for August 18, 2016


Tonight’s Full Moon is known as the Sturgeon Moon, Full Red Moon, Green Corn Moon and Grain Moon. We are still in the full throes of summer in the Northern Hemisphere but we can feel fall’s shadow. So many cycles begun even as far back as childhood are ending now and we are making our way in a new world. The change of season is close and it can feel like the shorter days and slope toward autumn is bringing many chapters to their completeness and ending. The endings in this case are solid and made from a place that we have dug deep to get to this summer. Upheavals are taking place but we are well-equipped to handle them and we generated them. We made choices that have led us here, and sloughed off false and illusory masks of ourselves. We have prepared the ground of our lives for this and are ready to be truer selves. This means using all of the insight, protection, self-knowledge, and magic we have acquired and stepping out into the new world as ourselves. Not needing to pretend or feel guilt or shame over who we are. The truth under the truth. This space we’ve opened in ourselves and our lives offers us comfort and the knowing that we are on the right path and that we have chosen this path with our bones and heart.
Sustenance will be a huge factor in the fall as we learn to provide for ourselves in a real, rich way.
We know how to sustain ourselves now.
What comes our way in the fall will be life-shifting in a powerful way, the stars fall our way, the sky is lit up with our language.


The deck I am using is the beautiful Goddess deck by Kris Waldherr.

May all your transitions be gentle,



A long time ago, I wrote to you: I am hesitant in revelation. Today is hard. I am semi-determined to not despair. The half-nature and negative construction alludes to much that I am not saying. So we enter an age of paradox, where the door we’ve opened onto the night reveals both light and dark. We are of nature in this. We are both tricksters of the light and perfume sellers.

And of what I told you, I add a postscript:

Words are of service when they are not words. Words of sky and rain. They carry the whole of language, the whole body in them and then let them go. They release meaning and the need for meaning. They sacrifice themselves like insects drowning in water. They are water and the insect becoming part of the water, dissolving and decaying. I write, and language decays. The world pronounces itself from a syllable. There is no difference between me and a syllable.

More of what I could have told you but didn’t:

We are widening into orbs of light. We carry fireflies in our stomach. We try to digest the world, when the world looms large, a closed factory, and our senses reflect more back to us than pain and concrete. We know there is more out there or in here but we’ve lost the thread. We are haliphones; we drink, measure outcomes. We are the worry of the rain. We are its untangling.

In a ceremony, we declared that we are hope and peace. We live within the molecules of rain becoming something else; we become rain when we hold the sky as weightless weight. The weight of water measures death and transformation. We hope and grieve and weather; we make weather from sighs and the space inside. We breathe strangely. We are aliens and constructions of paper and light. We have hope in a strange light that we know is important somehow and comes with a key to decipher it.

We are history. We carry it in us like a desperate orphan. It claws and cries and becomes silent as we look at the future, without listening to its stories. We have so many stories inside us. The truth of the world is in us. The patterning of the sky under the eyelids. The chalky residue of stars in skin. We are residue and completion, returning to water and space.

On Tuesday, I wrote:

The worry of this day.

On Thursday:

The worry of the sky.

And, finally, in a letter I never sent:

The ghostly presences in our lives harden against the implacable gloom or magic of imagined pasts and futures. There is no way to know what will happen as we press ourselves into the mystery of the present.

Our mattering lies in our hands like a newborn. We barely know what to do with it but we know so much. We know its first breath and we care for it, making sure it gets enough food and water and air and space. We are nautical engineers under oceans where our descendants learn to make light and food out of water.

You were born.

And at some point, I’ll write this, but I won’t remember:

Moth wings rub together in low light, the light is music, we sit in the shadow where light doesn’t fall. We do not fall. We try not to. All our might, mouth scrunched up in tense exhaustion. We are tired of being scared. Dreamless nights, we wake from a nightmare, the dream was scary in our bones and our body trembles because it’s a kind of truth. The truth of dreams in the bones hums like an animal making breakfast, aware of her surroundings and body and lilt in song. The fire under the kettle, the scream of the kettle, the history of water. But that’s too rough. The dawn shows through a little. The green blinds in the kitchen are lighter with a square outline of morning light. This is safety or security or a semblance of those things, which are theories. We don’t live in theories. Safety can’t be figured out in the mind. After waking from a nightmare, we know that. We feel it in our arms, hearts, beating quiet and rough, in our breath that can’t quite collect itself.

Safety is formed in the cells, which have souls. Every cell has a soul.



      an excerpt


“Harm’s way doesn’t

really bother me,” Pepper told

Whiskey and made an

arrow catching face with

both hands. A biscuitful of

remorse. Whiskey thought

about mailing one’s self to

where the bears are.


The bears were thinking about

fish, thinking feelingly. Pepper

felt a strong bird song rash

coming on and unbuttoned.

Together they reconstructed

the scene by dancing

backwards through

the map of muddy footprints.


Whiskey mostly rode crosswise,

ass in a splint. That is, after

the accident. This is during.

Whiskey loved Pepper’s birdcage

chest and river talk. Pepper

knew boats, was afraid of water,

happened faster in unnatural light.


Whiskey knew all this.

When they were

planning the lasso party,

plenty small trees needed

to find feet. None did. I guess

the upper hand is underfoot

and all the losing lost.


A bimbo possum in

a dirt oven is Pepper

and Whiskey’s common

ground. As is

the viscosity of

a graveyard giggle.


Goggles to goggles in

the circle of

the square dance, they’ve

got boot-polishing eyes

for each other. They’ve got

high tone alibis and a library

of single string fiddle tunes.


Pepper is banking on

next week’s knocked over

train candy. Whiskey is

dreaming Pepper as

a team of mules

doing card tricks.

Now, they’re bed-rolling

the riverbank. Now,

they’re a shiver

past the mark.


Pepper wanted Whiskey’s house

to be more honest about

its chicken feet, its

spending habits. A full

frontal clock tower two

minutes in gets Whiskey

all aghast and scholarly.


Angel Gecko is one man’s treasure

hunt, one man’s two-timing man.

I just see it like they call it out.

Pepper wanted Whiskey.

That set up the river and night talk.

Whiskey wanted a bucketful

and got more than.


Pepper liked Whiskey so

they walked down to

the river and kept changing

its name until they forgot

the “original.” Pepper

floated out spread legged

on the rope swing while

Whiskey cajoled the local

wolf man out of his coat.


A brawl, a fire, a spit later,

Pepper and Whiskey had

a feast , a swim, and a large

hole dug to bury

the evidence. God bless.


You can check out more of Jen’s and Mike’s fabulosity at

in Polish, the silence- silence, hush, abatement, appeasement, subsidence

A cold paw reached in and touched his fevered forehead. He didn’t react except for a slight tremor in the breath, lay still as a plank of wood, and even in wood, there’s movement. The dog pattered away, tail between his legs, head down, and settled on the worn path between the kitchen door and the stove. He lay on his stomach, sad-eyed head between two huge front paws. His ears monitored any kitchen activity, which was minuscule, known only to him, twitching backward and forward as his eyelids slowly closed, surrendering to the dense quiet. It was a quiet filled with the sound of insects buzzing in orchestral awe, then suddenly quieted. The sound of birds cooing and harmonizing then abruptly drowned in primordial silence.


The night remembers and trusts the inkhead sheep and brown-eyed cows of Scotland’s countryside. It forms a coded black around us as it dissolves into sleep.

June and July passed in a hot silence.

On Sundays, we look for nourishment, paws scratching in the half-damp of the unwatered, dewed garden. Have the deer eaten our flowers yet? A family, bright-eyed, waits in the tall grass beyond the bathroom window. We wink as we mutter as we shade our eyes from the cold,- [humid] light pouring through the clean pane. Looking for comfort in the hours of daylight ahead. Everything in us tilting, waiting, like flowers, towards dark. Flowers whose survival depends on the dark cover of night, the opposite of light, the soothe of the velvet night sky against our bodies.

We try to feel what we feel. And not reach for an easy excuse out of feeling. We try to be whole, meaning whole with experience but it is hard right now, the wonder of what lies ahead, rosebed, if the night will become ours, days and nights of wondering and uncertainty. We’ve grown used to them, this unknown love of the territories, we know this love, in our bones, mouths, around our eyes. It’s weird and inexplicable and wondrous and the wanting and longing and desire are pronounced and jutting, physical, premonition of objects battering at the soft edges of the world.

We were [are?] quiet here.

Right now, we are waiting to turn into something else, like the color of air when a curtain is swept aside. Waiting for alchemy, for the heart to remember its roots.

Magnetic North

The blue needle longed for magnetic north.
– Borges, Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius

We will make it through. We are in the water. The loneliness and companionship of water, sunset beyond windows, within view or darkened prematurely by blinds. We’re in that blind and then blinded by a midday sun. There is no loneliness, we tell ourselves, we’re married, we have families, we have jobs. We have people we talk to every day.

The promise of water.

After all this time, I’m still the adolescent girl in my parents’ Dodge, lying down in the backseat, reading, as one or the other of them, usually my mom, bangs on the window, startling me out of a book, demanding I get out of the car and enjoy whatever view of whatever attraction at whatever national park. I’d still rather be in the backseat, reading.

Over the moon and under the sun, my reading encounters Borges and the Map of Uqbar.

Love presupposes language- silent language, one that is felt and heard in the body- we are existences of each other, one silent alphabet that unites all languages, dead and alive, posthumous recognition of the experience of all beings.

Ursprache: primordial language / proto-language

[what is moored in a presupposed or ore-(mineral, water, composite elements of matter)
Pre-imagined – what comes before imagination in the cosmos –
energy is what leads to pure being]

We go, as always, from desire into solitude, from solitude into desire. We unravel the effects of decisions we made in the past.

The new horizon is visible and there is so much light.

We can look at parentheses as a kind of sleep, which would be most accurately described by synonym slumber. What is held in parentheses is a dream. We are not quite sure if it’s physically real or if it is part of some imagined dream world.

The nine copper coins of Zeno are secret history, unknown waters, invisible presences, apparitions, the mystery of what came before and what will come and what is hidden now, the inner seams of the material of time and how it flows within matter, physical bodies, the earth, other planets, and love.

The premonition of objects and the sea.


May 2015, Scotland

Tomorrow, I will ground farther into the woods. I will make my way farther into the sky. Where horses are blades of grass and the ancient temples sing with copper and stone. We are further into this, you and I, than we would have thought. This is not thinking. This is openness.

I walked around my neighborhood today, porous as a sponge. The street flooded with light, like a stream. The sun and a low plane.

Things in life are stilling, even as they move, as becoming still, how much movement there is in sleep, or ice, or soil. There are so many microscopies, like hidden words, hidden language. We move towards each other in ever hastening circles. We cast our lines into the water. We move about our homes. We ask for repetition and dew. We hold our hands out to receive and be with the open. The open land and open tongue and open language. Things–everything we see–is so beautiful. We remain perched as held by this knowing, that all we can imagine is brought forth in matter.

Held in open language, as held in water, the stunning continues, after and after another of sweet roses with wings halt and burst into flame, becoming ether or dust or weather.

It matters: we solidify into form. Our necks, our snakes into ether and body. We matter then extinguish. Fully in the belly of becoming. Cauldron.

We are orbits of each other, down here in the vast depths. We know each other like fire, like ash.

We are pronounced to each other as hearts beating in concascadent rhythm.

I will wake early tomorrow and the sun will be out.

I will sleep deeply in my bed, surrounded by the atoms of you.

We come back to ourselves as to each other as the Beloved.


Loch Venachar, Scotland

The shadow.

I’ve dreamed it all, the mountains and the light, the light going behind the mountain, the dark descending as if it would never be light again, the shadow of trees, the shadow of my own dreams as nightmares, morning light burning around the edges of the curtain as I lie, half-awake, half-asleep. This is the full dream. There is no half-dream. The dream is whole.

The shadow is in between the blades of grass.

The shadow is in the light and the light is in the shadow.

When I am afraid, there is always light. There is light in my fear. Fear and comfort are the same, there is comfort in fear, they go together.

The shadow reaches across the barn. The shadow is in the barn.

The shadow is in the black around the sun.

There is no full shadow in nature. Humans create full shadow around them. In nature, one is contained in the other. If I am quiet, I see the break of light in my shadow. The full shadow is created by the mind. It does not exist in the body or the spirit or the spirit world or the natural world.

The shadow is there to separate things – not as we understand separation – to separate as to create time, to differentiate periods of time.

Sit and watch the field with me, the grass blowing in the wind. There is no place in nature that is all shadow or all light.


The center of the storm is a quiet place. Many around here think of it as death. When they talk about it, which is rare, they look downward and their breath comes hard.

The center holds.


I want to forget the world. But I don’t. I want to forget nothing. The ears of the trees are bent to the wind. I break open like a fig.

Synthesis, integration, integrity, wholeness are not smooth and flawless – they are active, fluid states of being, requiring thought and presence and focus. There are bumps and creaks and turns in this process, not a fixed point of arrival.

There is a tiny bird above the field. There is a tiny field above the bird.

We are here, in this field of light.

That which you offer via the Black Madonna becomes a drink whose colors intoxicate me with details, with time and space. Without touching us physically you have found a way to show us a true world for touch. The Black Madonna and the chakras translate our bodies. Can you please tell me about possession?

I am open to possession in the work. Though I take care as I invite it, I do invite it. There is useful information in the slips, the many genres of entity-convergence.

Every book I have ever written has been a possession of some kind: alchemies and transfers, transmutations and swells. I give in; I offer you a little of this identity within me so you can take up space within me.

I have found unseen beings can continue to approach me as their guides or embodiable sites for re-allocation, threshold crossing, as I maneuver by invoking and involving myself in intentional possessions.

Recently, doing a mediation with Merlin, the verdant and mad prophet, he presented to me as a strange and hysterical, rabbit-toothed form. He was touching me and tickling me and coming off as a little bit creepy: kind of a jittery, drooling, cosmic accident. When I realized what he needed, I just looked at him in the eyes and said blatantly, with some force: “What are you doing? Why are you here in this observatory acting like a critter on your back when there are stars out there beside you in the darks of the forest? Why are you looking up and emanating this manic vibe when you could be looking in? You are here to be in there.” I point out to the crowded wood. I point to Merlin’s heaving chest.

At that moment Merlin’s face snaps into place and he looks like an aged prophet: the lines on his face like text on an old manuscript, rolling and rolling as it unfolds. He grows quiet. Now he is walking out into the woods that love him so completely. He is in search of the stars that are here on Earth.

I know in the unseen realms unseen beings come to me in their most feral forms so they can treat me as a guide by whom they are compelled to get further into the stuff of their desires, dreams, and identities.

I am interested in finding out what they want and need. I sort of lovingly slap them back into a calm state (like kink!) by practicing telepathy and high intimacy with them, by my willingness to be what they need in order to move on to a next step or state by offering them some logic that might make sense to them.

The logics of any current era or culture do not necessarily make any sense to unseen beings. How could they if they barely make sense to a Priest/esss who was born into them?

Keep going, please, in re the green.

On the day in question, was it because I eventually opened myself to affections with green ghosts that I became possessed by an odd personification within the geography of dead girl?

I suddenly don’t feel at all like my own name but I know very much that I am with it. I am turned inside out. Dear dead girl: what frequencies do you frequent?

Last week, when I heard about the girl who drowned in the mountains, I went immediately to a place along the river where it might have happened. I was looking for her, for proof she had left for me to find. I stumbled upon a rumpled and gorgeous field of tattered poppies. Their interiors were soaked with pollen. During the improv-ceremony I offered, among the enigmatic poppies, and let her know that of course I understood why she would be hanging around still: the keeners were calling her name in public!

Her human funeral was nearing. But I also wanted her to be aware that at any time she was ready to go she could (regardless of what she thought her family might need or expect from her). It is your right to go, dead girl. I threw petals into the tumbling river piece by piece.

Why, nearly a week later, did dead girl eject me out of my body? I have experience with possessions of many types and there has never yet been an entity that needed me to be outside my body in order for them to be within me.

While outside me, with her in me, it feels as if I am drowning in wild water. Is this an enforced churn in the seventy percent wetness that comes along with me by the nature of having a body? Is she causing an undertow, a tidal jolt? Am I drowning with my eyes open?

My hands are shaking uncontrollably. Purification methods by which I usually find comfort are too harsh or not harsh enough. When she turns me inside out, my subtle body is in my middle and my physical body outside of that. Then I have to perform psychic surgery on myself while being located outside my body. I guess being outside of yourself makes it easier to operate on yourself, but the sensation is very new for me and a bit jarring.

I sit with the question: “In the context of myself, to what degree is allowing me to be in grief about a dead girl of any use?” And now I am being shown by dead girl that the value of human grief is not contained in how it makes the human fallible or not, but how it can be responded to.

Dead girl has grief at her own passing. She drowned by being turned and turned in something, as a daughter of a Priest/ess, her mother has taught her to love: the river. As this girl’s grief runs amok in my body I can be responsive to her, and do so in a precise and cosmically confident way. It is her grief I am interested in responding to in my own ways (none of which are grief).

I pray for dead girl. My prayer is prying into her. “I need you to know my body is not your home, dear. It feels good in here because I have made it inviting to you. Though I have made it a welcome site, just as I told you when I cleared things for you at the river, you have every right to go.” I won’t attach her to this Earth. That is her role in her own cosmic evolution. I will, however, offer myself to her and others, infinitely, as extension of the Black Madonna. “I will hold you for as long as you need, before you go.”

This is my queer Bodhisattva vow. This is why I am staying: to facilitate you as you go.

Dear dead girl: I honor you as a Priest/ess of your own design.

The mother prairie dog has leapt the long way off the curb. Her body falls in a clunk. She is moving a bit too fast, gathering the dead body of the baby prairie dog in her mouth. The cars are rushing by and I can see she is shaking, dizzy. She is not able to orient to anything in this moment, in the wealth of all of her prey-intuition. In this moment she is not able to orient to anything but her dead child.

It is because she chooses to hold the dead child during these passing moments that she is unable to get back up onto the curb. She is willing to make that sacrifice. She will stay in the gutter, the interim, the bardo. She will be a crispness in the sodden art, an unexpected light flashing such forceful glint that she folds by her actions, into cosmicity. She will be some errant elastic in the centerfold between embodiment before the violent and violating event and embodiment after it.


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