Dream Journal: 2017-03-10.01

“I’d love to visit you more often, dearie, but I’m awfully tired and get so thirsty…”

That’s how the conversation with [Great Aunt Mabel™] ended two nights ago. (The name has stuck as a pseudonym for someone very, very, specific.) The carriage came immediately to take her away, but she allowed me the grace of holding her hand to steady her as she was assisted into it. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2017-03-10.01”

Dream Journal: 2017-01-08.01

“It’s not enough.”

«It’s enough.»

“The store didn’t have [spice originally used], so I had to go with [alternative], and it’s not enough. [Lists all the ways the alternative is not sufficient.]”

«¡Cállate! Piensas demasiado. Es bastante. Serás mejor en él con el tiempo y la práctica. Como las otras cosas.»

“… Did y’all just life lesson my ass?”

«[satisfied meddling grand-aunties feels go here]»

I’m being tag-teamed. Send help. And more coffee.

Dream Journal: 2017-01-07.01

So of course, after a long day of having a very important deadline overruled because other people haven’t gotten their deadline material ready resulting in three hours of (maybe paid) overtime plus another hour driving home disassociating like fuck because this week has been a dumpster fire of dealing with private spiritual issues while not shanking self-proclaimed adult Homo sapiens who throw tantrums because I neither express disgust at their emulation of Pan troglodytes shit-flinging, or approval at the few times they manage to keep it in their pants, I go immediately to bed and dream.

Of my deepest fear.




In nearly every scenario I have already lived through, have witnessed, or can expect to come about if The Thing does come to pass, plus a few that surprised me but dovetailed neatly into other matters I am still afraid of (and actually, explains why that trauma hits me so damn hard when it comes up).

I’m tired.

I go to make coffee. I find myself reaching for a spice bottle we have not had for years. I mostly wake up. «If you would make [Special Coffee] for us, that would be great, because it’s been a long night and we all could use the comfort.»


I want to argue. I want to throw shit out the window. I want to forget at least half of what happened last night. And I want to tie a certain resident to a certain tree in his Superfund yard and set his property on fire because dealing with him and his threat of a lawsuit has been the Key Reason why I was working after hours in the first place.

“No. Because I require [Certain Spice] to make that coffee, and I’m not going to interface with any meatsuits other than my own until I get some god damn coffee for myself.”

«¡Aí, chica! No seas una vieja perra esta mañana. Usa [la otra especia] que tienes. Será suficiente para hoy.»

Wait. That’s Spanish. And a different “voice” as well. And did that voice just call me a bitch? I am not awake enough to be respectful to anyone.

“Look. I don’t know if I’m still dreaming, if I’m awake, if I’m hallucinating, or if I’m dead. All I know is it has been a god damned burning sphincter of a week and if I don’t get some peace and quiet long enough to get some coffee and resume basic functions, I’m going to be punching shit in the taint, be that shit gods, ancestors, local spirits, my shadow, and/or the grave. Not necessarily in that order. ¿Entiende usted?”

I heard no response and figured I was surely damned as hell, so might as well finish making my coffee since it’s going to be the last drink I have in this lifetime.

I opened the coffee tin and noted to my dismay that I had even less coffee than I had calculated. Only enough for one cup. Ah well, it’s enough. I marked off a potential shopping list in my head both to remember it and to check if I was still in the land of the living. “Pads. Q-tips. Milk. Coffee…”

«[La especia especial.] ;) »

… -.-

“Fine. [La especia especial.] … And fuck you, too.”

«[happy bubbly familial feels go here]»

I think this is what “loving family interactions” feels like. I’m not sure. I can work with it though. Feels nice.

Dream Journal: 2016-11-20.01

It was a surprise gathering of “spirit workers” from all over the world and representatives of otherworldly entities. They all came to Harlequin’s nightclub but I was not yet lucid to recognize this. No more than any given two or three people knew the same language. When it came to spiritual matters, each had their own personalized language that could not be translated.

But we all knew rhythm. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2016-11-20.01”

On Margaret

The name her masters gave her was Margaret. I haven’t been able to find the last name. If her descendants were any indication, she was piss and vinegar until they beat it out of her. They probably trying using rape as coercion but that would only piss her off more. So they beat her until she realized she would never get home.

Instead, she made sure to breed insubordination and unquenchable drive into the bastard children they forced on her.

Continue reading “On Margaret”