Light wash jeans, O.H.I.O

Last night I has a dream about you,in New Zealand.

I was doing something in the dirt, probably planting as I often do in dreams,but I was watching you playing with someone or something and I woke up overcome by how happy I am for you,how proud of your life I am, in spite of how we don’t and maybe can’t communicate. It’ll be seven years since we last really saw one another and more than 10 since we met .

Some days on bikes across bridges in fogs or at long benches in neon-lit watering holes were I only write but no longer drink,I feel the ghost of us,planning big things you managed to carry out and then so much more,and I am happy. I’m sorry we each broke the other’s heart because we were water and air that made a hurricane.

I’m still not healthy like I wish I was. my insides of my brain were born sad, and my back pain looks like the *gosh darn night sky. Twenty doctors later,they still can’t give me a solid one answer,just a laundry list of physical issues, seemingly floating in isolation. I know my getting sick was hard on you and I remember that tribal scream as old as the place your blue eyes came from. I never stopped hurting,I just got better at hiding it,keeping few friends and plenty of people who think they know me as I lean across the service side of a bar,or have a conversation from the driver’s seat of Lyft.

We could’ve been better to each other. We could’ve been more honest,both of us,but mostly me,the Best and The Worst thing.

I forgive you for pushing me to do the thing I’d have done anyway. You were right about how hard it was on me,and I hated you for how hard it was on my soul. It’s a hard choice to make, and you took the choice part away. I’m not sad for what we did,just how it went.

I’ve been a few people since then. All of them are proud of you, Kyle.

I’m moving to Sweden in August with my husband, leaving behind the only city who ever loved me as much as I loved it, and maybe that’s why you make wine in my dreamscapes right now, because I never got the goodbye down with you. I don’t day goodbye.

Maybe we’ll see each other another place,maybe not. Here’s to your life, hopefully full of blessings.


New Media

My bones hold the secrets of who I could have become had I not tucked my rebellion behind a bitten tongue. There is black in my marrow from the rage, a sort of noble rot, I’m sure. I spent my youth in a prison of pretend meekness and dimmed inner light, prostrate to an angry god created to control and punish those who dared find another voice. The meek do not inherit the earth; but the observant , the kind , the strange ones that have the power of the sun locked in their secret heart, carry the whole of the ocean in their thermos.
The quiet men with wills like oak and faces like moonstones.
The clever, the trickster, the daughters with many faces and souls full of all the magic they can swallow, we know the earth hangs in the sky, and is the birthright of no one.
If I had daughters, they would know the universe is the companion of the thoughtful, the kind, and the brave. That no religion demanding the silence of women is valuable,that your body is a temple only to your spirit, and lovers will make offerings freely. Meekness is the lie of weak men and arcane gods who will be forgotten in the footsteps of those who need no masters but the wisdom of a living earth and their own souls .


I didn’t grow up eating sugar. It wasn’t something I was allowed to consume for a variety of reasons, one of them being that my household is incredibly strict in strange ways. A taste for it wasn’t something I developed until about three years ago , and that just meant a pack of Starburst here and there, maybe some sugar in my coffee but usually not.

Then… I gave up drinking about a year ago and my sugar consumption skyrocketed.

My body produces very little dopamine and seems to be hell-bent on finding anything that will stimulate the release of that precious chemical to make me feel alive. According to research, people low and dopamine crave sugar. So, I’m like, pounding gummy bears, Jelly Bellies, Starburst. Anything high-sugar and fruit flavored that I can get my hands on. It’s way extra at this point.

I have to let it go, but I will give myself the allowance for a pack of Starburst here and there, because I genuinely love that shit like a friend. It’s my ride or die candy, ever since I smelled a Starburst wrapper as a kid.

Giving up alcohol was hard. It was an absolute necessity but it was incredibly difficult. Giving up sugar is likely to be just as difficult, so cross them digits for me, y’all.

I more or less made some New Year’s resolutions: I’m not going into list format with this but:

2018 was the year that I tremendous effort and painful, precious time diving into myself; understanding what I believe, who I am, where my magic comes from. I accepted that spirituality and maybe even religion are important to my life, and I’m creating my own path as a spiritual person, as a pagan, as a Jew. I am reconciling myself with the pain that I experience in my body and the front that it might never go away. I have accepted the way that trauma has shaped my mind, and I am working to forge new synaptic pathways. I worked very hard to understand how to communicate with my husband better. I reconnected with my closest friend after a terrible friend break up about 2 years ago.

2019 is the year of implementation and change. There are people in my life who see my past and remind me that that is who they think I am. To that I’m going to say, I will not allow your opinion to become my reality. I am creating my changes, regardless of your desire to see them. This year I’ve chosen to live in my own power and have my own life ordered the way that works for me

So yeah, goodbye sugar, goodbye complaining about where I live, goodbye revolving my world around other people.

Hello, change and the implementation thereof. Hello, going to synagogue. Hello meditation, welcome, goal of reading 50 books a year. Come through, looking at my body in the mirror with love instead of hate or resignation . Hello, finding effective ways of protesting and resisting the current government. Welcome expanding my horizons and stretching out more into San Francisco. I’m also just going to not hide aspects of who I Am anymore, in order to facilitate connection with other people.

Now, I’m going to drink my coffee out of my Starbucks mug, covered in Portland coffee shop stickers and read my Chuck Palahniuk book. After rush hour starts, I’ll start driving Lyft.

Have an excellent day, you fabulous motherfuckers. Stay golden. And get the hell away from my Starburst or I will cut you.

“Power can be taken, but not given. The process of the taking is empowerment in itself.”

That’s Gloria Stienem.

Darlings, The government we’re under encourages and stirs up devisions between us all, and we become too blinded by our differences(real and imaginary) to see the transformation of an attempted Democracy into a fascist regime. This is not new or particulaly clever, the lies are just less covert,lazier,dumber.

There is no attempt made at faking honesty now. Satire is more honest than any a state of the Union Address,but that is usually the case.

This is not normal. Repeat with me, love. This is not normal. We are skipping towards fascism, and I’d encourage you to stop the thinking “if the dems can blah, armpit fart noise, things will change.” There’s no ‘Left” left. It is centrist garbage,and when people say otherwise, they’re labeled as divisive. The parties are nearly the same. Are we One country, undivisible, or snarling dogs that feast on the on scraps under tables and die crushed by medical debt, blaming the party we aren’t aligned with? Have we forgotten the power should be in our hands? Did we ever believe we had it? Black men are powerless before a system created to oppress them, women have only had any Real political power since the mid-60s IF THAT,and really, we’re still nearly voiceless. Our lives are in the hands of men who have only their own best interest at heart.

Jack weinberg said “never trust anyone over thirty” and Revolution belongs to the younger. Thirty used to mean a stable income, a care, a home, a family. Thirty is just as hungry as twenty, now. Revolution belongs to those who fight the past with fresh ideas. Generation Z, I’m with you. It’s you that can wrench this country from the hands of decrepit old white men. And we, the mellenians, we’ve read the books, tuned in and dropped out and taken tear gas for the right to choose, the right to occupy public spaces and fight for the rights of all genders. We missed our childhoods and the Crash left us underemployed and forever fighting the man, and now we are an army of men and women with backs like old women from hard work and no health care. We listened to the writings of the reformers before us, because we sought them out. We wrote now revolutionary texts. We have more responsibility to changing this country because we have the anger being a generation of Lost Boys, baristas with highest education,bartender and vigilantes, forever renting and crushed by debt and witnessing the death rattle of the American dream. We support you, the ones just now 16,18, younger. Rewrite the morals, rectify the nation. Run for office. Win. It’ll be rough, but metamorphosis always is.

I am the grandchild of immigrants who were rounded up like dogs by regimes the people supported. My blood boils and remembers things my mind can’t. The blood always knows. It bubbles inside you with generational rage that the ghosts of our mass-graved dead hear from across the ocean, or rumbles in forgotten mounds all across this united country built on the white bones of the original owners.

(Can a stolen country stand on bones so long before it crumbles)

This is the country my grandparents warned would come,and I will fight division and lies with vision and unity, education and planned protest,art and love,and when the need arise, I will fight the way the time calls for. Every act of love is defiance. Every kindness is a blow to fascist control. Sometimes, actual blows are what is needed. Wait for the time for that, however. Control is stronger than fervour. The Revolution can be digital. Organization is stronger than riots.

Satire is powerful, and mind expansion is a tool to mental freedom. Never let them tell you what to think,or how. There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception, belive that.

One nation, indivisible. Call whatever gods you want, that’s your choice. Mostly, hail yourself.

everything is endless

I think I need to take you to highway 1. Come for the trees, stay for the living moments beween the leaves and the sunlight.  You’ve told me you don’t see the way that I do, but I do believe you can. You can smell me inside your hear,clear as if I were next to you, what else can you do you haven’t touched on yet?
I was unlocked by the wind whispering old words in trees, and I suspect your heart is in every wave in the ocean, and you can walk around this blue green rock and never be alone because of that connection.  I’ll take you to talk to the ocean. 

Then, Talk less, because I’ll take you to where I see “god”. I don’t believe the gods are ours, I don’t think they’re a power to “envoke”, but the endless voices of  now and then and never,emboidied in ways we’ll recognise: Enegy and spirits older that time showing up when they’re needed most.

Everywhere on this known earth has gods on every bit of land. I like to think each culture that came though our own new Colossus carried in charms and pots and lace the gods exiled with them in the name of “progress”.
(A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles)
Personally,  have a suspision a few made it out to this  Currently -united state’s golden side in 1959 en masse whisperin’in ears of burning blind, hysterical minds the thoughts we needed in the ryrthm of the times, Anthems and chants to start revolutions,  I suspect there were as many gods in black leather jackest and black Ray bans, aiding the Party of Self Defense againts the hate-twisted words of an old book made legislation by men with no mind to what god(s) really meant.
Whenever a prophet is murdered in his own country, A journalist marytered for reporting on human rights violations, there they are in the midst.
I suspect gods stood in tienemen square, suspect they burned with arms wrapped around monks who sent the odor of commitment and sacrifice to the sky.
God met me out there in the woods one time and I wonder if he hung around. He wasn’t a solid thing but raining light voice and he opened up all my eyes until I saw for endless days and only seconds.
Don’t figure They’re the kind of thing that stays in one place very long, or  stays one thing very long. The last time I saw Them, they were crossing the street and the middle of Santa Cruz, walking a pitbull. Another time, they were a little girl who know me from the last time she was a little girl. I didn’t know her at all. 
I do not know that there are gods, my darling. I do know my own belifes, my own life. I suspect there exixst more in the Spaces between that we have words for. 
 There is no hyperbole to what I am about to say.
I was possibly 12, angry, walkman,pants with a velvet dragon on them. I believed in nothing, maybe less.
I saw a man pass me  on my left. I look in his face and saw eyes like worlds on worlds, blue hollow worlds,and as he passes, I watched him walk away, and then he was gone.
Gods or no, there’s more that we can put names to.
 Find a new word for god. demystify the mysteries through communication.
listen to yourself.
I know nothing.
So do you.

Older names

In one of the beginnings of a world and time that may or may not be this one, something saw fit to assemble me, and I can only guess (given the nature of the universe) a few others with an odd collection of extra bones, memories not our own, and eyes that see beyond the world of most.

Someone poured the wind inside me instead of breath and give me a heart deeper than the sea, and broken as a shipwreck.

If woman was made from Adam’s ribs then I am no woman and am made from the backbone of some other-gendered thing. While I have no doubt I have a soul, I have a deep and enduring suspicion that half of it is wandering around without me like the shadow of Peter Pan, while pieces of other Souls leave their memories of screen doors and architecture and faces I’ve never seen, inside my head.

At night I dream of crows and strangers ask me the directions to a place they assume I know and I’ve dreamed the dreams enough to be afraid to ask myself why I have the answers and know the way.

There’s no guide book for explaining the sensation of feeling spread out across places and times. I’m beginning to wonder if there are no gods anymore because perhaps they spread their souls out among the people with no explanation. No matter what mythology you choose, the gods never think too carefully about the consequences, do they.

Whatever made me gave me a heart that is spread out across every city in every corner of the world, strung together by a silver cord I wrap around around around as I struggle to collect its pieces in alleyways and cityscapes and in the eyes of those who shine out fluorescent-like when everyone else’s seems to be lit by Edison bulbs.

When I was younger I used to say my head was too full, and a glow would start in my chest and explode through the top of my head and I swore that I would break apart, and often wished I would. I saw things at night that only children’s hearts know the real names for; old things that are the antique reason all humans fear the dark. Eventually I learned to pretend I didn’t see them.

When I was younger I knew I held the winds inside me, and maybe something else that made my mother believe the devil could be pulled out of me by men who likely slept at night never seeing anything but the back of their own eyelids. There is no devil so far as I can see,but In my experience, Pious men hold the devil inside them far more often than not.

At the age I am now (younger than my tongue, but older than my teeth) I believe in everything and nothing. I see and watch everything and pretend that I don’t. (I am not an oddity To be collected)

Maybe I stand with one foot in this world and part of the other somewhere else. I have few answers which is still more than I had and I will never run out of questions. I know this,

We are more than we have been told and less alone than we have been led to believe, and one doesn’t have to stare into the abyss in order for it to turn it’s gaze your way.

I am a broke-down temple with no gods to speak of, but I (like you) am infinite.

I must admit that I’m inclined to isolate

My back pain feels like the night sky made of nerves. Sharp pangs come out of the blue, with no rythm, no pattern. It’s traumatic, and I’m not being dramatic when I say im afraid of my own body after so many years of this .” Shark week” makes it so much worse, and today I’m shaking in my legs because of it. I compulsively tug my hair, because somewhere along the way I developed that fucked up coping mechanism. It’s better than tugging out my eyelashes, like I used to. Pain eats into you, wraps you up in ribbons of anxiety that’ll trap you in your head. I do not enjoy hiding behind my anxiety or using it as an excuse. It’s an unwelcomed aspect of myself that I’ll do almost anything to hide. I’ve got what a former boss referred to as “resting nervous face”. My best friend lives 45 minutes away from me. I drive down to see him about once a week, where he will make me a large glass of a disgusting tea that in about 30 minutes neutralizes any pain I have for about 2 hours. We don’t talk about what it feels like because we both know, and no one has to pretend they’re fine when they’re really not.

At its worst, I’ll sit almost immobilized, thinking jagged thoughts, staring into the middle distance. The anxiety I have with this pain tells me lies about my friendships, triggers my natural tendency to not share anything beyond the epidermis of my being and uncontrolled, it’ll spiral into self-loathing, remembrances of mistakes I’ve made, things I may have messed up, and I’ll take fault for things that aren’t mine to take Fault for.

I used to delete all my socials, stop returning texts. In person, I’d become sharp, turse, abrasive. That still happens, but I have to have it pointed out to me which I both hate and need.

I married a man who is incredibly brilliant, very logical,and very kind. He’ll do almost anything to help me find what I need to help myself not be in this kind of pain, but he doesn’t understand that so many of the negative things he dislikes about me stem from just years of coping without pain management or actual relief. I am filled with regret that he received a twisted version of me and lately, I’m struggling to feel good enough. I’m struggling to feel like I’m good enough to make up for my past mistakes. I am struggling to get through this post because I hate talking about this. I’ve developed some unusual coping mechanisms for dealing with my pain. I can visualize it at my own body. I can compress it, and try to move it to a place deeper inside myself that’s harder to reach.

I haven’t been comfortable in 12 years. It’s impossible to be prescribed medication at my age because everyone is afraid of the addictive properties of medications that actually work effectively. I don’t fucking care if the medication is a Band-Aid. Sometimes you need a fucking Band-Aid.

Do you understand what happens when you don’t treat people with chronic pain? You end up with dead people.

Do you understand how hard it is to be listened to as a woman with pain? It took me 10 years before someone actually did an MRI of my back. I have to permanently atrophied spots on my back from an idiot Doctor who decided to treat me for fibromyalgia instead of fucking listening to me. Everyday that this is beyond my control, I become furious and then I hide it, because no one wants to see an angry woman. Not everyday is like this. I love my life and I love the people in it. But underneath everything that you see is an explosion in a collection of tattooed and fragile bones.

Militant dandelion

I’m standing at the top of Bishop’s Peak, eating a mango like an apple. My backpack is painted in dust with a suggestion pasted to it suggesting correctly that (for me) ‘death can wait’. I am crusted in dirt and a sunscreen resemblent of a thick, white paste not unlike like Elmer’s Glue. I’m basically in my underwear, drinking a tepid combination of water and sugar free monster from a canteen covered with stickers bearing slogans about feminist topics and one or two from the Airfield Supply Company, Twitter, and various breweries. I look like freckled, happy Delores Park Trash. The beautiful blonde Cal Poly kids that started the same time as me, just reached the summit and look like death, with their collapsed and sunburned little shoulders.

I feel great. I could keep going, like a small, disheveled mountain sprite .


I made it down.

On the descent, the rocks were too hot to touch and the dirt radiated heat back up at me, like an asshole. An asshole complicit with the sun.

I need food.

Bishop’s Peak, you’re a beautiful thing.

Cymbalta: a terrible party for your brain. Also, cat litter.

A few months back, a doctor placed me on Cymbalta as part of a course intended to help alleviate some of the nerve and back pain, because I am not living my best life with this ish.

This is the previously mentioned doctor of the rather pretty Russian accent who told me I had fibromyalgia. I very likely do not have fibromyalgia, but do have severe spinal issues.

So of course the Cymbalta worked wonderfully and a great impact on my mental well-being. Right?

Well fuck no, it didn’t work for anything barring me flatulating so so so so much that I had to run all over the place at work in order to not just have a giant stink Cloud around me. (That is the least favourable Cloud to have surrounding you when bartending, BTW.) It also interacts SO BADLY with alcohol. So. Bad.

Ive spent 2 months tapering off of Cymbalta, first going from 60 down to 30, then staying on 30 and coming off. The withdrawal. From this medication is absolutely nightmarish:

here’s a fact-checked article about some of the side effects, many of which I am experiencing.

Just, For the Love of fuck, if your doctor suggests Cymbalta for whatever reason, Especially if she suggests flippantly, then insists that it will definitely work off-label for some unrelated shit, run like fuck You Beautiful bitch because this is garbage.

Speaking of garbage:

My little tabby, Hermes, just walked up my back as I write this from a somewhat tortured version of child’s pose. I now have blue bits kitty litter gently sprinkled on my back. Litter boxes are garbage. There has to be a more effective way of not constantly having your house covered and a thin layer of crystals that may have cat piss on them. Someone desperately needs to invent a better litter box.

I’ve not been very good at writing anything at all lately. My brain isn’t working at top speed, and I honestly have a lot of stuff to do. That last line is a frequently used excuse for not writing. If you want to write, you’re going to write. I just have to get better at making myself, and somehow finding a way to do it whilst Cymbalta withdrawal throws a terrible terrible party in my brain.

Tonight I’m headed over to dinner at a friend’s house with my husband, and in the morning on Saturday, I’m driving to San Luis Obispo to hike and experience an actual Beach.

” Well, doesn’t the San Francisco Bay Area have beaches?”Is something I imagine you asking…

Why yes, yes we do if you enjoy cold, somewhat rock-bedazzled beaches that are mostly for bonfires and walking dogs. San Francisco bay area beaches are pretty similar 2 East Coast beaches: Rocky, full of dogs(bonus) and really great for sitting, staring and pouting. Not so great for being half-naked and playing volleyball, which is the kind of beach that I like to interact with.

So. San Luis Obispo, because I want to be around warm nature, and also because I want to be alone and write a tonne of words that I’ll probably delete.

All right. I have to pack. I love you, and remember:

Dissent is patriotic, organization is key to proper Revolution, and for fucksake, don’t climb the Statue of Liberty, that does literally nothing.


There are two instances where I believe it’s totally acceptable to create or experience your own reality: one is your spiritual life, and the other is anytime you’re under the influence of hallucinogenic *medicines.

At all other points in time, Reality is the truth. Truth is based on facts.

We’re living in a world of our own creation, where facts are being twisted it is something utterly ridiculous, and a lot of times, I think we just go along believing them because we like the rhetoric. This is bullshit, friends.

Get the facts. Know them, remember the truth and hold the truth inside your soul.

Y’know.. Don’t believe the hype, to quote Public Enemy.

Right now the American government is attempting to create its own reality. It’s attempting to dictate the news. There’s a laundry list of things happening right now, and I’m not going to go into them, because that’s not my point right now.

We must continue to live in reality.


Be rational.

Act with our hearts open and our eyes clear.

I personally believe it’s my job to be the candle burning in the window and the light in a dark place. I’m still figuring out what that means in the middle of all this mess.

I love you, whoever you are, Wherever You Are.

Happy solstice. Remember to turn your face to the sun like a flower perhaps literally, but definitely figuratively.

* you’re not going to catch me referring to psychedelics or marijuana as drugs at any point in this blog.