November 16, 2020

I don’t know why I never published this.

The phone probably rang or I saw something shiny and walked away from my laptop.

The past week has been a whole lotta exactly that. Finding reasons to be fussing about, nesting…and the big bad…scrolling.

I quit drinking before I left the island but that was not the only bad habit I had there. Face in phone constantly to avoid people and boredom at work. I have to stop.

I think another thing is I am always very insecure about selling myself. Because I am insecure. Not a lot to sort through there. So I procrastinate, because that way I can’t fail. Which makes zero sense as I type it out, that is failing really.

Nothing is ever good enough. Cue the thing about project paralysis and gifted kids. I has that.

I had a notebook when I was little (and 500 notebooks since then) that I refused to sully with bad penmanship or bad writing so I never used them. I am ridiculous, I know this. I am laughing at myself right now.

I am getting better at just letting things go out into the world and not worrying about what other people think. It is enough because I say it is, and honestly after years of sifting through other people’s opinions on my page, I just don’t care.

Plus, failing isn’t the end of the world. Took me forever to figure that out.

The foreword to this long lost post is being written in WordPress so there’s that then.

(And I think I figured it out. I don’t want Wolf reading about the folly that was me thinking I had feelings for other people, before him. I don’t want to read about it either, makes me feel ashamed of what I settle for, the crumbs of attention I existed on before I was allowed to feast on real love.)

Come dear readers, let’s take a journey into where I was at mentally on February 20th of this year, so many lifetimes ago really. Pre Covid, still watching the Witcher, mid retrograde likely because we had 487 of those this year…

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Nothing ever escapes, even when I want it to and sometimes it crushes me and leaves teeth marks on my psyche.

I can drive along a road ten years later and I can feel exactly what the sun and air felt like a decade ago, what trees were in bloom, the tang of cigarette smoke and sweat, flowers recently picked covering the back seat, what creatures revealed themselves on the side of the road and sometimes what was playing on the radio.
A song comes on and I am transported back in time.
I scroll back through Instagram or Facebook, see what I was wearing/saying/thinking/feeling and that day/date come rushing back to me. The boy I was with or flashbacks of mini adventures with my girls. The conversations had, drinks imbibed, how I felt when I finally poured myself back into my own bed that night. Or someone else’s.

Every muscle holds memories, my skin too. If the light, temperature and breeze hit me a certain way I can travel backwards in time. Climbing into my car on the first warm day of the year feeling completely warmed through for the first time since winter closed it’s icy fist around my bones.

The longer I am with Wolf the bigger the divide becomes between Before Him and After Him.

I know I existed.

I have photographs, Facebook memories and this blog as proof.

I know there were men and relationships before him, but I don’t care.

We had this conversation last night, I just don’t remember anymore.

I spent 3 hours putting 5 years-worth of unsorted documents into different folders. A surprising number went into published (yay me), followed closely by ‘trash’. A few unfinished, a bunch of letters to whomever. I gotta say, if I sit down to write someone a letter when I am feeling any kind of way, I am eloquent as fuck. Landlords and Panda and Exes, oh my.

Wolf now has his own folder. He wasn’t wrong about me writing more. I went from publishing maybe 24 articles in 2 years, to 24+ since we met. And a smol book. I have so much more to write, and I will. I just don’t remember how right now.

I played Cyrano again the other day for a boy I used to know. He is having a hard time letting his ex go. We talked for a bit and I admitted that I used to spy on Sisterwife a dozen times a day if not more, every day. At some point I must have decided to stop. And I wasn’t perfect at stopping, but it went from 20 times a day, to twice, to never. Told him to try not driving by her house for a day at first, then a few, then a week. It’s like quitting anything really.

I wrote what I thought he should send, and he sent it.

In doing so I was forced back into my old mindset. And I didn’t recognize the girl I was. That was all over 9 years ago.

I have had this laptop for 7 years now. I was not always this version of myself.

Just like this computer, my hard drive gave out and was replaced, apps updated. I used a sketchy mp3 downloading site in Newfoundland and crashed terribly. We’ve been through some shit.

I got this huge computer for processing photos. I didn’t travel back when I bought it. Now I am scraping pennies together for a smaller laptop and a bigger phone and I don’t own a camera anymore. I don’t want one. A go pro yes, but not a bulky DSLR.

To properly sort the massive list of documents, I had to read some of them.

I gotta forgive myself for how dumb I was.

Like Jesus sis.

What were you thinking?

I put myself through some very unnecessary shit.

I am better, faster, stronger for it I suppose.

I signed a very rare copy of the other book I wrote 2 weeks ago.

I remember being sequestered in my room, in a house I decorated but never belonged in. Neck and shoulders aching, just trying to get it done and out before midnight December 31^st  2017. I didn’t want to enter another year with it hanging over my head. 80 000 words of yucky smut and revenge porn. My stomach rolled reading it. So disgusted with the girl I was when I started it, settling for scraps from a catfish.

I have reread passages here and there. And I gotta admit, although the subject matter is abhorrent, the muse a jerk…the writing itself is  pretty good.

I have to stop beating myself up for not knowing what I didn’t know before I knew it.

I need to look at it for what it is. Money waiting to be collected. One notch in a key that I have been carving for years, it will open a door to a new life if I let it.

I am the key to the lock in your house
I am the pick and the axe
Climbing up the Walls, Radiohead

Half Wild Thing aka the fucking book

(an excerpt)

She had been the one to back down, bare her throat. She had been timid at first, but quickly growing accustomed to the climate, the city and him. She always acquiesced when he would rage while somehow maintaining strength and poise, and he loved her for it. And in the way of felines remaining on the brink of feral but almost tamed, she brought him strange gifts.

He had watched her walk to the planter, read the discontent on her face and watched it melt away when she saw him. Her eyes gave her away every time. The whole world knew she was irrevocably his. He knew she had just saved some tiny lost soul. He smiled at the thought, she was always saving something. She had rescued him once too.

She was 10 feet away now, he stubbed out his cigarette, the humid air was punctuated by a slight puff of wind and it filled his nostrils with the smell of her. His eyes fixed on her…his cock couldn’t help but to start to rise. A low growl escaped his lips and he saw her smile, he smirked a half grin back and it was an invitation that she gladly took. As she stepped into the space between his legs and rested her hands lightly on his shoulders, the world fell away from both of them.

He sat up to greet her and she gently ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him close and caressing his neck. His arms formed a protective circle around her waist, he drew her to him. She leaned in, pressing the softness of her belly against his cheek and they both sighed, content and relieved. He inhaled deeply, coveting the moment. She always smelled of summertime, oceans and sex. He could imagine her pussy, pink petal lips, dew kissed and open like dripping lilies. He melted into her and she molded herself around him.

How many had it been? He struggled to remember. She had told him the night before, curled up in his bed, his fingers tracing calligraphy on her body. Conversations punctuated by soft moans and his hands wandered to her most sensitive places. 3 maybe 4 boys that night? All of their adventures were starting to become a maze in his mind, he got lost in them and didn’t worry about finding his way out or marking certain passages. He had found himself happy to be lost in her. She led and he followed willingly. It didn’t matter, she was here now, with him. And she would tell him again as he asked, as many times as he needed.

Available on Amazon

I lost my muse somewhere.

I have lost count of the days wherein I said ‘okay, I am going to write today’, and then I don’t.

Feels like a missing limb.

Used to be there, feels like it should be there, itches like it’s there, but it ain’t.

I have set alarms to wake me mid dreaming, drank extra coffee, fasted. The words just aren’t coming.

I haven’t even really posted here.

This is my warmup exercise.

I am also reading Henry and June by Anais Nin, which isn’t helping to inspire. It’s just a diary really.

That I have down, I don’t need inspiration nor instruction.

After the election and the great internet debate about Kamala Harris’ affair 22 years ago, I really wanted to climb up on my soapbox and scream, HER VAGINA IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  And I still might.

I just feel like angels could descend from heaven bearing gifts of golden pomegranates and there would be a rousing chorus from the anti-fruit people and the pro silver people.

It is exhausting.

I am writing a new book about witches after the end of the world, and honestly, as someone who can never admit when I do something good, it’s really fucking good. I remember the rush when it came, I wrote for hours on end, for a week or so solid. I wanted to see what was going to happen next.

But now the two main characters have finally met, and I have to rip them apart again and I don’t want to.

I am frustrated. All these magical days happening in rapid succession. Feels like the Lion’s Gate portal all over again, but I am standing on the sidelines.

Just a cosmic observation.

Let’s wander back to March for a second.

We had a Friday the 13th in conjunction with a Mercury retrograde and some moon moon madness.

And the global madness kicked into high gear.

Mars is stationing direct on this Friday the 13^th after spending months spinning backwards and fucking shit up. Plus, we just had a blue moon on the thinnest day for the veils between worlds and Mercury is heading out of shadow phase.

Whatever tangled itself so badly in March is now in the process of coming undone. The cogs in the universe that have been grinding and stuck are about to start moving fluidly again.

I feel massive change coming.

And the prophecy from Dark Crystal keeps repeating in my head.

What was sundered and undone, shall be whole, the two made one.

I’m feeling optimistic. Like overly so, palpably so. Enthusiastically so.

But.

(why does there have to be a but?)

I am jealous, all of my witchy bitches are experiencing necromancy, channeling and inspirations galore. Powering up and coming into their own. And I feel like I am stagnating. Like I am late to the party, but I don’t even have the address.
I want my magic back, and if not my magic, my muse.

I know it is partially me. My fault. I went back to perdition, knowing full well it is a void. I have been spending way too much time on my phone. The complicated solitaire game I downloaded to kill the dead time at the bar, then deleted, has been reinstalled and I have conquered 60 more levels, which is good for tiny rushes of serotonin, but at what cost? So much time wasted and although it might be helping me stave off Alzheimer’s, it is doing nothing for my creativity.

Maybe it’s my mindset.

I do have a lot of gratitude, but maybe I am not showing it.

I mean I have chicory coffee in my cup and a fridge full of my most favorite things. I found this yogurt that is like a happy orgasm in my mouth with every bite. I have money in the bank and the roof I am under is lovely. I can walk outside, and the air doesn’t hurt my face. These are all good things.

Technically, geographically I am in a very good place right now. I adore the little apartment I am currently staying in. It did take a lot of magic, luck and planning to get where I am now. The thing is, I think I want to stay which would be so much easier if I could get this new book out of my head, out of the ether and into the world. Relocating will also take a lot of luck, magic and planning. And I think this is the trip that decides ‘should I stay or should I go’.

I posted a pic, and a status of ‘want’, to which my Kittenface Kayla girl replied,
“Manifest it my love. You know you can. Not everyone can. But YOU can. ”

I can, I know this, so why is all my power eluding me? Or is it?

I mean I am here.

And in the 11^th hour…

I finally I have some answers about my health.

That was kinda the big, bad distraction of this season of my life. Reoccurring, debilitating pain that couldn’t be massaged, medicated or stretched away. Led me to a walk-in clinic, 17 separate appointments for x-rays, ultrasounds, urine tests, and ECG, a retinal exam and the extraction and examination of about a pint of my blood.
I did a full STI screening again, for peace of mind.
Good news is, I am rather healthy. Everything that was supposed to be negative, was. My white blood cells are doing what they are supposed to be doing. I am a little low in iron and B12, but as the keeper of a vagina, this is not news.
There was some bad news.
On October 26^th I was diagnosed with Lyme disease.

Today I take the last of the antibiotics they use to treat it.
I am going to finish them regardless.

Ya, ya, I took the blue pills.

 You see dear readers, a week ago I was ‘undiagnosed’, for lack of a better term.
Cliff’s notes, there are 2 tests for Lyme. One is reactionary, they add my blood to some liquid and if it turns a color, I have it. Like a pregnancy test in a way, you are or you aren’t. The other test is a blot test so some person in a lab coat looks at my blood under a microscope and physically searches for the antibodies to the Lyme bacteria. I don’t have those. It takes substantially longer to process, hence the delay and the confusion. I had another blot test last week, I am quite confident it too will be negative.

(it was)

At the beginning of this I did not quite make the mental leap that what is ACTUALLY happening in my body could trigger a real false positive. I just thought the symptoms were so similar that they were easily mistaken for each other.

Not so.

Silicone migration triggers the same inflammation as Lyme’s and Lupus among other things.

I got kinda lost in my diagnosis, as anyone would, I felt dirty and unclean. I was terrified of the ramifications of such a delayed diagnosis. I tried to stay positive and decided once my body was clear of the bacteria, I could start healing. I went for the tests to make sure it hadn’t damaged my heart, eyes and spine.

But I forgot one really important thing along the way.

I walked into that clinic 5 weeks ago stating, ‘I think something is wrong with my implants, but we have to eliminate all of these things first.’ I have a vague recollection of writing about it here.

The last appointment I had was an ultrasound, I had to jump through all the other hoops to get to that one. And voila, the sweet technician listened to me, took her time and found the rupture.

These tits I have are 9 years old. The last bastion of trying to keep my husband from cheating on me. I became addicted to and abused the pain medication for months afterwards.
Physically, the implants themselves settled badly.
Emotionally, I healed incredibly well after I left him. My eating disorder has been conquered to the point wherein I am carrying an extra 20+ pounds over what I weighed when I was married and depressed, resulting in a cup size discrepancy on either side. Also I have a booty now, a good juicy booty.

Maybe I am manifesting. Things that have long bothered me subconsciously coming into the spotlight and both facilitating and downright demanding amendment.

Maybe my magic is so big I can’t see the edges of it.

The witches I am jealous of, are a decade younger than I, and I remember the exhilaration of realizing what I was. But it was also scary and overwhelming. Maybe my cogs are turning exactly how they are supposed to be, nice and smooth.

Regardless of what my tiny human brain can rationalize, I am exactly where I am supposed to be, or I would be somewhere else.

This is what is, and honestly, it is what I want.

Maybe I am just not used to contentment this complete.

Now to open that other tab and start working on something with substance and a future.

Inspiration exists, it just has to find you working ~ Picasso