Pluto

Sex, death, upheaval, and rebirth. Pluto guards the archetypal underworld and the fire of cathartic experience. It rules over the invisible reality beneath society’s surface. It is obsession, the taboo and that which is well kept secret. It is what we cast out, what we fear, and what we ultimately have to meet face to face. Pluto is where we find our ultimate power, through unearthing revelations that expose the substance of the soul. 

A paradoxical entity, Pluto governs both the infernal and celestial. Its discovery as a planetary body coincided with the invention of the atomic bomb, marking humanity's access to forces capable of apocalyptic destruction. Thus, Pluto is associated with inconceivable power, and the transmutation of extremes, making big things small and small things big. It is the brute force that propels the unknowing from one plane to another, supplying confrontations and cataclysms that serve as initiations, forcing us to confront what we keep hidden. In recent history, Pluto was exiled from our solar system and labeled a dwarf planet. The only planetary body to be demoted. Perhaps this exclusion reflects our reluctance to acknowledge its shadowy contents.

The name Pluto comes from Ploutos, meaning "riches." These riches are internal, gained through exploring the psyche or resisting it til the brink of a psychotic break. The underworld, often equated with hell in Christian mythology, is but a pitstop to heaven on the Plutonian journey. The underworld is a cauldron of both death and rebirth, with our existence emerging from its dark, fertile humus. Conjuring up images of what lurks below, Pluto holds an Akashic recording of all that has lived and died. The underworld is the source of emeralds, rubies, diamonds, uranium, and oil. It is not the riches themselves but the messenger of future vegetation. Pluto facilitates the cosmic conversation that transforms gas into liquid, making the inanimate animated, mediating the molecular makeup of all that is permitted to sprout. It protrudes past our parents, through subliminal messages sent down ancestral lines. It melds through the pathways of mycelium, telepathically relaying secrets to the underbelly of the earth. It collects psychic residue in subterranean chambers, driving people together and then tearing them apart.  

Pluto is known in Greek mythology as Hades, the possessive rapist-thief. But Hades was a relatively late formulation of an underworld lord. Before this, the gateway to the unconscious was guarded by female deities. The primordial center from which life emerged was once revered as the great womb, and all that lies beyond its fabric. This is a place we do not recall, for if we did, we would remember what was assigned to us at birth, and perhaps lose our courage to return back. For Pluto is the elemental force of fate, and the primal libido governing the course of nature.

Sex is Plutonian domain, as it is where we reconvene with the womb. In sex, we merge and meld with one another, permanently transformed by the encounter. In the reckless abandon of an orgasm, we forfeit our fluids, skin cells, and subatomic particles. Even if we remain blissfully unaware of this microscopic exchange, we are committing an invisible alchemy. We transgress the gates of a forbidden interior, enacting a mythic initiation. When we become enmeshed with another, it can fuck up our carefully constructed human plans, and even destroy what we’ve known as ourselves.

Through such penetrative relationships, we gain access the deepest chasms of psyche. If we are to confront the terror of being seen, we abdicate our agency. When faced with the potential of love, we are also faced with fatality. We enter a liminal space, where the boundaries between ourselves and another begin to blur. If we attempt to control this process, hidden forces take over. The psychic holes of our primordial wounds can keep us in a tidal lock of jealousy and obsession, enhancing the aspects of ourselves usually hidden. We meet our own underworld and the parts of ourselves that wish to control or possess another.

No, Pluto does not preside over the simplistic love and courtly etiquette depicted in romance novels or fairy tales. Pluto rules the love that takes hold of us, which carries us away from the hypnotic hold of the material realm. It is the love that speaks to us through synchronicities, the love with secret purposes, hell-bent on revelation. We are led by Pluto’s passion into power battles, manipulations, vendettas, and oppressions. Under this invisible influence, we experience the violence and darkness of nature, forces that unleash ancient patterns and spew out psychic waste. Pent-up energies spill out in a purgatorial discharge. Taken over by karmic compulsion, we witness ourselves move from the naivety of earth-dwelling Persephone into the archetype of Hades. Suddenly, we wish to entrap someone, own someone, and hold them hostage to our interior will.

These destabilizing visitations from Pluto emerge not just in love but in crisis, catastrophe, and upheaval. The underworld is everywhere, all the time, inherent in the beginning of every thought, feeling, inspiration, relationship, and sexual act. It is much more manageable for us to think of ourselves as fully realized beings, immune to dwarf planets and the unconscious realms within us. But Pluto has no interest in our preferences. It is a symbol of retributive fate, dictating the journey of the soul. It takes us to places where personal will no longer prevail.

We must embrace this innate plight into the perpetual night to face our shadows. Descending into our despair, we fall to our knees, loosen our grip, and let our monkey minds melt.  Once we secede to the great unknown, we are purified in a fire of catharsis. We relinquish willpower and come to an eventual acceptance of a force more powerful than ourselves. Only then does Pluto resuscitate. Only then can Pluto hand us his power—the power of having endured hell, only to reemerge with latent strength. Then we are resurrected, burning brilliantly with the sweat of a new superpower. Our psychic resilience is our wealth. And somehow, we transmute it into story, substance, and of course, art.

This liminal season is revealing but quiet. The days between Winter and Spring are eerily unpredictable, and pendulous, as the Sun stretches it's sight and the overcast sky hums ancient songs. It’s the season where nature definitively chooses what will survive. Darkness prepares to concede it's territory, whilst the Hollywood hills spawn lavender antenna and jasmine stars, flourishing out of the dirt. I imagine they are fairy megaphones announcing triumph over the wilt of winter. It is that special time in which all creation begins to gestate, that invisible bridge between feeling and form, in which all things mold. 

The sky bleeds tequila sunrise onto the teetering hilltops. First blush, then smog.

In the evening,  lightning strikes, sending varicose veins of information through the sleeping streets. Truth is criss-crossing across the ether, in electric jagged lines that slap sunset boulevard. It’s like witnessing a celestial war between Gods. Static stomps the sidewalk, sounding out like a siren, insisting aliveness, weaving an agile and direct electricity through our labyrinth of characters.

An eclipse approaches, commanding a relational reshuffling, another cruel game of human jenga, severing some ties and inciting new ones. I oscillate between dormancy and delirium, my collarbones, concave like a broken bird on my bed. I am flaccid, on my sheets, caught in a flurry of fantasies that ache for the energy of execution. 

Like all bad women, I resent the winter. I don’t want to hibernate, nor repent for my misgivings.  I don’t require permission to be cozy, or room to be contained. I prefer the bustling, chiming ambiance of a restaurant, to cooking in my own kitchen.  

 I am a Summer baby, a fast girl. Born for the urgency and freedom of warmer months, where I can exercise my right  to roam without restraint. I crave the raunchy revelation of summer, where falsehood falls like layered clothes, disintegrating at your feet. When the sun beats like a snare drum, exposing everything. 

I used to think that being fast was more important than anything. I used to race the fastest boys barefoot on grovel, through battersea park, in London. A speedy, unkempt creature, sporting grazed knees and notted hair in a maroon school uniform. A child of my parents intermittent neglect and bouts of excessive wisdom. I drew maps all the time, of fairy villages, mermaid coves and pirate ships. I was obsessed with having a family and also with orphans, chandelier shops and pink stationary that got lost as soon as it was acquired. I drew scribbled caricatures of disproportionate fat-breasted women on scrap paper, and planned out ostentatious adult outfits. I gave names to the pigeons that visited our balcony, and imagined that they were involved in love triangles, or traveling to far off terrains, recuperating on the windowsill of our apartment. 

I had the unrefined knowings and quick tongue of a child forced to seek solace from more suitable imaginary world.

Turns out, being fast isn’t a trait admired in adult women. Adults don’t race each other, and no one really wants to see your weird maps.  I still prefer my own solitude, enjoy having the leisure and freedom of following spontaneous nudges without being observed. I have mastered the delicate art of becoming my own witness.

I’d prefer, personally, to avoid the petulant impatience that arises when adhering to anyone else’s clock. Even the seasons. 

 But the winter acts an airborne opioid, commanding a virtuous seasonal leave of absence. It's unsettling, like being roofied and resurrected every two hours.  I measure the walls, review my choices, attempt to rest. I reluctantly rearrange my closet, reeling through memories of past lovers and detoured fate. The contents of my closet vary on a wide scale of slut to saint. I’m determining what to let die, and what to resurrect. 

I crave the commiseration of an unbroken dream, a message or a clue. My slumber is intermittently interrupted by twitches and turns, prodded by the growing groans of the spring. I am liminal, too, cracked open by the amber epiphanes sent by the seasons, glowing even in the dark.  Oscillating between wolf and woman, my girlhood still gestating. I have clear knowings about certain things, but never the things I really want to know about. Heaven-sent, these clear knowings are stark and immense. They can only be accessed through love.  

You take one piece of this hologram, a microcosm, and if you love it enough, if it fascinates you enough- you get graced with a deeper understanding of the big picture.

I  need to restore my hope, I think. I have to reel myself back in like a measuring tape, and stop occupying seven time zones at once. I need to restore my drive, watch my life branch out in front of me, paths of possibility resuscitated like a triumphant jaracanda tree. I must be better at detecting delusions from direction. I have got to decide on what it is I want. 

 I study the stars and signs,in feeble attempts to eavesdrop on God. I excert mad methods in interpreting his penmanship, which is frustratingly non-linear. Written in runic nonsense prose and long forgotten hieroglyphics.

which way western woman

Everyday is an exercise in self restraint, in regimenes and routines, curating calories, assembling outfits in your head. You are battling an invisible war for the world, armed with pilates poses and ring light shields. You try to perfect your product, without becoming a cliche. What do you want to emanate? Clean-Mob-Wife-It-Girl-California-Cool-Trad-Tagedy? 60’s? 70’s? Futurist Femcel? Manic Pixie Dream Hurl? Old money or nouveau riche? You must be less animal, less carnal.  Try to speak less. Master the art of tip-toeing in high heels, and apologetically slouch in the presence of  short men. You learn beauty tips, consume enough counterculture to keep you cool, and stifle through conflicting health advice. Your expertise ranges from archival Gaultier to the precise movements of the planets. You watch A24 films, so you can keep up in conversation. Screen-time guilt drives you to meditate, or rather, recite silent to-do lists, as you assess your flaws and faults. You end the day hauling your ass up a mountain, where you touch grass, until you feel like it's touching you. 

You try to unfuck yourself with Youtube subliminal sounds, in hopes that you can eradicate your loser fetish. Scathe away your sins with a guashua. Recite affirmations in your head. Your nightly rituals are held in bathrooms, where you liberally anoint yourself in oils and lotions.  You apply lip gloss fervently, and you wonder if it is entering your blood stream, adding a sleen to your insides. You master the precise brushstrokes of makeup, until you are all dolled up like a Christmas ham, ripe and ready for consumption. 

Congrats, you have disguised your defiance, surrendered to the Princess-Prostitute Propaganda. Perhaps even prepared to enter the government allotted arena of a bar or nightclub. 

Which way western woman? Do you return to your night-time wellness regime, or cross the threshold into an evening escapade? Even when you are resting, you are accelerating. You only sleep to regenerate and improve. You don’t want to miss any cryptic messages from your dreams, or the chance to reconvene with God. But maybe you’ll find him, out there. Disguised as a silverlake suitor. Maybe it's time to sacrifice a perfect tomorrow for the unknown, enter the field of probabilities, packaged like a porcelain plaything. 

You have two choices, to Present or Repent. You can subdue your rage with adaptogenics, or augment it with aphrodisiacs. Mayhem or melatonin? Wellness or wilderness? Maybe you’ll wallow in bed, wincing at the thought of your decaying embryos, wrestling the desire to commit skinny suicide via Ubereats. You are aging without an audience. If you stay in, you are antisocial, drab, predictable. Irrelevant, and missing out. If you leave, you're too eager, reckless and dirty. Who wants a wife that has ever been outside?

In the Cave of a club, you can come undone, briefly forfeit the feat of self improvement. Let the liquor abdicate your agency, plunge into the current of carbon clouds and cultural commentary. You make a beautiful work in progress. Your doe eyes send subtle signals across the room, agile microflirtations, providing invitations but never commands.  You courtesy to acquaintanceships, brush past people until their bacteria becomes yours, and you are lulled into normalcy.  You drink something without sugar, just enough to make yourself unfurl, but not enough to make you stutter. Men drink to alleviate feelings, but women drink to surrender control. You need an excuse to unbutton, to omit the uncomfortable, true thing. To return to your natural stasis of utter chaos. 

You study the electricity of a stranger, wondering if you could plug your heart into his sockets. He has that atypical silverlake stature, sporting tight jeans and a concave chest. If you grind up against him, his hip bones might alleviate your aches, stretch out your kinks and knots. Maybe he’ll save your life. You could fall apart, just so long as you leave him clues about how to reassemble your contents. You are wanted. Thats what you wanted right? To be wanted. Now you are wanted and it naseuates, it feels like cheating. Either on yourself, or God, or your future husband. 

But who wants a wife who has ever been outside?

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.