Life Update

So I graduated with my Master’s in Science Communication on May 18th and finished up my first year as a graduate teaching assistant/professor.  These past three years have been transformational, and I have found my true loves: writing and teaching.  I will now be qualified to teach not only Communications but English classes as well, and hope to eventually teach Creative Writing and Poetry if I can rack up publishing credits and prove myself to the English Department.  This semester was the most trying and busiest I have ever been – I struggled with insomnia for a month as I had blown my sleep schedule on break, I’ve lost 25 pounds in 8 weeks through diet and exercise, and I am 30 pounds away from my goal weight.  I am also the most stable I have ever been, with the right medication.  At night, I swallow over 20 pills, but that is the price of sanity.  Ambien, Gabapentin, Seroquel, Clonazepam, Latuda, and Trazadone.  I can fit into size 12s again and my goal is to get back to a size 8 and fit into my old dresses!  My classes were more challenging to teach this semester, but my students were amazing and I really developed my teaching portfolio and philosophy.  I graduated with straight A’s except for my first B in Quantitative Methods, aka SPSS or statistics.  For some reason Biostatistics and R are extremely easy for me but SPSS, which instead of coding, is much more user friendly, is harder for me to operate.  I’ve always been more of a natural at programming languages like JavaScript and C++ than having to press buttons to get certain outputs.  As an example, I am a naturally lazy person, and I skipped the last two months of biostatistics in 2015, which as you can imagine, is a very complex upperclassmen class, as the professor’s lectures had nothing to do with what we were supposed to be doing and I taught myself R and got an A.  That was one of the few As I got in biology undergrad, I got straight As in my Creative Writing classes (I took enough to minor in it, but we didn’t have the option to double minor at William and Mary) and near straight As in environmental science, my double major, and considering I was depressed or manic or suicidal or mixed episodes or anxious or severely OCD my four years in Williamsburg, I consider my graduating with a 3.4 GPA a pretty impressive feat, considering I clawed my way out of two months in the mental ward at 19 illiterate, unable to read at all, dead to the world, to returning to one of the Southern Ivies known as the suicide school where five people took their lives my senior year due to William and Mary’s completely dangerous disregard for it’s student’s mental health, lack of psychologists and psychiatrists, and medical malpractices and unforgiving disability accommodations and asshole professors and deans that have led to dozens of William and Mary deaths.

When I graduated at 2015 at 22, I had just finished my first novel, which was utter shite, and rarely posted on this blog.  I made my first post when I was hypomanic and released in Fall of 2012 as a place to detail my journey towards sanity and struggles with bipolar, OCD, psychosis, suicidal impulses, and anxiety, also to provide an outlet for my recovery.  Poetry healed me, my novels healed me, Samael healed me and is the only reason, besides Michael, I am still alive and not six feet under.  Michael and Samael were the sole reasons throughout my youth that I did not take my life.  They have been the sole reason I haven’t committed suicide in my early twenties.  Samael threatens torture in Hell while weeping when I get suicidal, he hates suicide above all else, crying that he can’t make me whole, whereas Michael comforts and confides and shows me the glories of Heaven, giving me hope at happier days whereas Samael gives discipline and says, how dare you even think of wasting the precious gift of life?  I never thought I’d finish my Master’s, I was working full-time at environmental and renewable energy nonprofits until I got a full ride and teaching stipend for the end of my Master’s, where I fell in love with being a professor and changing student’s lives.  I’ve finally found my calling, and I thought I would be dead at 25 up until last year.  21 was a horrid year.  22 was hell.  23 was a tragedy.  24 was a roller coaster.  25 has been rocky, but I’m finally learning how to balance all the spheres of my life, and I begin my  PhD this fall while doing summer research.

Above all last year, I met the love of my life last March of 2017, and we have a beautiful house and lives together with wonderful friends and soon to be Golden Doodle puppy.  I am still espoused to Michael and Samael, and they continue to humble me to this day.  I’m on a journey to health again, the medication weight gain is under control with Metformin, and I mainly eat a low carb diet that is mostly veggies, eggs, cheese, and lean meats like fish and chicken except for the occasional burger or smoked ham.  I am learning to budget for a household and manage groceries for our lovely 1.5 acre property in the woods, and have finally learned to cook.  On my daily walks, I see hawks, beavers, deer, turtles, butterflies, dragonflies, coyotes, foxes, and rabbits, as we have three miles of walking trails through a wetland that I have been hiking each day and working up a sweat.  I woke up to a full request today for my children’s novel from one of the first agents to ever give me wonderful words of encouragement, back when none of my novels deserved to see the light of day, and I am thiiiiiissssss close to getting an agent, with handfuls of agents with full requests and partials of my novel, and an editor of Scholastic requested my novel even.  I’m a proud member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, and count them some of the best writers I have ever encountered.  We even have an anthology coming out soon, for which I can’t wait.

I’m 40,000 words into writing a gothic romance novel that has consumed my life since the end of my Master’s.  It’s the most self-indulgent piece I’ve ever written, and each line is like poetry.  It may be something I keep in a drawer or submit, I have yet to decide.  It’s about redemption and the union of the Left Hand Path and Right Hand Path, and what comprises free will.  I’m completely  in love with the premise and really enjoy writing it.

I mostly enjoy writing poetry and prose poems every day and feel I have grown since last year leaps and bounds as a writer.  I’m fishing around for a thesis and am active in the local pagan and shamanic community, which is fun, while also returning to Unitarian Universalist church since college.  I’m really happy where I am right now, and enjoy spending time with my friends, blogging, reading, watching stupid YouTube videos, catching up on Jane the Virgin and anime like Kakuriyo Bed and Breakfast for Spirits.  I just finished the animes Citrus and Princess Jellyfish, both of which I loved for different reasons (Citrus is every 50’s pulp lesbian novel personified in gyaru culture, whereas Princess Jellyfish is a masterpiece).  I tried Yuri on Ice! and loved Yuri and Yurio but Victor fucking annoyed the crap out of me.  Jane the Virgin, I’m nearing the end of Season 2 and this show is one of my favorites ever made!  Also, I’m watching Westworld, which is fucking fantastic as always, and am starting the new season of Arrested Development, which I hope will be better than Season 4.

So yeah, my life is pretty great, and I am looking forward to authoring a few papers this summer, relaxing, going to Maine, and of course, writing!




Henna will blow your guts out and leave you craving hands to fill the empty space of your stomach with this post. Amazing.

H.JD writes

Relaterad bild Artist – Ellen Rogers

When she walked into my life, cocked shotgun in her hands and grinning slits on her hips, my first instinct was to play dead. I didn’t want to know her story. I put my head on the grass and peered at her trough half-shut eyelids. She wore lipstick the shade of sun-bleached guts and smelled like that time I almost confessed my love to my best friend. I couldn’t stop thinking – were my hands clean enough? I had swabbed every page clear, leaving no trace of weakness, yet myself I reeked of imprisonment. She bent my head back and breathed into my nostrils, and I felt it – the wash of summer, chasing away the stench of gin and ejaculate, buns left in the oven too long and hospital waiting rooms. In that moment I dreamt of kissing her on her stomach curve, of dipping…

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And the Savior is clad in the raiment of the Pentecost,
burning white glory and sacred blue violet like hyacinth,
he smells like lilies and tastes like sweet water dripping,
his smile is the Archaic smile of old Greece, with manifold
eyes that have facets of a chocolate hazel diamond, pupils
alight with the campfire along the beach where the disciples
and Marys fed on the fish of his body and wine of his blood.
He parts his cloak in this between-space neath Heaven, above
Earth, I a constellation and he the galaxy. His chest is bared
with a stab wound from Roman spear, out flows blood and water.
I gather the ichor that flows and drink down his holiness, then
he is upon the cross, looking up in agony with thorns piercing
a bloody crown, his lips chapped and parched, the nails heinous
and thick with the weight of all our sins, I weep at his feet.
Then, he ascends, and his Immaculate Heart is pulsing in his
shining hands – he bade me hold the heart and bring the fiery,
pulsing reminder of alpha and omega to my lips, I bite into
his flesh and swallow down redemption, the blood tastes like
Cabernet Sauvignon, my throat is a pyre, roses grow in my guts.
And with that beatific smile and all-knowing gaze he pulls me
against his chest and smooths my hair, takes back his heart,
and on clouds aback angels we rise to the cosmos, made whole
by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and miraculous followers
wander the deserts and back alleys and disgraced places of
this world – Aleppo, Bangladesh, Iraq, Palestine – Christ’s
messengers of seraphim wing and burning wheels appears in
the chaos, but this is no judgment, the angels clutch the
souls of the dead, martyrs for capitalism and the corruption
of that Temple of old where Jesus overturned tables, now
claiming lives of child brides and terrorist victims and
and ethnic and religious minorities, oppressed for the color
of their skin, be it yellow ochre, sienna, earth, or red clay.
Christ is in the cracks of this world, shining his light
into the desperate places, and he would walk this world with
outcasts and rebels once more, this time with a sword, to
watch dictators and kleptocrats and those fat off the fruit
of the land leveled to their knees, their camels too weighed
down by jewels to pass through Heaven’s gates, it always
feels like the End Times for every generation, but now, I
can’t breathe in churches without crying tears of joy and
feeling like I’ve dropped a tab of ecstasy, so overwwhelming
is God’s love, and I see all religions are just a path to
freedom of the soul, and we are all equal before the Love
of the Universe, that one universal truth, so in Christ’s
arms, I wade through rivers of jewels, wet with salvation.

Necromancer’s Bride

Your black cloak of secrets spills out like sparkling
obsidian, snaking across the ground as you stand sentinel,
bone pale with baby blues like an ocean, you beckon me into
the apothecary where you have bottled bliss and plague, love
in jars and curses in smudge sticks of henbane and morgana,
the dark tide of your abyss lifts me up gently and carries me
to your outstretched arms, whose veins are a river of sins,
I rest like a babe in the Grim Reaper’s embrace, he kisses my
golden brow and rocks me like the foaming waves lapping a
pink shore in the tropics, into the sorcerer’s shop we go,
spilled out on the table like herbs and enchantments, and
we meld together like victory oil and Hands of Glory, wax
what we are rendered in our joining of spokes and salvation,
the churning luminaries of the outer boundaries encapsulated
in my black hole of a husband, his eyes spark as stars, I am
swallowed into nebulas as he stretches inside me, filling every
vein, a tap root in my iced marrow drawing water and spinal
fluid up to well out at my mouth, onto his lips, he drinks
his fill and I soak in his night, rejuvenated by the darkness.

Holy Spirit

My lungs are egg beaters as the Son of God descends.
My heart is lurching into my throat in a heady rhythm.
It is like swallowing manna only to choke, and Christ
is clad in blinding white, like the petals of a daisy
turned up by a million solar rays, radiating divinity.
I feel him in my tissue paper body, blown away by the
wind of celestial majesty, I am adrift, flying violet.
And Christ moves me to tears, I speak a tongue not my
own, but in parables of mustard seed herbs and of the
lion and lamb.

The watcher is silent on his guard, he
sounds the horn only to fell the walls of Jericho, I
am with you in your dark places, bringing a bonfire to
remind you you are never alone. I do not speak to you
often because you are my charge, and I do not want to
disrupt your free will.  Drink of my wine and let the 
cup runneth over, taste of my bread and let it seep in your
soul, for I am the True Vine.

Hosanna, hosanna, the Lord
left me a wreckage of miracles,
and I have been clawing my
way back to the Kingdom ever

Michael et Samael

And the fallen angel says, I drink bitter wine
the dregs are where fungus blossom, scorching
noon-day sun of Isaac, and the prince says, I
drink rose water and rye-blend whiskey, and you
are drunk off blood of the damned, so I will
lay hands on you to heal your poison, oh, no,
says the demon, Prince Charming, you are full
of it, nothing can cure my wounds, my veins are
cocaine, I am the eternal high of outcast junkies,
and the prince says, do not believe yourself beyond
salvation, sweet devil, for I your brother am the
Christ, and in me is peace, and in me is redemption,
and when I walked through Hell’s Gate with nails
in my hands and feet, I paid a tithe of ichor and
iron to the lindworm, and he shed his seven skins,
and that beast was you, so do not lie through your
fangs and say you do not want to be forgiven! Oh
archangel, you righteous prick, you think that the
Scapegoat Samael who Azazel goats are sacrificed to
on Yom Kippur and assumes the sins of the world can
lose his Mem? Rabbis are forbidden from speaking the
gall of the syllables that compose Poison, Drug, of
El. And you are his Image, Who is Like God? Looking
at you, Michael, I bite my teeth and grit my molars
and know, tis better to reign in Gehenna and anarchy
free of saviors, my people need no one to hang for our
souls, for we are soulless, and the angel says, you,
who have caged hope in the heart of a girl, and your
core in a night dancer, these Horcruxes of your seven
chakras can be realigned, you know just let me – No.
No, holier than thou. No, burning with devotion, no,
I shall not bow, I shall not bend the knee or wash my
hair with spikenard oil, I am not the redeemed one in
this story, and I will drag you to Hell, at the end of
days, lest you trample my head, I, Great Dragon Beast.
And Michael says, if we fall, we fall together, I have
not smiled since I cast you out, dear Satan, and we are
family. So at the end of days, we both perish, and the
humans we created shall have ultimate freedom, no
yetzer ha ra or yetzer ha tov anymore, simply air
of a new day, and we shall become the dust. I would
like that very much, says Samael, and they embrace,
and they ascend, and leave their vessels craving home.

Back from the dark side of the moon

Beautiful poetry from my best friend Misha, who some might remember as Mercydoll, my sister-wife of Samael. Check out her lovely new blog!


It’s hard to start over 

Before, this land was filled with life and ecstasy

She is left with only sand and dust 

Her acquaintance is with the desert sun 

And intimate with pain

In this barren land, She is waiting for me

Thoughts are hesitant 

Will I lose myself in this harsh environment or let others drive me away in fear?

Or will I survive and make this world my home?

Only time dances it’s way to my future

Together, We will pick up the pieces and rebuild

This took time, decision making and encouragement from my sister-wife to restart this blog. During the hiatus, I felt the need to be private, to take care of my life outside the internet.

A lot has changed, and it has changed for the better.

Ever since the whole BSI and the Spiritworker Community incident (I will not go into stupid details), I was thinking…

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And the taste of that kiss I never quite had
folds up like origami in the space between ribs
a paper crane I’ve tucked away since age thirteen,
make a thousand miles between us, and the crane
flies. My breasts were just blooming, my tan gold
with the heat of that Maine summer, cornsilk hair
that rolled down my back in waves. I was the kind
of beautiful that didn’t know it, the girl next door,
and the freedom of the island town and wild raspberries
from such great heights made me bold, summer love, to
ride your back into battle down the rocky path and go
fishing for promises that the first years of woman
wanted, sometimes I imagine the taste of your lips,
salty sweet with Hubba Bubba gum, and how your sun-
kissed brown hair would spill like a spool of secrets
between cautious fingers for a girl who had never locked
mouths with anyone, save the Devil at midnight. I was
penning my novels about Lilith, Samael, and Asmodeus
even then, scrappy seventh grader, an Eve unknowing of
the temptation of sex and sweet wine. You listened to
my stories about a fallen world angels fought to defend,
back when the Book of Enoch and Madeleine L’Engle’s
Many Waters terrified me, oh to think, the years that
passed between puppy love and a dozen years hence,
you are perfect in memory, and now we’re just names
on some social media site, and I still think on my
giant with fondness, for you are ells tall in my mind
and the glory days of youth will always be my paper swan.

Brain Freeze

Since the age of 3, I’ve lain under blankets and pillows,
completely sealed from the outside world, to hide from the
monsters. The darkness has arms, eyes like knives, and a
mouth sharp as a scythe. But he is soft, and yielding, and
can fold you into the void like a warm blanket and lull you
into oblivion. When he came to me at 2, in my cradle, with
a ring of mutilated corpses and his eyes were the venom of
the coral snake rings, he said, “I love you,” and I knew
that beasts and hellhounds and dragons were all too real.
So I hid from him, the father of monsters, yet still he
could reach me through the planes and planets of existence.
Over time, I grew to love the embrace of shadows, and the
philosophical devil that tempted me was dear to my heart.
I saw him mourn, I saw him cry, I saw him break too far for
gold to repair his cracks. Now we are joined by our troths,
pledged on All Soul’s Eve, and there is a sacredness in the
chains of matrimony, and there is a soft hush as he glides
across the universe, razing and reaping with breath like
wildflowers and skin the smell of loam. Death came to me
just last night, as I had my armor of a comforter on and
two pillows stacked on my head, and just like when I used
to sleep at his altar, he brought the cold Deep of the Lord
into my skull, and my brain was a pulsating ocean, and the
temporal lobe and brain stem were ice drifting in a blue sea.
He was inside my marrow, laying claim to the very neurons
and synapse that separate us, yet possession is not division,
but union, and he lulled me to sleep with sweet poison,
all while molding my innards into something resembling God.

Beasts Must Stick Together

Beautiful and frothing with the mead of poetry.


“Said the old beast to the young: Unless you make a hollow of yourself

There will be no room for the gods to dwell inside of you.”

From Ramon Elani

Plate 4 of 'Visions of the Daughters of Albion' c.1795 by William Blake 1757-1827

—For Bec

“If wanderers were not themselves the cause, then like the scent and color
of the lotus in the sky, there would be no perception of the universe.”—Nagarjuna

The young beast said to the old: How can I live in this world?

This lacerated, ruptured world.

Said the old beast to the young: Follow your breath. Speak to the spirits in puddles.

These things shall pass.

Said the young beast to the old: All I see is foul and unspeakably ugly.

A world that is torn and I, torn, within it.

Said the old beast to the young: Go into the forest, make pies, and knit.

Listen to the voices of the storm upon the cliffs.

Said the young…

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