The frightful epiphany.

I conclude love doesn’t die.

It isn’t born either.

It doesn’t end. You don’t ‘fall out of it”, find ‘a greater love’, or suddenly realize it was never love to begin with. In fact you don’t “fall in love” either, although the feeling is a bit of a fall.

It’s your barriers that fall away. Its the stripping away of the beliefs that cage you inside walls that tell you you are limited in what you can have. You know, the ones that say, “You were hurt before, you will be again.” “You’re not good enough.” “You’ll end up alone.” “Everyone’s gonna leave you.” Yes, those barriers, the ones built of fear, and memory, and pain.

Those, upon finding love, all fall away, chased away by pure, unduluted appreciation. We fall for another’s attributes, for their personality, for their likes and dislikes, for their actions, talents, beauty. We fall for the things we see, that inside us, resonate, and we can say, yes, I like that. And feel that yes inside. And we feel love, in the middle of all the barriers of fear and memory and pain, and we let them go.

And they fall away. Leaving what was always there.


In fact, the other person both means everything, and nothing at all.

It’s because the other person isn’t what you love. It’s what you see inside them, that reminds you what you love in you, for we can’t attract to us what we are not. In essence, loving others, reminds up we actually love ourselves. It’s a discovery, a finding, an epiphany.

And we get scared by it. It’s too big, too fantastic, to realize, too amazing to accept. We get scared and the fears begin, bulding up walls again, the same walls, only now they’re reinforced, built up better, stronger, to keep us that much more safe. They are built, and eventually they block out the love we feel, the appreciation, the connection between us and the US we see in them

And then we say, love died. We fell out of it. It got lost. We say, it’s over.

And given the right motivation those obstacles can be cleared away completely,  or momentarily set aside at least. But the walls always come back. We always put them back. Reinforce the limiting beliefs, push away the epiphanies, deny ourselves the truth.

Why? Actually, the why it’s very simple.

Falling in love is fun.  Finding the love, it’s everything.

When we forget the love is there, we get to rediscover it, find it again. Fall in love again. And we enjoy the expansion of it. The construction of more and more love. Love for another. Love for ourselves. 

It’s a discovery of self.

Love doesn’t die.  It isn’t born.  It just is. 

It’s us.


The Grand Motivation

I hate the wandering life. Never setting down. Always the gypsy. The traveler. The visitor. The new person. Always lost. Like, I am searching for some home that I don’t know where it is, how far away, what it looks like, or where to go to find it.

The crap thing is I suck at reading maps.

My mom started this. I blame most things on her. I try and forgive her, it’s really best to do, but I think I lie to myself when I say I have and I try again at a relationship with her. It’s because there is a very large part of me that just hates her, even tho I’m always too ashamed to admit it, and blames her, for dragging me every where with her, like I was baggage. And just like I was baggage I was sometimes left behind too, until she’d remember to send money to fetch me.

She was always off to be with another man. They were always so much more important. She was always so focused on them. Each man of the hour, guest star on the next episode of our lives. I hated each and every one. They were all so .. alien. Loud, big, lumbering things, walking with heavy boots, and heavy voices and heavy handed with the way they touched everything.  And my mom always would creep around them. Like they were giant months, blind but able to feel the vibration of her steps, so she had to walk like on glass. And if she did draw their attention, it was like drawing the attention of a dragon. Move, and it saw you, and you either got burnt or eaten.

Is it really any wonder I turned out a lesbian? Or that I feared men before I knew there might be a good reason to? Or that I feared the world for that matter? For always running away, never settling down, never feeling safe, all that lifestyle led me to more of the same.

I have moved more times than I can count and remember. I have learned to leave everything behind and just start over, again and again and again. I value, nothing. Things are replaceble. So are people. And it’s not any wonder why. People, tend to turn out bad, if you stay too long. If you know someone. Too long, they just turn out, bad. Eventually, they just don’t like you anymore. Eventually, inevitably, you overstay your welcome.

Or perhaps that was just because of her. My mother used people, never took care of herself, and always found someone else after the current one was done.

I have always wanted a home, loved ones that stick around, that actually care, beyond where their lives take them. I have always wanted it, voiced that want, searched for it, whined about not getting it. And I have always been disappointed. Sorely disappointed.  And I think it’s because I really didn’t want it. I was too afraid

Afraid that once I found it, once I was confortable, there she’d be again, in the doorway, hushed voice, telling me to pack. It’s time to move again. We have to go.  Now. It’s too dangerous to stay.

Fear. The grand motivation.

And now I’m homeless. And I fear having a home more than I fear this. Because I know, it’s going to diaappear. And I will be alone, left behind, or forgotten again. By eveyone.

I really have no one. If I stopped  anwering my phone, if I disappeared, after a month, no one would even call. In fact, my family would but probably wouldn’t  even notice I was gone.

That’s how valuable I am.

And homeless.

And I think I hate it and like it this way all at once together.

I’m tired of getting hurt.

I’m tired of losing people.

I’m tired of being left behind  and forgotton.

I’m tired of having no one and nothing important.

But most of all, I’m tired of being so goddamn scared.


And here’s the ticket, I’m more aware now. All these things, blame my mother though she might actually deserve it, are my fault. I witnessed her be this way, I as a young child drew certain conculsions, beliefs,  fears, and made them part of my reality.

I acknowledge her wrong, my feelings,  and I see now what I’ve been doing as well.

I’ve been reliving her life.

I’ve been drawing to myself, more proof this is the way the world works. I have been wallowing in a wading pool, whinging about drowning when all along I could have just stood up.


English Please


I have taken to adoring thrift stores in NYC.  I find the most interesting additions to my rather particular wardrobe.

Since my tradgic and angsty teen years I have maintained a gothic, nearly all black wardrobe, but not too daring a one to be stared at and labeled disturbed too much. Given my chronic shyness, I have never enjoyed eyes on me for too long. However, since I met my most recent ex girlfriend, Laura, her being the biggest geek/nerd/shopaholic I found my wardrobe beginning to accumulate clothes of the pointed geek variety.  Here’s the best example I can give. A pair of leggings she bought for herself, which didn’t fit and went to me, with the characters from The Corpse Bride on each leg, dead faces staring at you, of Victor and Victoria.

I soon enjoyed the additions she began to happily shove my way, eager like the rest of the world to get me out of black, and went out on a limb of my own and began trolling etsy and ebay for more particulars of the geeky interests I enjoy. She helped. Often. And I have found myself leaning towards clothes and accessories in the pigeonhole of bubble goth.

Unable to get to a bank easily, and random babysitting jobs paying cash, I have begun to expand my search to New York City thrift stores rather than trek to Manhattan everytime I want to put money in the bank.

I grew up inside thrift stores, my dad couldn’t deign to buy anything new to save his life cheapskate that he is  and my mom introduced me to this pleasure early on. Thrift stores in New York, however, are a whole different creature entirely. Finding brand new, name brand, expensive still $80 price tag attached, stuff isn’t unlikely. With the addition of the law of attraction, and my stabbing attempts at mastery of it, I have had good luck of late, the universe proving most accommodating in helping me find what I want.

Yesterday, in Brooklyn, at this little hole-in-the-wall thrift store on Kings Highway found this pastel green, long sleeves t, with black skull motif, complete with hippie flower eyes.

Today, I found, again in a thrift store, this one I frequent weekly in the bronx, a lacy skull motif crop top, cream colored. Both were too pastel goth to pass up, and added to those I’ve found, since tuesday, 5 other skull themed things.

1.) A Jack Skeletington purse, Tim Burton official on the tag, Disney copyright.
2.)A red bow, skull motif.
3.)A black skull necklace, with working mandible, and red winking fake jem eyes.
4.)A little bell skull head phone dangle charm, you know for when cell phones came with a plastic notch to attach those.
5.) And a copy of the first edition of Lady Death.(coughcomicbooknerdcough)


That makes 7 things with the same theme in three days.  Coincidence my fat ass.

Emery Allen, “Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences”

Anthony Horowitz, “I don’t believe in coincidence. Where some people see coincidence, I see conspiracy.”

G.K. Chesterton, “Coincidences are spiritual puns.”

I guess there is the proof of either a. or b.

A. I am getting the hang of this manefestation thing.
B. The Universe is trying to tell  me something.

It’s a shame I don’t speak Synchronicity. Hello, Universe? English please.

Just call me a magician.

So, Ladies and Gents, here I am, after a year, with hands full of empty.

Or, perhaps I will allow, full of a lot of invisible. For what I hold now in the palms of my hands, inside the accumulated experience, is more than I have gained in all this lifetime combined. It remains in my grasp, lessons learned, growth achieved, and spirit stronger, but so very invisible no one might notice the handful.

I sit here now, finally settling into the realization that, this relationship I poured this heart and soul into, in what I remade myself for, in what battled and overcame my proverbial demons for, in what I verily delighted in the misery of simply because heartbreak is just the other side of the coin and is still the grand emotion of love however you look at it , this relationship remains what I can’t create. I sit here now, a bit tired, from the crying I just put myself through, in order to purge the last of the blame, and I marvel at the road I just walked.

I walked a road most would have given up on.

And this year as taught me a lot, in the way of enlightenment and the reality of manifestation, and how to actually see. Not see the world, as that is just a matter of perspective, but see the inside, the you, you be in the privacy of your own skin, the you, you be inside your feelings, and thoughts, and belief systems. The you, you choose to be. I have learned to see this, this me I be. And I am grateful for the heartbreak that actually led to a concept of enlightenment, and love more strong, and the world being able to be seen based on what I wish to see.

Manifestation at work. Creation. Magic.

Just call me a magician.

Life Pastel

I love pastel. I love life lived in pastel. I love life lived in the pale reflection of what actually is. I love the world seen through rose tint, I love the idea that I can make my own reality by just imagining it. I love this one called Abraham Hicks, because the message I recive is validation . I love being good, being told I am good, that i am doing well, and can be everything I want. I love the idea that this life is my choice, and what I do is my choice, and what I experienc is my choice, and i love the feeling of getting exactly what I ask for, and being able to hold that dream made real in my hand. I love imagining what’s to come, or what could, or just being in the imagining, as if that were the reality not this. I love this life. I love the feeling of happiness in the air around me, like the smallest pinpricks of soap bubbles, in pastel colors, winking around me in a misty cloud of joy. I love the feeling of them in my throat. I love feeling the world, as if perception in me is not just seeing, but a taste, that is spacial and visual, and three d like a touch.  Like I taste the demension of it.

I love the world in my head. I love the feeling of emotions around me, on my skin, so light and sweet and kind. So wanting to just be. I love people who bring out this feeling in me  I love the laughter and heaven that comes of a relationship that happens where I am full of this feeling when with them. I love giving this feeling to that person in return, I love that they feel so full of the very soul of themselves in my presence, of me in my soul with them, that we become happy in sync together. I love the feeling that this person knows me, loves me, want to feel this with me, wants to add to it for the feelings they get themselves. I love learning and teaching I love becoming. I love becoming more and more in pastel in the world. As if my TrueSelf is just a ghost, of rose pastel, in terms shadow of me, less a shadow less a darker self, but more like a light self, a mirage, a rainbow, a crystalline cast on the floor, from a shot of sunshine on the multifaceted  reality. I love the feeling I have when I love laura. I love the feeling so strong because it touches this space inside of me that sees everything as beautiful. I love the feeling that I am never going to end, that happiness is the reality and everything else is the dream. I love the wanting for love.