tricky. 

I want to learn how to love what I see, how to not judge what I see. Learn grapple with the illusions and the smoke shows, the never ending chase for the invisible dragon, fragile and reckless. The trail of coyote boys.
I return to Los Angeles, and try to find peace in the alienation. After all, there's night jasmine blooming in beachwood. 

Wild Speculation

My body has been shaken with a strange grief that feels like it was sent from the future. When I try and think about you and what you are feeling, I get a lump in my chest and I am pulled back into my heart. I imagine that our blood, thicker than oceans, connects us through a telepathic thread. It is tethered through the skin of the earth, reaching for you, in some desert facility. Pranging at your heart strings, begging you to stay in reality. 

My brother. 

I know it's hard here, nothing makes sense here, it's rough here, it doesn't always feel good for people like us. Like sandpaper on skin. You are built from air and water, hovering above the ground with your mind in several dimensions at once, having multiple ephiphanes. 

I prayed and prayed for you, before I even really knew how to pray- and you arrived backwards, purple, almost choked by an umbilical noose. You had a scar on your forehead that looked like Harry Potter. You were family to me in a way my parents were not, in the mischievous gleam in your eye and your ability to scathe through life unprogrammed by the multitude of societal expectations beaten into our heads. You were badly behaved because you were above duality. You were cheeky and naughty and bright and full of life, so much so that it seemed to ring out of you like extraterrestrial songs. You gulped in pain to avoid making anyone else taste it. You are family to me in a way that is primordial, before families, even. You are a faction of my soul. I want to pin your feet to the earth and scream louder than your demons. I want to take you to a jungle and extract your poison. I want to be 9 years old again and be a better sister. I want to protect yourself from the part of yourself that you are running from.

I called you into this plane and I’ll be so fucking mad if you leave before me.

We have work to do.

Due To Personal Reasons I Will Be Moving To Another Dimension

Once a week I declare I am moving to an island, hot and wet, with waters bluer and more hypnotic than anyones eyes. The evasions and elusiveness push me into deeper recesses of doubt and I have nowhere to turn but to a foreign tide, where my name hasn’t been soaked in yours, doused in dread, cut up and mutilated. I promised myself to stop running and start seeking. 

Or some otherworld, whose occupants are mischievous nymphs, not good-not bad, but sensual, rowdy, connected to the earth and waters, frolicking amidst twinkling orbs and strange apparitions.

Your evil is fast food meat and the winking of casino lights, the chiming of slot machines and the mechanical pumping of stale air. Your evil is the misuse of natural of forces, pissing sacred power up the walls. Your evil is the notion that women exist as entertainment.

My evil is darker even, embossed in secrecy, casting melodies that ring from my body in pink lights, capturing hearts and leaving big shadows. The fall from innocence, dressed as innocence. Hungry to be looked at, a vampiric voyeur collecting precarious experience. This tangled web I weave shrouds me like dirt, rich and thick. Moving like an animal tamer, bold, authoritative, impossible to deny. My evil is cunning, calculated. 

I want to learn to control the part of myself that is a tempestuous succubus, on the high stakes race, feeding on hearts and spitting them out, half digested. I want to put that part in a box, tie it up, ship it to a subsection of hell. But the therapists and healers say you can't get rid of it, only throw love at it. I’ll start there. 

Space Saint

You light me up from vein to artery, from cheek to cell, from bone to spirit. Electric purple light filaments. Sometimes I wish I could stay shipwrecked on the sea of your bed for all eternity, weaving out of one another, breathing in your dust. The heat you radiate spins sugar waves that press me eyelids shut and purses my lips open, omitting mermaid moans and rocking my hips back and forth. I lose myself between waves of convulsive delight. My twin spirit, shadow lover, the percussion of your breath lulls me into bliss. You touch me like no one can. My mirror, my teacher, my eerie reflection, my echo through the canyon. 

We have our own dimension.

Our own pocket of reality no one can take. 

A jungle tree house of animal luxuriance, our pirate ship from outer space. 

I have never wanted you to fill my throat so badly.

AIRBORNE AMNESIA

My ambition lies in overthrowing reality. His is for fame. A-get-seen-quick-scheme that makes my body groan. He believes he is grounded in objective data, and sneers at the ugliness around him, naive to it's mirroring of his insides. He thinks like a computer, in compartments and programs, file under- rename- share- copy-paste-just fucking stop for the love of god.

I pretend to be crazy so I can get away with doing what's right. He is married to mediocrity in the toneless safety of his beige bedroom, sealed off and wound up tight. His skin has lost it’s elasticity because he drinks so much, and shrouds his body like a canopy of dread. The grumbling in his stomach he mistakes for hunger is a child's cry for god. 

I want to contaminante his false sense of clarity, and show him the truth is kaleidoscopic, but he is addicted to the program. And scared. Ignorant of whose thoughts or  feelings leak into his own, brainwashed and suffering from the delusion of separateness. Gifted the gift of being able to mimic.

So I’m gonna send a fat-breasted fertility goddess to his door at four am, have her flip over his book shelves and piss on their lame contents, and spread dark, glorious compost on his bad art. She’ll peg him with originality, awakening, rowdy bliss and ecstatic truth. She’ll teach him that you can’t share your soul with anyone until you stop avoiding your own. 

Death, The Empress, The Chariot

I am getting better at flaring myself up like a flame.

I am getting better at locating the pain, some parts mine and others not-  and commanding it back to the wind with a sullen, knowing stare. Being more careful about where I leave my hair. Commanding the wind with better boundaries, a rage, a dare. Curtailing invisible enemies. Cutting the cord.

I am getting better at resurrecting myself each day and tidying away my pain, lending it to the far-reaching majesty of the Sun.

I am getting better at discerning the difference between holy places and dark places:

The cathedral between my thighs, the locked garden of my heart, overgrown but tended to, wild, but pure.

 The drunken cavern he visits at night, the cold annotates of his tone, the void, the 2 dimensional marriage to the material.

I am getting better at flaring myself up like a flame.

I am not getting better at finding empathy for the morbidly obedient

I am bored of the morbidly obedient

Dreadfully, fucking, bored

Whore myself out to who? And idolize what? And break whose heart? Pick which equally sick polarization? And tell what lies and in what order?

Heres my heart, hold it. It's big and it’s heavy. Tread lightly on my inner cartography, my alien geography. You are probably but a temporary inhabitant. We all are. 

Strike

There's lightning in LA tonight, and torrents of water stream down the hills. The water forms narrow rivers that shoot down through the winding of the canyons like strange arteries. They swim dark purple, between the tightly wound houses. I can feel them tug truth out of the ether, impressing upon the doors of each homes inhabitant.The Celtics believed lightning was a strike from the otherworld, a boon of mystical potential shot down from the heavens. The air feels anticipatedly electric and my ears are ringing. Lets go, lets go, I’m ready. This is the role we came down here to play. Truth seekers, love warriors, heart awakeners. Architects of aliveness.

At the divergence of the three way intersection, I vow to only write after dark. After dark, words recoil out of my arteries with sharp tongues and a rabid hunger. I put a candle in each corner and turn to face the direction of the wind. I fuck the wind and it fucks me right back. These are my nightly rituals. My heart is beating to the rhythm of dripping wax. Rose petals will work, but jasmine is better. Leave a jar of honey out, at dusk. Pungent perfumes and circles of salt. Crouched impatiently, learning to be unafraid of my paranormal magnetism. Submerged in daydreams, my only witness a choir of subtle apparitions.

There's an unhurried way about the way you talk, with tilts and tones that rise and fall like an irish mountain. I can feel your cool blue throat whispering half truths and disguising your vulnerability. We’ll do whatever, I say to myself, every exuberant impulse hidden behind a clever shroud of detachment. Clever enough to ignore those primordial nudges, the whispering of cells aching from exhaustion.  I want to locate him within the stars and watch him reach for the worst in himself. Give me your nastiest secret. . Thats what I’m into. The obscene, the absurd, the over-the-top excessive.  I am bored of half-anythings. 

Let go of the machine, the pixelated mania of distraction and return home to your body.  Stop being afraid of what you desire most, what makes you animal, what makes you human. Don’t deny yourself the right to fall in love, to feel alive, to fall hip deep into unknown bliss and rowdy ecstasy.

Energy doesn’t lie, ever. And it's getting so much louder.

like no one will read it

I never experienced heartache passively, it always dragged me into a state of exertion, animating my mobility. I survived so much that I didn’t even remember. I was given the gift of bouncing back. The skill of regeneration. The Irish Curse. My dad said that if I fell in a river I would come up holding two fish.   

You took me down through tunnels of your eyes and I never emerged. Your eyes were entire oceans, alien terrains of underwater creatures, and sometimes they looked like billows of smoke, and when you were sad they melted into pools of whisky. You stuck a cord through my stomach and it felt like hundreds of roots silently drinking me away, gulp by gulp, usurping every thought and feeling I had and consuming it with malice .In the tunnels of your eyes I held my breath, and made wishes that never came true. I don't know how many bargains I made with god to keep you safe. I don't know how many bargains I made with the goddess to keep you tender. None of them worked. I did rituals to rid myself of you, a cyclical madness, my memory plays tricks and paints it all canary yellow.  Adds a poreless filter to this personal hell of my own design.

You took me down the tunnels of your blue portals,  and spat me back out. Mutilated me with your mind, until I was unrecognizable. Poisoned the secret wavelengths of psychic language that we had built, sent radiation through our private airwaves.

I hold my breath in the same way when I pass by your street. Like I'm going through a tunnel.

I can still summon you in my sleep with sudden spasms . My psychic antennae go off and flicker like violent lights. I feel your heat pulsating over me, your eyes scanning my pale skin. The last time you were in my room, I wanted you to kick off your shoes and spread me out, translucent, across the blush sea of my velvet bed. Instead you scanned my room for half an hour looking for clues. I can hear you thinking, how serious was it? Has he been here?

You lie and say you don't care and I feel it clog the airwaves between us more and more. I kept asking you where it hurt, when it was me that was hurt, collected like a commodity, rented but never owned. I don’t know where or when our spirits converged and ingested each other, but they did, and it was horrific. Our bodies clung together like warriors trying to battle the pain out of one another. Engaging in that game is a luxury that time has stolen.

My grief was quiet and discreet, the itching of an unhealed wound. dripping down my arm with a silent rhythm. It had me kissing married men with nymphal volatility. My despair and rage ran rampant, cast out nets and drove them wild with wicked enchantment, haunted by their greedy hands and fevered eyes. I wanted to be eaten alive, swallowed whole. I wanted to be vulgarised, humiliated, twirling like moon snakes through high grass and wet craves. Seduced into amnesia. Falling into a forest of hands. Wide-eyed and eager for night-cold envelopment. Eager to find the thread between freedom and death in a strangers orgasm.

I never acted on these impulses, I just stayed home and wrote about them, assured by my imagination that in another dimension I was doing it anyway. I liked my secrecy, it kept me intimate with myself. 

The earth took me back with her proudest of mountains, she took me back so forgivingly, so largely. She let me weep and ooze and scream and bleed all over her.  She always does. I have crow feathers and I fan my skin and thank it for regaining its elasticity. Sometimes I want to be made of silicone. I was given the gift of bouncing back, an elastic soul.