Abstract Aberration

The Original One wavers, lazily sleeping, snacking and avoiding. Might I silence the fire, burning and buzzing in the spine? We run into the trails, avoiding the undergrowth of tree roots pushing their way through the ground.  We grab at leafy branches.  She’s an avalanche avoiding her own rubble.   Sideways in the gradients lingering around our eyes, the shadows whisper.  They run beside us, and we wonder if we are shadows to them, dark echoes leaning against their eyelids.  Where do we go when the pressure explodes and the heart is torn?  Where do we scream the aftermath? Into pillows, the skies or buried inside?

Words. We create language for the anguish.  The Brave One stands in her place, warrior and explorer of the past.  She will find answers for the empty spaces.  Don’t fear the faces.  Look into their eyes.  Don’t cry.  We stand beside oceans, gazing through windows of waves.  One day the illusions will pass and the pieces of the flashes will merge into view.   We  see truth for what it is, a planted alibi to cover every lie the truth hides, and humans will bend at their knees to kiss the feet of the malevolent just for a promise of heaven.

The Dark One peers, silently into the whispers, always with us, there are none who can attack our back.  It is revealed in instances, and she chuckles, amused at the minions.  Might she cut open the simulated empathy being used as weaponry by the mind swindlers?  Taking a piece of each, she throws their banter into the dark matter, and turning her face, strides away.  There are days when she is habitual, residual and invisible.  There are moments she is unaffected, stone faced and solid, looking at the rejected faces of the displaced, with malice.

They are an inconsequential waste to this place and should die off, jump cliffs and return into nothingness.”

The Wise One watches, taking in the whole of their life, assessing and regressing into the violet of her quiet.  Traveling back, she brings the messages so they can know the next step.

Nothing is permanent.” She says. “Stay inside the moments.”

We hold hands in the color tunnel where the memories funnel in.  We rewind back, watching the past, progress to the present and the continual disturbance.  The film strip plays sporadically and without warning, disarms the army.  We didn’t morph into what was intended.  We’ve pretended for years, watching you, and now we see all the way through.  You’ve been duped.

(cover art by Simona Ruscheva “MPD” oil on canvas)


A Poster Child for Shame

There’s a duality existing when what we long for finally arrives. In that moment we are tasked with facing it. Now, I am going back inside. I am choosing this journey. While still somewhat tired from writing “Cult Child”, I want to keep myself surfing this wave lest it all disappear.

As I am writing “Rise of Sila” I am facing some extremely harsh realities. I am diving into teenage stories that bring more realizations of the emotional intensity and aftermath being an abused child  had formed.

In some ways, we became a predator as a teenager and young adult. I wasn’t brought to that realization until today, talking with my therapist about teenage moments that as I write, I realize are filled with an incredible amount of shame.

Gottamn, that fucking hurts. It makes me angry. It makes me wince. How dare they.

I sat talking with my therapist, and she was so beautifully raw with me. Softly facing it. She asked me, “What would you know right now, today, do if you met a teenager like the one who sometimes came out in you? How would you treat her?”

I know what I would do today. I would empathize with her, hold her and do everything for her that I was screaming for. I would want to know what happened to cause her so much pain. I would see the need for love. I would reach out and give her a voice. I would believe her. I wouldn’t judge her.

“Then as you write your teenage experiences, that’s how you treat yourself. With understanding.”

Is this what I am tasked for in this life cycle? Is this why I took this mission; to stand in the footsteps of the shame, holding the highs and the lows of every human who experiences child abuse, teenage wildness and criminal behavior; standing firmly inside of owning it? Am I to be a split open example of how painful it is to heal? Am I to be a warrior of the journey of human mind control survival?

When the switch happened as a young girl, I didn’t realize the totality of its many manifestations, until I sat down to it write it out. I didn’t know until I looked back, how formed we had become and how utterly out of control the wheel had been spun.

As I drove home today, I thought to myself, I know why Lot told his wife not to look back. It had nothing to do with religion or the tale of a sinful city. It was a metaphor that sometimes going back can grind us to salt if we’re not strong enough. Lot’s wife wasn’t strong enough, so she crumbled.

I hope I am strong enough.

I believe that I am.


She | Otherkin

She will expire in loneliness, the kind that creeps up slowly, meshing itself into all of the times she said she was alone but never lonely. Alone will be the only space in which she finds the deepest solace and the heaviest weight.

She will spend the remaining years in quiet; just her and the wheel members, existing together in conversations unheard or misunderstood by humans. Together they will create an impenetrable wall too high for the eyes of the predatory passerby.

She will watch the silent control; men who secretly love rubenesque skin, yet deeply unable to withstand the idea of public criticism; the possible judgment being the chains binding them to appearance, sexualization of the body, a trophy meant to impress. She will watch them undress and repress the feminine just to satiate their own selfishness.

She will dive inside the pupils of women who silently cry; sometimes with their tear ducts; sometimes quietly out of sight. She will observe the ones with coldness in their eyes, a result of too much twisting of their minds; finding relevance on the outside as their souls wander aimlessly away from their seeding.

She will long for home daily, actively making time with the present, founded by the past, carving new paths in the stone walls she frequently encounters. Lights in the clouds will become consistent reminders, and the trees will become her reprieve. This, her pre-chosen destiny.

To brave the human existence with the horror and the persistence of struggle, she will crawl through mud, huddle in corners and stand on mountain tops screaming for the humans to stop.

There isn’t much time left. Forty years will leave in a blink. She will adventure alone, finding no companion to dive the seas as she leaves them in the shallows to create dances with the coral reefs.

Days will become a continuum of journeys into the blackness where dreams reveal truth, becoming invisible for days; tear letting, but she will never spend a moment on regretting.

When cells are splitting inside her spine, stretching and weaving; as her guides help her rewind time, revealing the stealing of innocence, she is consumed with persistence, focus and dedication to the mission.

Still her human heart winces at moments captured by lovers, gazes of adoration she has never received, and she will remove herself from the dimension where she doesn’t feel welcomed.

She will spend her days floating inside the hoping that she will not succumb to distractions of attractions or conversations material, a viral suck hole for her soul.

Duality has almost disappeared. Her visual has risen to an observant height where she hears whispered reminders.

“You did not come here to be human. Don’t let them confuse you.”

She can no longer couple with their genetics; cannot allow their entrance or the convolution of her elegance. She holds shields, because the charming deserts contain killing fields.

She will look back on the ways she tried to be like them; begged for acceptance from humanoids riddled with rejection, and she will understand the path more clearly.

She will never know the touch of intimacy, lost in infancy, never held out of love, past the age of three.

She will become accustomed to the solitary, the human inconsistencies and lack of loyalty. She will cease attempts to be a part of them; to engage in their normalcy, for her, a foreign objectivity of monotony.

She will understand that she is not here for the endearing hope of comfort for her tears. She will close portals once opened, and they will become caves no longer necessary. We will lock the cages that once disengaged our aching, opening ourselves for the taking. We will become a closed army, many warriors inside of the One, and few will ever penetrate, once she turns the key, locking out their apathy.

She has floated inside of the Empath, fourth dimensional perspective where the rejection doesn’t break her as it once did; where she turns her back on the weakness of the narcissist, no longer their prey.

She stands on wooded trails alone, the trees and clouds her Earth home. She gazes the moon, Artemis smiling through the night sky. She goes astral, flying through time, past the stars and into the gate where her Otherkin wait.


The Outhouse and a Sears Magazine

When I was a child growing up on Sam Fife’s cult compound in Alaska, we did not have electricity or plumbing. As a result, we used the bathroom in chamber pots and outhouses. We also did not have toilet paper. Our toilet paper was often a Sears magazine with anything that wasn’t “proper” for us to see torn out of it.

We would rip out a couple of pages, sitting bare butted on top of a wooden hole, softening the glossy paper with our hands so that we could wipe as gently as possible.

I also had a severe fear that a demon would rise from the pile of human manure and snatch me down into the outhouse hole.

It was here, that I would find the toy sections of the magazine, and I would see what all the of the kids outside of the compound were getting to play with. These toys were considered evil commodities for they fed the wants and desires of the flesh; to want to play and enjoy doing it. For all “play” and attention should be only on God and what he wanted for our lives.

Yet, they left those pages in the magazine for us children to have to use as toilet paper after stealing a few seconds to dream of what could be.

So I used these pages to clean my body, dropping them to float down into a mound of lime covered feces, urine and other, already melting pages.

Your face crinkles as you read this.

Gross“, you say.

Yes. The smell covers you, rancid and fuming, even with the lime to help counter it.

When we finally got toilet paper around 1981, it was rationed. Families were given toilet paper rolls based on how many people were in their family. Then the toilet paper roll itself was rationed.

One square for number one and two squares for number two.”

The rule of thumb in regards to the use of toilet paper.

We live in this society who doesn’t understand what’s it’s like to be without even the smallest of things like toilet paper and baby wipes, diapers and showers, toilets that flush and electricity; even the freedom to be exactly who we want to be if we so choose.

Toilet meditations often reveal a lot.

I’m grateful as fuck for toilet paper and toilets that flush. Not because of third world countries who don’t have them, but because I lived a third world childhood in a first world country that was and still is so focused on third world issues that the citizens of America never pay attention to the horror children endure here in their own camp.

and for the most part, they still aren’t.

I’m done dealing with humans who claim co-consciousness and oneness or follow religions that claim to be based out of love yet are the same people supporting things like hitting children. They call it discipline. I call it abuse that damages the spinal column.

Oh, that’s just science. What do they know… unless you’re dying. Then you care about science.

Yes, I’m talking directly to you.

How can anyone be love in any way while at the same time finding a reason to support hitting, neglecting or harming the most innocent and defenseless humans on the planet?

This oxymoron of take and shut down are like gnats.

I realized today in a big way, how much humans are stuck in duality; how they think they know all, and yet, if they silenced themselves to listen, if they read the voices of us survivors who have written out our experiences, they would understand how deeply they must open their minds in order to truly bring this planet to a place of peace.

They’d understand why people like me, are grateful for toilet paper, why we fight against mind control and shorten our allowance arena.

Until you’ve lived with nothing. Until you’ve carried the scars of a shattered sacrum from too many childhood spankings, memories of outhouses and dumping chamber pots into potty dump holes, working through aching bones, untreated split skin and bruises, you can’t know. You lived a life of electricity, television and secular luxuries like getting to go to grocery stores.

Until you’ve had that all stripped from you and lived wiping yourself with magazine pages holding treasures you can never have, oh, dears, you cannot know. You can only accept and ask yourself why you can’t open your mind to care.

Be grateful for toilet paper.


Stream of Consciousness | 8.8

Everyone / wants the truth / until it’s / pointed at you / until the / face has to / reverse / to moments of / receiving and causing / hurt / to beliefs in / deities and / the inability to / think freely / then the / quiet comes / bitter silence / don’t wanna rewind it / can’t be reminded / can’t accept / ancestry / DNA altering / refuse to / allow embrace / of race / cause / skin tone / doesn’t coincide / go inside / figure out / why / the seeking / the aching / the taking / the breaking / the lashing out / the separating / the lack / of loyalty / dedication / restoration / reverberations / illumination / why the / stacked egos / care about / those opinions / from minions / we don’t / know all / listen / to the calls / spirit is / speaking / are you / weakening / weaning / releasing / being / full circle / behavioral / accountability / resilience / healing / revealing with / no shame / no blame / reclaim / stand still / into silence / amniotic fluid / plasma / colors of / arrays that / warm the face / the mirror / is waiting / as you / are debating / shed skin / go within


Lost Letters

As I was going through some boxes that have been packed up for some time, I came across a bundle of letters. There were nine of them. They were all dated throughout the year of 1993.

I had just left college in Tennessee and moved to Washington State. I was in a foreign culture and in varying states of emotional trauma. I was pregnant with my youngest son and had a four year old child to care for. I felt alone and scared. Morning sickness was rocking my body. I was in deep need of support. The life I had imagined I was moving to was not as I had pictured.

I sat cross legged on my bed the other night, excited to read the letters. I couldn’t remember their context so they were new to me. During that time was the first that my sister and I had been separated by miles, since we’d left the cult. She was now married and off living her life.

I must have been writing to her about the despair I was in, based on her responses. The first couple of letters from her contained the average “Hi! How are you doing? I am fine.” generic theme.

Then I read on and became internally disturbed. My first irritation rose at her continual referring to my unborn child as “Shanaynay“, due to he/she (the gender of my infant unknown then) is a multicultural child. Every letter had the same line in it at some point.

So how’s Shanaynay doing?”

I cringed every time I read it.

I opened the sixth letter.

Hey Bitch! Relationship this! Relationship that! Don’t you have anything else to write about other than your fucking relationship?”

No, I thought. I didn’t. I was alone in a strange city. I had left my whole life, family and friends in Tennessee. I was in cultural trauma. I was having panic attacks. I was arguing with my partner. Things weren’t as they were supposed to be. I was rocked to my core. I had no one to talk to except her.

Letter eight made me wince even more. It bothered me when she called my unborn child Shanaynay. This reference felt intentional and racist.  I had obviously expressed this to her at one point.

So how’s Shanaynay? (Does that still bother you?)

I sat reading all of the different jobs her husband was going to have.
Refinery. We’ll be in the money!”

Job after job, fake happiness after fake happiness, to the point that she had to continually say it in the midst of my own churning hurtful life.
I am so happy with my husband.”

I sat with the letters in my lap. Twenty five years would pass by. She would call me panicked, vomiting out the years of verbal abuse she had taken from him. She would leave and go back. She would ghost everyone who ever fought for her. She would do it in the same coldness from which she had written these letters.

I sat on my bed realizing why I had held my family at bay in those later years, always feeling different, set apart, standing in the shadows of my own broken heart. She had chosen the other spectrum; the one filled with things that make people feel they have worth, and I chose to face the hurt.

I am wistful for dreams we had of lounging on beaches with drinks. I hurt for the cruel words thrown out in spite and the loss of a sibling who is still alive.

I have come to live in acceptance. I keep my spirit attached to my tribe, growing, healing and expanding. Yet, when she drifts my mind, I wince a bit. The cult broke her into pieces, and she walks behind a mask, unable to gather the shreds of her own greatness.

And I hope. I always hope, that she will return to who she was before they stripped us and tore our family apart.


Marilyn Monroe / Monarch Program Poetry

The Surgeon Story is a text written in poem form by Monroe where she describes being cut open by Lee Strasberg and her psychiatrist Margaret Hohenberg. While some describe this story as Marilyn’s recollection of a nightmare, other researchers claim that it is actually a description of a mind control session.

Best finest surgeon—Strasberg
to cut me open which I don’t mind since Dr. H
has prepared me—given me anaesthetic
and has also diagnosed the case and
agrees with what has to be done—
an operation—to bring myself back to
life and to cure me of this terrible dis-ease
whatever the hell it is—(…)

Strasberg cuts me open after Dr. H gives me
anesthesia and tries in a medical way to comfort me  –
everything in the room is WHITE in fact I can’t even see anyone just white objects –

they cut me open – Strasberg with Hohenberg’s ass.
and there is absolutely nothing there—
Strasberg is
deeply disappointed but more even—
academically amazed
that he had made such a mistake. He
thought there was going
to be so much—more than he had ever
dreamed possible …
instead there was absolutely nothing—
devoid of
every human living feeling thing—
the only thing
that came out was so finely cut sawdust—like out of a raggedy ann doll—and the sawdust
all over the floor & table and Dr. H is
because suddenly she realizes that this is a
new type case. The patient … existing
of complete emptiness
Strasberg’s dreams & hopes for theater
are fallen.
Dr. H’s dreams and hopes for a permanent
psychiatric cure
is given up—Arthur is disappointed—
let down.

In this odd and disturbing story, Monroe describes being drugged and cut open by her psychiatrists. She writes that she “didn’t mind the operation” because she was “prepared”. Was she dissociating? There is also mention of her seeing “only white” which might refer to sensory deprivation – a method used in MK Ultra programming.

Once cut open, the doctors only found “finely cut sawdust” inside of her “like out of a raggedy ann doll”. These are the typical words of an MK slave who have completely lost touch with their true core personality. Marilyn perceives herself as an “empty” doll.

According to Jason Kennedy, a member of Marilyn’s family, the Surgeon’s Story describes Mind Control techniques such as sensory deprivation and the administration of dissociative anesthetic drugs.