Tag Archives: novel

Coffee and Contemplation

As a Witch, an Empath, and a generally sensitive soul, I tend to feel life on a moderate-to-intense level on a consistent basis.  I can tell if you don’t feel good.  I can tell where you’re hurting.  Usually because it hurts me, too.  I can’t read your mind and I can’t always fix it or stop it, but I can empathize with you and at least reassure you that you’re not crazy.

Mercury completed its retrograde cycle and returned to its direct positioning on the 9th.  If you stop and listen, you can feel everybody take a collective sigh of “…fuuuucking finally.”  Retrograde is not the catastrophic phenomenon so many people make it out to be.  It has a bad reputation, but that’s not super surprising, considering it jacks up your ability to speak, think, deduce, organize, and plan.  All while messing with your cell service.  Even Google can’t save you during retrograde.  RUDE.

Now that Mercury is realigned and pulling down all the barriers it built up, my quiet Sunday morning seems just that much more peaceful… and with peace and quiet comes the ability to let my imagination and brain-conjuring return to its regularly scheduled programming.  This usually manifests itself as deep reflection.

This year has been rough.  In five months, my family has seen four significant members die – two from cancer, one from cardiac myopathy, and one from actually having the opportunity to grow old.  Any one of these losses is enough to pull a person deep into their own mind and heart to contemplate the delicacies of life and death.  Multiply that loss and heart break by four, each from a different direction of tragedy, and it’s enough to make anybody want to dig themselves a hole, climb in with a blanket and a bowl of soup, and adamantly proclaim “NOPE.”

Yesterday, my Sister Girl and I visited the Museum of Death in Hollywood.  It’s a fascinating place, to put it mildly.  It is not for the squeamish, the faint-of-heart, or Empaths, unless you are really good at compartmentalizing.  No photos are allowed, but honestly, as a believer in ghosts and spirits and hauntings, I don’t think I’d want to capture what might be lurking around that building.

MuseumofDeath

There is so much energy that absolutely bleeds out of those walls and displays.  It’s an incredible history and socio-economic lesson, largely due to the fact that death does not discriminate.  It doesn’t matter where you were born, who your parents are, how much money you have, how many vegetables you eat, or how many times a day you poop… we will all die.  The veil will lift and each and every one of us will pass through it.  What intrigues me most is how incredibly THIN that veil is.

Considering my Sister Girl and I have seen so much death this year, up close and personally, our decision to visit the museum can be categorized as solidly “Questionable.”  I think we needed it, though.  Neither of us forgot that everybody dies; neither of us had any false presumptions that our family is the only one to experience so much tragedy in such a short amount of time.  Somehow, though, I think we both came out of it a little more emotionally stable than when we entered.  And awkwardly hungry.  Because why the hell not?

I said it in a previous blog, and I’ll say it again here:  I’m not afraid of death.  I’m a Witch.  I believe in reincarnation and that energy never ends, it only transforms.  Death is a part of life.  Don’t misunderstand me, though.  I’m terrified of everything leading up to death.  My fight-or-flight gland is in full, working order.

Usually, blogs posts like this are supposed to end with some deep, thoughtful advice for its readers, but I’m not that presumptuous.  Everybody copes with death and the lessons it teaches in their own way.  When a very close friend of mine died in a motorcycle accident just days between our 25th birthdays in 2009, it motivated me to shake off my rut and reignite my life.  I left a stagnant relationship, and started taking care of my damn self, living on my own, surviving off the ramen diet, and putting myself through school.  That’s what I needed to do.  That was the lesson my friend taught me.

The four deaths this year are different.  For me, they are manifesting themselves in quiet introspection.  No tantrums, no curses to the heavens, no fits of hysteria.  Just sadness.  Quiet, personal, sadness.  Surprisingly, though, I haven’t cried as much as I anticipated.

The closest thing to advice that I will leave with you, is:  Do what feels right for you.  If you need to break shit, break it.  If you need to put photos up of your loved one, put them up.  If you need to pack everything away or move out of your home entirely, box that shit up.  Don’t let anybody tell you how you should or should not mourn.  Fuck those guys.  They might mean well, but literally nobody but you knows what will give your heart peace.  I got a tattoo.  I put up alters.  I’ve burned a loooot of sage.  I went to the Museum of Death and submerged myself in its entire concept.  Who gives a flying fuck if anybody thinks it’s the best decision.  As long as you’re not hurting anybody else in the process, do what quiets your soul.

Take your time as Mercury settles into its direct alignment, and let your communication receptors relax back into their normal function.  I will be spending my day drinking coffee, contemplating everything I’ve discussed here, and translating it into readable content for my novel.  I’m probably going to cheat a little and use this novel as my NaNoWriMo project, even though you’re supposed to start from scratch on day one, but I’m too excited.  I can’t drop this project and work on something else for a whole month.  I have too many ideas and everything is flowing.  I’ll at least play fair and not add what I’ve already written into my NaNoWriMo word count.  I’ll hit 50,000 the honest way… but more on that in another post.

 

 

Water Your Brain Seeds

The streets are dark, wet, and oil-slick black. It’s been raining. The storm clouds overhead reflect a burnt orange color against the city street lamps. Inky velvet skies speckled with fairy light stars try to peek through the muck.

Words have so much power.  Writing puts substance into thoughts.  It manifests your visions.  Writing things down, whether it’s a thought, a poem, a story, a quote, the beginning of a novel, a grocery list, it doesn’t matter.  Ink to paper makes things come to life.

I wrote those lines above on Thursday.  It’s Sunday evening now, and yesterday morning, it started pouring.  Thick, soupy clouds descended, and all my fellow pluviophiles started dancing in their seats and lifting their noses to the sky to smell the air, like a pack of wild beasts.  Californians get weird if you take anything away from them for an extended period of time, y’all.

(If you didn’t already know, California is in a ridiculous drought.  We are pumping water out of the ground that is 20,000 years old.  The old joke that California would one day dry out, shrivel up, and break off the continent is looking less… joke-y…)

We were greeted with thunder and lightning and a beautifully quenching downpour, and all it made me want to do was keep writing.  The rain watered the idea seeds in my soul and I feel extra charged to pull them out.

I’ve been putting as many words as I can scribble down on paper as they conjure up in my head.  I keep a yellow notepad on my desk, out of site, so it doesn’t distract me during my daily responsibilities… but not so far that I can’t snag it back up if the characters in my story start body slamming themselves against my cranium.

I have so many ideas at once and I’m writing so fast so I don’t forget anything, that right now, my Word .doc is very confusing and disorganized, but I love it.  I’ve always been a start-to-finish writer.  I can write a train of thought and fully flesh it out from beginning to end (with accredited references, if you’d like), but this story is different.  So many characters and places are popping up and wanting their story to be told.

I’ll get to you all very soon, my creepies.  But for now, let’s take a moment to let my finger bones rest, and to listen to the rain.  Tell me your stories as we splash in the puddles.

charles-bukowski

 

Come with Me Now

Kongos – Come with Me Now

Inspiration can hit you at any moment.  You have to keep your eyes and senses open to it, because you never know how inspiration will present itself.

I drive.  A LOT.  Sometimes I listen to my iTunes, sometimes I’ll dust off a long-forgotten mixed CD, and sometimes I listen to the radio.

I laugh a little when people proudly proclaim “Ugh, I never listen to the radio!”  While I understand they’re trying to convey that they don’t want to be spoon-fed what the music industry decides we should be listening to, to me, it also tells me that they aren’t open to new ideas.

If I didn’t listen to the radio, I would not have heard the song linked above.

The first time I heard it, I remember my ear being tugged by the accordion.  Maybe it’s my insatiable love for all things Carnival and Cajun, but the accordion made my heart happy.  Every time it came on the radio, something about it instantly made me want to turn up the volume.

I started gradually learning the words, and finally SHAZAM-ed the song to read the lyrics.  The words to the song struck me as even more interesting than the music composition, and it kicked my brain into high gear.

Characters manifested in front of my eyes.  Like a music video, they danced to the music and made the song come alive as a story.

I HAVE AN IDEA.

It’s still in its very rough stage.  My next step is to start my story board and help these characters flesh themselves out.  I really like the feeling this song gives me and I know bringing these characters to life will make me feel even better.  They are already scratching at my skull and they have something to say.

I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still.” –Sylvia Plath