Temptation binds me to the past, with unbreakable elastic. My pain is a public theatre that everyone can see. It is no doubt, entertaining. I am a holistic trainwreck, an honest monologue. The contemporary indigo child, a clubside whistleblower. I have been subject to pedestrian dismay since 15. Procuring outrage and disbelief like wildflowers. Why begin to care, now? What anyone thinks of me is none of my business. Even if I have to inadvertently feel it. I am an anomaly, a spectacle. I bet my name rolls and glides off the tongue.  Even if I am spiraling skywards, homeward bound to that invisible safety- I procure unremarkable moths- eating my light. Unremarkable mimics. 

Lightwork is just honesty. Honesty is not popular.

My definitions of love and friendship belong to wartime pagan ireland, where the slight of tongue would be fatal. I dish out what I expect. I require a cause, a mission, a purpose. Fetch the dragon tranquilizers so I can be like you. Numb me. Subdue my outrage. Box up my rage. Doll me up like a drag queen. Disguise me. Conceal me. Distract me. Make me an accessory. Show me non-chalance. Make me pornography. Calcify my heart. Teach me moral ambivalence, trite gossip and bordem. Asphyxiate me til I tune out. Drown me in your shallow waters, baptize me in your apathy. Teach me your backwards system, show me your charts of celebrities and moguls. Shoot my knee caps til I am kneeling before them.

Because I can’t and won’t.

I don't give a fuck.

my heart is erupting. I feel bouts of ancient pain surge up in my chest. Ancient pain that only can be alleivated by very ancient love. It’s like remembering how it felt to depart from God for the first time. I realize I have been around too many people since summer, have seldom the room to reacquaint with silent knowing, so I take some space. I collect English hunting prints and move around my furniture. I scavenge the internet as if I am locating something I lost or left behind. I find myself looking at maps of stargazes, deciphering an exit strategy for earth, or this realm, or this timeline- whatever.

He thinks about me the most when he is in transit. Leaving one place, anticipating another. The future reshuffles ahead of him according to his beliefs that day, shimmering with potential, occasionally glitching. I reckon it is the only time he is alone. I dizzy him, irritate him. He feels me, like a sin in his stomach,  persisting with the patterned endurance of a heartbeat. Like uncovering something sacred when you had only survived in a cool sarcophagus of the profane.  

The air retracts with gusts of symbols, metaphors and implication. It heaves a sigh, in a language only him and I understand.  The worst angel, the good enemy, the domino effect. 

I hope the truth reaches him, in a pocketed moment, away from the lul and hum of frequencial weaponry and distraction. I hope it is soft to him, and generous. I hope it paints me in an alright light. 

Intimacy is like taking psychedelics. It is an altered state, changes the fabric of worlds, unstitches poorly mended wounds, and pries you open. It is a rollercoaster, a celestial melding, a catastrophe, a four part theater rendition of what your parents couldn't solve. It is arguably, safer, to do with someone simple, or vapid.

I want to contain the part of myself that fucks everything up, that gets a rise out of shocking people. The part that prokes and prods at social niceties, the part that gets off on watching people squirm. The part that picks disorder over congruence, with a senseless appetite for irreverent mischief. I want to be kept in an emerald jewel box, or the turret of a castle, restrained like a wild horse. My hands tied behind my back with ribbon, punished like a rowdy princess. My multitudes, contained. Gagged. I don’t have any present shrieking opinions on politics, other than that we should nuke the moon.  

If we nuked the moon, maybe we wouldn't be able to lie to one another. Our impulses might overrule our proclivity to fashion individual brands, and the truth would catapult us into the right timelines. I wait for the stars to rearrange, for the white sun to win this war. For time to cease. I want to sink my teeth into the truth. It aches for my communion. I follow it's threads like a cobweb, making it's way to a subtle epicenter. I want to know if fate is real, if love can get stored up for you like an inheritance, and what you have to do to earn it. I want to know what bitches to trust, and why I feel like I have been sent from both the future and the past. Should I marry him, should I leave him. I am hungry for answers, so much so that I could swear that they are hungry for me. Everyday, our individual energetic imprints screech out of us like individually deranged songs, in a cellular hum, a stillness mismatching our squirming bodies. I know what will happen but never in what order. I understand everyone and no one understands me.

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The Hollywood Hills are like fairy mounds, with the missmatched houses sliding off, precariously bleeding on to the freeways. Fairy mounds were places for mystical royalty in Ireland, but here, they are inhabited by writers, directors and polished dolls, who manicure their lovability for sullen rockstars. Fuckability becomes a science, maintained by doctors with knives, chemical reactants and LED mirrors.

The magic they do here is different. They have magic needles that can freeze your face from moving and plumpen your mouth, or magic needles with strange ecstatic fluids that carry into underworld poppy wombs, and make you forget your pain. They know how to make dreams appear on screens, and make melodies than transfigure mortals into stars. Everyone appears to stay in perpetual adolescence.

I have swam to the bottom of its basins and proccured my share of spiritual rot and ripoff. I have been down under, with the songstresses, celebrities, moguls and punks in hotel castles. Braced boulevards of wax figure prostitutes and playboys. Danced in satin, leather and lingerie. Tried to perfect my lovability, tried to mummify myself until I was silicone. I have had rumors hum about me like neon lights. I have been drowned and resuscitated.

I am not plastic, or wax. I am not bleached like Marilyn, and I am too fidgety to become a sugar-frosted mannequin. I have never appeared on a silver screen, but I consider myself an impossible creature. The magic I do is real, borrowed from the Celtic Otherworld and invoked from my remembrance of Heaven. I do it inadvertently and accidentally. I don’t want to be propped up on a pedestal, or immortalized in memories. I just want to be spread out on my bed like a reclining billboard model, and asked to explain my theories on everything.

I am afraid of girls who fall in love and let it turn to hatred. They  ruminate, dissect, analyze, stalk, deflect, and eventually become bitter. Their chests cave in and their lips get sour. Their posture fails them, and they tell the same stories about men, til they look old and sour. I think of all the heartache that turns women into bitter monsters, medusas, sea creatures. I imagine it collects in the earth like a swamp, waiting to be processed. I think about my Mothers unexpressed need for spontaneity, swallowed, that bled into me like a ticking time bomb. Her appetite for adventure, starved.   I am afraid of shutting my heart down, or of sedimenting into stone. I would prefer to let love destroy me, or animate me. I would prefer to go mad than turn catatonic. 

If we didn't have phones, and I hadnt heard from him, I could have found him using my feelings. I could have tracked him down, because he was closer to me than I asked for, beating out of me like an unwarranted sun. This psychic hunt has no resting place, and it both destroyed and animated me. Drove me around the world. I stopped remembering who or what I was moving for, instructed by some invisible force. Propelled forward like a marionette with astral strings. It was no longer about my elf-lover, or even me. I was trying to heal the original heartache. Following my omnipresent, absentee boss. 

I follow the Magdalene Ley Line to Rome, it's tattered ruins a placeholder for my grief, the vatican, it's thief. 

Italy is burnt orange and brilliant pinks, it's crumbling terrain boasting of golden ages, coral wallpaper peeling off in the citrus infused heat. Ruins of temples and holy spaces scatter the city, like crumbled yellow bone, prodding out like golden teeth. Amidst them, blush watercolor restaurants and bars light up, like a magic carnival, appearing to be resurrected from dust. 

Rome feels like sex, and love, and violence.  Sacrament and sacrifice. I think of demigods, gladiators and goddesses, draped, their generous bosoms cleaving way to dishonest empires. Oracles, nymphs, sprites, and emperors.  I imagine time above me, like a vortex, and all moments occurring at once. I envision braids of light years, weaving together, curving around the dripping grottos and fountains. 

Rome rings with amber light. I am achey. The day time is almost uninhabitable, and my clothes cling to my body. I spend the whole day sparkling, pulsing out big beads of sweat. Glittering, burnt pink and iridescent. I glow, like a lantern. As though I have swallowed the sun. There is a dense wildness that trembles up, through the earth, entering my body in a pillar. It is erotic, but not quite pleasant, nor satiated. I am high from the heat, and the chiseled statues appear to peer down at me. My impulses pull me through the coves and coliseums. If everything wasn't so beautiful, I would surrender to my lethargy. If I didn't honor primitive reflexes, I would be burnt out. 

I pass vibrant markets selling opalescent milks and pungent spices, sweet liqueurs and neon fans. I weave past knobbled caverns, past fountains that spray jade waters into shimmering basins. There are altars carved into stone walkways, saints and angels nestled into eroding walls.  I imagine Vestal Virgins, with flowing botticelli locks, who kept candles burning for years on end. Priestesses, who used their bodies to marry the land to the men, and pull the war out of them with the thrusts of their hips. Italian men are filthy, and I like it. It makes French men look like women. I don't touch any of them, but I can feel their eyes burning holes through my summer dresses. I imagine being grabbed and stolen away. 

In the basque of the new moon, we follow cascading vines and rotting mansions. Tilted up the cobblestoned streets, til dusk hits, and the sky turns amethyst. The city still rings with an amber glow, even at night. The streets hum with crickets choruses, and the buildings seem to heave a sigh of relief for the setting sun. There is a busker, pranging Oasis, outside the keyhole to St.Peter's Cathedral. I envision sending my spirit under it's floor, and retrieving the keys to my soul. 

Vatican city is shaped as a replica of a heart, with perfect anatomy. The steps around the cathedrals, built like ventricles, the passageways, valves. The vast gardens, libraries and galleries, its cardiovascular chambers. It beats with stolen power, like a haunting drum. Not heard, only felt. I follow the Ley Line, like it is a vein, and I am blood. I trace cathedral floors with salt,  urgently oblidging a silent rhythm. Adhering to invisible instructions.  I am plucking out toxins from the earth, extracting monstrosity from the belly of the feminine. I want to untangle this meridian, clear it, like water.  I pray for help, and outline the outskirts of the Vatican. 

I wear a lightning corset and metallic skirt, and parade my fury through it's halls. Each gallery, dotted with sickly looking cupids, and cold statues of roman gods and mean marble men.  My anger rises up, volcanic. My grief, opening up my throat like a flower. These atrocious thieves hoard miles of stolen artifacts.  A mafia of collectors , skeletor, cloaked, doing strange rituals with strange instruments.  I wonder if there are children under the ground. 

I walk, despite my pain, sprinkling salt. I charge forward until I am limping. My feet and legs dusted in sea salt, my braided hair, sticky, like woven honey. I am stealing everything back and giving it to God. And to Ireland. I read poetry to the premises, wash my feet in a fountain. 

We find sanctuary in a restaurant, it's shiny wine bottles winking in the twilight, tea lights strung precariously into vines overhead. There are emerald jars of olive oil and rich cheeses, fat, like miniature moons. Marionette puppets hang off the stone walls, lined with the pearly busts of lost emperors. The food is rich, almost hallucinogenic. We sip champagne cocktails, and I don’t speak about why I am doing what I am doing. I untangle spaghetti, melting into a table, my heart, pranging.

Paris Site

I have a healthy fear of Parisians, a logical skepticism of any city built over tunnels of bones. I  believe the monuments act as giant conduits of energy, the arch ways, portals. The towers and obelisks act as tuning forks to something peculiar. I can respect a city that honors the sky, with it's neatly manicured rooftops and long windows. I hear Paris used to be inhabited by celts, long before its catacombs. It has uprising in it's infrastructure, in it's appreciation of protests, and the way the dead seem to rise out of the narrow streets. It’s sly snobbery has made good art. I respect a place that overthrows monarchy, and I used to think God would never ordain Kings, but now I am not so sure. 

Mary Magdalene's ley line runs thick through this city, and it's felt.  Like a great beating artery. It wakes me up early and keeps me up late.It runs beneath the Lourve, reaches Rome, extending all the way to Rose Bowl Pasadena. I believe it begins in Northern Ireland. Monuments to her are resurrected in great detail with eerie subtlety, and if you weren't looking, you'd probably miss it. These prominent statues feel unclean, misunderstood, bitter.  The energy is so feminine that french men act like bitches. Empathic, so everyone eats facing the street. Thick with unprocessed grief, so everyone smokes. 

We stayed next to a crypt for religious matyrs, a tomb for the priests who died for rebelling against the vatican. Purely coincidental, of course. I break in and ask them for help.  There are statues of lions and fountains that seem to bleed secrecy, gold plated angels and ceilings that tell stories. It's humid, as we slip into a lul of predictable debauchery. The boys in their little outfits, me maniacally resolving to trek through every religious site and speak to it. We wear wreaths of jasmine and chainsmoke outside ancient buildings. I am asking for help. I imagine congregating an army. I work for an omnipresent absentee boss, and I listen to intuitive nudges with the astute certainty of a skitzophrenic. I make mistakes that work in my favor.

 I weave through old fashioned perfumeries, religious galleries and underground sex clubs. Past fruit vendors and vintage markets. With the diligent footsteps of a devotee of heartache. Everything is haunted. Including me.