Seasonal Superstition

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.  

Ahead

You weren't taught how to share, and babe, it shows. You keep your cards close to your chest, your wrists wound stiff, your gestures calculated. You need someone who can pull you out of yourself, demolish your concrete walls, blow your fucking brains out. I will unravel your petty defenses and erode away at your armor, teach you how to become untamed- how to revel in the unknown, get feral, get free.  

You want to be loved but not seen, felt, but not known. I know you better than I’ll care to admit, I knew you before I met you even. This is not our first rodeo, not our first train ride.

I learnt how to swim in with celestial nostalgia and primordial longing, to do it with my mouth and eyes closed.  Backstroke. 

Your only demons are monsters of indifference guarding something much richer. Don’t let your cells retreat into themselves, don’t be afraid of invasion. I want to draw you into my canyon and answer your biggest questions. I want to make something of permanence.

My infatuation with you is making me feel stupid, so I am going to try and leave it in an open field. I hope the embers don’t disperse. 

Heart Noose

I imagine you sitting atop a carousel of rotating women. A Merry-go-round of manic pixie dream girls, internet pin ups, drunkenly jumping from ride to ride. Evading ever being truly known or seen. Playing. I imagine no one taught you that women are your portal to god, your experience of divinity- and not your battlefield. We are not the grounds where you stomp out your psychic drama, the pain of feeling abandoned by god. 

We have learned how to be mentally ambidextrous and limber- stretching and shuffling for comfort and care. We have learned to cleanse ourselves from the inside out. Take on two sets of pain and extract it, exorcize it, even without naming it.  

I feel your pain like an electric hum that blankets us both. It clogs my ears and sends lightning through my arteries. I take the cord you have looped around my heart and cast it to the wind, dance in the firelight. Thank it and send it back. I don’t want to be loved like a healer anymore.

 I want to be loved like a garden. Nursed and tended to. Laid out like sunflower seeds, plowed within blankets of rich earth. A living library, where daily action breeds miracles and strange fruit. Where service blooms blessings. 

I want to be loved like the sea. Deep and mysterious, weathered through tempests and storms. Where your light fragments and reverberates across my surface and I crash it into tide pools and underwater caves. Where unknown sentience creeps below the surface. Observed from afar, but never owned. 

I want to be loved like a temple. Treated like I am holy. A sun pyramid to be revealed in, where you go to whisper your most secret prayers. 

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.