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I am the Fire.

I took the #48 bus down to the end of the line and embarked on a little hike (beautiful! In the city! Smells and sounds and soft greens and browns. Solitude.) down to Golden Gardens, to the ocean. Mother Ocean, Yemaya, Kwan Yin, Aphrodite, the Waterfey (Mermaids). I am soothed and smoothed like riverstones. I needed to be near you, Mama.

How can I serve you today, Goddess (LifeForce)? Just focusing on me is not enough. I’m here to serve. I’ve always known that. Feet in damp sand, skin brushed clean by salty breezes, blue eyes drinking in blue waters. We Are One.

Walking along the footpath to get to this little semi-secluded section of beach, I suddenly remembered how I used to go walking alone in the cemetery in my Kansas hometown. I craved the Quiet. I loved the shady gravel road, the flowers and trees, the sense of peace and rest. I spent a lot of time in that cemetery.

Great Mother, when I asked for time and space for dreaming, my prayer was answered. This I have. Now I come to you and open my arms to receive your physical blessings of money and resources. Still with time and space for dreaming. I am happy to climb into the Womb of Night, to rest, to incubate. With Imbolc, I will be initiated into the next leg of the journey. May it be revealed during the Dreamtime of winter. I know you will sustain me. I am open and ready to receive your gifts!

I come to this place where earth, water and air meet and realize that I am the Fire.

I am the Fire.



There are things I want to say to you but cannot, because in the freshness of this rift, my sweetwords come out acidic, no matter my intent. This I want you to know: I have loved you. I love you.

I have decided that Meridian Avenue (the street we endlessly traversed, on foot) needs to be demolished. Or, eschewing that kind of violence, it might simply vanish. Also, the bus stop at 90th and Aurora has to go. Nevermind that it’s where I catch the bus, day in and day out. That little corner is just too painful to bear surviving. 

Additonally, I would like to request the removal of all bicycles from Seattle city proper. Let us walk. There can be lingering and eye contact among the citizenry, and perhaps whistling. Let the absence of bikes on the streets echo the silence of my living room wall, bereft without the contact of your bicycle’s chattering gears. Let the silence descend.

Somehow strange objects have found their way into my bookwormed home and cause me no end of grief: protein drinks, nutritional supplements, free weights, fitness magazines. I am issuing a ban on all sports-related equipment and accoutrements.

I discovered your bottles of Pepsi in the refrigerator and wept into the coffee-colored pools they made in the kitchen sink. I still don’t drink soda.

I thank you for the stray bits of clothing: the chocolate polar fleece, the grape-striped thermal, the tomato vest (with embedded reflectors–again with the bicycles). I hope you won’t mind that they’ve become my Uniform, that I greedily snuffle my nose into these items when no one is looking (when I am not looking), in search of you and the sparks we threw. I crave the tang of your flesh but flee your ghostly traces in the streets we knew.

I am a woman riddled.

Fire and Water

There is still a lingering sadness in my Claire corner. We’ve been communicating via voicemail messages only. Can I have fire AND water? Can I have fire and water? Can I have fire and water? (Firepassionheatsparkssexalchemyflameshungerdragons~~~




What is FireWater? An intoxicant–good and delerious in the short term with disastrous effects when taken too far or too close (toomuchinsidetoomuchgushingwoundstoomuchsmother).

I woke up today with fear and tears and rocked myself and asked the angels to curl their wings protectively around me and asked jesus to come radiate and place his gentle hand on my shoulder and asked the faeries to come and flutter and hover and giggle around me and of course asked the Goddess to let me crawl up into her ample lap and nestle into her cloud-pillow softness and be my Mama, my Mama, my Mama.

Pinches of terror at the thought of my long-overdue electric bill and internet bill and other bills and no work or not enough, anyway and what am I to do? What is the next indicated step? So I prayed and cried and prayed and cried and meditated and did my energywork and fed my Munay-ki seeds and caressed my sweet hair and face and just tried to surround myself with DeepLove.

Now my socks and shoes and pants are drenched from torrential rains that have washed and shook Seattle throughout the night and into the morning and

I Remember Water.

Is this my blessing, Goddess? My baptism? I anointed myself with oil this morning. Is this the receiving of a sacrament?

“Now, child. Move in deeper. Snake around these rocks and boulders like a winding river. Carry your salmon and driftwood. Keep moving, just falling naturally into crevices and pooling–whirlpooling and flowing without fear into your vortexes–knowing that I await on the other side with an afghan, a rocking chair, and freshly-stoked fire. This is your Fire and Water. Let yourself be cleansed. Shake your shaggy head and see your graceful movement, the dancing of your harmonies. Know that I am the music.”  —-The Goddess

Parked. Writing.

I want to get quiet now and just listen to the rhythms around me. It would be a fine day to sit by the water. There are teens in Westlake Square dressed for play–like bumblebees and mad hatters and, of course, vampires. But it’s a hard, rock candy kind of play. Petulant bravery, multicolored hair, childhood stretched thin and droopy like taffy. Or maybe I’m just remembering my own teenage years. I remember a toughness. How many of these kids come from nests made sharp and spiky by alcoholism or just general lovelessness? Our cultural polarization is perpetuated by extreme individualism–the isolation born of the breakdown of community. We come into a world that we’re told is Cruel and Harsh, El Mundo Malo, and so we carve ourselves into little glittering pieces of diamond, poised to turn our beautiful shimmer to the task of cutting glass. Poised to cut, if necessary. Justifying violence (all KINDS of violence) out of an ill-placed sense of self-defense. Perceived attacks all around.

But how SEISMIC a shift can take place when just one exchange becomes pregnant (pregnant as in on the verge of birthing) with Presence! With each light of awakening into consciousness, more lights flare up from the dim hallways of dense, dualistic thinking. The heavy footfalls of sleepwalkers turn to careful (as in full of care, full of attention) padding. Like the shaman in my friend’s dream said: “Tread lightly on the earth that trembles.” And leave some room for the intermittent joyful freedom of skipping!

And as I write this, pausing now and then in irritation at the actions of those around me (small things like cigarette smoke and loud voices and other distractions), I ask myself: AM I BEING PEACE?

What would it take to BE the change I wish to see in the world, Gandhi?

All day, I’ve come across things that people have left: a bicycle loosely propped against the 5th Avenue columns beneath the Monorail; a woman’s handbag left on the stone steps of Westlake Square; a navy blue sweatshirt carelessly trailed and eventually dropped by someone in the mall lavatory. What if we began dropping our belongings, one by one, scattering them randomly around the city, letting go of the ways our egos have gotten a precious foothold in a fixed subjectivity, a “Me Only” universe?

Be Container. Be Water.

Listening to the woven cacophony of rush hour 5th and Pine. There really is rhythm here. Loudly chattering teenagers, dogs barking, screeching of tires, hissing of airbrakes, high keening of seagulls, a constant rumble of trucks and buses. Clicking of bicycle gears, flicking of lighters, fluttering rapping and rasping of pigeonwings. A kid asking all teenage passersby if they can “spare a cigarette.” Horns honking. The wooden-sounding rolling of skateboards–makes me think of planked boardwalks and the spinning of roulette wheels. Engines gunning. Life is a stage.

I come here to write.

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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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