Sunday's fullll moon thru my window was a landline phone home from Spirit. We talked allll night long. Lovers on a marathon call, falling asleep, the matching breathing, cadence, waking up to still there:
hi u
Thank goodness Spirit loves unconditionally. I make and break promises and my crew keeps rooting for their home team, no
Encino little league dustbowl required. No adults screaming at their hyper-scheduled offspring. Loving ~ knowings ~ floating ~ from out there ~ to down here ~ to us mere mortals ~
Goddesses, gods, guides, and ancestors as angels🪽 thank u for keeping me honest. Mercurial and dark in all this sunshine, busy-busy making room for the honesty to bubble out of the cauldron — a cauldron formed from working around-around-around the real thing that needed to get done. To be done. A decision crystallizes a turning point, a tipping point on the tip-top of the bellcurve. From clawing to coasting in a (much closer to a) New York minute. That's power.
Deciding is power.
A best girlfriend is a reluctant medium. Fearful, but she's working through it, and good thing, for my (dead) family won't stop pestering her. My father's side keeps telling her to tell me: take the keys
I am! Lots of stuff with keys right now. Bicoastal post office boxes and old home handovers and new homes with new locks, plus farm and barn stuff with padlocks — though any sense of security has to come from within. Ritual helps. I will declare a sacred circle around myself on each leg of the journey, indoctrinated by defensive driving.
Speaking of circles, it wasn't technically a date, but a few weeks ago I went out with a man I used to go on dates with. A designer from Sardinia; insane manners; plates (and cooks) food so beautifully; funny too. He asked if I was in the mood for hidden or a scene. I picked hidden, though when we walked into Hidden, he knew two of the tables. That's the thing about secrets. (They get out.) The out just happens one way or another. You can listen to yourself (be your own (reluctant) medium) and take the keys. You can pull cards, visit with witches, have nightmares and odd rashes for years, fuck jerks. You can stop that. You can intuit impending illness and chart a cross-country course to regenerate farmland and your true well-being.
Ciao Ciao, the table behind us left with a buzzing big charge all around them. He whispered even though they were gone they're having an affaire. So I guess they used to be married to one another, then separated, divorced and started seeing other people, but their sexual obsession won't quit. He was confused about the why because they make each other miserable. Really, he stressed — so miserable.
Well, it's tricky until it isn't, right? In my own getting over It, the understanding is coming in.
The pain we come from *and we all come from pain* intoxicates until we are ready to move away from it. Intoxicating pain, devilishly disguised — wrapped up in all these pretty packages. Wants are not needs, no matter how easy creepy Bezos makes it to confuse the two, while he jets out of here looking for a better that isn't.
The Sardinian and I met up again a few nights ago. He's newly living a mile from friends of mine who are about to get married. I'm styling the bride and needed and wanted to do a full look check, so picked him up, happy to introduce neighbors.
My friend was writing her vows before we arrived, which had her deep in reflection on how they got to this point. She shared it really started with her decision to no longer date based on
pathology — pathology being the study of disease causation.
i.e.
She decided not to let her pain pick.
That same day, in vow crafting of a different sort, I had junk haulers go through the decrepit farmhouse. I'm easing the old gal closer to the relief of demolition. To collective surprise, these haulers discovered an entire unknown room, filled floor to ceiling. Holy crap means cut a $econd check. As I'm not yet on that scene, my (third) cousin swung by the bank, then the house to survey the transformation. While far from broom swept, she lay empty. Just a single photograph left on the floor. A photo of my grandmother, like a sister to my cousin growing up. My cousin says we have eerily similar energy, my grandmother and me.
Wishing I remembered her more.
Know I will, in being there. - my grandmother |
Still, in the City of Angels, 2021
I asked if the photo was found in the front of the house. I asked this question because a former farmhand told me she's seen the ghosts of the two ladies — Mildred, or Mimi, my great grandmother, and Weslia, Mimi's only child. Saw them standing in the front of the farmhouse. She also fainted once, in the back of the home, and swears my great grandfather Earl caught her. Earl was an undertaker-cum-farmer infamous for smoking a pack a day despite being tethered to an oxygen tank.
Yes, found face up in the front room. And in answering, an old memory was jogged. When cousin Hoppy was a boy on the Eastern Shore, the men would be invited to the dinner table first. Once they ate their fill, the women could join.
Mary-Land Movement, 2022
A flash. Remember heat (rage) between my fifth grade legs learning how a pioneer man would be first to bathe, leaving his leftovers for his wife and children 🥀thx
