Encino House

I am cocooned by the coven in Encino. Sitting poolside in tiny string bikinis, under the gazebo, playing with grass. I am toying with my perception again. My naked chest beating out massive beads of sweat, like hot wax. I have been a million people this summer. I nestle my knuckles into the dirt and wonder if the earth is as angry as I am. The valley is a sulky teenage girl. I much prefer Louisiana, its heavy antiquation, it's feral feminine. A wet warrioress with poisonous creatures and rabid aliveness. An impressive reminder that sacred things should not be toyed with. 

I was born for the greatness of a singular love, and more anonymity than I have gotten. I was made for the richness of monogamy, of childbirth, born to learn the quirks and intricacies of one man and never several. To profess brave omissions in a terribly dishonest world, to study someones dimensions with the diligence and patience of a devotee. In moments of deep introspection, God speaks to me with crystalline clarity, in a non-language. A nudge. Tells me that I am meant to become an ouroboros of myself first. That I can only get what I give. 

It's not an ideal time for dating. Astrologically. The boys have become bitches. Distracted. I tell myself, don’t dim down your knowing, that prehistoric pain is rising up through the meridians of the earth, and the men will not be the first to process it. We can’t skip this process, this time. There is no jumping the gun, no overlooking this sacred mass as it unearths itself. You can’t just catapult headfirst into someone elses process- it will fester over, and become codependency. If you stay in that toxic love, it will sour and boil, brew into something bad. Swallow you and spit you back out.

I am nauseated by the sticky, codependency I used to fester in. 

If you are longing for someone elses timeline, you are not doing it right. I used to only measure time in the beats between breaths of old lovers, used to count moments by the gestation between romantic encounters. Wounds seeking wounds that grooved and fit into each other. I have new definitions for love. Refined. Boundaried.

There's a reshuffling transpiring. A recalibration. A pole shift. Stay finely attuned to the omissions your subconscious is making, call in God. Cast out that hungry ghost. Seal and protect. Everyones grief is poking out of them, like blue radiation.  An aurora borealis of irresolution. It hurts to look at, to see it in the hollows of their chests, the mournful shadows in their eyes.  It comes in these harsh waves, cycles. Some people try to coat it in noise, moving dully through surrounding tornadoes of cleverly disguised pain. I have to be better at retracting and stifling through what's mine and what isn't.  

There are people I am connected to like impenetrable arteries, impressing themselves down on the earth, curving cleverly through time and space. We are the same. Some people speak without words. Some people see more than others.

Lament of The Legendary

Everything is starkly obvious here, in LA. A demonic garden of fluorescent lights, haunted by beasts of the night, bitter women, broken boys. The injured earth rings with invisible songs, it's starry pavements sing laments of the legendary. Disguise your enthusiasm. Try and come up with a more digestible, finite definition of love. And you can survive. 

I say I am ready to leave LA, and I never do, it's sticky air and dust clouds shackle me to it’s grids, weave me in and out of it's dimensions. Leaving me to make sense of a sacred, unfinished map. A tapestry, a holy war. Unconsciousness fucking the conscious. Bottish bretherin and their plastic consorts. Mystics and their mundane counterparts. In the delirium of the heat, I am almost thoughtless. Pondering group chats and chastity, genetic engineering, fake boobs and faker weather. 

It's safer for everyone if women like me don't think. Our thoughts become things with a lethal quickness. Charged items--prone to infecting or blessing everything in our strange spheres. In the delirium of the heat, I am thoughtless. Just a feeling. Amorphous . Sending rhythms through the canyon. 

I follow orchards of hawks and get on a metal bird. Fly away, to a convent in New Orleans. Armed with found feathers and blistered feet, beating to the assertive hum of diabolical curiosity. I’ve been politer than I could have been. I pocketed my pain, tidied it away.  I went to five churches, four bars, three hoodoo apothecaries. Two parks. The banks of the Mississippii. Three airports. Everyone was looking for the same thing.

<3

I laid on my stomach in the forest. Paced backwards and forwards, barefoot on terra firma. Stagnated in hot springs, waiting for the salt to exfoliate my skin, til my spirit returns intact. Made promises to the ocean. Asked it to swallow my commitment fears. Make me more digestible, manageable. No more half spent dreams. No hurried, unfinished love affairs. No half-anythings. 

I am getting younger. I want less responsibility, instead, to be surrounded by comfort and attention.

I used to be able to psychically surpass life's fragility, to rely on my capacity for apocalyptic vengeance, a hatred- for men, for sterile complacency, for structure. These parts of myself are softening. I can’t carry them.

Tell me about the men in your lineage. Sprawl me out like a map of prehistoric dimensions, return to your muscle memory of paradise, of Eden, before rights and wrongs. Change me. Charge me up. Reassemble my contents, invade my continents, memorize my body. Stare at me til I am invisible. Marry me to foreign perceptions.

I laid on my stomach in the forest. Paced backwards and forwards, barefoot on terra firma. Stagnated in hot springs, waiting for the salt to exfoliate my skin, til my spirit returns intact. Made promises to the ocean. Asked it to swallow my commitment fears. Make me more digestible, manageable. No more half spent dreams. No hurried, unfinished love affairs. No half-anythings. 

I am getting younger. I want less responsibility, instead, to be surrounded by comfort and attention.

I used to be able to psychically surpass life's fragility, to rely on my capacity for apocalyptic vengeance, a hatred- for men, for sterile complacency, for structure. These parts of myself are softening. I can’t carry them.

Tell me about the men in your lineage. Sprawl me out like a map of prehistoric dimensions, return me to your muscle memory of paradise, of Eden. Before rights and wrongs, guilt and shame. Change me. Shape me. Charge me up. Reassemble my contents, invade my continents, memorize my body. Stare at me til I am invisible. Marry me to foreign perceptions.

To be beautiful, you have to be seen. To be seen means you are subject to a thousand wounded perceptions.

And to be seen is to be hunted.

If you are to be hunted, you need to remember to stay swift, fast, impenetrable. Impossible to fully learn and retain. You need to exist just enough to be on the verge of disappearing. Like all ephemeral, temporary beautiful things. Natural anomalies. A non replicable sky. The sea. Effervescent. Impossible to hold.  

Never too tangible and just beyond reach. 

I let myself be handled just a moment too long, and it shattered me kaleidoscopically. Expanded me, wove me to you- to the point that your fabric is etched into every peripheral of my reality. I see you in myself sometimes and it hits me in the chest, with a sporadic celestial nausea. Like having a heart outside of my body.

I have velvet green bedding, and my heart expands the corners of this strange city. Through the imported palm trees, hibiscus, purple twilight bougainvillea. The lakes, deer and coyotes. I called back my light, swore to stay on my own timeline. Forgave. My body felt radiant again, like I had swallowed orange light.

The next time I saw you, you looked grey, half satiated. Beautiful as always, but foreign. When you walked away, hurting, I could feel it for three blocks.

Like having a heart outside of my body.

This absurd, non-linear timeline procured a stain on my soul. In the privacy of my bedroom I turn it out and inspect it, like a strange jewel, glimmering with unresolution.

Haze can be safer than the kaleidoscopic.

I write notes about you in my phone I will never publish. I read my grievances to the ether. I pray to the trees. I know I’m bad, ephemeral, changing, obscene. There was so much you never learned, so much you still don’t know. You made assumptions that hurt. I am trying to exist, cooly, with a foot in some private Otherworld. Trying to stay neutral and forgive myself for trying to reconcile the sacred and mundane.

Beltane

Everytime I go to type your name I get held back, like a prayer I have been conditioned to swallow.

Everytime I think your name the earth beneath me tilts, a silent resonance shuffling through layers of the earth. They say places hold memory.  I feel like if I think about you too often you’ll feel it, or sense it, or worse- hate it. I try and curtail my longing, an operate under the belief that you are just as aware as me. Fluent in etheric, invisible smoke signals. 

There is no room for intellect in this business. We are in the business of trusting resonance over logic, following psychic nudges to places that feel like home. Hunting truth. When did you give up?

I have learned how to take possession of my own timeline, by making myself big- I stretch my field far across the land. I make myself massive- in an opalic bubble that stretches- churns and crashes into the caves of Malibu, presses deep and thick into the mycelium networks all the way through the forests of Los Angeles Crest, encompassing everything. I make my timeline sensual, erotically innocent. I fill it with pretty things to disguise the void. I have eaten at all the beautiful restaurants. Charmed my way through every variation of “appropriate” man.

You can’t fake resonance. Resonance hits you hard in the heart and it procures stains on the soul that can never be eradictated. I’ve tried. Replace, Rinse, Repeat.

 and now I learn to hold that delicate void empty, sit with it, nurse it. Befriend it. Be soft spoken to it.

I don’t need you to offer me any more than what you have already, even on your worst day.

Ode to Scotland

Scotland was home before I arrived. The bones of my ancestors were sown into the skin of the soil, sang in octaves of wind, fanned through birch, alder and hawthorn.  I felt them strike me with a diligent rhythm, a primordial urgency. A call to be heeded in halos of golden light that skimmed aisles of plush soil pathways. 

Beckoning, insisting, 

These colossal cathedrals of trees. 

I listened. I listened. I listened.
Variants of green spraying through leaves in champagne prisms of shadow, delicately threaded through the morning ether. This land let me incubate like a womb, let me roll through mossy troths and moors freckled with dew and silver lichen. I held the secrets of hollow tree trunks and mushroom caves, sat by lochs and cried into creeks. Everything was animated, everything was alive. Singing. Vibrant in plush beds of sprouting emerald, dusted with wild flowers and yellow cacti that smelled like coconut.

It is the unsettling bridge between seasons, flickering boldly with the spark of probabilities. The singing wind carries an air of change. 

The summer sun begins to shorten, leaving a shading of uncertainty across the land. I am on the brink of immense change and my body has recognized it before it has arrived.

I am in Threshold Space, preparing to turn to Los Angeles,  tethered to a past that has lost is allure and glamor. 

I speculate all the things I could have done and said in my time here, and decide everything is as it should be.

I vow to leave parts of myself suspended in the Scottish highlands, safely tucked in these groves of green, right before dusk.

 In solitude but woven into everything.

With the land as my only witness,  

I vow to remain equal parts wild and pure, 

wild and pure and untarnished, 

just like the Scottish highlands.

<3

I want to hear the lies you tell yourself that keep yourself from unraveling, coming unglued, bursting at the seams, the shrouds of artifice you asphyxiate yourself in for survival. I want to hear what THE FUCK you think is going on here, RIGHT NOW, in this malleable, nonsensical plane. I want to know if you notice things, and how you are making sense of the fact that reality gets more synchronized with every passing iteration. I want to know if you feel like your external reality is mirroring your inner condition, and if it makes you feel sick to look it directly in the eye. I want to hear the lies you tell yourself that keep a mind that has been stretched by new experiences waning backwards to old dimensions. Which parts of you fester with inattention?

How bored can you possibly be?

Unwarranted Advice for my Sister

1. Never underestimate the magic of being kind. Bring unconditional love to every person you meet. They are a faction of you. Some days, you may not know it- and they probably won’t- but be kind to them. Anything you see that you don’t like within others needs to be loved within yourself. The easiest solution for any issue is to throw love at it.

2.  Your thoughts are arrows that trail ahead of you, contstructing reality. Think with intention.

3. Your language creates reality too. Speak with intention.

4.  Spend at least two hours a day outside. Your body needs light photons. You need to sweat. This is what our ancestors did. This is how you embody the changes our consciousness is experiencing. Do it. 

5.  If you don’t feel beautiful, go somewhere that is beautiful. You are that. It all belongs to you and it belongs to no one. You can live forever. Try and catch the sunset every day.

6. Girls like you have a clear channel to God. We need to be in constant calibration and communication with that channel. Things that enhance that channel-  presence, dance, solitude, nature, laughter, rest, play, ritual. Things that diminish channel- technology, codependency, shitty food, shitty people, substance abuse, t.v, news.

7. Men are looking for God. They will be drawn to you. They will want to play out their inner God dilemma with you.  Do not confuse a mans battle with God a reflection of your worth. You are highly awake. This will intimidate people who run from themselves.

8. Everyone is projecting. Most of the time. NEVER fuck with anyone who comes into your energy field to make critiques or attack you. Those are energy vampires. In the same vein- no one else is responsible for your emotions and how you deal with them. Only you.

9. You cocreate reality with whoever you keep in your close corner. If someone doesnt believe in your potential, don’t expect miracles. Only surround yourself with people who believe in magic. Keep the aquarium clean. 

10. Try and keep track of your dreams. 

11. Don’t have sex with someone you don’t want to swap consciousness with.

12. Drop any narratives about anger being wrong. Anger converts energy. Anger gets shit done. Angry women are still beautiful.

13. Drop any narratives about appearing crazy. Inevitably, you will be called crazy. It is unavoidable for awake women. The more intuitive you feel, the more likely your “crazy girl” programming will start to kick in. Dump it in a field somewhere. You are unconsciousness becoming consciousness. You carry the collective with you in your heart.

14. You are descended from warriors of the Irish Otherworld. You can visit them in your imagination, in a forest or a liminal space between land and sea. They are rooting for you. You are a descendant of the fae. You have millions of secret helpers.

15. It is not popular to follow feelings over logic. Always do this. No matter what. Your feelings are flags. If you are in love, be in love. If you are heartbroken, let it encompass you. The more you feel the less you have to repeat the same lessons over again.

16. People who worry about being cool are never cool.

17. You are beautiful. You are the kind of ethereal, magnetic beauty that frightens others. This will bring you blessings and simultaneously make people strangely erratic.

18. Don’t become preoccupied with your appearance. That’s a trap. They dressed you like this in this lifetime so people will listen to what you have to say. This is your clever halloween costume.Become preoccupied with your message. 

19. Never curtail your appetite for mischief and absurdity. It is vital medicine. 

20. Clean your fucking room. It’s an immediate reflection of your inner state. I love you, but clean it. You will feel better. Holy spaces are wherever you rest.

21. Your job is to reparent yourself out of guilt and out of shame. You deserve reminders that you won’t abandon yourself. Resolve self judgement. This is a lifelong assignment. You are the only person who has to live with yourself forever. Your inner dialogue is the projector of all reality. Be generous to yourself. Be unrelentingly forgiving and loving to yourself.

22. You will get heartbroken- it is inevitable, it is the fertile soil from which character blooms. The people who break your heart usually agree to from a plane above time. Forgive them and figure out what they are showing you within yourself. Write.

23. Evade holding on to people who carry outdated perceptions of you. You will take on so many identities in this lifetime. If you hold a space in your life and fall in love with solitude, you will always meet people who are vibrating with you. People like us exist and we always find each other.

24. You can speak without words.

25. Glide through life with the secret belief that the world is conspiring to assist you.

26. Self pity is just lazy storytelling.

27. Multiple truths can exist at once. Pick the ones that are kaleidoscopic.