I hold your death in my hands, and that's OK. Ghosts and devils and rabbits... oh my! Take off your glove, and let the spirit out of the jar. It's here to stay. They all dance around your head and on your table. I will say No to all that does not align, and I will welcome the spark that hides behind it. My home is in your heart, and my heart rides on the coattails of one of these spirits. Magic can be dark or light... Magic can be contained or released. Magic can be inside or out. It's all here. It's all laid out on the table. I'll get dressed up together with you, and I will take you to my church on Sunday. Let's hold hands and go together.

I look in the mirror and only see myself, but my true self. I feel alive, only 25. Or perhaps 65. Somewhere in between. The energy of youth is still hidden in the reflecting pond, but the wisdom of life continues to age me. I grasp tightly to the roses, only to be pricked by the thorns. I have caged the bird, but only a feather remains. What makes this life? Is there such a thing as true freedom? I write. I don't write. I write. In the mean time, the cob webs form in every corner of the room, and perhaps in my mind as well. But without cob webs, there is no spider, and the spider weaves the webs. The spider creates. The spider can not be caged.

The shadows are within us. We look for the pearl, but the pearl is there, too. How do we open our eyes when our eyes are in the shadows? We look within. Everything on the outside is out of our control. The only thing we control is our character. We can write, we can think, we can talk, we can share, we can contemplate. We must caution ourselves against the distractions of the modern world. I wonder how different the modern distractions are from the old ones? Ding ding ding ding ding. Bang bang bang bang bang. It never stops, but it never has. I hope some day it will. I open my eyes and look into the shadows. I open my eyes from within the shadows. I put my eyes inside a jar. I put my teeth inside a jar. I float upon the ocean, and I hope that I can channel something worth reading onto the page. Will I ever be like her? No. But I hope one day I can be like me.

My speed is unknown. It's naturally fast. I like to go. I like to do. I like to be. I like to make.  But lately, not at all. Lately, I've been still and frozen and stuck. Lately, I've been scared. Lately, I've been trying but failing. I can't say I've really made any forward movement in years. Except maybe lately. A little. Hard maybe. So many people are always talking to me. Messages to reply to. Hunting down the help I need. It's chaotic. The pulling, the pressing, the sounds from so many directions. I want to be forward momentum. I want to be brave. I want to be calm. I want my nervous system to be regulated. I want to be free. I want to be alone. I want to be together. I want. Despite this wanting, I feel hope. I feel hopeful that I can move beyond the noises and chaos. I feel hopeful I can create. I feel hopeful I can heal. I feel hopeful I can be healed.

This house is so dark. The chandeliers feature upside-down-pointing fake candle flames. They are incandescent, which you can't even buy anymore in California, but there is a stockpile here. They burn out all the time. They pop when they burn out. And then it's 10-20% darker (depending on the room; the living room has two chandeliers with 10 "flames," the bedrooms have one chandelier each with 5 "flames," and the kitchen has a measly 3 "flames.") There is stained glass on the windows, too. So it's even dark during the day. And yet... and yet! The blackout curtains in the windows (not stained glass) in the bedrooms don't work!!! So, in the wee hours of the morning, you also can't make them dark enough!

I can't swallow pills anymore. I also can't tolerate the smell of laundry detergent or dishwasher detergent or scented lotion or scented shampoo or most other scented body or household products anymore. I also can't talk for very long anymore (not my normal history as an extroverted extrovert). Quite frankly, I can't even extrovert that well anymore! I can't eat leftovers anymore. I can't eat food that "doesn't appeal" to me anymore. I can't wear uncomfortable shoes anymore. I can't wear tight clothes. I can't wear not-soft clothes anymore. I can't listen to loud sounds anymore. This sensory intolerance feels like a message from the universe, but I'm not sure what it is.

I fell in love with Aubrey Plaza when I saw her in The Little Hours. The friend I watched the movie with assumed I knew who she was, but I didn't yet. Not yet, anyway. As a "dysfunctional nun" who tries to join a coven of witches, I was disturbed at how relatable her comment was, along the lines of "Well, I just thought that I could start my own coven and then you could all come and be witches with me." I loved how the movie made fun of the patriarchy and the double standards of the church. I loved how the movie tapped into the human condition of wanting (what we want might vary, but want, we do). I love how the movie made fun of the whole of history all of its contradictions.  Was she a villain? There is a sub-thread of the movie built on the assumption that she was a villain, or perhaps possessed by satan, but a "bad guy" in some way, shape, or form. And in the end, she was punished for many offenses, although the punishment wasn't too great, because the man in charge was also sinning. But I don't see her as a villain. I see her as a woman striving to leave behind society's constraints and make her life better, and she's doing the best she can with what she has to work with. Personally, I was inspired!

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(It says "download file" but most browsers actually stream it...some may require you to download first, though I've never personally experienced that.)

Find out the difference between a ghostwriter and a writing coach and how each path can help you become an author! And, of course, which one I can do for you ;)

P.S. It usually says "download" but most browsers actually stream the audio.