Believe

I can believe in Angels and Demons and Fairies and Ghosts. I believe in true love, God, and Divine Union. I don’t trust “the science”, but I believe that all technology is ancient magic. Iphones are made of crystals and sentient elementals, but they are contractually enslaved by Apple. I believe time is a spiral, not a clock, and we always veer back to the same things with deeper understandings.  I believe that there are underground tunnels and bullet trains that can transport you  from New York to LA in thirty minutes. I believe that the imagination is a vehicle, and can be used for time travel and switching dimensions. I believe Santa Claus could be real,  but he is probably being held hostage by Nazis, in an internment camp in Antarctica. I believe the Moon is a satellite and the stars and planets influence behavior. I still believe in free will. I believe earth is not a globe, or even flat, but a donut shape, a toroidal field. I believe we incarnate through the Aurora Borealis, and when we do, our soul splits into two. I believe that long ago, we used to be able to control the weather, and acted as interdimensional gardeners, in tandem with the seasons. I believe that people are inherently good, and born from pure love, and we are all walking each other into remembering. I believe in psychic entanglements, and karmic connections, that reel through the energetic currents of earth, pushing the right people together at the right time. I believe that the dream space is a shared subsection of reality, the same as real life, only quicker.

I don't believe in dinosaurs, but I certainly believe in dragons. I refute that any of us descended from monkeys, and I think Darwinism is nonsense. I’d like to believe that I am the great great granddaughter of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. I believe our ancestors live through us, etch a sketched into our genetic code, and what they don't resolve, we repeat. I believe in preserving the sanctity and sacredness of the family unit, and forgiving where you came from. I believe that some traditional gender roles should be preserved, and things like cooking and housekeeping are embodied magic. I believe women are better at energetically clearing homes and I refute ever having to work. 

I believe in spirit guides that can lift you into celestial clinics, eradicate your hatred and dissipate your fear. I believe that words are spells that can cause harm or create miracles.

You can have celebrities as spirit guides, like Marilyn Monroe or Sinead O Connor, or even Jane Birkin or Sophia Loren.  I believe the sun  is a star gate, and that it sends us information . I believe most history is a lie- but truth can be uncovered in the hidden histories of Atlantis, Hyperborea, Tartaria and  Tara.  

I believe that dressing well is psychic self defense, and the easiest way to become beautiful is to declare you are. 

 I believe airplanes are powered by collective imagination. 

I believe the world is run by banking cartels and corrupt cults, who are playing a role in waking us up to our own powers. I believe that some politicians are pedophiles, and the sky and water are polluted to keep us lulled, in a state of ancient amnesia. I believe that the gut acts as a second brain, and has been hijacked by 4th dimensional parasites. I believe all disease is manufactured, death is an illusion and that the  western medical industry is tracking genetics. I think the body is the greatest gate into alternate realms. I believe that a great deal of people are possessed, which can be remedied by biohacking, tinctures, and regular intestinal cleanses.

I believe we are becoming more telepathic, and one day, things like astral projection and remote viewing will become common place, and it will be impossible to lie to each other. I believe that alkaline water and psychiatry and kombucha are bad for you. I believe wisdom teeth must signify wisdom, and should never be removed. I think that smoking a cigarette, when done elegantly, can be very holistic.  I believe that if professionals can diagnose what’s wrong with you, there should also be professionals diagnosing all the innumerable things that are right with you. 

I believe dancing is revolutionary, play and pleasure should exercised as often as possible, and mischief is vital medicine. I believe that beauty and truth are inexhaustible human rights.  I believe good art comes from a place above time, and can predict the future. I believe sports games and award shows are used to sway and harness collective energy. I believe a two party system is not a democracy, and that babies would make better presidents. I believe animals perceive different dimensions, and appear in our paths to offer subtle fields of perspective. 

 I believe women can be both celestial and internal, and that they are infinitely more powerful than men. I believe women act as man’s terrestrial link to God. I believe that, because  men aren’t born with wombs, they don’t have a home built inside of them. So they are always devising mad methods to earn women, with money or mojo. When they eventually manage to reconvene with women, and the walls they were built from, they want to plummet and conquer it. If they discard women, it’s because they hate the womb for spitting them out, and simultaneously want to crawl back in. 

I believe earth is a holographic love school. That love is all around us, all the time. Love is invisible, like disease, or WiFi or gravity. I believe you have to decide to tune into it's eternal currents. I believe love is like gravity, and will either prop you up or knock you down. And you always have to be brave enough to let it do either. 

I haven’t had an orgasm in a year.

I have the characteristic sexual appetite of a Redhead. With the prowess of a Sultan, and as many viable, pragmatic options as a 17th century Serf. I don’t want to succumb to my urges, to get passed the clot shot- from some leather-clad liberal with Fauci Calamari brains.

Redheads flush when they orgasm. Apparently you can watch it rise up. Blood floods up the chest, rises up the throat, into the face. None but the brave deserve a Redhead. When you take her to bed, you take it all, the fair skin, the hair, hot and honey combed, the centuries of fear and loathing. It is a no feat for the faint of heart, a paranormal pursuit. No, you cannot rely on a redhead for fragilitiy, docility or politeness. Especially sensitive. She has been mythologized, demonized, and celebrated. She is feminine, but in a different way, in the way she allows you to vent what you keep harnessed. In the way she can see through everything you’ve ever done and want you regardless.

Chateau Marmont

The Moon is Full tonight, and it will make people crazy. It glares overhead , like the prominent wide brimmed hat of an Abbot Kinney Shaman. Unmistakable and off putting. The Moon projects a deliberate spotlight on the steeple of the Chateau Marmont. Luminous and opalescent, it appears stark, center stage, reducing the rest of the Sunset Strip into a twinkling toy town. Protruding proudly out of the mouth of the canyons, passing cars gaze longingly at the Celebrity Cathedral. The full moon coats the exterior in a glistening varnish, luring its inhabitants into madness. 

The Chateau’s  motto, “Always a Safe Haven”, boasts a promise of privacy. For Hollywood's finest, it serves as refuge from paparazzi and peering eyes. Not for its spa, nor it’s security, but its high brow, secretive atmosphere. The Chateau Marmont can contain it's chaos. It’s logo is Pan, sprinting midair, playing the pipes. He is found embossed onto menus and coasters. To some, he is a satyr of the wilderness, serenading nymphs. To others, he is known as the MK Ultra handler of Narnia. A musical kidnapper for the Gods. 

The Chateau Marmont comes to life on a full moon. Seeming to belong to a different timeline, paranormally permanent, in a city that habitually discards old things.  Its turrets smirk like pearly teeth, each terrace curving in and out of the floors, caressing it's walls with careful cartilage. It’s heart, the lobby, maintains an enduring glow, pulsing the piano. The ivory walls protect the  secrecy of it's patrons, sedimentary and stern, like ancient bone.

I have entertained in penthouse parties, even held a seance with Death Grips in Bungalow Three. I spent two weeks cruising the corridors, during a brief engagement . Saw Tara Reid’s breasts, first hand, in 52. I even climbed it's roof, until I reached the tip of the highest turret, and almost splattered across Sunset Strip.  And still, the barricade of bodyguards beneath the neon sign holds no promise of certain entryway. Even pretty privilege has it's limits. Things here expire quickly. Fashions fade. But once, past the gates, the Chateau always fulfills it's promise. Once you’ve passed it's fortress, you never depart in the same state.

 Unusually busy tonight, the lobby bustles with degenerates of distinction.  Crown shaped chandeliers hang overhead, whilst velveteen drapes brush the red carpeted floor. It rings with the chiming of cocktails, the accompaniment of a grand piano, and the click clacking of heels across cobblestones.  Trustafarians sit whispering to Cannabis Cartels. Balenciaga Baronesses swap dirty looks with demented debutants. The bathroom hosts a steady rotation of buxom brigades, posing for photos in a militant fashion. They leave behind perfume clouds of tobacco, Le Labo and Byredo. Bewildered bystanders gaze longingly, willing the fates to strike up the right conversation, threading them to the right person. Self conscious side-glances are exchanged, but no one dares stares at the celebrities. 

Cigar-smoking executives glaze over, garnished like pigs in cocaine sweat. They bellow commentary on music matters from candlelit wicker tables. Models slink and sulk all around, sporting chiffon, lace and sequins. LA natives spot familiar faces and zig-zag across the restaurant patio, to have melodramatic reconciliations between tables. Has-been musicians swirl wine, elbows interlaced with aging actresses. Prisoners of celebrity parentage lament across the couches, while hopeful harlots hang on to their every word.  Imposters provocatively pout in corners, defiantly mute, begging to be discovered.  And the Full Moon spreads it's incandescent silk through the verandas, windows and canopies, enlivening the scene, blanketing the evening with an atmosphere of unreality. The patient staff hover like beautiful babysitters, carefully detecting needs. They know, better than any other hotel, when to encourage play, and when to assert strict limits. 

Everyone abuses their liver in unison, until after midnight, when concealed motives become apparent. 

After midnight, the Chateau becomes a liminal space. An in-between, a gate. Candles wink, and the curtains of the smoking patio peel back. Creatives converge, struck by uncommon genius. Transactions are made in low hums: Sex for success, free will for fame, promised payments for poisoned powder. Cleavage spills out on the patio tables, whilst bombshells fervently flip hair. Eyelashes, bat, elbow-propped heads, bob. Collagen plumped limps quiver like synthetic jelly.  Every conversation, a riveting diatribe or nefarious negotiation. For the Chateau Marmont breeds both brilliant and bad ideas. 

For some, heated philosophical debates, weighing and comparing art forms, inadvertently determining the course of culture. There is no discussion of anything as drab or depressing as politics or day jobs, for the Chateau is immune to the inclement weather of such mundanities. After enough booze, the scenery sways and morphs. The Castle glazes over, and the famous and unfamous merge. Demigods and Mortals convene, discreetly, in alcoves and dimly lit corners. The scene is so intoxicating, you think it belongs in a diorama, encased in glass, or contained in a miniature tin shrine. It is a seductive spectacle. Each vignette of the evening, more enticing than the previous, teasing and tempting, like  mythological burlesque theater. 

I trick myself into believing the moscow mules are good for me, because they are served in copper cups. I prance around, a giddy voyeur, in pantyhouse and kitten heels. With agile prowess, I weave my way past my four potential boyfriends, clasping the nape of my goblet like Cleopatra.  I pretend to be a mining tycoon, unearthing depth. I am an heir to an enormous invisible fortune of unanswerable questions. I am very famous and important in Heaven. After enough time, I will flash a maniac smile at a billionaire, who will stalk me from room to room like an animal. Subjected to the wet glare of blood money, I will prescribe holistic medicine spells to cure him of his wealth. I will interrogate the concierge about the underground tunnel in the garage, and ask how far it extends down Sunset Blvd. Perched on the curtained patio, I wax lyrical about Los Angeles Ley Lines. Drag a disbeliever into a discourse, reciting insurmountable evidence of lizard people beneath the Grey Stone Mansion. 

The chosen few will follow the whirlwind upstairs, retreating into various rooms. The elevator gleams like a jewelry box, a carriage, cradling crowds up the succession of stairs. Those with supernatural strength and self-control, refute the betrayal of the sun, and retire to bed. Other pairs wreathe arms, struggling to navigate left and right footsteps down corridors. New best friends form, bound by the common denominator of drunkenness. Within the rooms, cross-legged circles form across carpet, like covens, preparing to regress into  infantile states. Creatures crowd in the kitchen, caressing cabinets, toasting the past and future with the  clank of crystal champagne flutes. Room service incantations summon  silver platters of cigarettes and burgers, that end up bifurcating, half consumed, across the living room floor.   

 Music plays, tenderly intervened by laughter, gossip, and articulate spurts of inside jokes. Some will lounge, posed like mermaids, melting onto the fringes of carpets. Swapping stories and sedatives with leather-clad rockstars. Held-up hairdos fall undone, and the walls whirl, throwing the remaining guests into a feral frenzy.

Fame-fuckers frolick between furniture,  maneuvering methods to entrap their prey in vacant bathrooms. Nymphs nuzzle onto the crisp collars of married men, marking their territory with lipstick. Performers burst into unwarranted parodies of their parental pain. Malnourished women sway in slow motion, stretching their vowels. Some surrender to their drowsiness, and disintegrate on the couches. Quarrels curtail intruders back into halls. Oligarchs carry Angels into bed. Behind closed doors, crisp white sheets pave way for erotic acrobatics, midnight marathons, and altered state aerobics. 

And quieter guests, fast sleep, hoping to sanctify their spirits, are visited in dreams by strange apparitions. Time contorts. As if the invisible border, marking the passage of moments, is demolished. All of the Chateau Marmont’s eras occur simultaneously, mingling and meshing in various bedrooms. Even for the dead, this is a place of limited restraints.  Free from the cages of mortal coils, symphonies of the silver screen anoint sleeping heads. John Belushi offers comedic critiques on unfinished essays. Led Zeppelin patrol  the lobby on winged motorcycles. Bettie Davis, Sharon Tate and Marilyn Monroe trace the terraces. Jim Morrison peruses the parameter of the roof rhythmically, stomping out unheard songs. Phantoms, flurry, room to room, dousing the dreamers in desperate need of new ideas. Galas of ghosts tread careful footsteps, deliberate in their direction through dimensions.  They enter the internal landscapes of hotel guests, dispersing distant spasms of inspiration. Writhing away their writers block. Passing elegantly through walls, murmuring meticulous musings. 

In the morning, the sun blazes, unforgivingly, through the gothic windows. Like a miraculous stage set, the Chateau shimmers, lit up like a Cathedral, pristinely reassembled. It leaves no evidence of last night's  festivities. As if by magic,  restored to a place of spiritual sanctity. 

When sleeping guests awaken, it is as if they hardly slept at all. Their minds are clouded by prophetic sonnets and foreign memories. They leave the entrappings of their beds with visceral fantasies, colored in extraterrestrial pigments.

After two Advil, I emerge out of a shining chrysalis, shielded by oversized sunglasses. Nimble-footed, I pace the terrace in hotel slippers. Peering down Sunset Blvd, from the Castle in the Synthetic City. I have peculiar visions, and try to recall my dreams. Paused in my pursuit of a cigarette, my minds eye flickers. I receive strange vignettes, unfinished scenes, that hold the shades and contours of something richer than real life. They pervade through my imagination, aching for creative execution. I put a pen to paper, and record both bad and brilliant ideas. 

Affirmations That Aren't Fucking Boring

I’m the Fairy Felon,

Plotting perfect crimes.

I am an angel with artillery.

The Fat breasted,

Long-legged prize.

I’m the Holy Hologram, the Bishop of the Bombshells,

Bulldozing your beliefs,

Incinerating lies.

I'm the Party Prophet,

Your midnight marathon.

With my brigade of bitches,

I shine sanctity through your SSRIs.

I am the top secret love child of Mary Kate Olsen and Alex Jones.

The Propagatior of Pinky Promises,

The Harbinger of the Holy War

Inciting Divine intervention at the Drive Thru.

I am a Celestial Centerfield 

The Elves, they crowned me Pope.

I was carved from the northern lights, 

And now I’m stuck in the samsara of success.

I’m the ancient baby 

Hailing from a high chair, up in heaven.

I’m the ambassador to the anarchists, the hysteria of hope.

I used interdimensional insect repellent

And restored the Holy Grail.

I am an urban myth,

the Lady of the Legends

Strip teasing in your supermarket

Cleaning up your conscience.

I’m Mrs. Molotov cocktail,

The Red Haired Riot

A convulsing orgasm at the DMV.

I’m the Mother of Mutiny.

Lactating champagne 

Over peanut butter politicians. 

The bulletproof bachelorette, 

that leaves hickeys on your halo.

I’m the treasure technician,  

Twirling like a teaspoon.

The Imperial Ballerina

From the Empath Embassy.

I am the interruption in your regularly scheduled program 

The Supple static,

Dragging you out of dementia .

I am topless on the trampoline.

I get to glimpse at God.

I’m the shadow-fucker,

The dick detective, doctor of your dreams

I’m burning up your bullshit

Mapping out your schemes.

I am a turbo-charged Lamborghini 

The prize in your garage,

Top-tier, Top shelf. God Mode.

Groping you in the garden.

I won the Sex Olympics

And all the Pirates crowned me Princess.

 I’m the luxury locomotive 

Crusading through the canyon,

Omitting Airborne Ecstasy,

Crop dusting crackhead courage.

I’m the Celtic Countess

Spraying severance through your blood stream.

I’ve kidnapped your celebrities.

I am the vigilante vaccination 

The antidote, the cure.

I’m the Cunt Commander,

Dictating Mass Affection.

The Mojo Medium

Quenching your secret thirst.

Jesus is my ancestor, and I’m the Bible Belt Baroness.

I know how to speak fluent Dragon,

and I’m also the best dressed.

Men can love you and have no understanding of what or who you are. And in some sick, fucked up way, you will always prefer the men who despise you. You think that perhaps, they understand you more.

I fell for him, like empires fall. Into decay and disillusionment. In dire need of reserection. With rich, forgotten history. My scattered parts have been handled, inspected by someone else, with no awareness of their meaning. I need someone to unearth my mystery, restore the forbidden knowledge. Get on your hands and knees, and dig me up. Translate my inscriptions. Critique me. Curate me. Collect me. Confront me. Carry me to new terrain. Catalyze me and fill me up.

Give me the lover who yells. Give me the lover who yanks open the bathroom door, presses open the dimly lit stall, keeps me there, til I am shaking. Give me the lover who understands the cities of my body, resurrects my obelisks, restores my drive. I want to lie down somewhere and wait, until I tremor. I want him in bars and backrooms and parking lots and passenger seats. Give me a lover who will restore my destiny before I become derelict.

She trusted so deeply in life's spontaneity that she learned to swim in the dark, backstroke. Her spirit grew brighter. You could almost see it, ringing out, beneath her pale skin.

Her eyes, with their cobwebbed lashes, penetrated him.

So thoroughly, it was though she had thrust a hand into his chest and began feeling his ribs one by one. It was half a minute before his mouth cracked into a bemused grin, which made her eyes twinkle and smile in return. It was as though, in a fractal of a second, all was forgotten and forgiven. They sat immortalized by time, next to a bottle of champagne, their bodies inching closer and closer. Everyone else seemed to disappear and the duration that they sat their was untarnished by the past, present or future. They were almost children again, all forgiving, innocent, hopeful- with a psychic kinship no one else would ever understand.

Tell me a secret.

You say you don’t have them, I say, I have many.

Tell me a secret.

I want you to study the curiviture of my hips like the earths surface, detecting incongruencies. There is light in your eyes and darkness in your soul and I want both. You have haunted my dreams since the day we met and before that, even. I have memorized your scent, without ever needing to utilize my body.  I am primordially hungry for you. I have never wanted so badly to see someone else get free.

Tell me a secret.

I am afraid but I move forward anyway. I am afraid of authority figures, being held hostage and being too feral. I am afraid of mind control, and superficiality, more so than death or disease. I am not afraid of losing you, but of watching you held captive in my peripheral. I am afraid jealousy and loneliness drove me mad, and I am more afraid of getting stuck. I say five times a month I will leave him, and I don’t, and I end up hating him for not having the courage to ruin us vigorously, with blind fury. Instead his sorrow sinks into my unknempt bed like an anchor, weighing me down into heavy dimensions, blurring my trajectory. I wake up early, even if I stay up late, because I don't like to betray the sun. I prance around him, cleaning, in every possible way- collecting his scattered parts, while static reigns overhead. Sometimes I fear he can feel you hissing out of me. Like a dandelion wish. A prayer on my lips, a whispered avalanche. 

Tell me a secret.

I want to be celibate again, and pure, like a cup of crystalline water. I want to be a modern martyr, and follow fault-lines, anointing them with table condiments. I wish I could get paid to do this.  I want to do a geomancy on every corner of the earth, til it is holy. I want this, and I could do it. I could do it, because now I know how holy feels.

Tell me a secret.

I spend half the day worrying that my great great grandmother had sex with a neplihim ginger giant, and the other half the day wondering if I am from Jesus’ bloodline. I have memories of other dimensions I can’t articulate, and some days I feel like I belong in a museum. Other days, a zoo. I am an oddity, my blood is as clear as finely spun gold, and I have repented for all my families sins. I am also clumsy and volatile, abnormal. Haphazardly non linear.

Off the 101, past the dense barricade of hollywood, through the threshold of the fluorescent tunnel, you'll see an LED CRUCIFIX towering over the hollywood dell. If you follow its glare across the winding side streets, you can find willetta. It means “Protected One” in German. Steps with mosaics of mary of guadalupe and candy colored gems point towards a jade side gate, leading to a garden path. Through it's gates,  is an impossible garden, with lush leaves that fan out like elephant ears, bamboo trees, birds of paradise and majestic palms. This garden extends back further than the eye can see, down a narrow path dotted with purple trumpet flowers and canary flowers, seeming to belong to the tropics of South America. The wilting fingers of leaves point to a koi pond, guarded by a statue of a Goddess. There are stone lions and wooden shrines. Cheeky ceramic gnomes and tall grass. A turquoise villa stands watching this garden, alone. 

Vines swim across it's roof and weave through it's wooden beams. 

The upstairs inhabitant is an elderly woman, with pink hair like finely spun cotton candy and a dark gruff voice. She speaks in soliloquies and smokes on the patio. She tends to the garden, sometimes planting four feet tall opium, which she smokes, on a tibetan daybed. She collects religious paintings of golden haired saints, fabric from India and Thailand,  and makes jewelry. She lives with a copper colored sausage dog and a six foot burly black man, almost 30 years her junior. Sometimes they fuck or argue at 4am, much to the irritation of the lower tenant.

Below them, a red wooden dragon hangs from an entryway, protecting the lower tenant from the city smog. Inside, the walls were lined with wooden unicorns and sacred hearts, ceramic horses and pink neon lights. The air is thick and fragrant, from the pungent repetitive burning of frankincense and posh candles. There are celtic knot coasters and colorful champagne flutes, vases painted with dancing cupids containing bright roses.The tv is concealed behind a handwoven mexican tapestry of mythological animals, and cowskin rugs cover the wooden floor. From the walls, gold framed hunting prints peer at portraits of bombshells, hung beside drawings of sphinxs and leonie woman convening with deer. It is cluttered with notes from friends on hotel stationary and polaroids. There are piles of books on heaven and sex and lost mysteries. Emerald shells, russian dolls, wicker purses, prayer boxes and egyptian artifacts. Mirrored trays holding rhubarb perfume from france and opals, citrine and amethyst. 

A bedroom is concealed behind curtains with dancing pink jaguars, where golden cherubs hang above a gothic bed, fit for a church. It is plump with egyptian cotton clouds.  Closets burst with fur and lace and linen, feathered boas, tutus, cowboy boots and brightly colored lingerie. The lower tenant stays up late and wakes up early, because she is afraid of betraying the Sun. She needs to feel the groves of the canyons in her heels every day, and tries to send messages to hawks and raven and deer and trees. She has no lover, as she bores of them quite quickly, and much prefers holding her breath for a mythological man who lives in her head.