When I smoke, when I drink, when I change the channel on these frequencies, it’s not that I don’t feel or think, it’s that there is a… … … distance and I dig it. There is an ability to be me exactly as I am without having to deal with that thang that I don’t know how to steer.

When I am sober, I am overcome. It is like waves. Energies. It occurs to me they could be coming from anywhere, from within or without, from the past or the present (though I never think of the future, it is possible, who knows). There is no (ehh) reasonable explanation for the knowledge of irrational empiricist. Things taken on faith cannot be met with doubt.

Difference between sober and fuckt up is this, besides the distance when I am fuckt up I generally have more sense. I know I have less control so I take greater care, or I go with my deepest instinct without a single fear. It’s easy, and so pleasant really, to be intoxicated. Except when I go over the line and my body says, S-S-Slow down.

But thas why all it is is weed and wine. Generally benign. Worst case scenario is I eat too much sugar and sleep a little more. I inadvertently discovered Xanax and while I see its ease and appeal, it’s just too damn deceptive for me to roll with. So I stick to the classics, the things I know best, because they allow me to be me and feel (can you believe this) safe…

That is it. Safety. What a tremulous thing. Last night while I could not sleep I realized the nature of it. Shape shifter, ever changing, we are and we are not, vulnerable, always vulnerable, always and yet…

It’s so much easier to be a lady of faith than a child of doubt. Doubt is fear and fear is fatalism, and I (smile) I still have that sickness of the heart. I’m in the most unusual place now, I think they call it purgatory. It is so odd to feel I’m traveling forwards through life by resolving my death as I undie right before my very eyes. Only the process is not linear, which makes it confusing at the best of times.

It recently occurred to me I only need courage when I am in fear, and as I acclimate to a new level, ohh how the fear shape shifts. What I thought I was most terrified of, what held me in its cold clutches for as long as I have been, no longer haunts me. Now look, new demons come dancing on in.

I read cards, Tarot cards, and I read them through the Tao and one day I pulled the card that stood for Dealing with Demons but I forgot which one and it no longer matters now. I had a revelation, kinda sad, kinda sweet, and it was that the demon is sickness, it is hurt and weak. It needs a hug. Imagine that. All the hideous horror that haunts needs is love. Imagine the courage it takes to embrace what you despise most in yourself. Props to Cat Marnell.

Ahh. This is where I am going. To Day Sixteen. As a writer, what are your biggest fears? How can you overcome them?

Fear floats like a demon of the deep. Sometimes it belongs to me, sometimes someone else dropped it off at my doorstep, willfully or thoughtlessly. Fear comes in waves that I feel so deep that there are times I feel myself get taken under by their gravity. I dig that this is the lesson of the level I have reached. Yemaya whispered it in my ear as I walked down Sixth Avenue last week, sick to my solar plexus with something I knew was not mine yet me, I’d vomit if I could but damn why wasn’t I eva bulimic like a good ol white girl?

There I was, walking easily two or three miles just to walk it off, ninety degree weather, sun at its highest peak, and me, I couldn’t feel the heat. Everyone around me was sweating, damp, dripping, but me I was dry as a bone, feeling my fingertips touch the clouds as my feet kept on. And in my ear Yemaya spoke to me. Surf. You must surf. You must learn to ride the waves.

And here it is that I am. Fall down nine times, get up ten. But this is not the answer to Day Sixteen, because I think it is this.

My fear as a writer is… the ineffable.

This is the best joke, it brings a smile to my face, for as a spirit and an energy, the ineffable is what I admire most. That which has the power to silence me with its ability to defeat the left brain, to render me without and beyond words. To Humble Me. Well, God, yeaa.

I love the ineffable so madly. It is what drew me to art. I know this intuitively. I know the feeling I have when those waves don’t hurt. When those waves are deep and intense and the feeling is profound and even if they ache, they do not have the power to cause fear because…

I don’t know. Ineffable ish. I can’t but I need to explain it. That’s why I write. And struggle. It is, that very fuckinn word. The struggle is my ego trying to dominate the conversation with its daemonic dance.

But I am blessed, in that I now see that I have the ability to think without words or without even consciousness. It is the way in which this works, the power of that which is never to be articulated. Sick. Sick and twisted. This need to speak what is not said. Not just to tell a story, because me, really, I don’t tell stories. I philosophize for kicks.

Which, ehh, really. I am infinitely fascinated by me but it reminds me of the first time I got smokt out and my hands left trails under the disco ball. And there was this awe that was matched by this banality. Two sides of the same coin and me, me, I need to write about it?


My fear is being unable to understand what the fuck is happening to me. Yes, I need to write it down, because writing, like speaking and listening, is my path to understanding. Thinking with words is not for me. But the true fear isn’t in the act of writing. It is what occurs before I sit down. It is the fear of what will be revealed—and what I will never find out.

And it is in this way that I do not write about Mr. Brown. Because, ohh, Part Two of my fear is equally profound. Should I articulate what I am searching for, should I be able to express love fully like the lotus that blossoms… Should I be able to simply be me, as I am, and in the face of my greatest fear and pain meet it with trust and love, oh (ouch) gosh, then I might have something real to lose. And believing this makes me a fatalist.

(Well, LA, you are right. I’ma give it up here and now.)

But then, that would be a choice and a choice has the ability to be unchosen. I could choose not to believe that there is anything ever to be gained or lost because really. I wrote a verse about Mr. Brown that ended with, “Something was nothing and everything” and so…

It’s all a sleight of hand and a trick of the mind, words that is. I am operating in perhaps the most deceptive and powerful medium to ever exist. In the beginning was the Word… except God is beyond alla that. But yet, here we are, back to the beginning. And to answer the question. How do I overcome my fear of the ineffable, of losing what I cannot lose because it was never lost in the first place. Now, well (giggle) now, the answer is staring me in the face.