8 F Y R E ' B I R D 8

cooing, soft night air.   i conjure this around me.   i let my bones settle, because often in the city, they are on fire. they are running with electric tires, the nervous systems in me cars. streets and cars, hard metal that comes from somewhere, far away. distant booms, high pitched sounds. i wonder about how we can manipulate our environment with sound, and how there might be sound warfare, and how there is also: sound healing.   because so often in the city my breasts never settle. my bones have a hard time not rotting and becoming the earth, because we must return to the earth, we must return to the earth, we must become Them, we must become Her, be eaten by our chthonic desires, come home to Her, come home to Them, sparkling and dark, moonlit :earth. my bones remember. my bones remember, decay and how to become the earth again.   in winter, i smell death. death is everywhere. i feel like i let parts of my garden (genitals) die out this winte...

we are walking through worlds, right now. the sun & the earth are shifting, literally beneath and above and between us. (there was an earth quake in so-called california on wednesday). by studying human design’s system of transits, by studying the patterns of the stars & planets and their cycles above, we can sense what plays out below. how “the Sun is conjuct Ketu in Hexagram 60, Limitation, the Gate of Acceptance, and the Earth is conjunct Rahu in Hexagram 56, the Wanderer, the Gate of Stimulation. Uranus in Hexagram 3, Difficulty at the Beginning, the Gate of Order. All together these energies are creating the Channel of Mutation” (from @humandesignlife, check out her work!)   this is a time of becoming deeply aware of our own limitations. what can we do, and what can we really not do? we have real, physical, tangible limitations. like it’s hard to love you if i am not also loving myself. i recently made a list of things i can do, and things i can’t do. ...

every day, write. because if you are not writing, here. you are writing somewhere. there are stories being told somewhere, in your being. they happen racing through your head or wake up at the tips of your fingers when dreaming. the ways you happen, and how the world happens with you is important, is important. write, because. it gives you life. it gives you a place to put: everything. it gives you a way to navigate death. the empty page does not judge or hurt you, like sometimes, the thoughts do inside of your own head. or the glances, shrugs, and distracted looks you interpret as signs from others, proving your unworthiness. write, because when you do, you fly. and flying tastes so good to your wings. your wings must remember how to fly, and when you are writing, they do. it is permission. it is promise. it is hope and despair and returning again to a place of origin. it is channeling, it is home-coming, it is discipline and challenge, death and resurr...