mystic visions

Anyone who looked directly at “Chang-O” was made blind,
but “Chang-O” was everywhere, when you least expected,
creeping out from behind corners, creeping up under you,
before you had a chance to turn away.
I did everything I could to keep my eyes from seeing “Chang-O,”
except that left me confined, immobilized.
I hid beneath hoods and within walls,
and did not dare to leave my hiding place.
One day a strange brown woman
appeared at my house with a disc, seemingly of music.
She said it would help me with my problem
—if I listened, believed, followed.
I was skeptical, but I also had no other options if I wanted to live…

signed X

what is my story my experience
the thing that fuels my action
my potential activism in the world?
by circumstance
i am a woman a woman “of color”
a city-dweller
a person of haitian descent
but do i identify with any of these things?
i am scarred
i have a petite frame and voluptuous thumbs
my boundaries are constantly under assault
my voice seems trapped
i am a writer a word-lover
a dancer a listener a space-holder
a squirrel- and bird-watcher
a desirer i yearn
for color and movement and touch
nourishment
companionship and solitude
beauty simplicity ambiguity
i am afraid
constantly hiding
i do not know my own power
these are my personal identifications
the things i know in my bones
the things i feel
the things that adorn my daily life
but what do i do with it all?
the compulsion to make of myself
some coherent character and to fit
into some existing framework
is a societal ball-and-chain
that i cannot shake loose
who am i
what is my role my purpose
we *all* want to know
names definitions and succinct descriptions
are required here
that’s how you get to be somebody

..across the water..

“Maybe you’re a medium,” the High Priestess said.

I’d taken in the Summer Queen and apparently it showed—something in the eyes? a shift in my demeanor, in the way I moved? I’d even transmitted a message to someone in the circle.

A medium, huh? There’s something I never considered. And in the moment, the Summer Queen offered no answer. She simply let that “maybe”—pregnant with possibility—hang in the air for a moment and fall like a fine perfumed mist.

Lighthouse pointing to the Sun

As Sol approaches the peak of his power, I’m finding the path to my own. Sagittarian flame, long dormant, begs for release. The Fire Goddesses fill my ears with crackling whispers. My solar plexus chakra, dim and spinning ever so slowly, yearns for passion hot and all-consuming—explosive even.

The witch wants to burn.