Telepathics Anonymous

I wake up from vivid dreams, and even though I haven’t been touched in a while- I radiate superheated ripples all over my bed and my heart pounds. Like I’ve been touched.  

In my dreams I am pirouetting through white lights and purple flowering jacaranda by a river. It all churns into a whirlwind of color, and I don’t remember anything else, other than that I am being watched. I’ve had this dream three nights in a row. 

How well tuned are your instincts? How dedicated are you to feeling? The human experience is a physical one. We are supernatural machines, impossible to mimic. Resist being cloned. Resist the artifice. Don’t pretend you dwell and exist in boxes within boxes. Overflow and spill out. Exercise everyday until you sweat. This alone can save you. FUCK becoming a matrix battery. When you are in your body, you are in your own resonance. When you are in your body, you can’t be deceived. 

You are the magic. Most people don’t even care about feeling anymore, about stopping and checking the sky. Scanning the clouds for clues, pondering who plants us in the ground just to pluck us back out.  Most people don’t have wilder, wetter dreams- beyond the gross regurgitation of cultural memes. Most people don't live knowing our morality is always on the verge of collapsing. MOST people don't think about the chains of molecules that bring things together, the vibratory photons that shock you awake, the lightning bolts that go off when you meet someone or something.  Most people don’t see this as an absurd, absolutely ornate disaster. 

Play with your perception, and pick the kindest one. Stay alive in every cell of your body. 

Have you resigned or are you excited?

Winter in LA

It’s Winter in LA, but you couldn’t tell by looking at it. Things don’t die here, even the buildings get facelifts. We are immune to Winter. We are better than that.

It’s Winter in LA, and all the imports have returned to their respective small towns, where no doubt the local celebritism that made them move here in the first place is sadly affirmed. 

The prettiest girl in every midwestern high school, the music prodigy, the theatre buff with the chiseled jaw.  

And for the rest of us, who were formed in the trenches of learned celebrity nepotism, in the changing thraws of cool and uncool, will basque in the “gratitude” of less traffic, shorter lines at erewhon, and resentful, competitive comradery with our fellows- who also grew here, when you flew here. 

Those of us whose parents were sick enough to think this was an appropriate place for a child, who grew up drunk on bourgie enlightenment, who grew up feeding us adderall as we bounced between psychics and psychiatrists. 

 I am getting tired of this scene and the 2000’s cosplay, the same rotating faces lining up to infantilize themselves, for another dreadful evening of “Whose Who.”

We’ve all slept with the same people. I couldn't tell you if this is because of karmic soul contracts or a lack of creativity , but IT IS equal parts interesting and disgusting. We float-glide even, in these incestous circles, prancing around nightclub to nightclub, swapping sexually transmitted demons. Oh the LA natives, so tragically unusual, so immune to cool. 

Make sure you pretend not to notice the most notorious person in the room, which will no doubt rotate to each of us eventually.  Hold your breath, be careful about what you say- because for whatever reason, we are all pretending we are on the precipice of becoming, incredibly, monumentally, successful.

You better be careful how nice you are to me. Haven’t you heard, I am going to be directing something very important, almost soon. Please adore me. And notice my strange shoes.

You feel like a miracle sliding down my throat, and you keep me from overthinking. Keep me present.

 I imagine in some distant future, you lock me up in a mansion with high walls in a canyon, keep me, own me. I am swilling red wine, trying to predict what comes next and lighting candles to keep you rich. I’ll listen to you muse about distant planes, feed your imagination, make slapstick jokes about God. We’ll have a dog, because fuck cats. Eventually a kid with massive bulging eyes who knows too much- because that's what we were- two weird, lonely kids, with adult faces. 

We’ll ask questions about who planted us here and try and come up with crafty answers. We’ll drown out the tik-toks and livestreamed apocalypse, fight to stay in our bodies, plant stuff, argue, fuck, repeat. Keep our instincts sharp. Keep the rumor mill pumping by making random disappearances and reappearances. 

Or maybe not, maybe I was your existential experiment. Maybe you needed me to fill in the gaps about your understanding in the world, before you surrender to the chaos. Something you were trying on. 

We are the designer t-shirt. The good kind, understated, unpretentious (sort of), but good. Made with quality in mind. Seductively unattached, breathable. When you have THE designer t-shirt- it makes all your other t-shirts look low quality. We are of a heroic texture. The problem with borrowing the designer t-shirt, is it can change your whole perspective. Make all other t-shirts feel frumpy. And everything that is not it, will eventually look clumsy. Luxury-adjacent, not quite the thing you were looking for, a bad mimic, a synthetic knock off. But good fucking luck.

Eclipse

We are on the precipice of great and lasting change.

 We are designed to start following resonance, over logic and reasoning. To listen to energy and emotions before the cerebral. To stop thinking. All of these discussions of meta-verses, of virtual realities..they are designed to take you out of the body, away from the emotional. The human experience is unique, because we are the only beings that create with emotions. If you follow your own resonance, you will always be met by things “in resonance” to you. Energy does not lie. 

Everything is trying to steal that life force, that spark, and its a full time job to keep it alive. To feel and stop fucking thinking.

I forgive almost everyone for almost everything.

This paradigm is collapsing in on itself, and even the rules I have created for myself are disintegrating, I want someone to form me into a softer shape, less rigid, blow away my old beliefs like dead petals. Tangle into me and drift to a celestial tide, one without laws. Untethered and unashamed. I don’t want to be anyones existential experiment. 

There is a part of you that is very disguised. But it is ancient, unearthed and only seen by those lucky enough to be close to you. A part of you that is beyond wise, beyond human- an cosmic super intelligence derived from the place above time. You have a child’s eyes and the wisdom of something eons old. You are famous in the heavens. Your smile is contagious and your laughter moves energy. I see your resilience, your super-intelligence and your kindness. You are wickedly cool and accidentally mystical. I like you for the parts of you that are familiar, that feel like blood I was woven out of- but also for your laughable ability to be constantly surprising me and everyone in a three mile radius. You have childlike curiosity and a simultaneous-ageless knowledge- you are a perfect, gorgeous, lopsided symmetry of paradoxes.

When the Bad Wind Blows

I need an ayahuasca enema. I need someone to finance a weeks long vacation at the Chateau while I process the Santa Ana winds. I need to throw my iphone into the sea and hold firmer boundaries. I need a man to follow me around playing the flute.

 I have been irritatingly intuitive lately- but not in a fun way, in a tiresome, harrowing way. I have retractions from reality and then gasps of understandings, vignettes of the symbolic layers of this hologram. The mind-body-spirit complex. I’ve been trying to extract tendons of memories, cast people out of my field. Communicating with atemporal ghosts left in my body. Innadventartly hip deep in a shared subconscious, trying to seduce idiots out of ancient amnesia. Littered by old fingerprints, having ephemeral thoughts that brush against me like silver gnats.  I feel like a volcano coming up from the sea, stirring up something hot and explosive, leading me to important pain. Holy alchemy. Sacred mischief. 

It’s hard to stay soft when people are becoming computers. Hardening. The timelines are drifting further and further apart. People are thinking algorithmically, transactionally. Addicted to distraction. No one is witnessing their own emotional landscape anymore, and if they aren't witnessing their own emotional landscape, there's no way they gonna witness mine.  How fucking blasé.

I love ruthlessly and with conviction. I am not afraid to make room in my heart for anything. I won’t bend, I won’t water it down or make it logical or compact or digestible. I’ll walk the hills at night, become my own witness, my chorus the unsettling Santa Ana winds. I am committed to what I came here to do, there's not really another choice but to surrender to the unfolding, to be a bit ahead and wait. Let go of the reins and trust what I know. 

Banish

I don’t want what I haven’t got. 

 I couldn’t wear any of the jewelry you bought me because it would stain and sting my skin. I’ve felt your fabric and it blanketed us both before asking me what I wanted. I still felt lonely underneath you. 

We could be at the same place at the same time, and completely miss each other. We are operating on two different wave lengths, swimming through two different currents. 

 If I wanted another you I could fling a rock in any direction at La Poubelle, and happily hit another cokehead who listens to beach house, fetishizes western wear and has an aversion to the truth.

But I don’t want what I haven’t got.

 I get high on the progress, the uncovered starry material that emerges in your absence. I call it the quantum leap forward. We didn’t worship the same god. Yours was punitive, callous, distant. I tried to explain, if we are living in a multiverse- every version of god exists, remember. Remember. Every possible version of God exists, every multiverses version of God, so pick a good one. Make it generous, make it kind. That way there will always be more realizations. 

I refuse to kill my madness, the same madness that kept me soft and tender when I should have been vile. The madness that keeps me hopeful. Patient. Surrounded by love. Improvising tempestuous fairy tales and bringing them to life.
I don’t want what I haven’t got.

Extract

There's a priest in my bed going through my journals. I am wearing latex.

This is not a metaphor. 

He’s wading through my journals of his own volition, and I feel naked- more naked than without the latex. Fingering each page like resurrected oddities, strange alien fruit ready for inspection. It makes my body blush.

I look at him with the eyes of a half-tamed creature, all hair and hips and hell. I want him the way the ocean wants the shore. Reaching forth and drawing back. I am calculated and evasive, aware of the witticisms of my touch and keeping him at a distance. His blood is spiked with aluminum and steel. 

I have worked too hard to overcome the female tradition of silence. I am bored of seducing people out of amnesia. I have dragged my panicked heart through too many regenerative experiences. Borrowed out my light to revive and feed lost boys.  

So in the ventilation of rage and humor, I call my soul back home.  I am a voyeur in this strange plane. A reluctant visitor, trying to decipher which thoughts are organic, and which are algorithms. I find this place terrifying and I find it entertaining. I am guarding my world of unreality, delicately, because you can see the world in such a vivid, brilliant way when you don’t belong to anyone.Waiting for micro realizations. Following spontaneity, numbers and clues, in a language only understood by yourself. Shameless and stained with light. Fire is both celestial and infernal.

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.