He acts like he's never had a dirty thought in his life. That's why I so love to seduce him. And he surrenders so automatically, so wholeheartedly, so naturally. He naturally surrenders to me. He is my willing prey. I am the natural predator.

Nocturnal sleep walk off the bridge without looking down. The massive solid handsome Golden Gate bridge into the always deadly chill bay Pacific ocean. I am the initiator, and he follows through. I would create the jumping scene, I would know the most impressionable execusion, and he would bring down the axe, chop the gallow loose. He would knock the chair from underneath my feet, leaving me dangle there in the air twitching kinda morbid with the most spiritual look I'll ever achieve - quick, mom, take a picture. I swear I'll do it. I'll jump, I swear.

He would not try to stop me.

Oh how I must be filled with this man who does not stop me. He must be as close to me as possible. He can come inside me. This is no ordinary love.

So pure. So present. So perfect. Like every human. Oh, how I long to be a human like him. Oh, how I know what it's like to be him - to be perfectly human - only when I deliver him. Oh, how all the love songs I used to think were mushy ... are still mushy and I've found someone to bang heads with instead, dark beat and heavy wave, until the madness falls upon me and I decide I want to see his waist and he takes off his shirt without me asking. I decide I want to see his insides and he takes off his skin like my poppet. How he assures my best when he submits with such eagerness. So naturally the servant becomes the served.

Ah, to give and be received.

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I have to believe.

While I am lying on this rooftop, topless with shameless pink bikini bottoms reading a hardcover book about funeral customs in the Hollywood sunshine, all by myself and liking it that way, I have to believe that there is something deep inside me transforming.

Though I can't feel it. Though I can't name it. Though I can't understand it, I must believe that I am writing in invisible ink my fate's genetic code. I am obsessively designing and dissolving sigils. I am emitting the brown note - a note so low it pulls you down, so down, squatting inches above the ground and when you drop it all the way - that's the brown note. So inaudibly low, it shits all the way.

This is what they call faith - the real kind of faith. The kind you can't see, can't hear - can't prove with a team of lab coats or telescopes or stock quotes. The kind that creates a world in which the impossible often happens. Effortlessly happens.... and thrives. The world I wish to live in.

Single black bird calls from the palm tree top. One black bird on one of two palms, right over my shoulder. Black bird said what I needed to hear. Though I didn't understand, I listened anyway.

That is faith.

It is too easy, here in Los Angeles, to look at that billboard and wonder if I'm skinny enough, or pull up next to that BMW and wonder if I'm successful enough - all thoughts that leave me feeling small and witholding love from myself based on some goal-oriented delay-gratification destination. So I've decided I no longer want to Be anything, but instead will celebrate the Becoming.

And as I lie here feeling my skin turn pink as brazilian bikini bottoms, gulping gallons of filtered water, ignoring another Hollywood helicopter hoovering overhead , I must believe. I must believe that something deep inside me is transforming. I must believe that I am at this very moment changing into the strongest, healthiest, most stunning, most talented, financially coveted, sexually self-expressed and spiritually-free woman I've ever dreamed of being. And just for that - just for being in the process - I deserve love. Unconditionally. Right now.

The Becoming doesn't require proof. The Becoming requires faith. Black Bird, I am listening....

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I remember a man who took off both his shirt and belt just to give me a massage. Straddling me in candle light, he started at the feet. He went right for the treasure chest, the secret entrance, open says me if the the grip is right: attentive and gentle, receptive and firm - yes, the feel is right. He is in.

I remember how he used his mouth. Around my toes exhaling warm words like, "so strong", "look how beautiful", or my favorite of all, just the whisper, "yes."

Yes, yes, I remember a man who took care of me like a lover. Praise the men who make sure we feel safe and precious and cared for and loved.

When women feel safe, we open up.
When women feel precious, we are generous with beauty.
When women feel cared for, we dance and we sing and we laugh and we shine we make it all make sense finally and suddenly without answering even one of those silly mortal questions. Just batting long eye lashes in a world that reflects us. Just lying on a bed, underneath this wise man. A man who, too, likes living in an open, generous, beautiful world full of women who feel cared for. I can tell by the way he doesn't stop at my feet.

I remember becoming a woman right there in his very hands. Those giving, gentle, giant hands.

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I declare, it will be cowgirl boots from now on.

I bought them in September at the best thrift store in Hollywood, called "Thrift Store" for thirty bucks. They are square toes black leather. Buying used is non-consumer. No product was created to replace that one off the shelf. Reuse. Black leather square toe cowgirl boots. Calf hiegh.

I bought them for thirty bucks the day I left for Burning Man (talk about preparation) to destroy on the playa. You know - the white lifelessly alkaline powder-fine sand and how it can have it's way with whatever it wants. That happened to these boots. Then He shined them (while on me...) and it will be cowgirl boots from now on.

No more chunky high heals that hurt the arches of my blessed feet. For goodness sake, you stand on them your whole life. You should touch them, rub them, scrub them, soak them, thank them every nite. They are underneath you. They carry your everything. They owe you nothing.

And no more substandard "style sneakers". I feel best when my joints are supported and the heal lands softly on the damp earth path, the glittered cement sidewalk, the sprung wood studio floor in the best pair of athletic sneakers a dancer can move in.

If I want my body to feel good, I have to help it feel good. I will never ever wear lace up space alien shit kickers again. Unless it is for a photo shoot. I can do anything for thirty minutes.

And I often do...

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The next time someone asks you why, you'd be wise not to answer.

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She kissed me. And she was wearing black lipstick.

I danced like it was the song that said my name. I danced like it was my personal soundtrack. I danced like yesterday got left behind.

I would catch people watching as I danced on the platform next to the stair case under the speaker. I caught him clear across the bar. I caught them with their arms around each other. I caught her and she glanced down, pretending or posing or just plain shy.

I am powerful alone. I am a self-proclaimed introvert. Not to be confused with socially inept, just drawing my energy from being on my own. Actual interaction with people often leaves me exhausted.

And there were people, lots of people at the Saturday nite Hollywood Goth club. But I was alone. I came alone and I would leave alone.

But I think I wished for a partner. A co-director of physical energies. A Clyde to my Bonnie. A gentleman to walk me to my car.

People appreciate, but no one understands me, mostly. Though I thrive on an audience, always aware of who's attention is tilted in my direction, though I love, too, to myself, watch self-expressed ghouls move, I most want a partner. Someone to dance with me who can dance with me who knows what it means to dance with someone who isn't pretending or posing or just plain shy.

I will do none. Where is my lover? But a dank dungeon without a sparkle.

People stared all nite. I wore her black lipstick outside the lines.

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I wake, in darkness, a breath before the blood might have stained the sheets. My sleeping soul knows what my waking self overrides. I did not even know I had started bleeding. But I wake, in perfect timing.

In perfect timing, before sunrise, I still need rest but that will have to come in the form of a nap after noon. Let me revel in this life that owes allegiance to no alarm clock and has the freedom to choose sleep at leisure.

I am still on EST time apparently, after a grounding holiday season surrounded by the people I love in Chicago, Detroit, and my hometown/farmtown, Michigan. A monumental visit, certainly the first in my transient life that I have actually left the city I was in feeling completely fulfilled with quality time - an entirely new experience for me. Is this one of the tumultuous lessons Saturn's return brings as I navigate my 29th year? I feel it. How to be where I am, wherever I am. Grounding has nothing to do with being stationary.

Or everything to do with being stationary. Being able to hold two contradicting truths in my mind without rejecting either is another gift of Saturn's return. These are the big girl lessons no one sees from the surface.

Pacific Standard Time. In Hollywood now, green grass and pink stucco utterly contradicting the snow banks and frozen lakes I just left. Ironically, this empty apartment before sunrise still feels cold - remembering the Chicago winter wind, tearing eyes, hardening body, ripping skin, freezing moisture inside the lungs. I light the gas underneath the tea kettle and wait for a whistle while hustling clothes on this bleeding body, stuffing earphones in these groggy aural inputs and snatching a set of poi for a date on a dark rooftop.

On the dark rooftop we spin. On the dark rooftop we remember why we love our body. On the dark rooftop we look to the east and see the sky, too, rouse from slumber; Delta waves cycling to Alpha in visual light form. I am a good poi spinner. I know because I love the way it feels. Anyone who loves something this much is meant to do it. Love living. Love waking up. Meant to wake up. Every day, meant to wake. I'm good at waking up.

Beta light waves. To the east, between palm trees, a sliver of red peeks through in perfect timing. A seemingly simple event, this sun rising. This sun - the same sun that rose over my great-grandmother slipping through an open window back into her marriage bed, over ladies in corsets breaking ribs in the name of beauty, over women of healing herbs on parade to the countryside gallows, over mothers, since time unmemorable, stealing a peaceful moment of silence before the young ones stir - all touched by this sun. This sun now rising over a small town witch half asleep spinning poi bleeding red sipping tea.

And I stare, when the sun is on the horizon, I stare into the source itself. The spark, the gateway of creation. It is bright, but gentle, and eventually, the beautiful blinding red orb, like one of those posters, pops into three dimensions, reveling itself to me. The center of the source becomes invisible and the rays emitting, unseen seconds before, are a prism of color reaching out over all creation, even godless Hollywood. I am like the source. I am touched by the arms. I am made of light. Feed me life through this awareness. My breakfast, my breast; make me strong for one more day.

It has risen. My eyes instinctually focus. I see clearly - just a world, just a girl, just another day. I will drive a car. I will throw something away. I will take a nap if I so choose. The waking self overrides what the sleeping soul knows.

I woke up today.

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