#1 I am, I know

I hate technology. I hate the internet. I hate comments. People. “Blogging.” Psh stupid.

So just to get it straight, that’s not what this is.

This is me in the dark. I’m like a night shadow, which isn’t a thing, because dark in the darkness isn’t a thing — it’s redundant. But we’re gonna play pretend it’s something I can do — cast a dark hue in a room without light — which is stupid, but does allow me to tell the truth. And here, in the darkest shadows of the internet, I can say any damn thing I want. Truth, truth omni tempore. Truth the way I see it, for there’s no one to contradict me.

Nothing to see here, ma’am.

So, think of my voice pumping out of the void — the distant beat of the dance house, where poor little children have lost their way. And let it reach… whoever. WhoMever. (Just because we can’t see, doesn’t mean we can’t dazzle each other with our fine use of grammar: after all, every dative case deserves a “whom.”) So think of this more as a confessional… a confessional in a haunted house, where the priest lies waiting to attack with his big, brown crucifix. Do you feel relaxed now? Safe?


I’m going to get comfortable here in the dark and wait, like the ghoul priest, the night shadow, the lost club kid that I am. Do I exist? Am I confessor or confessant? Prosecutor or accused? I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Because though she’s unaware of it, shit is about to get real…

I’m coming for you, Marcie Park…ark…ark… I’m here in the dark…ark…ark…

And I’m gonna tell your secrets. Outloud.

So, between you and me? I surely hope you brought a flashlight.

2’s not true, or is it?

Sorry about that, I was cranked.  Went to a thing at the armory, where the aesthetic was pure vampire and a toothsome Nosferatu really put me in the mood. Not to say anything I wrote above could be deemed untrue, but I’ll concede, I could have framed my opening statements in a slightly less Gothic manner. So much for introductions.
So —
While we’re waiting to get this road trip on the road, there’s no reason I can’t tell you one or several things for my amusement and your edification.
Here’s one.
I’ve had what you could call a life-long love affair with the “altered state.” This love affair has been so long and lush and true that the UNaltered state is like ground glass to my molars. There’s just no color, no flavor, no life without chemically-produced serotonin lighting up the frontal lobes, arousing the nervous system, and inflaming all that covets fire. Thank heavens I am able, for without it, I am incarcerated in reality. I’m the poor little match girl trapped in a wet flint, dirt-dreary, dark-grey world selling matches to NO ONE — but I don’t want to talk about that.
I think we’ve got all that’s damp and whiny covered on another channel.
My preferred method of travel is alcohol. You see, at heart, I’m a traditionalist. A drink and a smoke give lift to any occasion, prescribe plentiful panache, and adorn a situation with sophistication reminiscent of resplendent days when noir lighting inspired still photography and lipstick-ringed Chesterfields sweetly polluted a room. It’s tasty, tasty, easily acquired, and 100% legal. Alcohol. [Chef’s kiss.] I fucking love it.
So, toss a bottle and pack on your normal lifely hang-ups, then open the windows wide! You’ve got some flying to do. But should you require more than the fine and speedy swirl of booze and cigs, should your neuromodulators require further inhibition, should you need to throw more on the fire of your life than what paltry legal substances provide, alcohol will gladly cloak your more auspicious sins: a little pharmacy here, a few pain-killers there, and a lacy dash of hallucinogenics to keep your edges running smoothly — who would ever know? Why, when it comes to the highly personal matter of re-balancing the brain chemistry, no one in my geographic region would ever blink an eye. Did you know I could pop over unannounced and get some methylenedioxymethamphetamine from my neighbor who hates me right this very minute/now? Psht, that’s fine, as long as my pronoun usage proves judicious. But try bumming a Chesterfield off your average Northern Californian and prepare to be showered in stammering spray of incredulous tsks.  — Best stick with the MDMA.
“Excuse me, sir or madam, but may I borrow a cup of Molly?”
Do they even make Chesterfields anymore? If not, I’m devastated. Quick. Someone post an obit in the Chronicle for the loss of this sterling cultural institution. They were milder, always milder…
I want to say that my relationship with smoking isn’t all Bette and Joan. To be certain, I enjoy the dusky glamour of conducting an enraptured room with my baton aflame, but I also luuuurve smoking’s newly lower-class connotations. Let’s get ripped and light up in a parking lot. Ah, the “corner lounge,” the “dive bar,” the “track.”  Who doesn’t on occasion yearn for the ubiquitous “back alley?” All those basest of places still shine with a certain American magic. And for me? It’s an honor to flaunt my inner trash. Shit I’ve been baked in the middle class life-long (I’ve even dabbled in the upper middle class, for shame), so much so that I could stand to break free to the bottom, marry down, nosedive, crash.
They’d never believe it, but the Middles, the class to which at birth I was assigned, have been beaten til they’re blind to their own slavish disadvantage. From those whom much has been required, little has ever been repaid (aside from the metaphorical lollipop’s “fuzzy end,” thank you, Marilyn icon,) So while the middle class suffers, both the well-healed and those who tend to fall below the line do exactly as they please. They do — each in their own way — both super rich and super poor. They wiggle around on the edges. They don’t color in the lines. They blur this reality with their own like poorly mixed paint — but the colors are exceptional. They’ve bypassed social expectation with clever cultural surgery and it’s a joy to be around. They have nothing to prove and they don’t follow the rules. That’s why my altered state and I enjoy visiting both Extreme Uptown and Skid Row. Both neighborhoods have so very much in common. But for my money, the folks shooting up under a bridge are worth ten of the diamond class sampling the brie at Le Supermarche in a glassy, pharmaceutical-grade haze. But that’s just my preference.
I’m out.

#3 while I’m in the mood

You know who I can’t stand?


“Throw them to the lions hahahaha.” Emperor Nero and Iggy Pop were really on to something with that catchy phrase.

Marcy’s not a Christian. That’s something to be said for her.

She’s losing her nerve though. Oooh, scary road trip! I can see her waning…

4 and four-ward

So I walked to Andytown this morning and stood in line with the other masked comrades. I knew that commie coffee shop wouldn’t stoop to celebrate the national historic genocide, so cafe au lait was in the cards for me.

But as the coffee burned my lips, I was struck by the sensation that I had mis-presumed the day. Lorsequ’il est, my phone confirmed it wasn’t Thanksgiving at all! Perhaps the Andytowners weren’t quite the communists I’d imagined them to be, for on closer inspection, I saw the sign proclaiming “Closed Thanksgiving” swinging in the window like a corpse.

Well, Tomorrow with a T, Thanksgiving was still a day away!

Sometimes this happens when, shall we say, my mind is otherwise engaged. When I lose track or take a trip — one of my trips, not Marcy’s would-be road trip  — it happens: this calendar jumping. These clock tricks. Losing time. Losing space. I jump in and out. Shall we say, it’s something that — occurs.

And no, it’s not random. Although I often choose to champion chaos, when it comes to my experiments with time, I certainly do not. No, in my “lab” in situ, I use more than my considerable wits and a dadaist roll of the dice to make a plan. I take the measure of each movement, catalog each experimental dosage as I gauge its full effects. Careful calculations guide me from hypothesis to action, and yes, the scientific method is frequently engaged. Although my work tends to slip outside the boundaries of… well, yes. Let’s just leave it at that: my work tends to slip outside the boundaries. So I — consider an occasional surprise in time more than just a side effect. It’s part of the risk I assume in doing such important work.

And let me tell you, skipping ahead in time is fine — it’s fine. Clock-slips in a future-ward direction rarely get more than an oopsies out of me. No, leaping over an uneventful Thursday isn’t nearly as jarring as repeating a day that’s already passed… The lesson here is future travel rates a solid “nbd” from me, it’s crashing to the past that’s dangerous. And so far I’ve never wiped out on its shores. I’ve only managed to ensnare myself in stasis — trigger a loop of yesterdays, figure 8 myself into a lemniscate, repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat to a white-peaked froth.

I theorize this “repetition” is achieved through a trick of the barbiturate, some chemical slight of hand, a shell game of the pills’ with which I frequently engage. And it lasts… well…it lasts until it’s done lasting. It’s hard to gauge the duration, eg. how many times I might repeat a day, since slipping-time’s main method of mischief is removing any means by which to measure it.

Clever, eh?

Let me crack a window to my world…

After taking an experimental dose of… things I will not say (there are recipes o’ plenty on the darkline, some of which I’ve penned,) I’ve been known to regain consciousness and find it’s Tuesday yet again. At which point I’m forced to ask aloud, “didn’t I do this day already?” for yesterday I’d asked the same. It’s the strictest form of deja vu; truculently inalterable from events the day before. This repeating day is set in stone, without modification or exception. And despite my memory of already having done it, I am forced to play out all the scenes again. If my repeating-day were a movie script, there would be no pages of revision — no blue, pink, yellow, green, or, god forbid, goldenrod emendations could be added to the script. For I am ensnared, shooting an eternity of the unfinessed, first-draft white. So while the outside world might change its tack, (catch up as my metaphor has shifted now from “film script” to “sailing vessel;”) So while the outside world might chart another course, rise on a different swell, blow with an unexpected leeward gust, I may only act, react, and re-enact the preceding day’s events. I must take the selfsame face of seawater, ride the same unpleasant waves. Or, if you will, drive the same metaphorical truck over the same metaphorical potholes again and again, until I am released.

Though certainly redundant, by no means is it boring. That’s one thing to be said for time loops, they can’t be misconstrued as “dull.” Which is high-and-fine by me. Terror I can tolerate, but boredom is untenable.

Some would call this phenomenon that I experience “Ground Hog Day,” after the movie of the same name. And they would find themselves adorably clever for making such an observation. But on all counts, they would be wrong. That protagonist enjoyed a world of freely-willed new choices, while his outer world remained the same. And after close-reading the preceding paragraphs above, anyone could see that my experiences are the opposite of that. But I have no need to address such hyperobiac pop-culture cretins. I do not esteem these movie-watching mis-presumers. If you find yourself among them — leave. You don’t know chemistry; you don’t experiment with consciousness. And do I? Check and check. You movie-watchers are pathetic and my contempt for you is limitless.

— Now wait and see how Justice plays this hand out. For blaspheming your “beloved” “classic” “precious” film, I’ll be forced to type this same abstruse explanation of pliable time over and over again on the never-turning page, hitting my head in perpetuity against an inaccessible future. Maybe I’m doing it now…

It occurs to me you’re just the type to “sleuth” around on the dark edges of the internet, aren’t you? Getting your kicks in places like this private piece of paradise where I curl my body snake-like on the warm black floor. Here, where I’m on my own recognizance, bothering no one, and free to take the measure of my serpentine mind.

Stop. Before I strike. I can find you easily, you know. I found her.

I’m not even going to finish my story.


5 alive O me O my

The wOrd On everyOne’s lips is OmicrOn. O my. O, is it?

SO it seems, Out Of the darkness rises the big O, guaranteed tO be mOre frightening than the Delta triangle, mOre uncertain than AIDS in the 8Os, and mOre cOntageOus than the black death in and Of its very self (and dOn’t yOu knOw I’m a black death fan…) OmicrOn, O OmicrOn… prOnOunced sO incOnsistently by O sO many brOadcasters! ShOuldn’t they have first cOnvened? FOrmed a quOrum to decide hOw best tO sOund the racially and regiOnally inOffensive fifteenth letter set dOwn by the Greeks? O yes, O my, they shOuld hOne their phOnemes befOre unlOading them On the pOOr public, like sO much scattershOt Over the radiO.

OmicrOn, OmicrOn. O, whO but whO’s prOnOunciation will win Out? The Midwestern “Ah-muh-crahn” Or the mOre elegant “Oh-mih-crawn?” LOng vOwels almOst always prOOve yOu’re really in the knOw. But what abOut Our dear Omega waiting in the wings? Why, everything abOut Omega screams lOng O sOunds tO my ear. O, variant number twenty-fOur, Omega, I just knOw yOu’ll make yOur entrance sOme day, befOre we lay this plague tO rest with all its supernumerOus victims.

I dOn’t wOnder that OmicrOn is Only a marketing scheme, sOmething tO bump the vaccinatiOn rate, befOre yOu take yOur hOliday vacatiOn — Or keep yOu hOme alOne fOr Christmas yet again. Be frightened, little children, fOr O this year Krampus (my favOrite figure Of Yule-slash-NOel) has his sack packed and brimming — lOaded — with OmicrOn variant fOr yOu and yOur unvaccinated parents! O, YOu better watch Out, yOu better nOt cry, lest Santa unleash the OmicrOn upOn yOu with its scratchety sOre thrOat!

The fact is nO One truly knOws – hOw bad this blOw might be. NOt nOw. HOwever, I suspect it’s nOt X-Xmas prOpiganda. Otherwise, everyOne wOuld be prOnOuncing it the sam3. They’d have learned hOw at OrientatiOn…

FOr my mOney, give me the plague of 1918. H1N1 was it? With avian influence? NOw that was a pandemic! O, with what grace and breadth her lacy sleeves reached Out arOund the glObe, gathering everyOne in her bOundless grasp, her lOng, sOft fingers drawing them hOme.  In 1918 yOu’d gO Out after mOrning meal and be dead On the dining rOOm table fOr supper. She chewed thrOugh the entire pOpulation Of the wOrld. Three times Over befOre licking her lips, taking her bOw, and disappearing undergrOund. Only nOw yOu can find her remains unearthed and awaiting a new Outbreak at the Atlanta CDC.

O, I sO hOpe H1N1 dOesn’t get Out! O nO! FOr then we’d all be dOOmed! — hahahaha

OmicrOn, O OmicrOn… A seriOus dilemma for a wOrrier whO might find herself Out alOne On the rOad, dOn’t yOu think? One cOuld Only hOpe tO avOid sO many pOtentially pOOr OutcOmes…

6 for Sex

Six for sex. Oh, oh, OH yes. It’s time to slither out and make some sounds, for homophones abound! Beginning with the sultry title of this post, now thoughtfully explicated for you here as spoken integers: 6 – 4 – 6. Say them with me now aloud, (I’ll know if you do not,) by starting with an easy English “6,” then release your lower lip to form the English “4,” and finish with the husky whisper of a “6wie man sagt auf Deutsch. Put them together and they come alive upon the tongue as “six-four-seccchhhhhs.”  Six-for-sex. 6-4-6. 646. Mm.

I luuurve the way the Germans say their number 6 — “sechs.” It sounds like sex, but with a mid-mouth full of wet, enthusiastic hhhhccccttt. So much glottal spray to liven up that language and make matters of the mind (like words) so overtly physical . — And ah, what a happy little number 6 must be to possess such an oft satisfying double meaning — six and sex! It’s the same word across so many Indo-European languages — or at least they’re just enough alike to make it strange:

In Dutch there’s zes and seks, French has six and sexe, Latin: sex and sexus, Swedish: sex and sex (which is to any eye identical.) The Spanish have seis and sexo, our own dear English: six and sex, and German (as I mentioned there before, d’ja catch that?) sechs and sex, which to the ear intones no difference at all.

I found all that information after taking the quickest turn on google translate. What must a real linguist have to say? Quite the coincidence, don’t you think, that someone sometime skewed the number six with the act of procreation? It etymologically boggles the mind. What were they up to, these Early French and Germans? How in god’s green and fecund earth did they get the two confused? Those early pagans, delighting as they did in both math and nature (heathens.) Counting half the year’s moons and then getting down to business… How in heaven did they make the leap from the number-that-comes-after-five to flat-out fornication? — these early speakers, who mumbled English into being, and yodeled their way Upland and across the Alps, counting, counting, all the way: 6 birds, 6 daisies, 6 clouds, 6 miles, — oh! and oh! and oh! some more! Counting, counting 6 and 6 and 6 again, until unable to withstand the tension, were forced to stop and populate the European continent.


Maybe for these ancient folks it took 6 of them to fuck.  — Really, who am I to judge? I’ve seen worse. I’ve done worse. And who’s to say they didn’t know what they were doing? We modern moralists must be sadly lacking in our uncrowded copulations.

I’ve also read in Early French that “six” was once the word for genitals. How that came to be, I’m raptly curious to know…

Even now, some say, that when it comes to the number of genders, there may be more than 6. More than 2 — I would agree. Some say more than 7 — or a multiple of 9. Sexy 6 factorial. Or maybe genders are a dime a dozen. Maybe the amount of them is infinite. Imagine, if you will, these multitudinous genders: immeasurable, amorphous, and uncountably evolving — bursting into being like so many nebulae…

All of it is fine by me. May ye choose your own adventure, friend. But let me say, I will not now, nor will I ever entertain a lumpy line of LETTERS, no matter how much some of them might, at a given time, describe me. And keep your symbols to yourself. For soon you’ll see, it’s just NUMBERS for me…

Have you read the title of this “blog”?  Hahahahaha.

More to follow on that note, but before I go I want to say: ignore my recent petty threats (for now.) I’m only just emerging from my last unpleasant spell and everyone’s entitled their moods. Meanwhile, let’s revel in a little gossip:

Oooh, have you heard? The unmovable object has moved! Marcy’s on the move and I’m a-dither. Lookit her go — lickety split — all over Southern California! And wouldn’t you know that everything in L.A. is just so candy-apple good and nice — oh gosh oh golly-gosh oh gee! Watch her win the masses with her sad backpack and her long, limp hair! — It’s enough to make me get out my cast album of “Annie.”

I’d hate to break in and make it bad.

But before I do, let me chaw some more of this popcorn and watch…

7 stole some swords

For those of you who need a little extra help, a little extra information, a hand up, a bit of assistance, a little extra time, and glossary to read this, (in other words, for those of you too stupid to keep up,) please enjoy the following post — now with subtitles!

We will be discussing the tarot,


a special deck of cards used for: divination,


thoughtful contemplation,


or, on occasion, fraud


We will be discussing one card in particular, and that tarot-card-on-the-table


is the 7 of Swords, as it was created for the Rider (William, the publisher) – Waite (Arthur, the occultist) Tarot Deck by artist Pamela Coleman Smith in 1909 —


as presented here:



Oh, don’t we all wish I would just say things more simply? –Sorry, it’s not in the cards.


Like myself, the 7 of Swords is quite a card. On the face of it, a young knave steals the weaponry of 7 sleeping swordsman, who bask unseen in lavish tents. Whether they’re distracted by rest or hedonistic pleasures, we will never know. What’s important is that they’re unaware of what’s happening right under — what I presume to be — their prodigious noses.

The subject of this card, our hero, the thief, is a jaunty, smiling, curly-headed imp. He tiptoes off with more than half a dozen hot and heavy broadswords like they were made of paper (– which in truth they are. They’re not real swords, but an artistic rendering of swords, printed here on card stock in the vein of “Ceci n’est pas une Pipe.”)


The Treachery of Images - Wikipedia



The thief on the 7 of Swords is deft and dancerly. His leg extends with graceful poise. He’s not stealing out of need. Judging by his fur-trimmed boots and hat, both of which are red, (Pamela Coleman Smith’s color-cue for wealth,) he doesn’t need the money. No, he’s stealing for joy — pure joy — and the pleasure of two-stepping out of the shadows with a shit-ton of other people’s things.

According to whatever blah blah blah rules of society, our hero is a thief and as such, a very bad man. — Of course I’ve never thought of him that way, but for divinational purposes, this card represents deceit, along with fraud, betrayal, disloyalty, and theft, making it a boon for confidence workers.



The confidence workers to whom I refer, employ themselves as “psychics,” who make good u$e of this card. Along with the uber-obvious Death card, the 7 of Swords is one of the sharpest tools in your neighborhood “psychic/medium’s” belt.


Now, imagine yourself entering a fortune-teller’s lair. I’m not judging, everyone has their weakness, and sometimes getting taken by a mystic’s penetrating eyes is exactly what one needs to hone their pain into a healthy sense of rage. (I’m sure you’re not surprised to learn I number several psychic-mystic con-thems


amongst my dearest ken, and have even worked in the occultic arts myself. So if you like, you may cast me as the psychic in the following scenario:


Through hanging beads, you enter her abode. Light-illuminated dust creates a mystic blizzard in the air, all designed to up-end your beliefs and tip your sense of what-is-real off balance. It’s dark in there to hide the dirty carpets, and musky from the penny incense burning underground. Like so many psychic dens, this one is also in the basement and surreptitiously wreaks of water damage under all the perfume.

The psychic, with her raven eyes, leads you to a concave chair and offers you some tea. As you try to regain your height, squirming yourself upright to escape the squashy poof, she takes your full measure. She sizes up your clothes, your wealth, your station, caste, and clique. Tallies up your bag, your shoes, your posture, age, and muscle tone; your dental work, your jewelry, and the color of your skin. But most of all she intuits your desire to believe. How educated are you? How thick to lay it on? She uses every clue you give her and formulates a plan. After handing you a cup of tea (that tastes like weeds and melted snow), she sits high across the table, and sets in staring at your eyes.

“How may I be of service to you? What is it you wish to know?” Deep-voiced and wild-eyed, she asks.

You mumble “I don’t know” with vague concerns about your love life or your business. (And yes, you really will. Romance and money are the only things about which anybody asks, for they are the only things about which everybody wants to know.) She listens deeply to your question, such concerns, she’s never heard the like before! She rolls her charcoal-ed eyes to the beyond, and slowly, loudly sighhhhhhhs. The sigh is meant to show profound compassion and relax you. Clearly you are troubled, and of course, she understands. Her eyes wobble heavenward so you can watch her as she consults her guides, the angels, ghosts, or demons — whomever’s or whatever’s counsel you expected her to ask. This is the magic portion of the show, designed to ease you into taking her suggestions. Slowly then, she blinks her eyes nine times………and looks at you as if she’s been away.

You clear your throat, sweating under her unwavering gaze. You reach for your phone, for its comfort, its reminder of when and where you are.

“Put that away,” she barks and you’re so surprised, you do.

Her eyes pour glue over your every movement until you locomote more slowly.

She smiles at you pocketing your phone, then lavishly unwraps a ratty tarot deck from fifteen shabby scarves. She asks you how you like the deck. Does it please you? If not, then perhaps you brought your own? Since (of course) you didn’t, you agree to using hers. At which point she bids you cut it thrice, (a move designed to gain your confidence through participation. Nothing could be rigged, you think, after you have cut the cards three times.) She takes the cards and drops them heavily from hand to hand. Watching as you watch her, she never looks away.

She holds them to her heart, and removes all light and heat from the room by shutting her enormous eyes. Again, she sighs, and takes a card out of the deck: the 7 of Swords, I’ll be… She lays it out profoundly on the table. You grow nervous as she audibly breathes. Her eyes a-blaze, inventory all of your uncomfortable reactions.

“Hah,” is her first utterance; followed by a thoughtful “mm.”

“What?” you ask. You can’t help yourself. You feel so strange there in the moldy dark. Like you’ve fallen to the bottom of the sea.

“The 7 of Swords,” she says. “Ah,” she says. Her eyes illuminate. “I think I understand.”

“What?!” you ask more urgently.

She speaks. Her voice is low at first, then shouted, as if she is guiding you to safety through a storm:

“You cannot trust those around you,” she says.*

(*Which is absolutely true, since primarily, you can not trust her, the one with the thick mascara sitting right across from you; the person in your nearest proximity; the woman shuffling the shabby deck of tarot cards with long, chip-nailed magician’s hands. That’s who you cannot trust.)

But oblivious to the ironic wisdom from the preceding parenthetical, you shudder with the impact of her words. Somehow, a chill wind blows your hair. You think and think, you cannot trust those around you. But who? You cough, from the magical effects of all-too accurate information or from incense asphyxiation, you can’t be sure, but you begin to accept the premise that she knowsshe knows…

She says again more sternly, “you are being deceived by someone that you trust.*”

(*Again true. Clearly, you trusted her enough to pay her for the consultation.)

She watches you so closely now, it’s difficult to breathe. She watches as you inventory everyone you know, trying to discern which is the betrayer.

What you do while you search your mind is gold; it tells her everything she needs to know. Then, like a polygraph, she uses words to hone in on the details; watching which subjects garner no reaction and which ones make you squirm. Now she is home free, as hand by hand, she follows all the rope you throw her, and reads you with unspeakable ease. So many secrets tumble out of you, it’s like the over-used cliche of taking candy from a baby. Only here you are the baby, so innocent and fat, and your money will succor any mystic’s sweet tooth — of this we can be sure…

“I’m sensing… a lover’s betrayal,” she will say if you look down or fiddle with your ring, touch your necklace, adjust a strap, or fasten buttons on your shirt. If you make a fluttery movement to touch a vulnerable place on your body — face, skin, lap, heart, hair, then you suspect your lover has betrayed you. And, of course, there is a script for that.

“I’m sensing… a matter of money.” She will say if you grab your bag, sit harder on your wallet, reach for your phone, shove your hands in your pockets, cross your arms. If you make a defensive movement towards your valuables, then you believe that business is your arena of deceit.

She watches as you faintly nod. You didn’t even notice that you had.

She will next confirm her strategy by giving you a compliment:

“He is cheating on you, deceiving your good, kind, open heart.”


“You are so trusting, those you work with are stealing from you, taking advantage of your generous nature.”

Again you nod, more broadly this time, for darn your kind and trusting heart! Your good and open nature! Wouldn’t you know your best qualities have landed you in trouble yet again. How fortunate the spirits see the truth! How lucky you have come here to fan the flames of your suspicion.

If she needs more information, she will ask: “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” And you answer yes, of course you understand, to let her know that you’re not stupid.

For feistier clients, she demands, “Do you hear what I say?” This confrontational approach will nearly always reap an information-rich reaction.

If no reaction is forth-coming, she will say, “You come to me for help. [LONG, DRAMATIC PAUSE] I can see the sorrow in your heart.” This nearly always bring the tears.

For those who think grandiosely of themselves, she offers praise, “Your suspicions are correct. You were right to sense deceit. It is good you have come to me to verify what you yourself suspected all along.”

For those with doubts, she merely has to tap a finger on the card, which is still sitting on the table, waiting for its cue. “Look!” she will say in a voice designed to scare you. “Do you see this man is stealing?” she points at him then looks at you, making sure you understand. “He steals from you —  the things you need, the things valuable to you.” She pauses for reaction. “The things that protect you.” She pauses again. “Who is this man to you? Who did you trust that betrays you now?”

You don’t know what to say.

She tap, tap, taps her finger on the card. “I drew this card before you even asked your question.”

You gasp; she’s right, it’s true.

She nods. “This is how I know this is the truth.”

Now your words flow thick and fast; your blubbery lips run afoul of good sense, confirming everything she’s said. You have swallowed her suggestion like a capsule. She listens deeply now and nods. Her eyes like the blackening sea, take in water and begin to warm.

“Good,” she says. “Good.”  She pauses one last time, to let you sit with all the things you’ve said. Things you never thought before, but now thoroughly believe.

“Now,” she says, “now,” preparing the finale. “This man has done you harm.”

Before you finish taking your last breath, she goes in for the kill, “Now we will set things right.”

She strikes, “if you wish it, we can make him pay for what he’s done to you…”

Yes, you say, nod, think, feel. Yes, yes. Make him pay.

But…” she uses perfect diction, making the word long and a delicate, floating it out of her lips like one adept at blowing glass. You hang on it, watching it spin. [Long pause.] “It will cost some money…

And that’s why our dear 7 of swords is the fortune-teller’s ATM; by the book, its interpretation is deception. And what’s the cure for theft, betrayal, and deceit? Why, a little ritualistic revenge, a high-colonic cleansing of the magical variety, all administered by yours truly, upon payment of an avalanche of money.

And who’s to thank for this this mystic windfall, but our lovely little thief, the charming child, the precocious doxy sneaking in the shadows and then stepping out all smiles with the goods.

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that sneaking around has always been a lifelong skill of mine, but then you know so little about me, I may as well explain. Sneaking around has been my practice, my fine point of finesse. It’s a way of having and of eating my delicious cake, or whatever else I take when no one else is watching. So fancy me an iteration of this tarot superstar, an oft girlier version of our dear, dear thief. I am the 7 of Swords, here, in the type-written flesh, somewhere in the swirl of the internet’s temporal words. I am the 7 stolen swords and the lovely one who took them. I am the 7 of Swords, the 7 Swords, 7 Swords. And since we’ve come this far, let’s just shorten it to 7.

So there, Rumpelstiltskin, now you know my name.

8 Seven at nine

“You’re weird.”

“So weird.”


In my memory I still hear the beastly little children call me names, spitting through their razor teeth, sharp like baby sharks, hurling words to knock me down, stun me dumb, and keep my fabulousness fully under-bushel. Back then, I was incapable of ignoring all their slander. I took on damage like a holey vessel takes on water in the rain, each word sinking me deeper down into the waves, until my metaphorical boat was uselessly submerged. And fancy me not knowing how to swim…

It seems that as a child, 7 was the sensitive type — if I may refer to myself in person number 3. Now, to be sure, I appreciate the way the new crowd of young exceptionals has re-appropriated every nastily-cast slur, made trophies of their taunts, and worn teeshirts covered in their mocking words — each more damaging than stick or stone could be. Truly, they’ve made an honor-badge of each affront and proudly owned it all. But my child-self was programmed to receive. I absorbed every rock-flung insult; I let them break my bones.

Marcy and I have this in common. All those little imbeciles called us weird in school, until paralyzed by negative self-image, we stood down, shut up, gave up, and in certain cases, (here, I’m speaking only of myself), found another way. They made us feel bad — these fucktards, If you will excuse my accurate and descriptive use of the vernacular. And for what? For being different, for being other, for being ourselves — our overcautious, overcryptic, crazy-smart and diamond-shining selves.

And why, why did they single us out for ridicule — not just as excessively base and average children, but as the base and average adults they grew to be?

Because we threatened their existence, Marcy and I. We were different. They were simpletons and we were not. It’s really as simple as that. We use words they don’t understand. We think thoughts they’re incapable of thinking. We imagine, we create, we express. We conceive things beyond their box-bound thinking and it scares them to the point of wildness.

Aw… poor stupid little babies…

Indeed, fellow weirdos, unfurl your deep vocabulary before them and watch their upper lips recoil in defense! They are frightened animals, snarling-scared of what they do not understand. They’re intimidated by words too big, concepts too vast, and presentations of the self not intended to pathetically fit IN.

Their fear triggers animal reactions as old as earth itself. We’re speaking of the instinct, here, people. Fight or flight, going back to — or should I say never having gotten beyond — they’re primitive survival instinct: protect the skin, perpetuate the species: fight, fuck, flee. Truly, this is human savagery 101, la humanite barbarique. It boggles the mind that even after 160,000 of homo sapiens sapiens walking upright o’er the world, there are still so many among us processing life through this archaic operating system. And yet here we are.

Only… (and now for some sword-steeling fun!) Only now, it occurs to me after years of observation, that when faced with this most basic binary choice between fight or flight, only the really stupid, burly humans chose to FIGHT. I mean, doesn’t that ring true? The smart ones flee, make tracks, fly; they trot their bunny tails sensibly away from danger. And the superior among our species (myself and Marcy present here,) camouflage themselves astutely, stifling their laughter as they (from safe advantage) observe the keystone-kop-like antics of the others. But lo, watch as the unevolved, those upon whom wisdom ne’er made an impact, the duh-whu bruisers of lowest intelligence misread the situation yet again, sense mortal, (read: uncomfortable) threats to their self-esteem, simplicity, or safety and choose to pick a FIGHT.

Their mission is to destroying that which THEY DO NOT/ CANNOT UNDERSTAND, making themselves feel more important in the process.

Yes, watch them backed into the corner of their cognitive limitations as Marcy and I intimidate them with our advanced ideas! Watch them to bristle with alarm, until they sanp-crackle, instinctively REACT to try and save their spot there on the lowest-rung. Teeth bared, they attack.

They attack!

They attack.

Best keep out of their way while plotting pure, unadulterated vengeance…

So think about that, genius: the next time you make a move to derisively bark some synonym of “weird,” you’re exposing yourself for the idiot you are. You are embarrassingly screaming, I don’t understand! I feel threatened! I don’t know! My ignorance has frightened me so I’m going to do my violence now! 

I’m watching you, caveman. And I see you sitting low and scared.

But to my ken I’ll say before I go, know it live it love, weirdos. I’m on my way — a vigilante hero on the move. Just as soon as I stretch my way off this terribly comfortable bed. Yawn.