Making lemon blueberry ricotta pancakes while my husband contemplates the end of the world. I left to the farmers market in a little sundress and when I came home the atmosphere was morose. Times are hard and that’s fair and when I can’t reach him, I try to remind him of God’s love. But today, everything exists as a probability pointing toward doom. He’s been smiling at strangers but suffering under the surface for weeks. Hate has a hold. Fear of thy neighbor is an infection. I can see the way he travels far away when he’s just in the other room. I desire to inspire presence. We only ever have now, and now I want lemon blueberry ricotta pancakes to band aid that it’s lonely for both of us. He thinks I don’t understand the depravity. How he must contemplate survival day and night. What to do when all the water is taken, when our bank accounts shut down, when there’s no food on the shelves. He feeds the will to feel heavy in his heart until he sees every lost corrupt politician hanging in the wind. There is “him” versus “them.” I want to find him with the love in the labor of whisking eggs, of melting butter, or the bit of flesh from zesting lemon with the wrong tool. A bit of blood is nothing to the massacre he is predicting. I play mantras and hope the sounds of God touch his cells, his walls. To strengthen him to be the spiritual leader I need too; I want him to remind me that God is the only way to peace because I am afraid too… But all he has ever seen is that misery loves company. His life's examples got angry. He says he is angry. I say can you put a bit of separation there. You are Love but you feel angry. He feels mocked by my sincerity. I can imagine why. And so, the infection finds me. Now I recede like the tide. He doesn’t want my console. I choose to feel rejected. But I refuse to be hopeless, too. The child in me wants her protector. The child in him is running away. I feel the penetration of anger. I feel rage when evil wins. I let it win deeper... When we are afraid, when we feel apart, when we cannot enjoy blueberry lemon ricotta pancakes and homemade butterfly tea with lavender syrup on a Saturday morning then the darkness wins. When we feel paralyzed and cannot act in love, can’t enjoy, can’t remember that there is a constant connection to Love; fear wins. When we forget that just as much there is “bad," there is “good.” That is the guarantee on earth. The duality is a constant. And yet, even in the blackest void of space, there is still light. I want to break his phone. I want to delete his access to evil. I want him to come home to Mother Earth. I want his bare skin in the sun, and his feet in the ocean and his soul in his body. But I, too, feel useless. It seems the forces for evil are far too great for my individual human avatar to obstruct. And yet I carry an undying faith in knowing the small acts of Love add up. The more we can choose joy in chaos then the more power we have. I hold resentment and anger up to the light. I ask why do I have to face destruction without my partner? As if I’m the only pitiful one. Why are his eyes closed to you, God, and his head underwater? While my eyes are shut and my breath labored. We could be so strong if we were united. Take us to the dimension where we are strong and we are united. God Hear Me, Be Me, Move me. We are strong. We are united. Please. Fucking Please. Forevermore take us higher and ground us deeper.

<3, MW

Should be said both my partner and I are essentially sober, ex stoners, and drinkers maybe twice a year. We’ve both experienced psychedelics in our younger days but it was just by a random chance we had what was labeled a microdose. But it was in fact more a macro.

5th of July

Normal day. Woke up and the kid was already gone to the lake with grandma. I was a little blue and L could tell. He asked if I wanted to go down to the river. We agreed to pick up some lunch on the way and head down. Last second, I thought to have a microdose. A little chocolate I’ve had in my underwear drawer from a yoga party from last year. We headed off. He was on edge and I was sad. Our usual lower vibrational states soon to be demolished. I started to feel tickles of it standing in line at Carrefour. Some kids cut us in line and L snapped at them. And instantly regretted it. dissecting on our walk to the river why he’s been on edge. Albeit the kids were absolute punks. We walked across the bridge to where I had found the river before without knowing we individually had found similar spots. Instead of turning left like I had, we went right and walked down to a rockier patch with some soft sand alongside the blue green water. Cold in the water and very hot from the sun with a breeze that would occasionally pick up intensely. In the shade it was perfect. We started off just sitting down and having our snacks. About halfway through my salad, I started to really feel the shrooms, and it was nauseating so I had to put down my lunch. A caving in feeling ascended. It started to dawn on me that this was more than a microdose. L began to feel it a bit too but was good so far probably because he is 6’5. Took a second. We have just begun the book The Womb Awakening an initiation by the mother was commencing. The blues I thought I left behind for our walk to the river began to rain heavily. Three rocks sticking slightly out of the water angled as such when women are in labor and have stirrups for the feet. I sat there. The very chilling water was sobering and grounding. I thought to close my eyes and breath. Focusing on my breath did help. Yet overall, there was an overwhelming feeling resisting the mushrooms. I could feel so much sadness. L noticed and asked if I was ok and I just said I wanted a hug. Which felt nice but I could tell energetically the mushrooms were going to take him on his own separate journey. He was a lot more accepting. Smiling a lot, skipping rocks, commenting on how beautiful everything is. And it was so beautiful out. That part was also so necessary for us to remember the beauty where we live since we spend so much time in the apartment. Then they started to hit him hard. He was half laughing to himself about it being a microdose. And laughing because it was so not the day he expected; sending the kid off and then having a journey by the river.

I realized I needed to surrender deeper so I decided to lay down on the river rocks. The different rocks were pressuring many points on my back and ribs until they opened. Emotions were pooling out and into the earth. Endlessly draining melancholy. I was having a conversation with the earth with my eyes closed, watching an expanding and contracting orb emitting prisms of light. Trying to ask to not have to feel the heaviness. Begging to be the free happy girl I’ve been many times until L came over as an answer to the prayer. I tried to have him lay down next to me, but he said if he lays down, he’s afraid he’ll never return. He sat down and started to talk about how he was feeling everything yet watching it all. Realizing just how okay it is to feel everything. That he could experience it all yet it doesn’t have to keep him from also feeling the joy of the moment because there is still so much, in the middle of chaos, to be grateful for. That was true medicine for me. I started to sit up too. We would touch a little, skimming hands, but definitely still in our own orbits and communion with the Goddess.

We sat there for a while, and I could tell the worst of the sick feeling and peak of the mushrooms was passing. Finally starting to enjoy the beauty around me. Oh, and at some point, I had asked him to unhinge my bathing suit. That helped a lot. Tightness and clothing do not make sense when your consciousness is merged with plants. A bit to the right of us was the bridge. A massive and very old roman bridge and underneath it was a small sand bar… L said I want to go there but I don’t know if we should. His intimidation of adventure turned me on like a light— lets go. Now. And we did. That was when our individual teachings began to merge. It felt so soothing to walk in the river on all the rocks. To curl my toes and feel the balance under my feet, connecting to my Hara/Womb. He had sandals but that made him feel good to be prepared, remembering sandals like when he was younger and lived close to a river. L went slower to help me on some rocks, and although I felt completely capable, I leaned into the feeling of being looked after. More medicine.

We made it to the sandbar. It felt so orgasmic to squish. One side of the bridge was much faster and dipped off into a waterfall off large rocks, on the other side that we came from, there were smaller rocks and slower water. There was this massive granite that L was first enamored by, splashing it to see the veins come out of the emerald green surface. We played a bit together, testing the waters around us… commenting on how you have to trust your feet because you can’t see the bottom. He was getting more curious about the waterfall when I decided to go and lay upon the emerald green granite. It was so glorious. The sun coming down on my spread legs, womb opened, water on my feet and rushing by, yet safe on the rock. My head rested back on a slant with the water mineralizing my hair. I could have laid there forever. It was so peaceful. I felt my primal parts livening. At some point I decided to take off my tight yoga shorts. More freedom. L went the other way toward the rock waterfall for his personal journey. He really wanted to make it to the end. Later described that he felt all those feelings that say he couldn’t. So, he heeded the call to did it anyways. In divine timing as L has begun a creative project this last week that feels daunting and unrealistic, yet the idea is the first spark of creativity L has felt since becoming a father (& being left before me.) He found his courage and his own emerald green rock at the edge of the waterfall.

When I finally looked back, he was journeying back to the sandbar. We gave each other thumbs up. Both receiving more of the medicine we needed. Him to feel his power, and for me to be in my sensual earth fueled energy. A Taurean baptism. He came to me and we sat a bit until he stood over me. I gave him head for a moment under the bridge. I was happy to see him feeling like a king. He had said if anyone saw him, which is quite likely because there is a gondola that crosses the river a half a mile away, he’d be thinking they wished they were him. And I think for someone that often compares himself to others, it felt good to be the one winning. We headed back to the home base. First L stopping where he had left his phone and stuff. I was glad there was no technology for that embarkment. The water by our first spot looked so inviting. You couldn’t see the bottom, it wasn’t murky, just so many minerals it was green blue but lighter than turquoise. I felt another call to surrender. I waded a bit… debated a lot, frozen in indecision of whether I should dunk into the water. It’s seriously freezing snow melt and I take notoriously hot showers. Yet I knew I had to. My last bit of clothes kept feeling weirder and weirder. I eventually just took my shirt off and jumped in. Plunging into the thing I was most afraid of. More medicine. L was proud of me and helped me back to shore. Then I was finally hungry. I finished the rest of the tuna salad so praying the fish was still good cause my body said eat. Now.

We talked about our journeys and the feeling that it was all an initiation. Like now our lives together are really starting. After about 2 years of dating across countries, and 10 months of living together. Now we begin. I had a grapefruit left and in one spiraling peel, I held it to my heart and said some of the things I wanted to release, and then L chucked it into the river. We shared the fruit of the Mother. Commenting on how yonic the fruit was. It was the cherry on top (or grapefruit) of the womb awakening. Sensual nature. I felt so delicious having only a shirt on in the sun and river. No shoes all day. Felt like myself, returning to the innocence of sensuous experiences. We chatted more while we found the most beautiful rock with a heart and radiating rings around it. L took it home with another smaller one with grids of sediment and a tiny orange rock I found in the river. He also found a butterfly wing. He released it into the river with his worries. He kept saying he will never forget this day. I think he really remembered parts of himself. And me too. We walked home feeling really close and initiated. I am so grateful for the experience. I’ll never forget it either. To surrender and to know we are exactly where we are supposed to be. And we are supposed to be together.

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<3, MW

[ and if you are new here, ciao! I am an artist living in Italy hailing from California, attending to a thousand deaths and rebirths. You can expect the sensuous, ethereal day to day magic. Welcome to my strange little garden. ]

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May 17th 2026, 3:33pm after New Moon in Taurus, Italy

The primordial, perennial, prophetic force that guides prose speaks without speaking to and fro from ashes into material, ripples of sound into consonants into lymphatic systems. Creation is creating nothing from something and something from nothing. I cannot resist Her call upon my life for she weaves a great mass of pressure into the jewels of being. I accept the virtues and the disdain of enquiring from my heart that which is pressing and relieving. Devotion is, at this point, not a choice, as awareness sees through all my senses that all is with One. As is, the fabrics of reality are a great stretch of the imagination that a mind could not fathom. I implore great thanks to the ancients of the subcontinent of India for harmonising with great care the oral traditions of metaphysics, and pray for justice where the westernization lost a bit of the soul into something of a catastrophe. Meaning, the externalising of endorphin-fueled devotion to an idea of sanctity remiss of the inward illumination, must be most curious to the great sages that spoke from stillness. For the human in me is most grateful for the external validation often sought, while the soul quietly knows exactly what shall feed the incessant pursuit of light. What is venom is also nectar. The primordial goddess giveths and takes away. The alchemical state of remorse into radiance gives me play and pleasure. Pain and pressure into perception that apart from God one cannot not be. Countless attempts at straying brings my being to my knees weeping to feel bliss again, and only in the timing of no time at all, the jurisdiction of a court of all my appeals, God never judged in the first place. The simple and dynamic wave of breath flowed me down the river and when I thought about the minding of myself, I was kicking upstream, choking and gasping when all that was necessary was to let go. It may seem a stretch in today's day and age with the constant bombardment of the dark and tragic, lost and not found– yet the nature of reality is in fact peace, love and orgasmic soundscapes that have brought crystallized structure to the formless. I write about metaphysical science like a poet because it is most trying to quantify the experience of the sensual existence of the Love of creation coursing through and pulsing everything and nothing. Call it what you will– life force, kundalini, christos, light, or fuckery: there is that which contains us being inseparable from what moves us. And it chooses you, today, yesterday, tomorrow and every moment because time does not exist to what is every eye on a seraphim's wings, every star lit at 3 in the morning, every pore on the back of a fern, every undercurrent, wave, and hair on every head. Existence is beyond clever, existence knows you, moves you, and breathes you. Will we do nothing to become something when we are something from nothing, unbecoming?

May 18th 2:34pm

Pride myself on my ability to lick a knife without getting cut. It spawns more from love of food than sexiness. Morosely though it does bring pleasure to be close to the gun and not pull the trigger. I do this same thing to my husband. I make him straddle a place that only he could in a web where my misery loves company. The darkness i accessed today in a scream so deep that barely any sound came out. I recognized the desperation in a split second from the last time i’d been there. Screaming at my mother. Seemingly left for dead, kicked out of her new husbands house and i was certain she was weak and wicked. Now i think she’s the most perfect angel so here’s to transformation. Yet the teen girl in me, barely out of her shelter, lost it again. And i want me husband to pay for every time i’ve felt abandoned. He accesses these places that i have so hidden and a part of me begs him to do it. And then when i come back to my senses the shame pools in for i feel weak and wicked. And he says he chooses me. He aways chooses me. He takes his clothes off to feel closer as i was still in a towel from hours before, too numb to move, and we lie there close. And i cry. And i cry. And slowly but surely the knife gets cleaned. 

5/19 5:30am

Cannot seem to shake jetlag. Part of me is in california, part of me is in italy. Woke up at 5am this morning because yesterday consisted of a few naps and bed by 9. A post stoner in this new italian life where the devils lettuce is still illegal, i have a dream and i dream. I look forward to sleeping like i’m about to have a lil sidequest. Excited to carl jung myself in the morning. This morning i dreamt i was at my mothers house and she was making pancakes and i was making a strawberry smoothie from some friends, but she took the smoothie and used it as syrup for my nephew and i was happy about it albeit she took it all. after processing yesterday's grief, something inside was nodding to how i’ve come to understand my mother. She is nurture and she is resilient and she is captive to her providers. I can’t blame her. I look at jesus and i see beloved prophet with healing hands that changed history and broke chains. I see myself through jesus’s eyes and we are one. She looks at jesus and sees the same love but then she sees herself as sinful, indebted to the christ and god for her nature is wicked and her love will always fall short. 

My husband gently snores behind me on our bed while i face the window writing on my belly and glancing up at the spring alps. I much prefer them green than white. When i decided to finally get out of bed, it felt a surrender to writing, hoping for something profound to spring forth from the depths of my soul (not so much.) I made a matcha and not just any matcha, i used a milk frother for the first time and dusted cacao on the top. Everything could be sacred. My husband is quitting vaping so he ordered blue lotus and mullein per my recommendation. I told him it’s a plant medicine and an ancient consciousness and so if he smokes the blue lotus it should be reserved for his alone time so he may have a little journey. He smoked it and played video games with his only good friend back in the states. He hardly plays since telling him it “wasn’t cute” years ago when we were dating. For him his night with blue lotus was sacred. He had been soothing me and scratching my back to fall asleep last night when i asked him if he was pleased with how much we’ve been intimate lately. He said well ya but what do you mean by that? I thought he’d been disappointed before leaving to california because we weren’t exactly losing ourselves in the rapture or finding the time for it as often. He had hardly a memory of that and said we love each other all the same. I thought of something my mom told me when i was visiting… i hide things. I keep little secrets to myself about my inner world and at the top of the list is how i may be disappointing someone. I hate it. I really do want to be perfect. It’s survival. Being pretty enough, smart enough, sweet enough kept me under the radar. I could have my imaginations, my secret longings, my imperfections under the radar. I could be small unless asked to perform grandly and then back to small. I remember doing cheerleading competitions as a child. I had tried to explain once what it felt like to perform. To be so nervous and then when the music started it was like something radiant took over my body, moved me in perfect time, could do things small me would never (like being tossed in the air and landing on one foot and the other behind my head in front of thousands like wtf?). Now i want that, whatever part of me could shine, to take over (and grant me into a hayley williams/ lana del ray musically inclined love child pls). I feel the pressure of my birthday last week and i won’t cater to accepting myself as i am as good advice would have it… surely to some degree but the reality is, i am disappointed. I am disappointed with how small i’ve played the game of life. Here i am preaching to anyone that will listen that there is life force all around us, miracles are innate and the good goddess wills us all pleasure and protection, yet i am so afraid of showing my inner world. Sketches and sketches dying unseen. Literally over 2k audio recordings of songs that exist in the graveyard of my phone. When i am honest with myself, i want to be a mark on history too. I have found myself over and over again in music, in art, in the words of those long before me and so how could i not want to leave someone else closer to love, to understanding, to feeling that they are not alone because i too have silly, surrealist and luxurious desires and pains. I want my life to be a living prayer. So here i am now. And where i will be, who knows so i pray for the radiance in me to, well, radiate. 

5/20 6am

as we know it today, there is a whole history of yoga from the first written records in the bhagavidgita where it describes seated meditation. The technology of the yogas, the technology of the human  were first recorded in the oracular transparencies in the legends of the sages. Now today we don’t necessarily value oral histories, nor trust, as it's the study of materia that holds weight. Yet oracular transmission is what's been lost in the westernization of yoga. There are spheres all around us. We each live in a sphere beyond our skin that is the light information we carry. We can actually see and measure (to  a degree) this auric movement. Within in is data of our thoughts, our relationships, our sensory experience. And our brains, little sensory devices, pick up a little at time. This is good or we’d be overstimi’d beyond sustainable amounts. Now when one is teaching yoga, and pardon me but this is the difference of a seasoned teacher, but in a room are all of the spheres of influence, and like a venndiagram. There is a common denominator of what is needed. Now the language of yoga, forms a combination and is seen through the eye of the guide. This is why my favorite thing to hear after class is “that was just what i needed” but from more than one person. And mind you, sometimes what we needed is not what we think we did. Sometimes it is friction against our egos, like trying something hard or the guide says something in class that somehow resolves the frustration we feel toward a loved one, etc. this oracular stream of wisdom and grounded mechanisms of body and mind is something difficult to quantify. What we think of as yoga today is primarily the gymnastic of asana, the physical postures created for young boys in military training to help them sit still. All legendary (& infamous) guides from pattanabi jois, yogananda, iyengar, bikram,  yogi bajan, and more share in common access to the body to guide us to stillness, the savasana, the corpse pose, the moksha or the liberation (a word that also means death.) figuratively and beyond we die in yoga. We change our regards to life as we think we know it to receive more light data. Now in a sense, the oracular traditions about it, or the channelling of words/movements/prayer comes from a voice in the head and that’s subject to suspicion. It could be insanity. But a grounded practice of meditation creates a distillation of the voices. Because yes, there are many and i’m not afraid to admit. I am sure all of us understand the inner critic and rarely comprehend the inner benevolent one. And where heaven meets earth, where the upper chakras meet the lower, in the heart, we can digest the information in our spheres, and upward sphere and a downward sphere, that create a torus field around our electromagnetic bodies, is the place where we can trust the guidance of ourselves and others. Tuning into this space is no easy task. And to me, this is whats missing in the westernization, the colonization, of yoga… the mystical way that the motherland of india so clearly demonstrates, of heart centered living. Something the ancient sages understood. An awakened heart can illuminate far beyond its own sphere. 

5/20 part 2 1:47pm

May i please turn the depression off? No mother says. Feel it all when it’s inconvenient. It all started today while rapid fucking. My cervix reached and in a moment, trustfully and deeply desired, the other wing of my pelvis begged to differ in all the unconscious being stirred. After many minutes i guess i checked out, trying to breath and gasp underwater where i’ve drowned many times before. Sometimes i’d just like to be surface. Somehow someway be the type that doesn’t feel everything. And often when i feel it all… i just leave. Without thoughts or anything of form, just an inconceivable feeling of i am not here and i don’t know where i am. Thankful for my husband who knows this and slows down the whole world till i land back safely in his arms. But i want to know where i go. Where the fuck have i been going that is sometimes so debilitating to return from. depression has been a greater constant in my life than joy. She is familiar, she always sinks her pearly fangs in. She consumes me and then we are alone together again. I can’t hate her because she’s too honest and real and i appreciate authenticity more than i care too. I try to hide her. I don’t want the burden of my pain to be on anyone else but then i have a hard time engaging with humans from inside a stormcloud. But on my outside flesh there is a sunny disposition and wild light curls under pressure to be happy. If i smile I can exist under the radar. Consequently, i’ve spent so much time alone. And surely it’s healing to be with a man that never wants me to feel alone yet i don’t quite have the skills to know how to not be. And so i push him away when so desperately i want him close. Closer than close. I want to hide in his ribs. i tell myself i have every reason to be grateful, every reason to be joyful, and so logically i am– but heartily not so much... sorrow is always in my bone marrow. There is only one choice with misery. i have to learn to appreciate her… she makes me a wellspring. she makes me understand others deeply. She makes the waters of my body flow. She makes me pick up the guitar and paint brush. She makes me dance and she makes me know the truth of this planet. But god i so wish i could be steady.

5/21 12:30pm

It’s the little things to pull a gal out of the spiral. And letting it all out to my husband. Starting with a morning in a dream spell. You know when you try to wake up and keep rolling over into the surrealism behind eyelids? Somewhere from the liminal beyond i heard my husband return from dropping off the little one at school. And like an eager puppy i return from the dreamscape. Yet in waking, i draped a heavy coat of feeling worthless. This is the first time in my life, afterall, that i am not “busy” and it turns out i’m not as internally driven without the hunger for survival as i thought. The house wasn’t tidy and i felt the inspiration of a new day vaporize as i walked down the hall to receive all the touch and love and morning kisses i need. yet i felt my shadow darken and approached him with reserve. We went outside with coffee and smoked a joint of blue lotus and lavender. at first i said i dont want to talk about it and meant it. Until the swell began to purge and couldn't be plugged up. I have a million half full pursuits. Unfinished projects and age seems to be creeping up. The sense that i have beauty to add to this world and a fear of it ever being seen can no longer coexist. A fear that i can do so much for someone else and not myself. Trying to shake years of rejection from the people closest to me. For having so much vision and very little discipline. The looming sense that my lived experience of feeling everything, all the time, is all for nothing and yet a terror that it all really could be for something and my life could actually change and then i won’t meet the expectations of others because i don’t actually want to be busy again. That i am in fact very reserved and private yet my soul wants to be seen. to leave a legacy that could reach another weird little soul. And my husband listened to all the waves until he took my hands in his and said what needed to be said. Let it out and then give myself grace and then do the steps. Do it all one at a time. And to take his card and go sit a cafe and write. Write and write. So here i am now. Sitting at my favorite parisian cafe in italy, writing with a cappuccino with cacao e canella. haven’t been here in 6 weeks and the delight in the owner's eye to see a friend made me hide my tears. Before that i stopped at the place i get waxed to see if i could move my appointment to earlier. She said how about now and i almost cried again. I can barely speak to these people and yet they ask me how i am and entertain my broken italian. Slowly but surely there is community. Connection isn’t a million followers. It’s the lady putting hot wax on my skin and casually ripping out hair asking if i’m happy to be home. An intimacy of femininity that sounds weird but is deeply soulful. As an energy healer and massage therapist i find myself thinking that it isn’t just us trained in the chakras; it’s the hairstylists, the manicurists, the estheticians and tattoo artists that are energy healers too. The touch between atoms matters. The sunshine on a walk charges us as much as the light in a passing smile. The shopkeeper explaining she doesn’t speak english but tried in french to say my outfit is tres jolie. Merci i said. And we giggled and i felt restored. Plus my husband picked my outfit today. He said i’m tired of hiding you. You’re beautiful and you should feel that today and he picked my white wedding cowgirl boots, white cotton pants with lace at the hem layered with a sage green linen dress i bought in india. And i feel all the energies of my travels that took me to my life in a little town in italy with a man that truly adores me. That's part of why i spiral. I have no reason to be sad and so i layer it with shame. But there is no need. The cafe owner, Janette, has a legacy of love, too. She doesn’t need a poem to go viral to spread love. The estheticians, Irma and Jessica, don’t need to preach on a pulpit to teach about love, they just are love in their busy work days. And so i see across from me, a wink from the universe as a barista places peace lilies at a table. The flower from my wedding that i keep trying to paint and saying it’s never good enough. But it is. Because it’s the act of spending a moment to revere the beauty of creation, that actually matters.

Ciao,

xx

MW

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placed between the pedals of a clay stand I made to resemble a rose and a pussy. Everything is erotic when you create, everything is erotic when you notice. I finally came back home to my Kundalini practice. I cried joyously when I resonated with the divine stream that never left but was awaiting my arrival.

Been in a phase of cocooning into the melted form of myself. Winter time, DUH. Plus rebuilding in a new country, a new role(s), in a new age, in a new language et cetera et cetera. It’s day four of my moon cycle and She had much to say. I am raising a little woman now and while I tell her it’s a beautiful thing to bleed with the moon, I also writhe in agony and can do nothing for a few days, monthly, while telling her it’s a beautiful psychic time (she gets mixed messages.) I’d like to add to the small print that unless a woman puts all of her awareness on the fire of thy loins, it will feel like knives. How do I tell her the universe is inside of her? Including the dark feminine shadow fuckery. That nothing can be shoved down or ignored because your womb will purge it. The body remembers and by God’s grace will you return to honey form. On day four you center back that life is grand and to not take anything for granted and SANTA BABY I promise I’ll be a good little girl if you’d make the pain stop for Christ’s sake.

Speaking of fucking, it’s becoming clearer that the way we make love is the way we make money. Right now, I make almost none. I receive the roof over my head, the food in my fridge and the ever-growing plant supply from the man I devoted myself too. Moved across the world for. The way we make love is that I receive and I give but I do not take control. He is teaching me to focus on my pleasure. He is sliding my hand down to myself. He is getting off on my getting off. And so it is that one day, I will know how to take, give, receive, slow down, speed up, go in out up down, and dance. Dance in the current of currency because I am woman and this world, led by those that don’t prioritize the feminine, have made it so the little girl in me and the little girl I am raising, unsafe to be powerful.

Goddesses are abundant. I have every reason to make this world better and so the life-giving angels I have surrounded myself with have many priestess-y things to do. (Join me? ) We have collectives to create. Projects to birth. Money to recycle and redistribute in order for harmony to be the river we all ride to the sea when we all die and resurrect.

Today I did 44 minutes of EKA MAI Mantra, a mantra to meditate on the creative spirit of the Goddess. To put myself on the throne of divinity. In perfect time, I received two calls today from two of my priestess friends calling with grand ideas they want to put into motion with me. Energy healing with sound currents is ancient technology and unmatched in power, in my opinion, to anything else. The universe is made of symphonic strings, after all. This is the time to not ask meekly but to COMMAND radiance. God is listening so you may as well speak up like you deserve to be queen (king).

Perhaps, give it a try. Meditate on your creations and prayers. Become magnetic without really trying… (I like White Sun’s version of the Mantra)

Eka Mai

Eka maa-ee jugat vi-aa-ee tin chaylay parvaann.

Eik sansaaree eik bhanddaaree eik laa-ay deebaann.

Jiv tis bhaavai tivai chalaavai jiv hovai furmaann.

Oho vaykhai onaa nadar na aavai bahutaa ayho viddaann.

Aadays tisai aadays. Aad aneel anaad anaahat jug jug ayko vays.

GURMUKHI

TRANSLATION

“The One Divine Mother conceived and gave birth to the three deities. One, the Creator of the World; one, the Sustainer; and one, the Destroyer. He makes things happen according to the pleasure of His Will. Such is His celestial order. He watches over all, but none see Him. How wonderful this is! I bow to Him, I humbly bow. The Primal One, the Pure Light, without beginning, without end. Throughout all the ages, He is one and the same.”

WHAT IT DOES

This is the 30th pauri of Japji, and is said to place you upon the throne of divinity. It makes you a saint. The very creative power of the feminine is here in these sounds. Works on mother and father phobia

Ciao, MW

Transcendental Poetry HERE | Message me for card readings | Message me for Ayurvedic Health guidance + yoga

i vow to be rich

I VOW TO BE RICH—

i vow to overcome feeling far away from power and influence

i vow to be rich so when i see the waitress with sadness behind her smile, and the quantum mirror remembers being her, I can tip her 11 times the amount of my meal

i vow to buy my dad (or whoever needs one) a mattress where sleep becomes immediate and insomnia is only in the past

i pay the bills of my caretakers and return the favor of always being fed and learning hard work

rich so i can be adorned in handmade clothing where the fibers vibrate higher and exist as very attractive to sustainable beauty

to not think of facials, massages and haircuts as luxurious but simply as self-care and maintenance that is deserved by proxy of being human

i vow to be rich and hire real, intelligent people (not ai) to research, be creative, and spread the abundance up and down stream

i vow so i can stop paying the POS conglomerates/ shareholders of banks that charge you more when you’re down

rich so i don’t have to be on anyone’s schedule but my own

my home will be a space that is safe and a sanctuary where any guests feel welcome and divine, that immediately magnifies creative spark, joy and tranquility

I afford to fill my days with reading, writing and fuck it, riding horses in beautiful fields and singing to no one but the goddess in spaces where i am free

rich so i can always be generous to my loved ones, strangers and this earth

rich to positively impact history with more love, movement and birth my creations

And… I already AM rich because I inherited the kingdom of heaven simply by being born.

XX, MW

Thanks for being here. If you’re new here— it’s a pleasure. I am a wierdo living abroad with my husband in Italia, piacere— tell me about yourself!

Support or learn more | Poetry book here | Reach out if interested in photography, getting your nudes drawn, painting, ayurvedic health/psychic channeling.

Ciao.

Excerpts from my third book // A space of sensual freedom. Rebirth is my form of devotion.

Moroccan Cotton | 1.24.26

An embryo curled into his side, draped over Moroccan cotton, the floor couch of my insistence, and I, his princess, he always listens. The peach fuzz of my face tracing the conch shell into the crystals of my inner ear, swallowing your heart beating and the other tuned into the void of the classics we enjoy. He believes in the power of feeling beyond words, orchestrated by the late greats. A rotation from Debussy to metal, sometimes I pour honey from a well of many decades. Sipping coffee, my velvet underdog, how I am bewitched in the waves to which you soothe your soil. How could a moment be perpetually infinite? Lying in stillness, that of a lake. A single cherry blossom landing on his surface ripples into forever. I am your swan, Le Cynge as my mother calls unto me her swan child, her days are my nights, yet you are a power that could pull me from everything I’ve ever known and so it is you that I chose. Pressing your little kiss upon my head, wishing us life until death, and even after, I’ll play your cynge songs as they are alive in me. Giving you head to Vivaldi. He says it feels too good, with a mouthful, in correction, a moment away, wiping saliva, don’t limit your pleasure, I say, as a violin spins, he begins to stand, with work to do. I follow suite into our kitchenette and him to his new desk. Burying long finger bones into soil as darling seedlings have delighted in the sun. Potting them in red with long nails like shovels, watching after their crests brown from ebony. Thinking of Virginia Woolf’s Waves, and the way she wrote to a rhythm, a never-ending deciphering between prose and poem. Between heaven and earth. Heaven is Hers and earth is His. A sensuality in between interlaced fingers and Claire De Lune. I once thought I’d never belong to anyone, and now I long to be in his ribcage and wear his name.

First Poetry Book: California Psalms on Highway 111 | create with me here | most popular poem here: A well fked woman

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xx, MW

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Don’t Make Me the Muse

by MW

claiming virtue

as the virtuoso of magnetics

i am sex appeal and teenager breaking down in desperation

when my breasts changed the world around me

no longer could be sheltered

i am vindictive and vice

a contrarian for the greater good

ventilating my grievances of a life thus far

as a sack of shame and bones

i am breaking chains and cascading my forlorn

for my loins that did nothing to deserve

terror

where is the end and why the fuck did i begin

don’t wanna be young don’t wanna be old

salivating over a craving to be assured

bathing in the azure that paints me in misery and amore

i am tigress and i am hunted

i am obedient and i am vengeance

there is movement in my poetry and bounce in my ass as I ron de jeune

my form can’t be fixed as rondeau and still i hail from a plague in the French countryside

dancing in the darkness in the rasp of my voice and sweetness of my song

born to feel everything and when i wanted to shut it all out

learned to be polite and charming

my ferality a nuisance and my honesty mistaken

when all along there is no box there is no dual there is not or a fuck yes

but there is something a finger can’t place

a word couldn’t ever trace

and so i entered their cages

lighting their cigarettes and making my eyes contagious

a malady into melody and now i am screaming

don’t make me the muse

with nerves grim in reading the room

performing perfection

i can no longer cater my wits to give pleasure

i am not for unholy orthodox “safe” keeping

yet i will always inspire because light made me

most of us sirens ate otherworldly fruit and gagged on the falice of the forbidden

and now i revoke the stains in my aura

no longer permitting sucking using and taking me for granted

don’t make me the muse

i am creatrix and creature and curator and cremating the self of perceptions

a mirror of vitality and a dagger when I please

I am danger in the void and pretty in peace

and when I am thirsty I drink etherical milk and honey

have your Hennessy i’ll keep my heresy in strife

i am an apocalyptic alchemist

an ocean of scorpionic destitute and destruction

and a rebirth of Venus

a psychopomp of the under and over world

and so my constellation is already written

with a power in the merciful

a heritage of attracting luxury

God carving me a shadow

from the crease of my nipple in a silk dress

made of pure white and dramatic grey

touched in the golden veins of

Calacatta Borghini marble

I was born to resurrect and refine

over and over and over

Thanks for reading and engaging the unbecoming parts of feminine disillusionment

this link here is for my heart & soul and poetry book. Your support is freedom.

xx, MW

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but he doesn’t know

how a woman longs for his control

to be given the sacred respect

for the waves that take over

as the collective pain pours

whenever he rains his displeasure

I love my man because he is one

but he doesn’t know how to love me

when resentment is more important

and the story he tells himself

casts me as the antagonist

so, I turn my face to

let the overwhelm spread

and the tears fall

because he didn’t kiss me goodnight

when I had to prove a point

rather than listen

and when I did open

he didn’t see my softness

when he was sharp

and cut me off

said he’s done

ripping through my viscera

tried to pry the pillow

from his hollow ears

when my storm had no space

cause he was thundering

and all I saw were my fears

because he didn’t kiss me goodnight

when I turned my little shoulders away

from his grande, forte body

but he didn’t warm me

and the tears fall

I want him so badly

to say he cares

that he hears my pain

but he leaves the room

and the air drops in Celsius

allora, I stay awake

hoping he’ll return celestial

churning in my mind

sour milk

till finally I

creak down the hall

to where he escaped

ask what’s happening

but the walls are high

he needs space

and I need comfort

crawling back into bed

forgetting I am my peace

forgetting he needs me, too

wanting him to be steady

so, I can feel everything

wanting him to be the boat

while I’m drowning

desiring my rightful place

as the feeling body

as the feminine

as the water

wanting his presence

his structure

his smolder

but not his burn

but he won’t hold me

high & dry

because he’s never known

how to love a woman

that needs to be kissed goodnight.

disclaimer: he is my muse including in the pain, and for someone that has always written to empty my sadness, I seem to spill easier about the hard moments than the bliss. I live with my heart on my sleeve. I am bored with appearances and perfection on the internet. Yet I felt I should say that he is a wonderful man. And we are learning through all the storms. Love isn’t a fairytale— it’s effort, too. Real love exposes shadows. And above all things, we always come back to each other. For that, I can see forever.

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In the mirror is a need to control.

I wake and I see my smile lines and forsake them. I do not see them as signs of my life’s happiness, but the decay of my youth.

I see the bags under my eyes, and I do not wish my liver wellness, I curse my body for being tired.

I see the young Italian girls in their jubilance and long legs and see if my man’s eyes catch them. They never do. But I envy them, nonetheless.

I look at my schedule and I see it’s emptiness and I feel empty instead of full of freedom.

I look around the room where nothing is mine and I feel that I can’t land, that home is outside of me.

I watch my love as he tries to escape the stress I’ve cause him, milking the hour with video games. Once a comfort as I’d watch my brothers play, I take it personal as if he wants to enter a realm I could never exist in.

I catch my grandmothers silk skirt on my waist in the shop window. I think of her style. Petite and adorned. Same as me. She had not much of a social life. Same as me. She drank away her psychic abilities and longed for a material life that never satisfied her. I wonder what I’m drowning when I care to be beautiful.

I don’t often notice the way men look at me. When I am with my partner I especially don’t because I am not on as much alert for my safety, but he always seems to make a remark. I think he is mistaken instead of feeling that I am beautiful. I hate that sometimes he makes me feel like I want the attention. I hate that I probably do. But not in the way that he thinks. In the way that I think sunsets and sculptures are beautiful. That I want to be a part of God’s art because I’ve always felt death closing in on me and I’m only in my early 30’s.

I want my loves attention more than anything and it always seems to be in the moments that he wants his own attention. I am draining him.

I am constantly talking of what’s next. I am constantly checking apartments for rent, speaking of new jobs, new gigs, new ways I could change his daughter to be more like me. He asks for me to relax. To enjoy the life he is trying to provide me, and I spit on the idea with my anxiety.

I begin to wonder if he’d be happier with someone that looks nothing like me, like the women he’s dated I keep running into around this small town. Maybe she can relax and plays video games, too. I give myself more anxiety.

I don’t count my value. I feel I cannot do anything because I can’t speak the language or get a job or be constantly maternal when this is my first experience and I’ve never had a baby in my womb nor felt a child at my breast knowing it needs me to exist. I crave the purpose but not the responsibility.

Nothing is helped by the fact that I also have a yeast infection for the first time. I feel useless in that I cannot satisfy him. He cannot suck my nipples either. Instead, I suck the life from him. He has to comfort me over and over again because I cannot comfort myself. I want to hug my mom so I can’t facetime her because I am afraid I’ll just cry, and I don’t want her to worry.

I am trying to be thankful, but I hear myself and it’s constant complaining. I believe my happiness is in the future so I obsess over what could be.

And the thing is, if I were back in California alone, none of this anxiety was gone. Just easier to run from it when I had a car and many jobs to do. My partner wonders if it’s just me as a whole that has to keep busy. I feel him losing faith. I wish he’d see that I am, in fact, trapping myself.

I wish he could see that ever since I can remember I've had to work for everything. I had to be top of my class, president of my elementary school, creative genius, scholar, fit and tight, I had to achieve to feel I could be of value. I had to balance work and a broken home life. I want to scream that I don’t remember a day that I didn’t worry about my mother’s feelings, or my father’s body. That I don’t know a time that I had just one place to be. One home. That my examples were also running from the present.

I wish I could see it all too. That I could really feel it all and not just mull it over in my head that won’t pass anything down to my heart. I leave my body. Up and out and not in and down.

I wonder what life would be like if I was never praised for being pretty. What would it be like if what mattered was my depth. Would I be more skilled? Would I have spent more time on one thing instead of a little bit everywhere. Trying desperately to find something that belonged to me. I’ve always had to share. 6 siblings and a twin. Never enough money and never enough attention.

I try to fix my daddy issues with my partner, and I find myself sounding exactly like his 10-year-old. She calls me mother and when she’s upset with me, she calls me by my first name. I feel my identity split. I cannot maintain perfection like I thought. My partner never wanted me too. I wanted me too. and I cannot do what I demand of myself.

I spiral and I feel like a star exploding and I want all of the little fractals to go into tight organized little boxes instead of expanding and contracting. Flowing and stilling.

I feel I have nothing to offer him. He says I have everything. I think he’s delusional.

(And I hate this app because it makes me feel even more lonely pouring my soul out where everyone opens and never like.)

Maybe tomorrow I’ll remember my power, and I’ll write beautiful happy little things, and you’ll all think I might be insane.

Maybe I’ll listen to Lana Del Ray, cry a bit, and get over myself.

ciao

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Revelations on safe spaces.

Travelling alone as a woman last year grew my capacity in unexpected ways.

Firstly, your vibe attracts your situations. Of course, don’t be out late at night alone inebriated. However, I was. There was one night in Biarritz, France that I was compelled to try going out. I was acting out of “should.” Should I be a normal girl that likes to drink and dance? I do love to dance. Biarritz is relatively safe. Population is largely families, retirement and old money. They call it the “little California.” It’s true. I arrived and suddenly there were Vans and Surfboards everywhere. I had asked my cafe server earlier where to go. That is one thing about travelling alone, people usually tell you the secrets spots. Travelling groups tended to be more obnoxious, albeit, safer. He recommended two clubs; the Duplex and the Playboy. I walked by and thought this is where you get roofied so I moseyed my way to a bar street. Passing all the laughter and drinks, the smoking chic woman eyeing/judging me and the French men also eyeing me for different reasons. I heard loud bass music that was muffled and underground. Following the sound in, I was nearly the first one into a small room with a DJ. Perfect. I am not one for crowds and I truly just wanted to dance. Ordered a gin and tonic. The night before I had a man over at my airbnb and my plan was to get drunk enough to be a “normal” girl that mistakenly texts obscenities. I began to warm under the influence. I knew better than to drink to feel myself, but the Goddess had a reminder awaiting me. I began to dance. I felt Shakti come through. My hips snakes, my arms waved, my body loving under the cover of darkness. My eyes were closed and suddenly I could care less about anyone especially the French dude. My boyfriend loves to make fun of him now… Girls, don’t fall for a musician with a name after a jungle cat. He will not stick around.

Pervaded by movement, music and a second gin and tonic. I opened my eyes because here’s the other thing… the small dance hall was empty when I got there because Europeans don’t have a bedtime. The fun doesn’t start until midnight. It was around 10:30. A group of 30 somethings came in. I remember there were two girls outnumbered by many men. After a brief moment of feeling inadequate because French women are just automatically cooler than I, I figured I’d be unnoticed and decided to kept dancing. It felt so fucking good to be free. To be in a new place, vibing. Soon one of the dudes walked over. He spoke broken English. He said, all of my friends (about 9 of them) want to dance with you. You move so sexy. To which I was utterly shocked. I glanced over and sure enough, I was on display. All of them sitting on the back wall, sipping their drinks. The women vanished et toute le garcons all facing me. Thanks to the drink, I felt confident, I said, well then, they’d have to come over here. Not a single one did. I was ready to leave. Feeling myself, I thought okay I’ll check out the other clubs. First to the Maison d’Plaisir. House of Pleasure. The security guard looked me up and down and said “NON.” Confidence waning. Surely, I was dressed in sneakers and a large leather jacket… And I had just cut my hair short. The moist sea air was doing my curls no favors as my hair was so high I didn’t blame his judgements. I headed to the other two clubs. NON & NON! Rejected. Suddenly I wished I was in a group of women. Defeated. The confidence I had felt in movement and being a spectacle to the male gaze had vaporized.

I remembered about the French guy from the night before. Texted him some shit with typos. No Reply.

I wasn’t myself. I was vibrating low. I was seeking outside of myself. In the moment alone in the small dance hall; I was free. The moment I wanted approval from men; I was trapped. I headed back to my airbnb. On the walk, there was a young, rather scrawny kid playing Pink Floyd from his speaker phone. I was so fucking comforted by that that I just started singing from across the street. He was visiting from Lebanon. We chatted innocently until his friend turned the corner and we all had the most unsexual, uncomplicated 2am chat possible. I found myself again. There was no “should” in that moment. It was just friendly. I was revived. I walked home and ate the rest of a baguette and passed out.

The night that I thought to become some Femme Fatale, A mistress of sensual energy, was in fact a night where I was reminded that I don’t care for it. I care for authenticity.

In retrospect, I am so pleased I was rejected from not one but THREE night clubs. I am so grateful that the asshole from the night before had hit it and quit it. I am so stoked that all the lusty eyes in the dance hall never had the balls to dance with me. I feel so powerful that for me, true sensual energy comes from the warmth of Shakti rising and reverberating when I am alone dancing in my room. I am SO THANKFUL that the man I fell in love with had met me, still complaining about some deliberate emotionally unavailable smoother talker and had said you know I don’t know you too well, yet, but you don’t deserve that. And spent the rest of the night asking me deep introspective questions and showing genuine interest in the beauty in my head and heart. The body came later.

I am so grateful for the protection from spirit that I wasn’t taken advantage of. That rejection is redirection. That Love is not from succubus energy of wanting attention— it’s an inside job.

I’d recommend travelling solo to any woman (in the safer places) because I also learned how to be alert, how to be cunning and safe. How to trust my internal compass and ask my instincts where to be. I had spent the year before without alcohol and nowadays I still have very, very little alcohol and I see now how the simple fact that I had wanted to get drunk to be something I wasn’t, exists as a sign in itself that I wasn’t living in my authenticity.

For the sake of the butterfly effect, I think it’s worth mentioning that the French dude that left me high and dry had asked if I wanted to travel with him for his show the following weekend, but on the same day, a woman leading a Mary Magdelene retreat had also messaged me out of the blue and said she felt called to offer me a large discount to attend. I had previously signed up to go but dropped out because I was supposed to be in India however, I became so sick in India, I left earlier to be in Paris for my birthday… Anyways, I denied what felt like a romantic movie to follow the divine feminine.

At that retreat I met the mother of my partner now. The rest is history.

If anything, I hope this post reads as an offering that what is not for you will dissolve. That beauty and affection don’t come from outside. They are reflected from vibrational energy. We can’t fuck up. What is for you will part the sea and you’ll take a leap of faith and cross the ocean again to perhaps Italy offering love and devotion.

And here we are now, writing once again from the library in a little town in Northern Italy where you’ll be looking for a home and a sweet and sexy man wants to marry you. And you’ll really really really want to spend every day with him because even going to the grocery store is a great time and holding hands still makes you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Ciao xx

photos/ prints of France | International Photography & Poetry

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And today I am the luckiest

today I woke up and remembered beyond the pain

saw the honey on the mountains in the morning light

the electromagnetic field of the heart astride

resonates as I recall yesterday’s evening

witnessing his souls playing on electric strings

the jazz on reverb, a celestial display

as each pointed sound delays, etched in rain

a heart language transfers into my beat

sounds carrying his truthful symphony

penetrating my kinesthetic body

hips sway hypnotized as music tips over

spills all the words we haven’t found to say

I prepared to die and I did

to be reborn to the quiver of pleasure

at night undressing me

he commands my figure

painting in rings

between my legs is the sky

he peels the skin between nebulas

tongue tracing each star

there is no where he cannot see

I belong to him and he to me

xx

more on Oddfemme.com | poetry collection available now

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I need to bleed on the keys.

Friday: Currently early afternoon, just before Italy closes down for her mid-day rest. I type from the library. I ordered a cappuccino prior, the gal didn’t smirk at my asking for it to be “take away.” Once I ordered one to-go and the man said espresso is to be enjoyed not taken away. I felt my American need to be efficient cower. I have a new respect for immigrants. In America, we are taught to fear immigrants. Now I am what feels like the only blonde in northern Italy. Trying with much resistance by the system to be with a man I really fucking love. I’m learning. I can order simple beverages and food, ask for directions, and I’ve walked everywhere in this little town so I can’t get lost. I cannot, however, read the menu while trying to figure out what doesn’t have meat or gluten. When I first arrived back here, I experienced a purge. An exorcism of all I’ve been running from in the hustle of living in Southern California where you must be boss masked as a carefree hippy to survive socially and economically. First, I broke out in eczema, particularly on my hands. I googled it and spiritually according to Louise Hay, it is caused by fear & anxiety. Now my skin peels and I have a reminder that the grief in my lungs and upon my chest is freeing itself. I had bumps and rashes all over my knees, legs and elbows and I spent a few full days in bed after waking up in the night to violently vomit. Following that came a menstruation that felt more like an initiation into the underworld. My cheek and hip bones protrude. I always wanted to be a girl that can’t keep on weight. But now I miss the plumpness of my skin. Can’t I be juicy and tiny? Will I ever transcend what has been pumped into my mind and spine that craves to be seen for beauty and hide because it makes life more dangerous?

I spend much of my days reading. I just finished a book on boobs. “A Boob's Life: How America's Obsession Shaped Me―and You".” I highly recommend it to any woman and honestly, I highly recommend it to every single man, but I don’t feel hopeful for the undertaking. It’s had me feeling the grief of every woman, too. There is no denying that since getting breasts, it’s the first thing anyone notices when I walk into a room.

Since committing to my boyfriend, who feels more like my husband, I’ve taken to being a mother of a 9-year-old. Her birth mother left her and her dad fought tooth and nail against a U.S. system that does, in fact, favor mothers for childcare. Yet does not support mothers for childcare. It’s women’s work. But he is a great man, and he has provided a beautiful life for her since moving to a new country. She calls me Mom. When I am honest with myself, I have mixed feelings about the title. I feel the pressure of perfection. To be a mother in America, you have to do and be all. And should you have to opportunity to be a stay-at-home mother, most woman are financially dependent on their partners and not valued for their work. I have some freelance work here, but I can no longer buy whatever I want. I feel luxurious over €1.50 cappuccinos. I watched my mother work her ass off to give us a great life. My dad is a good man, I am lucky. But their marriage was corrosive, and I learned not to depend on anyone. Now I have to. Now I am in a new country where I have no friends, I can’t communicate, and we keep getting denied apartments because I am an unestablished foreigner. I try not to feel like a burden. Perhaps I overcompensate by constantly cooking and cleaning. I try to make it a spiritual practice. I try to feel grateful that I don’t have much going on. But it’s quite the contrast. My life before Italy was nonstop. Surely, my main gig was teaching yoga… but constantly driving to clients, studios, freelance photos, massage therapy, the inability to say no to anyone and constantly giving away my creative mind for free because it’s hard to value what is natural.

Here, I am slow. Here, I can paint all day and sexually heal all night. Here, I am free to be whoever I want behind my grandmothers Calvin Klein tiny shades from the 90’s, ironically made in Italy. It’s so insanely beautiful I can’t complain. But the romanticized version of a life away from everything I’ve ever known is diluting. In its place is full surrender. I don’t know what is going to happen next. I am desperate to ground and nest in our own place. As much as my anxiety wants to be light years into the solutions of tomorrow, I have to trust that I will be taken care of by myself, by my man, by the God of all.

I have a mission to be a caretaker but also to be an artist. To teach this little girl that when she walks into a room her breasts will be the first thing noticed. And how to be smart and beautiful to be acceptable. And how to take all of the world’s conditions and alchemize them to be your own self. To be a beautiful mess and to not be afraid of living while also knowing that life is different for woman. It just is. Meanwhile, I tend to my own inner child that misses her mom and wants my attention. I give her herself when I write, paint, sing. A moment to float in water. And I challenge myself, parent myself by being fully uncomfortable in the newness, knowing full well I signed up for this growth. A moment to remember I am not drowning. I can do it, but I can also bleed about it to make space for what is to come. & Goddess do I miss my girlfriends.

Thanks for reading. Consider subscribing so I can buy art supplies and write on here consistently.

Ciao, Xx

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Cosmic consciousness wakes me at 3am. I try to ignore her. My lover breaths steady, deeply. I listen for a while. Rolling in and rolling out, soothed for he is my raft. Yet she is more magnetic than lover and consort. The mother wants me on the ocean floor for an eternal moment. Delivering myself at the window, I witness her perfect crescent moon tender in her curve. I roll out my carpet mat and place my sheepskin before settling into the aphrodisiac of soft wool at my ankles. Softening my eyes to passage inside where the cosmic Mother calls for me.

There I am flooded in the liminal limitless precious psychic time before blood menstruates. Without judgement, She holds a mirror on my transitioning from maiden. The aspects of girlhood that feel I am owed anything in this life are preparing to shed. With it comes the coveting of materials, the succubus that feeds on feeling unloved, the unforsaken shame, the fatale flirt that needs to be seen, and where I play small and victim. The Mother desires to make a garden from my mess but first I must die in the dirt.

The electricity begins as my bones crack, body sways, breath animates as my roots turn down into an energetic flushing. White hot and violent to soft pink and violet as she takes away what is no longer serving. I am now. My purpose is to bring more of heaven down into my body and so to the Earth. I am free to dance in blues and silks and dream more love and more peace into awakening. To tend to my mystic creations, water my strangeness.

I snake with the kunda for some time before resting in gravity. Behind my lids are visions. I know I am in between. I pray. I pray to flower. To surpass my understanding into the destined woman I am created to be. For I too, am mother.

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xx, Maeve Wave

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3 month hiatus.

I love you substack, but I don’t.

I love you readers, but I don’t.

I love my writing, but I don’t.

I’m in and I’m out.

I felt community but is it real?

I liked my feed but was all the pro feminism fake?

Posts with cleavage still trend highest.

Men are still scared to feel.

There’s a woman in me. There’s a man in me.

There’s a woman in you. There’s a man in you.

Two wolves in me both crave blood and one is a lamb.

One wants to be alone. One wants to be in a pack.

One wants romance. One wants death.

Spiral purging on the altar of living.

I stir the menstrual blood in my cup

witness the dance with shower water on my breasts.

Smells of honey. But I learned as a young girl pussy smells like bad fish.

Godspeed from the God head for giving good head and being a good girl.

God hands me the fruits of my labor, I bite in but I feel guilty for enjoying pleasure.

Where is this seed? The one planted that can’t see—

I am you and you are me and

Pleasure is divinity.

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The year i didn’t need a wish

where the surmountable collapse of my life burned bridges and parted seas

a trajectory realizing itself, the course of love summoning forth a purge

a whiplash and a grand slam

nothing can remain the same

chaos is the only constant

every year flowers bloom

every year flowers wilt

i cannot know anything until i know nothing

in a vacuum from what is familiar

and i don’t belong to city streets

new slang, and no fake friends

facing the sickness in my head that attracted

traditional imbalance and karmic chains

where orgasms try to flood in vain

only prana could if i let her build

but i short circuit under pressure

where my shadows hide from the light of love

but my lover is my satellite signaling

where rivers meet oceans and rivers meet roads

learning to answer the call of surrender and not tomorrow

but only ever the hard way, so today, i will try the opening

pleading for a soft devour into the ocean floor rather than a drill

same wish in my pelvic floor

same as the stars in my eyes

a dream life i want to wake up in

staring back at me in calm rivers

desert storms blood lets and tears go

like my fist into the mirror

two wolves in my pupil’s forthcoming

as desperate to run as devastated to curl into his ribcage

in retrospect, I see where i’ve been an arsonist to connection

between the gemini’s living in a stellenium

between astral and dirt

in the pleasure of honesty

the style of graceful fucking

under desert stars above scorpions

and the class of righteous desire

31 years on the skin of this incarnation

however, whenever, forever

I am thorns and honey unbecoming.

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I’ve been by the sea in Genova, Italia. Trading the high and lonely mountain peaks of northern Italy for salty horizons and the fair sun. Seemingly a vacation for lovers, has absorbed to absolve me into a pilgrimage of the matriarchal saint Mary-de-la-mar. The one who enraptures me and entrusts me with her holy secrets. To whom in the sweepings of romance, did not let me lose sight of her. In retrospect, in all my travels, she has been my tour guide. In reaching for myself or love and all the cliches, there has been a mystical sojourner in my heart field teaching me to recognize the grace and goodness of the misunderstood feminine Christ. Most often she speaks through coincidences and internal compasses.

This trip began with a fortune cookie. My lover handed it to me a couple weeks ago, it read follow your intuition through a tricky situation. Simple as it was, I had felt a twinge of the espirit passing through. I’ll admit, my once incredibly disciplined yoga and meditation practice has transformed into the spiritual practice of living and loving, fucking and carb-loading pain du chocolat. Honestly living has her own charms. And for me, the medicine is now in slowing and receiving pleasure. The constant rigor and discipline are masculine energies I’ve come to know well. Learning to be soft and feel in a moment with the sparkle of a fortune cookie, is still yoga. From there on, my awareness of Her symbols amplified.

In the town my lover lives, Mary Magdelene is everywhere. Above the chiesa, adjacent the Piazza Chenoux, features a statue of Mary Magdelene with a halo of stars, she’s painted on walls, her sacred heart is in jewelry stores and candles. It reminds me of travelling through Biarritz, France— where if you know, you know and you cannot unsee Her influence. However, the Roman Catholic church ashed more than Wednesdays on her fate— tarnishing her reputation and union to Jesus. In Europe, there are layers of various conquering forces that overtake the lands. Symbols of the Cathars and Templars underneath symbols of a sacrificed bleeding out man. Often Mary Magdelene is replaced by Mother Mary in Saint status. Faces are cut out from stained glass because Jesus and Mary can only exist in their virginal glory with Mary being nothing more than a prostitute Jesus saved. Mary as the prostitute, by the way, was an interpretation by Pope Gregory VI, 600 years after Jesus’s death, that for some reason, has scarred history. Yet she has a language, and many hid her language in plain sight (i.e. Boccelli and his red ribbons, pomegranates, tarot symbols, crosses, etc. even in commissioned paintings unbeknownst to the crucifiers themselves.) There is celebration of Her in cathedrals, in the legends, the music, the art, and the soulful parts of humanity. The full spectrum of colors masked up by parts of an institution that invokes salvation through hierarchism’s and sacrifice. There are many sects of Christendom and so for context of how Jesus and Mary would have been living their lives; I look to Jewish mysticism and the Christian Essenes. I believe relevant texts to story of Jesus are the books include and not included from the collaging of the bible. Gnostic texts, The Dead Sea Scrolls, Nag Hammadi scriptures and majorly Mary Magdelene’s Gospel offer that the soul’s awakening is an inner journey between one and the One. Expressing Jesus emphasized direct experience over doctrine.

To establish context and insights on her legacy of love— here is a breakdown that offers many bridges between Yogic philosophy and Gnosis. I’ve highlighted keywords because I encourage you to always, always, always do your own research and heart search… After that, I will write on the miracles in Genoa, Italia:

The Dead Sea Scrolls and Mary Magdalene’s Gospel offer deep mystical insights that resonate with yoga, breathwork, and embodiment practices—especially in traditions like Kundalini, Tantra, and breath-centered mysticism. Here’s how:

1. The Breath as a Gateway to the Divine

In Mary Magdalene’s Gospel, Jesus teaches that the soul’s awakening is an inner journey, beyond external rituals or dogma. He emphasizes direct experience over doctrine—just as yoga and breathwork guide us into expanded states of awareness through direct practice.

• In the scrolls and Gnostic texts, breath is often seen as the animating force (Ruach in Hebrew, Pneuma in Greek)—similar to Prana in yoga.

• The soul’s ascent through different planes, described in Mary’s vision, mirrors Kundalini rising through the chakras, shedding attachments and illusions along the way.

• Practices like breath retention (Kumbhaka) or rebirthing breathwork align with mystical Christian traditions where breath leads to deep revelation.

2. The Feminine Mystical Path

The Gospel of Mary challenges patriarchal authority, positioning Mary as the disciple who truly understands Jesus’s teachings—not through hierarchy but through intuitive wisdom. This aligns with the Tantric and Shakti-based view that divine knowledge isn’t just intellectual but embodied, felt, and directly experienced.

• Sacred feminine wisdom (like Shakti in Tantra or Sophia in Gnosticism) is often repressed in mainstream traditions but re-emerges in mystical paths.

• Kundalini energy itself is often seen as a serpent-like force of awakening, just as Gnostic traditions speak of a secret knowledge (gnosis) that liberates the soul.

• The heart-centered path in Mary’s Gospel aligns with Bhakti Yoga—where love, devotion, and inner experience lead to union with the divine.

3. The Desert as a Symbol of Transformation

Both the Essenes (linked to the Dead Sea Scrolls) and early Christian mystics withdrew into the wilderness for deep spiritual work—just as yogis retreat to the mountains or forests. I call this retreating to the Psychic Desert, the inner oasis, should we not have months to be away from civilization.

• The desert symbolizes ego dissolution and surrender, much like deep pranayama or meditation practices dissolve personal identity into the infinite.

• The Essenes and early mystics practiced fasting, breath control, and deep silence, much like yogic austerities (Tapas) used to cultivate inner fire and revelation.

• Some scholars even suggest Jesus himself may have spent time in mystical Jewish or Eastern traditions, learning techniques similar to yoga.

… sounds like it might make the world peaceful, no? But the mainstream church is a business much like healthcare in America— keep the people sick and dependent to thrive.

Let’s journey on to the Palazzo Rosso, a small stray from Maddelena Street, strolling and witnessing works of Antoon van Dyck, Guido Reni, Paolo Veronese, Guercino, Gregorio De Ferrari, Albrecht Dürer, Bernardo Strozzi and Mattia Preti. All men painting from the inspirations of light and dark, the crucifixion, the inspiration of the celestial and the implications on the tortured souls of humanity. Honestly, unless you’re a nerd like me and my man, it’s utterly boring… until curving around to the end of a hall, where a sudden deep knowing may hit you like a cosmic waterfall.

Surrounded by tourists, I waited until an electric pull in my chest sprung me forth and as if by a force of magic, everyone in the room left at the same moment, even my Ragazzo departed in distraction. It was me and the “Penitent Magdelene,” a 95-centimeter marble sculpture by Antonio Canova. A piece that was well received in the romantic age (timely as we enter a new renaissance of the romantics), where within the sacred vibrations of the marble brought me a transmission so swollen in despair, I had no choice but to weep. The Maddelene in her sunken posture, her surrendered heart dropped, with palms toward heaven holding a bronze cross, a plea of sulfur tears in her eyes— I knew her; she was me; we are her— a strike to the core of my spiraling DNA birthed forth a humble cry and a noble moment to embrace the suffering of the world. Her gospel mirrors that the way out is through, she was not a stranger to her grief, this is her strength.

I learned devotion to God in six years of solitude, I am now learning a deep devotion to a man I find to be in the image of Jesus (although he does not quite recognize the power in that yet.) I had found myself a week prior, on my knees in a cathedral, under my lover’s gaze, feeling as though his eyes bore scrutiny, pleading in desperation that love would be enough to sustain us. I was being prepared to process that there in between us (and the whole of humanity) lived an orb of misunderstanding that I’ve come to understand to be pivotal in the unification of the feminine and masculine within and without—Women are most often not understood because within the collective conscious is a bitterly antagonistic weed. We’ve been painted as Eve, queen of deception, the fall of man, and not as the devoted counterpart and great balancer.

Time stopped in the Palazzo Rossa. Just me, and whoever was watching the security cameras, weeping for the whole of womanhood. The great injustice to heaven on earth was in the erasure of the true love story of Christ. For the rest of the day, I was in a trance, in and out of feeling the depths within. There was a sanctimonious resurrection in facing what I’ve been avoiding for so long, so very deep in my bones— her name was sacred RAGE.

I made a risky decision the next morning that forced me to lean into the vehement fire. My lover and I visited another Palazzo with grand rooms and chandeliers and ceiling paintings of angels in every square foot— and my big crime? I wore a bralette and a tank top. It was a hot day, I felt safe having a 6’5 man holding my hand, but in his words it was “hard to be a bombshell.” Remembering why I spent my twenties in giant t-shirts and sweaters. Constant looks, lusts, even comments in moments I walked to the bathroom, feet from my man. I was the proverbial whore. What mattered wasn’t the thoughts in my head, the love in my heart, but that the sun was shining on my feminine body.

I’ve always been a good girl. I’ve thought men can’t help it and it’s my fault when I didn’t hide. Just as Mary’s legacy was shoved and shamed. But this day was different because I was angry. Finally, the injustice in the collective body was surfacing and I had celestial help. There were two moments too synchronistic to be coincidence. Firstly, we were looking everywhere for a Palazzo that google maps was very confused about. In our search, we kept walking past a church and even asked several people where the palace was, and they each directed us back to this church. Sitting at the steps, in defeat, my lover asked if I wanted to go in… I had my film camera so why not capture another old church. I walk in and sure enough, the church was dedicated to Mary with her statue and angels resting high in grace. Once I came out of the church, he alerted me he finally found the palace. We walked past another Madelene church but before I realized, I saw a woman with fear in her eyes, transcending to the lines in her skin, sitting on a piece of cardboard. I smiled at her, watching everyone pass her by as if she didn’t exist, and the small spark in her face from the human connection, broke me too. She is me; I am her; she is Mary.

I love my man for many reasons but one is his deep humility in helping others. I asked him to ask her in Italian if she was hungry. Of course she was. We went to the focacciaria across the alley, I protested assuming his large order included many for us too… he said non! None are for us. He gave them all to her and some cash. He would have done that without me and if he knew I was writing about it, he’d be uncomfortable. I digress further, once when we were first dating, I walked back to the table at a cafe from the bathroom and he was gone… my mind went all sorts of places rapido… he see an old lover? quick drug deal? Is he ditching me?? A few moments later, he came back to the table sweating and out of breath without saying a word. He wouldn’t tell me, but my face must have shown my concern because he finally broke the silence by his name, the local displaced man had walked by and my lover ran to give him the rest of his cash. Mind you, he isn’t living in luxury— he just deeply feels for the underdog. I’m proud of him so I take my chances to speak of his own gospel in the way he lives his life.

We gave the woman the bread and I looked up and saw a statue of Mary above the church. We walked on. The previous night I’d scoured the internet for the perfect place to eat, search criteria was seafood with a view, it’s Genoa Italy after all! In floating around on google maps, a Mexican food place caught my eye. It’s a rarity, bless the Italian food, but I’m from southern California— there’s nothing better than a bean and cheese burrito with chips & guac. No reservation required, it was in an alley without a view, and it was perfect. We went in and were greeted by of course, a mural of Mary surrounded by lilies. The bright colored walls were nothing compared to the bright spirit of the owner, Desirae. I felt a kindred love for her I cannot explain, surely had a margarita, but it was more than that. I felt her heart. I felt her devotion to the feminine through the love of a home cooked meal in the honor of her mamacita. The place is called Taqueria Mamacita if you happen to be in Genova… we went there three times in the three days we visited. The second two times she was not there, and I wanted to tell her how she affected me, a real-life earth angel. I left behind a note on a napkin before heading off to return home. There was a flower shop we passed almost every walk that pressed its preemptive significance into me. Almost to the train station, we turned a corner and there Desirae was, dragging on a skinny Italian cigarette. We embraced and she noticed my sacred heart necklace and commented on how she had the same one. I knew she was a sister and the red tethered way that Mary weaves the souls of her other disciples is nothing short of cosmic. We are now connected and I’m happy to say I made my first real friend in Italy. Oddly, I have been reading the book Shantaram, and the night before, I had read a passage where a man had told a nonbeliever in a Godhead, how the universe works, he told the main character he was his son because he was supposed to have a son around his age and went on to describe how the quantum universe doesn’t linearize the material world… It had really struck a chord in me and as we were parting from Desirae, she says “I feel you are my long-lost daughter.” Somewhere out there in the fabrics of reality, I was, and I simply do not believe in “random chance.”

And finally, the greatest healing of all was in the worst bus ride home. We took a three-hour train ride to another train to a long bus ride. I’ve never gotten car sick before, but this day may have been the perfect storm. They say fear lives in your guts. I was realizing how afraid I’ve been in my body in reaction to onlookers and just how much the lack of safety lived in my electrical wiring. I tapped into the numb places that have caused me to attempt bodily control by way of starving and indulging. On the final bus, I doubled over, taking up two seats, trying not to yak, until I closed my eyes and went into a vision. I was given instructions on a book. My mind was so clear… yet my body was in utter pain. I heard let it pass and then began burping uncontrollably. I could not stop clearing energy for it felt more massive than the accumulation from my own life. It felt ancient and like I had the honor to withstand. I couldn’t even be embarrassed, burping on a bus, as I was so deep in a transmutation, my judgmental mind could only surrender. Finally, we got off and walked home. My boyfriend lives on the steepest hill in the whole valley and as we approached, I heard clear instructions to run up. My body was beyond exhaustion, but I pounded my feet anyways, pushing everything in me, down into the earth, crying, hyperventilating, transmuting anger into sadness, setting it free before I reached the joy, as if it was every woman’s suffering inverting through my body but their joy to receive.

I had a similar reaction after seeing the woman on the street, we parted from her, and I could still feel her life’s textures as a tapestry overlaying over me. I could feel on my chest what it is she’s holding and for the brief moment I peered into her soul, it was almost unbearable. I asked Mary to help me move the energy as it did not uplift in an instant, asking to be honored and deeply felt. I had to accept the trauma to allow it to move. Tears rolled down my face, trying to hide the pain from the strangers and my boyfriend, drawing a cross over my heart. All of this followed by a moment to shame myself for thinking I could make a difference, calling myself crazy for feeling for a moment that my empathy was real and useful.

Finally showered and lying in bed after a long day’s travel, we started to kiss, and I felt the rage again. I wanted to fuck it out of me, I didn’t want to sit with it, I wanted it gone, de-throned, hollowed out… So, I did to my man what’s been done to me so many times— I used his body. However, his radar for authenticity was immediately signaled. He stopped us, and said where did you go, talk to me. Still moving my hips on him, I protested, I don’t want to talk, I want to feel. But I wasn’t feeling what was really there and he wouldn’t have it, pulling me into his arms until I cried. He listened while I told him everything about the statues, about the woman, about Mary Magdelene’s story, about how sensitive I feel and a little crazy, too, about the sacred rage, about all the men looking at me, about how I feel I cannot ignore this deep presence of the divine feminine in my life, how she guides and shakes me… pouring out every last drop of my truths elixir.

He took pause, digested, and without a word, gestured I lay down next to him, he helped me put my clothes back on, tucked me in a blanket, and simply placed his hands— one on my heart and one on my hip. Then he just looked at me with love in his eyes. I felt his hands light up like electricity, I felt waves undulate my spine and the breath in my body bringing light to where it was needed. I felt healed. He said, just receive. And I did. When we broke the silence again, I felt love restored so then of course, I wanted to make more of it. To replace the pain with pleasure. Again, he said, just receive, pinning my arms down, making me close my eyes, now just feel, kissing down my body into every cell.

I am understanding sacred union. I fill up and he helps me empty. I dance and he holds the space. The safest I’ve ever felt is when he holds me in his arms and for once I don’t have to think but feel. He is my comforter and protector, and I am his oracle and creatrix. This is the archetypal relationship dynamic I see being remembering everywhere at this sacred time of earth’s rebirth. For women to not know Mary’s Lost Herstory is to deny History. Love is not two halves of a whole but two firm pillars. A tower and the light that dances on the ocean’s surface.

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11-hour flight ending, hovering over Los Angelos, collective rage washed over me peering at the scarred hillsides, the perfectly burned sections of the palisades where generations of Angelinos displaced for land developer’s luxuries. I think of the America I was sold as a kid, a melting pot, a place where dreams came true if you worked hard enough. I watched two old Hollywood films on the plane, back when paramount and MGM were creating the first motion pictures with sound, and what a revolutionary process… and now, in the time my grandmother went from adolescent to crone— have movies gone from 5 cents to $30 at one of those hyper fancy spots where you push a button and food arrives, and the seats vibrate to the action. And all of it catering to fantasy, to escapism. Because we were sold a dream and most of our parents will never see the fruit of their labor. Good hearts do not matter, and God forbid we possess an unhealthy heart because that will not be covered by insurance. Education has enslaved us and freedoms are being stripped every day.

I find myself feeling, at any one time, the entire spectrum of rage. I grieve for the people while I subconsciously think well thank God I’ll get married to an Italian citizen one day soon. I feel hatred toward the administration for their wars and violence while I imagine the whole place burning, I don’t consider their families, or legacies, I put them all in a box and label it evil and wish for wrathful chaos. Inside me is a darkness that I cannot singe. A darkness I could label as righteous, but it is poison to me, nonetheless. It keeps me in bed for days, it keeps me from my power and so the enemy still wins. The path is to remember love. The path is to appreciate that it is finally spring, and that life does blossom, creation always cycles. Unto the earth, this section of the immeasurable time is but a cell. Unto the earth she will always balance herself. I am to trust, to smile, to share my offerings, to sing, to dance, to grieve such as the ancestry of the land protectors in every culture. Every being traces back to sun and moon worshippers. I am to be grateful.

Here is a song of hate and love that poured out of me in one long string (no edits. This is how it came out with me and my little guitar.)

velvet revolver

it’s a darkness

I want the blood on the walls

I say I’m sweet, but I have rage

and I want you to pay for your mistakes

I’ll spit out fire

my eyes, they’re daggers

and I want the earth to rise and I want hell to fall on you

I don’t have much but my blues

I hold on to my tears like they’re brand new

but I’ve been cryin’ over the same old shit

because I feel so fucking powerless here

I turn on the news and it’s a hell house

I look outside and I have a little hope

but then I see all of the concrete

and I want my head in the sand you see

cause it hurts, it hurts, it hurts

to see what we’ve done

forgetting that we are the gardeners

and forgetting that we are here to love one another

and they say hippies use the backdoor

but darlin’ i’m gonna burn the whole house down

I want more the love of God

I want less for my self

but somehow, I need harmony

cause my bones are aching

ooooh ooooh ooooh

I want my ghost to haunt you so

I want my ghost to haunt you

will you make a fool of yourself

will you show yourself in the light, please

the love is suffocating without

the glory of God in our bodies

without the glory in the land

I want it to be, ya I want it to be set free

for everyone under the sun

so, we have to worship the moon

Comment if you want the video recording.

Sincerely, thank you, all of you, for your hearts and connecting to mine. It is so profoundly encouraging to find all of the like-minds here on this sacred platform.

Grazie, Merci, thanks.

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A sensual poem & reading dripping in scarlet hot frustration and raw ravenous love.

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The first morning in Paris I woke up early to see the Sacred Couer église. Her high ceilings and stained glass emitted the presence of feminine love despite all the counter intuitive acts within the religious sectors. There, a sanctity and sense, I was marrying myself. I wrote poetry on her steps, I wrote poetry watching the horses out train windows in the french countryside, and I made love to my own sacred heart by listening to her, letting her guide my steps. My viscera was my compass and my body a temple. Finding my body longs. Her high tits and bright eyes wants the whole world to be mine. Funny as a face, the light of love has a way of bringing me to my knees in quiet desperation, a special kind of sin to admit. Surely for every moment I spend in bliss, finds her balance underneath the forest floor. I curved around the lake on that perfectly lonely day in the dichotomy of pure love, walking in my young heroes phantom grace, in my platform sneakers from a street vendor in India, my checkered suit jacket I thrifted to be like the Parisian girls in their shoulder pads and nylons, opening to the depth of myself. Each petal fighting to see the sun, afraid to wilt, experiencing the mystery of holding love and sorrow. Here. Now. Exists. All. And. Nothing.

I rested under a pepper tree, my limbs seeping into the ground as the water in my body drifted to the bottom of the lake. There at the bottom of my sacred heart was the sea, she keeps my secrets protected from the forefront of my mind. I walk with no end in sight. I am a butterfly because it hurts to land. I want to land on spider lilies and ranunculus, not my shadows, but everywhere are parts of me to reclaim. Tangled in my blue jeans, under my skin, I keep myself hidden to keep myself safe. I became a woman and was crucified for it. Be a good girl. Be beautiful. Don’t be too smart. Men are just men, they can’t help themselves. Timid is ladylike. And God forbid you act in rage, dance like everyone’s watching. Don’t you dare desire to fuck, only to be fucked. The walk back to the train station was through le Coye-la-Forêt and it was there, with no witnesses but the wisdom of old trees, I surrendered to the mercies of pain. I ran. I pounded my delicate steps until they were thunderous. I felt every wrongful touch, hazardous lust, primal urgency to control me— spilling. Angry like the ocean, in an undertoe of always being in the undertone, when I am a bright étoile. I came to earth to be sensual, sophisticated, a stormy, precious priestess. I stride in the steps of queens. I cannot be afraid of my glory. I will not cater to anyone for one day longer because soon I’ll be sinking into the dirt, my bones returning to the earth. We are all as timeless as Audrey Hepburn in a little black dress and pearls.

To be a woman is to be all and nothing. Waves of grace, graves and waves of rage are often all at once. Multidimensional sacredness is for prostitutes and princesses. In this truth, all woman are fatale and angels, in this thirst and quench, we are all sisters. None better, none worse. Some might détesté me, praying to die in my lovers arms, yet I’ll rest in the peace. I’ve never intended harm even if I’ve fucked up love. Today in a little cafe in Italy, in my reflections of that dream I’m still waking from, I love my unbecoming. I’m both vixen and prophet, and I can only pray the man I prayed for at that castle in France, desires my mess forever, but in my heart is a silent permission that if one day he wakes up and thinks nothing of me, I’ll still be eternal. Loved and lover devastated and pretty forever.

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