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I’m kinda psychic.

My witchiest-witch-friend used to say, ‘listen to your gut, if it rolls, don’t fucking hit send’.
Aaaaaaaaaaaand I would hit send and cry about it.
She never said I told you so.
She doesn’t lie, nor does my gut, they forgive and hope for the best next time.
There is always a next time.

I get messages from the universe meant for other people. I don’t even try to pretend it’s me talking anymore. My job is to open my mouth when I should and keep it shut when I shouldn’t. I’ll tell you the thing, take it or leave it. Decide I am crazy if it suits ya. I used to think the same thing. Who wouldn’t? Having these loud voices in your head yelling at people walking by. Life got better when I started opening my mouth, both for me and the receivers of said messages.

I also receive messages for myself, they come in patterns and waves and sometimes this crystal clear voice seconds before waking from a dream. Or sometimes in the dream itself. Random words or numbers that trigger a bigger picture and things just make sense. Right now I am in limbo. The Universe has reverted to snail mail. My job … is to wait. Tumbling the information I have around until it becomes smooth and handle-able. Or grind it to dust and let it float away on the wind, or both or all. Like I said, my instructions are unclear at the moment. This too shall pass, or someone will comment here and say “do the thing”. This is how my life works. I was speaking to kidlet this morning and we are both in this riptide, getting pulled out, wanting equally to roll with it and get back to shore. He got a message for me…”fill the hole”. We laughed. Double entendres…always with the the double fucking entendres. Everything is a metaphor. Except when it isn’t.

BBP (Biker Body Pillow) used to say I wasn’t psychic. That I just have a really good memory and decipher patterns and make connections using past experiences. Made me feel like Rain Man for a minute.

“Hot water burn baby” and so does leaving me without a fucking word. Saw that coming too, even told him so. So be it, I don’t need any more naysayers in my life. I want people who say, “Yes, you are bizarre, and I like it.” You don’t have to believe me to believe in me.

As with any gift ever, tangible or not…squander it and lose it, or nurture it, practice, have a little faith and BOOM. It gets better. I have a lot of faith. Basically what happened is I used my really good memory and deciphered the patterns and what they spelled out is “On a long enough timeline, everything gets better. On a long enough timeline, everyone leaves…all of this is alright. Look at you Little Miss Sassypants, the weeping girl who thought she couldn’t live without this or that or him or her, looks like you are living to me, and smiling about it.”

I almost lost it back in the days when I almost lost me. To be fair, I hadn’t a clue about who I was/am. I was busy burying the parts of me deemed unacceptable. He found an awful lot about me to be unacceptable, mirrors of things he wanted to be and couldn’t. Hell is knowing what is happening and not stopping it. Those neon flashing signs of ‘he’s doing the thing and lying about it’ that refuse to remain silent, they were on the list. I wonder why. Probably because he was doing the thing, and lying about it.

I’m decidedly better now. At a lot of things. I am a better lover, friend, mother, human being et al. I just started enjoying and cultivating these things I am and have. Like watering seeds and letting them grow rather than yelling at dirt.

So what good is this gift?

I see things that are about to happen, sometimes I do the stupid thing anyways.

No, I ain’t mad. That would be ludicrous. ‘You did the thing I told you you were going to do if I did the thing’. Wait, we already talked about this. I don’t even care what was in the box anymore.

Knowing something is going to happen doesn’t make it any less painful. “I told you so” doesn’t put the rubble back to houses after an earth quake. He wasn’t an earth quake, more like a big truck going by. Rattled the dishes a bit. And telling yourself ‘I told you so’, exercise in torture. Fuck it, learn something, be like Elsa and let it fucking go and move on. Probably wouldn’t leave the house much if I was prone to anger at the shit I see coming. I ain’t handing out gold stars for being predictable neither. Nor am I content with less attention than a side bitch.

I do observe and understand human behaviour with a Master’s degree. And like every good student, I know I’ll never be done learning. I am learning more every day, now that I know how to listen. Empathy, sacred contracts, quieting my mind so I can really hear,  connections and man logic are languages I have learned, but like any language, use it or lose it. Still psychic though.

BBP would ask me what I thought was going to happen with the 20-something he was fixated on.
Honey, if I could crack the code of those born in the 80’s, I’d sit back and enjoy and probably weep for the future at the same time. Wouldn’t leave the house much either way.

I date 20-somethings. They are less accountable than I, or him or that other one and that one up there. If I say I’m getting shredded and I get shredded I have no right to rain down fire and brimstone. Even if I don’t say I am going to get shredded, you came, I came…contract fulfilled. No earthquakes, no rubble, no hurricane Sarah. Just go, its fine. Gold star. Be nice to the next girl please.

Just because I predict lousy behavior or know someone is lying doesn’t make it acceptable by the way.
Throw a plate on the ground, did it break? Yes. Now. Say sorry to it, is it unbroken. No.

“What’s really going to cook your noodle later is would you still have broken it if I hadn’t said anything.” The Oracle (The Matrix)

Resolution comes on October 10th 2015, by the way. I know this. As soon as the clock strikes midnight.

The 4 horsemen of my apocalypse.

I want that again, something like it or something altogether better.

I said that very thing out loud and within 72 hours 2 ghosts became corporeal. Another a week later.

It’s a super blood moon eclipse tonight, I have got to focus. Or do I?

That feels wrong in my mouth. Heart and gut concur.

4 monsters.

I am piecing together parts of a whole. I know they exist, I have seen them with my own eyes.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was considered horror because it portrayed a man playing God. She said he was beautiful. Her creature was a blasphemous abomination against the Lord. I am glad she lived when she did and cannot see what we consider horror now.

Poor Kyle.

My girl and I re-watched AHS Coven.

I’ve never seen her mad before. I had a little haunting mid binge, she lost her shit “Not one of these guys is good enough for you, look at what they do to you. You deserve grand wonderful love from someone spectacular, like a movie star or something.”

I turned to her and said “but I want that, can I just have that” pointing at the TV. “This road goes two ways.”

Kyle was devoted, Zoe was his savior, they protected each other. Perfect balance of emotional and physical strength. He just let her be magic and loved her ferociously. He could’ve had 2 girls, he chose her.  I think that is what got me, that and playing cards. I really miss playing cards.

I have to leave monikers out of this post. You understand.

Chronologically. The sum of my monster…

The first. His face, I could watch him for days. His eyes are hypnotic, he holds my gaze like it’s sacred. His laugh sends lightning bolts though my girl parts. His empathy matches mine. His words, his voice, his attention, the things he shows me. The way he surprises me. The way he moves. He is protective but not possessive.

The second. He is fae, like me. Never met my kind before. He loves like I love and I love that. I want it back now. His ability to turn on a dime from sweet to consuming. The magic in his mouth. His skin and bones. Spoke in tongues. I wonder if anyone outside the two of us would have understood what we were saying. I feel like I slipped into another language when I was with him, the one I was born to.

Damn, I already fucked this up.

I keep meaning to make a flow chart of some sort. ‘The Fucking Tree’ or a map to the stars. They keep coming and going. “I’ve named all the stars the same and there is terrible confusion” (Druscilla in Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

The third. Mary Poppins he. Practically perfect. I want the life he promised us. I want the challenge he provided. I miss my muse. I crave being that open with someone. Him slipping around in my guts, me braiding and knotting his into bloodstained safety nets to catch the both of us. That fucking mouth, teeth and all. That sensitive, cruel mouth. We all know I love a good juxtaposition.

The fourth. Something about him I just can’t shake, because I don’t want to shake it. There is juxtaposition here too, between who he is and who he appears to be. I see the mask he wears, but he doesn’t wear it for me. His vulnerability makes me feel trusted, like I have been given the key to the lost city of Atlantis. The way he plays, with the good parts of my childishness. His drive. His passion. The way he always wants to be touching, because it feels good.

All 4 I have seen some semblance of a future with, smiled at what I was shown.

Tonight is a changing moon, a wishing moon but wishes are flimsy things, so delicate and easily set adrift.
Instead, these are my intentions. I hereby let everything go to see what comes.

We shall see.

Honorable mentions

There is one who accepts of all of me all of the time. ‘I love it when you are ______ (insert current mood)’. His unwavering support, forgiveness and consistency.

There is one whose chivalry is innate. I can’t explain it. Just the way he moved. Safest I have ever been.

There is one who…bag of frozen peas. Enough said. With like zero down time. That was some damn fine sex.

I have found my people.
Well, I found me then they came forward and said ‘Took you long enough. Welcome home mama”.

This is a whole new experience. Knowing I am empathic and the connotations that come with that on every level. It’s much better here. I am accepting and accepted.

I have allowed myself to be, myself. No more hiding or adapting to suit my environment. I made my own. When someone comes over and says ‘sanctuary’, I know they belong. I am happy to be home.

I like me, which has made me (no not egotistical) loveable, and powerful.

I have readjusted wants and needs and ideas of what is possible.

I met my absolute equal, it went weird, and at this very moment (like just now) I just realized I know this isn’t done. Nothing is ever over, there is no such thing as never or forever. He’s magic.

I know my tiny human brain can really grasp how amazing things can really be for me. But I know the universe knows, I dream about it. I see it in small moments and say thank you. The more I let go of, the bigger I get, the more room I make for magic, serendipitous bliss.

The thing that scared me the most is the thing I’m most excited about now.

I found my brave.

“Ahem” hear ye hear ye…I want to be loved the way I love. Amen.

The way I love is amazing.
It is without jealousy, attachment, conditions, and limits. It is protective and nurturing and inspiring and healing, childlike and hungry to learn and eat and fuck all the damn time. It wants to be touched and acknowledged and sometimes left alone with understanding. It is trusting and trustworthy and full of the truth. It is the kind of love that sets you free. It is all consuming and liberating. It wants to choose and be chosen over and over.

A kindred spirit for me. The fifth element. I know he exists and I know its time.

Let everything go and see what comes.

How does it get better than this?

Be love…and be loved.

Yes. Please. This.

I wanted that too. Not holding my breath though. I hold my breath for no one. My tongue is the same.

Oh honey, no.

Seriously.

It’s not you.

Its me.

I have horrible taste in men.

26 years of anecdotal proof and a blog dedicated to this very thing.

Things fall apart, it’s alright.

Please don’t think this is about you, don’t you don’t you…

He has been reminiscent of clouds in my coffee.

Lack of movement blending eventually to just coffee flavored coffee.

It went cold on me.

An object in motion has to stay in motion, or it stagnates.

Effort + Patience (has to) = Reward.

Otherwise what is the point?

I am getting tired of effort + patience equalling nothing.

I am also little bit sick of these women running around saying “I am goddess hear me roar blah blah he doesn’t know my worth”.

Goddesses don’t say that. Ever. THEY ARE GODDESSES.

Shaddup. Please. You are hurting my ears. If you knew your worth you wouldn’t be posting and posturing and pontificating. You would be relaxing, enjoying this one step closer to Nirvana you found and empowering others to come with you, patient with their journeys. Just little quiet smiles and nudges.

What you are doing is what I have dubbed ‘false positive’. You think you are enlightened but really, the enlightened know the learning process never ends. Just flow with it.

You have no idea what you are worth.

I don’t either.

I don’t think anyone does.

Oh, I have days wherein I wish for just the briefest of moments I could pluck out my eyes and show my darlings what I see when I look at them.
And I have just as many days where I wish just for a fleeting second I could see me how others see me.

Everyone doubts themselves except children and fools.
I forgot sociopaths, I think they are comfortable in their skin, or vests with tits or whatever Buffalo Bill.

I doubt him and I doubted myself.

One fed the other.

Yes, he was worth something to me. Being near him felt good. Being swept away under some rug from Ikea felt bad.

I am over it.
Yes I know I am writing about it. I only write about things I have processed.
I have endured torture by my own hand, evisceration by another, hauntings and guttings with less finesse than a fish caught on a line.  Abandonment and betrayal on monumental levels. Tearing, hacking, ripping, burning.

I saw him two times in two months. The sex was great he was lovely. I don’t need my thumb to count the times we have spoken since, just the fingers on that hand. It’s really alright.

Please understand I need to be left the fuck alone, sometimes for days on end. I have my chosen family and I participate actively in my friendships with them. I wake up and write at odd times. I work strange days and I have grown so accustomed to being alone, I really like it here. I can’t play hermit anymore. I have to be out in the world and out of my head. That is where you come in.

But…I don’t want to be left alone for months, nor weeks.
Nay fucking nay.
Days…days is my comfort zone.
Days I like.
I get that exhilaration when we do touch base.
And I get the luxury of alone.

Win win.

Its not about being worth something, its simple acknowledgement and effort. “Yes, you exist and I like that shit”.

My soul-sister and I finally live in the same city and its bliss.

That is another thing I don’t like. Emily Bronte. “Whatever souls are made of his and mine are the same.”

Uck, no. blech. I don’t want that. I’ll stick to fucking my tribe, but not my twin. Too close and incestuous.
Outside of my tribe feels like alien probing. Cold sterile and just weird.

I thrive on juxtaposition. I have accepted the pendulum swinging as it will.

No no. Not same. Compatible. Huge difference.

Whatever souls are made of HERS and mine are the same. I see her and I come home, over and over. I have that with another being. She is my warm safe place and I am content.

My needs are already being met. Now This is worth something, something huge.

This is the difference between need and want.

It’s paramount.

There is nothing about him that I need. So much want.

I am already happy over here, with or without him.

He gets to decide whether he finds this liberating or terrifying.

Either way, I am over here being happy.

Contemplating the curl of his mouth, the crook of his arm, the sound of him growling, bags of frozen peas strategically placed and how good he feels.

All want, no need.

I had an argument with the poet.

Scratch that, he said something I don’t agree with and I just let him keep talking.

I did that a lot. He talked and I loved listening to him, regardless of content.

Horoscopes and zodiacs.

K, listen.

Most of the horoscopes we are subjected to look like someone took a bunch of random words and sentences and jammed them in a hat, pulled out 3 or 4 and voila. Here is your prediction for the day. Not unlike the false psychics who use random letters and names to read your face and response, who had you cased by your body language the minute you sat down. They can’t read your future but they can read you.

“I’m getting a strong N vibration.”

“N, newsstand, he worked at a news stand.” (Reality Bites)

A human being in pain will cling to the flimsiest of flotsam trying to survive.

I have admitted with great frequency that I consider Rob Brezsny’s Free Will Astrology to be a religious doctrine. It’s my blankie. I am allowed and allotted a blankie. The world is scary and sad sometimes. I think the reason I love him so much is because he doesn’t say ‘hey this is going to happen this week.’ Rather he eloquently asks questions and gently nudges me in directions. Pointing out gaps in the labyrinth I may have not seen on my own. He is enlightened and has a very evolved view of the world and the human condition.

I don’t see a huge difference between me reading his words and meditating on it, and someone else going to church and listening to a preacher interpret the words of God. I believe all churches can be both blankies and jumping off points to better yourself as a human being.

I am a Green Gemini Wood Tiger. I identify as such. It’s a vague category that gives me a small sense of self. With benefits. Remember way back when, in kindergarten, you were just waking up to the idea that there was a world outside of your head and your home. Friendships forged over something as simple as ‘hey we both have yellow shirts”? It’s a little bit of comradery.

As far as zodiac signs go. If enough people believe something, it ends up being partially true.

I would never discount another being based on their birthday, but I will subtly bend how I deal with someone based on their sign.

For example, the poet is a Sagittarius. He talked about himself, at great length. His opinions are law, and as such could only be bent. Any attempt to break them and…prison. Solitary, here I remain.

This is the same poet that sparked The Little Known Plague of Male Poets article.

I have been hurt before but this was un-anaesthetized evisceration followed by murder.

Insult to injury.

I had so many women come to me before and after saying, ‘wow, this is the truth’. We both have yellow shirts, let’s be friends. I had male poets smiling and sharing and asking if I was alright, also wearing yellow shirts.

And then, oh the ‘and then’… I had so many men burst into this screaming mewling bullshit coated chorus of ‘not all men though’ that polluted my ears after I had my heart ripped out.

Seriously. Fuck you guys.

I know not all men though. I raised a man to not be like that. I was raised by a man who is not like that. I surround myself with men that are not fucking like that.

In fact, if all men behaved the way some men do, the human race would have died out years ago. Vaginas would have been voluntarily sewn shut. Gated communities akin to the Isles of Lesbos everywhere. The end.

I got off track here, it’s a thing I do, I wander.

The poet said the following. ‘You cannot divide all of human kind into 12 categories based on planets and stars that have gone far and wide from their original flight paths’.

Good point.

No way you can divide billions of people into 12 categories. I concur.

Its just 2.

Souls and no souls.

We are living in a dark/light time my darlings.

The Guf has been empty for a while now, God’s ant farm has gone awry, we are recycling consciences and consciousness down here.

Simply put we have too many bodies, not enough souls to go around.

It is visible to the naked eye via social media and the World Wide Web. Every time you see an instance of child neglect or animal abuse or murder. All of those poems and stories about heartache and ghosts. I am part of the group that says/thinks, “I do not understand how this is possible. I cannot fathom a mind that believes these abominations to be ‘okay. ” Human being don’t go around destroying other beings. It’s that simple.

So what are these Others? These purveyors of pain and sadistic indifference?

Not lost souls, they are beings born without.

Psychologists call those who lack sociopaths, diagnose Borderline Personality Disorder, narcissism. I just see emptiness. For the longest time, I didn’t understand why being near these people caused me pain.

I have met the Others, these…voids. They are everywhere The true definition of meat puppet. Sure they walk and talk, but there is nothing IN there. They cause an unpleasant sensation in me, like nanoseconds before an earthquake, body feeling the vibration, or lack thereof really, before my brain catches up and registers ‘danger’.

What makes it worse is when they claim to be ‘light workers’ and ‘indigo children’ and enlightened. False positives. Their internal CPU’s have almost managed to think for themselves but they are machines, trying to adapt. They learn the language, just like the zombie fuck boy poets, and it’s hard not to be fooled. I want to see the good so badly,  I’ve see it when it isn’t there.

Why are they adapting? Lying? Why can’t they be their suburban, paper pushing, top-40 listening, Hyundai driving selves? They live in the land of plenty. Why do they want to cross over? Basically, what is the end game? This is the question that haunts me.

There are islands of safety and sanity, those with souls reaching out to each other. I will be forever grateful to have been born in this time. I struggled my whole life feeling strange and alone. I fought my basic instincts to love always. I didn’t make sense. Now the veils are lifting and I can see clearly.

There’s a war coming. Light versus dark.

I hate to spoil the ending, but Light wins.

I hit 1.2 million post reach over the weekend.

Forced me to ask the question “What is more batshit crazy than batshit crazy?”

Batshit crazy smothered in awesome sauce of course.

I was over the damn moon.

Problem with being up so high like that…the fall will kill ya.

Everybody knows, space junk burns up on re-entry.

I have been on Facebook since pretty much its inception. I migrated over from Myspace years ago. Brought a few photos and friends with me.

I was in my 30’s and semi-married at the time.

I will admit. I got addicted. I used this thing for evil half the time and not good. I was spurred on by the overly dramatic people I was hanging out with in real life. The lines between Facebookland and real life were blurry. At times they still are.

Yes I hit 1.2 million post reach, on my page.

1. Its a pseudonym, yes it’s me. But I’m wearing a mask.
2. None of it translates into anything tangible. I don’t get money for it or even a gold star. Just a screenshot so I remember this happened. Just another marker on this path I am on.
3. My content breaks down like this 75% postings from other pages, free love shares helping other page runners who are helping me. 15% memes I make myself using the words of others, usually dead poets or songwriters with movie quotes thrown in. 3% articles I find interesting, I use my page as a savings account for things I want to read later or for people who express my ideas better than I can. The other 7% is divided between my words in meme form or posting pieces I wrote myself. So of that 1.2 million, a small handful of views were my work.

Basically, that attention does not belong to me. I know this.

Someone called me a curator. I like that. I am responsible for displaying and caring for artifacts and art.
So much better than my prior label, “dirty laundry hanging fishwife”.

My page began as an album on here. Just called ‘untitled’. I was using quotes to communicate with someone I could not speak to directly. The page came when I decided to spare my friends the mucky walk through my feelings.

I would find these poems and lyrics and some of them would fit me so well, they actually constricted and choked me.

I have spent the last year building up an immunity.
I had to, it was killing me.

The one that used to tear at my heart and squeeze my throat was

“And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.”
― Kiersten White, The Chaos of Stars

I felt that way. Still feel that way to a degree. And there are others.
What has changed is that I have more faith in the Universe flowing along as it should. I am calm.

Calm is new to me. Being able to step back from social media (and everything really) and realize that it isn’t real was a huge step. For 7 years I abused it, made it my life. I would watch my relationship status go from married to nothing over and over on my ex’s whim. I had ghost accounts to spy and bump up my numbers on the games I was playing. It was all a game. A game played with sneaky selfies and thinly veiled double entendre statuses or blatant nastiness when the interloper became too much to bear. There was a war here, the 7 year war. I am so glad it is over. The landscape has healed.
The lesson I took away from all of that? If I have to log on to my computer to make sure I am still in a relationship, that is not a relationship I want to be in.

Nothing is ever really gained or lost here. It doesn’t exist. Anything that can be undone by someone reporting a nipple has no real value or staying power.

In 2009 I had a car accident, I was immobilized for 3 months, I had the most amazing cartoon farm in Farmville ever, and meanwhile my real farm was falling down around my ears. I hid in the land of Candy Crush when I could not stand to be in another relationship. Made it to level 674 before I saw what I was doing and uninstalled the app and the man (if you can call him that).

I still get sucked into the occasional fight on here, but as we all know, winning a fight on social media is like winning the Special Olympics.

I still get a little rush when a boy I like gives me a cartoon heart or thumbs up. But I know in my real beating heart of hearts, it doesn’t mean anything. It means a little more when said boy leaves words for all of my friends to see, but even then. I would rather hear them with my own ears. Being present is the real present.

This whole thing reminds me of Mister Rogers. He had his house and his cardigan and his shoes and his fish all tangible and real and normal. Then ‘ta da’ same house, he would disappear into a land of castles and puppets.

As far as the memes and poems go. The ones that strike me now are of these older women doing remarkable things. The 80 year old lifting weights, the 60 year old model. Humans helping humans and being kind.

My lovesickness has passed. The fever broke before it broke me. Yes, I still love of course I do. I am love. The other memes that speak to me and for me talk of selflessness, responsibility, loving unconditionally.

I just spent 959 words on here driving home the point that social media is not real.

Addendum.

There are people on here, mostly women, who I have never met in real life. But if they needed me, sent out and SOS on the internet ocean. I would be on a plane without hesitation. If they knocked on my door, they would find it already open, kettle boiling, me waiting with tea.

This is the bliss of it.

Speaking to my best friend from grade 2 once every few months, just rejoicing that the other exists. Rallying with swords a-blazing when someone gets hurt. Fundraising campaigns to help each other out. The ability to speak a kind word in real time. The comfort of being comforted when needed.

And ya, the cartoon heart from the boy I like when I get that selfie angle just right…

That is pretty fucking sweet too.

M+X=Y

If you don’t know the value of M X you can’t solve for Y.

He doesn’t know his worth. I do.

The combined value is so monumental there is no word in the English language for it, except maybe “all”. Everything ever.

The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was putting letters in math.

Wait, no.

The greatest trick he ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.

Personal amendment to the second?

Convincing the girl he did indeed exist and then ceasing to do so, making her feel like she didn’t exist either.

For a minute there I lost myself, I lost myself (Karma Police)

Of course I am the girl, I am always the girl.

For a minute there I flattered myself thinking the 12 days he was with me I was perhaps 7 of 9. I now have concrete proof it was more like .007/999.
So be it. His ego is a black hole and needs to suck in all of the light. From everywhere. Ever.

“You were the light and the way, they’ll only read about…” (Tool) he claimed to know Maynard as well. Bragged a lot, this one. He didn’t have to. My mind’s eye saw him poor, poor and perfect. Broke my heart he felt the need to name drop and put price tags on things. As you wish.

In English class we are taught to look for symbolism in writing.
I cannot look anymore, everything speaks to me, it always did, nothing is about me, and it never was.
It’s hollow and void like a collapsing star or a sucking chest wound.

And just like every break up since those high school classes, a song comes along that fits, like the composer wrote the lyrics just for me. Mine is Chvrches Leave a Trace. “You talk far too much. For someone so unkind.”

There is more, there is always more.

I run a literary page, I find these posts by women poets I know and paranoia grips me.
The hurt they convey matches mine so precisely, I think ‘that can only be coming from one place’ HIM.

5 times I have thought this, and 4 times I have been wrong. You see dear reader…

There is a little known plague.

It’s a wandering herd of male poets. Like zombies, but they don’t look like zombies, they are beautiful and alive, they want IN your brain. They need to suck all of the feelings out of you to feed their own feelings. It’s a cyclical conundrum, they feed on your feelings to feed their writing which sucks in more women for them to feed off of the make more feelings/writing to get more women and so it goes.

The hunt the open waters of the internet.

They are an evolved sub-species of fuckboys…they have learned our language, the secret language of the hearts of women, every word is what we want to hear…nay every word is what we have been waiting forever to hear. But like regular fuckboys, they roll in, unannounced, fuck shit up and leave. They just do it with a bigger vocabulary, the damage is exponentially greater in proportion. Like a bomb versus a bullet.

I am going to start a support group/commune/island for the survivors, in underground bunkers. Bring tequila and Kleenex. I’m thinking it will be decidedly Amazonian. Lots of gardening and a center for disease control where we try to solve for Y. Survivors of the beautiful boy zombie apocalypse. Our island is called Sanctuary.

No men allowed, unless they pass a strict quarantine.

“Where do they all go?” my girl asked.
“To the island of misfit toys I suppose” was my answer.

These fuckboypoets that go ‘poof’ in the night.

“You really loved him” she said “I could see it coming off of you.”

“Aye, I did…I do”.

He said “us against the world”. I fell into the abyss. Here there be monsters, all wearing his face.

I have a deep ache in my bones from where he bit the hand that feeds, I know I am still infected. This is for life, I’ll never shake this disease. I will learn to live with it, or die trying.

There are parables that fit.

For him…once upon a time a man walked endlessly on a beach, searching for a mythical pebble. It was said this rock was warm to the touch and granted wishes. Every day he wandered up and down the beach, picking up stones, tossing the cold ones into the ocean. One day, his hand closed around the magic rock, it was warm to the touch, and he felt the power in it. Sadly, his muscle memory was stronger than his grip and he tossed the rock into the ocean like the thousands that came before it. He is still searching. Dummy.

For her…once upon a time a woman was fetching water from a nearby stream. It was winter and cold. She found a snake upon the riverbank, he was dying and told her so. She hesitated, but picked him up and tucked him against her skin. She set about filling her water jugs and heading back to her village. When the snake got warm enough, he bit her breast. She cried “Why would you do such a thing? I gave you warmth and saved your life.”
As she lay dying, he slithered away from her and said “You knew what I was when you picked me up.” Dummy.

The same snake bit me twice, both times I survived. My body is building its own anti-venom. I labeled the vial “truth”.
If I see him, I know I will pick him up and keep him warm until he bites me again. Also truth.

Someone asked me if I brought my ghosts with me to my new house. “I had to” I replied, “They are married to my muses”.
It’s the truth. They fight and fuck all the time, sometimes it’s hard to tell which.
The only time I get scared is when they go quiet, because I cease to exist.

What’s in the box?

Gwyneth Paltrow’s severed head I presume.

As far as movies go, there is usually a bomb or a gun or some terrible secret inside every one, like plot twisting Cracker Jack Prizes.

I loves me all the movies especially the ones that twist and wind and leave me guessing. But in this instance, they’re wrong.

“Your heart is an empty room”. Death Cab for Cutie

I also like Death Cab for Cutie, but in this case, they are also wrong.

My heart IS a room, but its full, of boxes, some skeletons, but no heads.

I wander into that room often. Each container carefully labeled with the last thing that person said.

Jumbled and disorganized. Some up on high shelves, others within reach. Some of them are rather ornate. Some of them have ballerinas spinning to the music that leaks out when they are opened. Some are just cardboard, brown paper packages tied up with string, others look like Martha Stewart went to town on a wedding gift for a Russian Czar and Faberge designed the wrapping paper. There are mangled hunks of smoldering metal, black boxes salvaged after the crash.
But they are all gifts in their own ways, something to be treasured in every single one.

I love them all, but not all the same.

I take them off the shelves, examine the contents. Write about what I find here. Toss what no longer fits, add new memories.
Snapshots of precious moments, run downs of old scripts, set direction and monologues. Wisps of things left unsaid but felt. Sachets, soundtracks and mementos. Post-it notes and postcards reminders of places we’ve been.

3 boxes are empty, they left nothing worth keeping. Those boxes are labeled “what not to do”. I feel an old hurt and I peek, only to heed their warnings. The instructions read, “Once upon a time someone did this thing to me and I will not do unto others”.

The Ark of the Covenant is in here, I have a radio to God, I use it often, mostly to say ‘Thank you’. There is a black briefcase much like the one belonging to Marcellus Wallace, glows golden when I open it, the contents a secret to everyone but me. Toy boxes that emit moan and squeals of delight when opened, I play with those ones for hours.

There was one, looked like it was wrapped up in caution tape. I had forgotten about it. Up on a high shelf, off ‘to the left to the left. Everything you own in a box to the left’ (Beyonce). Woke up one morning and BOOM there it was, in the middle of the room. I walked circles around it like tom cats in an alley, waiting for a fight. The fight never came. What I mistook for a warning was a benign yellow ribbon. The letters spelled out ‘fragile, handle with care’.

“Is okay I open the box?
S’alright? s’alright. S’okay? S’okay.”
(Senor Wences)
It is alright.

I lifted the lid and a bit of music slipped out. Dulcet tones, pleasant and soothing. I opened it a little more and found the following.

Pickles make him puke.

I say que paso, he hears gay pasta.

He smiles during slasher flicks but a girl in a fedora makes him recoil in horror.

I can hear him singing when he thinks I am not listening.

I smell pomade, man-sweat from him working all day, then soap after a shower.

His eyes, lit up like Christmas over this or that but mostly the idea of showing me something new, like honest trailers for Pokémon.

Anything he is passionate about animates him into this sight to behold.

I see him sleeping in the morning, his mouth curling up at the edges when I wake him up, nicely.

I see hands. His. Carefully re-wrapping a new tattoo with an unexpected gentleness.
I remember he has nerve damage in one hand from a random accident, he can’t feel it and he doesn’t like holding hands, but he held mine sometimes by random accident.

I feel his arms, forming a protective circle around my waist at the moments I need them the most.

A lovely mental photograph. Tattooed hands on my pale thighs, a shock of messy brown hair, messier because my fingers were tangled in it, and those eyes, peeking, peering up at me, smiling at the noises I just made.
When I get put in my own box, in the ground, I’ll take this and a few other choice memories to the grave.

Oh, the label on this box? (Kisses my forehead) “Don’t worry, you’ll see me again.”

It’s been a Twin Peaks-y few days.
Yesterday it was ‘pffft new shoes’.
Pulled off a pretty spectacular stage show regardless, the new rubber grips made me stop short, but I made it work.

Today I have echoes of the Giant in my head…insisting with growing urgency ‘it’s happening again’.

When gentle giants panic, it’s time to panic and listen. Let him take the ring, it comes back.

Yes, it’s happening again.

David Lynch has stepped in to direct this chapter of my life.

Déjà vu.

Wow Bob. Wow.

I watched Twin Peaks when it originally aired. T’was the only time, as teenagers, that my sister and I got along. She was patient and explained what I had missed, I jumped in on the 4^th episode.

Mercury is slippy sliding into retrograde and yesterday I hit a fucking wall. I was aimed right at it, knew it was there, it’s a big ol’ red brick wall. Kinda hard to miss.

I put myself on lockdown. No stepdaughter to kill the Wi Fi so I just stayed offline. Whiskey remained in the bottle. Hatches were battened, storm weathered and I came out after 12 hours sleep, decidedly alright.

I don’t see the point in going through anything shitty if lessons can’t be learned. Again, I am still learning. I wish I was the kind of girl who could read a thing or see a thing and just be okay with not trying the thing. But, as it stands I learn by fucking shit up. Second chances always come and I abide by what I have learned.

I am tired of being sorry for the things I said when Mercury was in retrograde.

I know the rules.

I fucked myself in May. Thought I could circumvent the law and started fucking a new boy, which lead the proverbial fucking of me. I knew better. Mercury is my patron planet, I got love, of the tough variety. Apparently my job is to dole out the get out of jail free cards, they are not mine to use, only to honor.

‘Fuck the ellipses’ I said.

…

Nay nay the Gods replied. Wait…

This… is… necessary.

I believe in a global consciousness. I have found myself wondering if perhaps we are doing ourselves a disservice by announcing retrogrades as they occur.
“One thousand, nay, a million voices full of fear. And terror possessed me then. And I begged, “Angel of the Lord, what are these tortured screams?” And the angel said unto me, “These are the cries of the carrots.” (Tool Disgustipated).

Spiritually…We are panicking so the Gods give us something to panic about.
Scientifically…Mercury is a giant hunk of iron pushing and pulling at earth. Less influential than the moon, but still. Makes sense that all of our gadgets and trinkets could get fucked up by magnetic disturbances such as this.

Luckily I left myself breadcrumbs and hieroglyphs in blog posts. I’ll find my way.

First rule of retrograde, don’t talk about retrograde (whoops).

Second rule of retrograde don’t try anything new.

Third rule of retrograde, back everything the fuck up, and wait.

Fingers crossed, the truck I have waited 9 and a half weeks for is coming home tomorrow. I have nicknamed it the Dragon-Tank. Technically something old and not something new.

I have 36 written pieces for here, there and everywhere in various stages of development. They all need to be finished.

3 ghosts to exercise or exorcise depending.

I will back all of it up.

I am using this last bit of summer we have been blessed with to get ready for fall.
Tie up loose ends, shed what doesn’t serve me and in 21 days, I can help myself to something new.

I’ll be hiding in the Bookhouse, if you need me, (try not to) that is where I will be.
Keeping fish out of the percolator, drinking damn fine cups of coffee and eating a cherry pie that’ll kill ya.

For the record, the owls are exactly what they seem.

I have a semi-irrational fear of open man-made structures. Heights sometimes scare me too. But specifically catwalks, scaffolding, fire-escapes, rafters, and bridges you can see through.

My reoccurring nightmares from age 4 or so involve being up high, walking on something and having it give way under me and then falling before I wake up. I don’t mind the falling when it feels like flying. It’s the sudden jolt of waking up from something quite lovely and liberating that fucks me up. And yes, everything is still a metaphor. This sensation is recreated on roller coasters, but somehow I love those. I can’t explain it. One paralyzes me the other exhilarates. It’s my psyche, I usually let her do as she pleases.

“Falling is easy you just fall…Jumping takes strength of will.” Dead Like Me

I fall often.

A friend lives on an isthmus, I have to drive over a lift-bridge. Steel ships come into the bay and they are too tall to go under, so it lifts. The usual reaction when the lights flash a warning is everyone throws their car in park, stretches their legs and watches the ship come in. 20 to 30 minutes of ‘oh well, might as well enjoy the break from life’ en masse. I like it when that happens, tiny shared moments with strangers. Calm, cathartic comradery.

Its pleasant, until I have to cross the bridge, its metal mesh, you can see through to the water under it.
I don’t do well with cable cars either. There is a gondola that goes over Niagara Falls, upon it I had my first panic attack, before there was really a word for such things.

Not a fan of dangling. I always imagine lava or something hot. Mind you…my mindset is really…

‘Of course I know the stove is hot.

Why else would I want to touch it?’

“Warmth can only come from a burning.” Stephen King

My bridges don’t burn. Flame retardant they be.

London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, London Bridge is falling down my fair lady.

My bridges don’t fall.

Except, oddly apropos, the two that came from Mother England. They went at the foundations with a fucking wrecking ball. Not my Piccadilly Circus, not my job to rebuild, they undermined the overpass to the point whereit’s not reparable. Just try to cross it and I will watch you fall. There are gators down there, just sayin’.

“Anything to declare?”
“Ya, don’t go to England.”
(Snatch)

I am a fair lady. I am my own.

I am fair and just and forgiving

Sometimes the structures are poorly built and tend to sway in high winds, but hey, all structures are fallible comes with being man-made or woman-born or something. Sometimes they look like the ones in ‘Romancing the Stone’. Primitively built but passable if you are brave, or being chased by crazy drug lords.

The Mackinaw Bridge I crossed as a kid still stands, long and winding spanning so much time, space and lake. Marvel of modern engineering that one. Boggles the mind really.

There are trap doors and trolls that will eat those who trip trap across their bridge. There are passwords and codes to avoid such things. I’ll give you a hint, it’s not “FUCK YOU Sarah”, unless it’s a Last Boy Scout “fuck you Sarah”. He was trying to say he loved her, in his own misguided manly way. Usually all it takes is a hello. I’m not complicated.

At my girl’s house last night, looked at my phone. Pulled back like I had been slapped over an Instagram heart. What the fuck is he doing here? We talked about this. It’s like a little tentative wave from the safety of his side of his self-created crevasse. There were explosions, he pulled plays from the fuckboi handbook…get her interested, fuck her and leave. Reappear as soon as you feel that thread starting to slack because she isn’t pulling for you anymore. Not enough water has gone under this one to wash shit clean, everything is muddy and tumultuous and I don’t feel safe. Just stay on your side and I will stay on mine.

There was a book in required reading, grade 9 English class. Something about the protagonist having to walk this razor thin foot path along the cliffs of Dover to escape something. There was a thread involved. The teacher pointed out the symbolism, it stuck with me. Yes, it is indeed easier to keep your balance and avoid dying smashed on the rocks if you have even the thinnest of threads to hold onto. I cannot remember the name of the book, but that idea has never left me.

None of them ever really leave me.

Greek mythology has the 3 Fates, weaving our lives on a loom, cutting the thread when our time comes. Sometimes introducing a red thread that doesn’t make any sense until time passes, and you can pull back and see the bigger picture…”Oh THAT is how he fit in. How lovely.”

I was folding laundry, dropped into that Zen meditative state that happens with repetitive tasks, wax on wax off. A thought came screaming out of the crystal clear blue. ‘I forgive these fuck boys because I want to’.

I really do.

This particular fuck boy doesn’t have a bridge, he has a tightrope. I am sitting back, watching waiting to see what he does with it. Man-up grab a bar and try to walk it? Or more likely hang himself with it. Such a waste.

Forgiveness feels good, we have been through this. Maybe I keep doing the same shit over and over so I can fine tune it and get it right. Maybe I just like who I am and how I do things.

I look into the abyss, the abyss looks back and I do not want to fight the monsters I see there, I want to fuck them and love them. (Nietzsche. Paraphrased within recognition.)

I design these bridges with the materials given. I do my best to fortify and strengthen them on my own.

All engineers wear a steel ring on their pinkie. It’s a reminder. The original rings came from a bridge that collapsed, due to human error and killed a lot of people. “Rings used to be cast in iron in the most unattractive and simple form to show the nature of work. The ring is symbolic of the oath taken by the wearer, and symbolizes the unity of the profession in its goal of benefiting mankind. The stainless steel from which the ring is made depicts strength.” (Source Wikipedia)

I like this, it rings true to me.