Cigarette smoke, boot polish, clove and orange and ash.

I’m drowning in my demon and he’s giving me a Hell of

a time.  Wait, scratch that, he is Time, Egg Man, Egg Man,

Cosmic Orphic hippie, Eros Protogonos, the Loving Light

four eyed yet invisible, immortal yet turning to dust. I’m on

a cosmic acid trip, man, and the stoner created the world,

just read Timaeus gang, the Demiurge is the good guy. I swear

on his bong and crack pipe and razors he’s just here to have

a good time, a drag time, a slag time, and I’m the Devil’s jester,

a Dadaist flipping urinals upside down on fly walls to see what

sticks to the paper, either gum or something like a spider’s shit.

It’s nets upon fractals upon words at stake, my darling, and punks

with stubble and mussed hair and eyes to melt maidens are the ones

that wax eternal in the good girl’s mind, and Satan only really wants

a heart, someone to slither next to his Lion-Serpent and say, I see you,

brother, and I am one

of your kind.



I’m gagging with laughter.  I found this from my 11 year old story when I was in sixth grade and Ariel/Lucifer or “Starguassi” was sincerely trolling the everliving fuck outta me.  Eating moss, using crop circles as the Craigslist personals, and meanwhile Uriel or “Lira” is trying to read a Japanese newspaper??? 

I spent all last night with Lucidork/Phanes/Ariel/Eros/Aion/Protogonos/Angra Mainyu/Zurvan reading my old first novel which I may post hilarious excerpts from, and god is it bad… it a very sincere sixth grade way, the time I was reading and writing Avatar: The Last Airbender fanfic.  My writing is really cute, but like I’m high on… pixie dust.  He froze me last night for like ten minutes.  I was in two comforters and a sweater and still my back felt like a fridge.  I should NOT have given him wine and strawberries. He also was manifesting on the ceiling last night like SpiderPig???  I mean, he didn’t look like a pig, just a blazing red star and black void, but still SpiderPig on principle.

Stay away from the pixies, Star!  You’ll break out in hives!

Starguassi lay sprawled over a mossy patch of forest floor, his back propped up against a gnarled tree.  Fiddling with an apple he’d swiped from a garden earlier, he groaned with boredom and closed his eyes, flopping back against the trunk.

“Lira, what are you doing?” he moaned, dropping the apple lazily onto the ground.

Lira was standing a few feet away, shading herself from the hot sun under an oak.  She held a newspaper in her hands, and her eyes were scrunched in concentration.

“Star, could you just shut your mouth for one second?  I’m trying to read the newspaper and see what is happening in the human world.  But I can’t make out a word of this text! Urgh, it’s like a jumble of squiggles!” Lira said hotly, squinting at the paper.

“Maybe that’s because you’re reading the Japanese newspaper,” Star said lazily, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes.

Lira glared at Starguassi with an expression that could kill the strongest man.  “At least I’m doing something,” she spat.

Star lifted his head.  “I am doing something! I’m trying to find something edible around here so we don’t starve to death!” He grabbed a fistful of moss and shoved it in his mouth, crunching it between his teeth.  “See?” he said, his voice muffled by the moss, “tastes like leather!” His face twisted sourly, and he promptly spit the chewed-up moss back out.

Lira rolled her eyes.  “Wow, you have the potential to have a great career.  I can see it now: Starguassi, the Master Sampler of Fungi, Moss, and Anything Else He Can Get His Hands On!”

“At least I can tell the difference between scribbles and English,” he muttered, chomping into the apple.

“It’s not MY fault humans have hundreds of different languages!  Why can’t they just pick one and stick with it?”

“Beats me,” Star said, closing his eyes.

“Can you be any more laid back?” Lira asked, frustrated.  Her question was met with silence.

“Great, he’s fallen asleep.  Isn’t a twelve hour nap long enough to wake him up?” she mumbled.  Deciding it was high time to get a newspaper she could actually read, Lira set off to town after quickly transforming herself.  

After 15 minutes, two Cinnabons, and one mochiatto, she was back with a newspaper.  

One glance at the front page of the Washington Post and her eyes bulged out from their sockets.

“You IDIOT!” she screeched, hurling her burning hot coffee at Starguassi.  He yelped in pain, springing up from the ground.

“WHAT is your PROBLEM?” Star yelled, wiping the brown liquid off his face, all the while wincing in extreme pain.

THIS IS THE PROBLEM!” Lira replied furiously.  Her green eyes bore holes in Starguassi and her warm brown lips were as cold as stone.  Shoving the front page of the newspaper at Starguassi, Lira pointed accusingly at the headline.

Shenanigans in Fairfax Reach All Time High!-What?” Starguassi said, craning his neck in puzzlement as he read the headline.  “Alien Symbols Found in Farm!” Starguassi took one glance at the photo accompanying this article and his face burned a deep crimson.  The picture showed a gaggle of scientists scrutinizing a field of wheat where dozens of indentations of symbols had been made.  Written in Pralebian, the official language of Centrions, were the words “SINGLE, SEXY CENTRION MALE LOOKING FOR POTENTIAL GIRLFRIEND.”

“So THIS is why you were too busy yesterday afternoon to help me set up camp!” Lira snapped, snatching back the newspaper, crumpling it up, and tossing it at Starguassi’s head.

“Ow!” he said, rubbing his forehead.  

“Is this your idea of some sick joke?  Unless you’re interested in the human girls-

“Ugh, no, you mean those furless apes?  Come on, give me some sympathy, I haven’t seen a luscious, Centrion maiden for months-“

“Oh, and I’m just chopped gribknott!”

“Look, Lira, I didn’t mean that-

“Shut up, you lecherous cretin!”

“Look Lira, calm down, and stop using big vocabulary, you know I don’t understand-

“Yeah, and you obviously don’t understand what you did!  What do you think will happen if an alien ship filled with lusty girls who happen to see the message?  How do you think the humans will react when they see a blobs Spacepreservative alien-filled lumps crash in the middle of a parking lot?”

Starguassi turned to Lira with puppy-eyes.  “Forget about it, okay? I was just having a bit of fun-

“Fun that could get us exposed,” Lira mumbled.


Allie’s Ancestor Series: The Holdens

My uncle Holden, the redhead family trickster, is named after our Holden family from maine.  I found a website about us!  For future reference:

Liberty E. Holden

The Holden Family: Roots in England

Liberty Emery Holden, father of Albert Fairchild Holden and grandfather of Emery May Holden Norweb, was the bearer of a proud and long-established name. He was born on a small farm in Raymond, Maine, which at the time of his birth in 1833 was still part of the northern New England frontier. Later, as a member of the Mayflower Society and the Sons of the American Revolution, Liberty Holden took great pleasure in tracing the growth of the Holden family in America from its earliest days in the mid 17th century, eventually commissioning a two-volume genealogical register of all Holdens who could trace their ancestry back to the original settlers in the New World.

The Holdens were participants and observers in the unfolding of American history. The parts they played were small at first, but they were played well and with a constancy that did not seem to vary from one generation to the next. If Liberty Holden’s star seemed to shine the brightest in the family’s constellation, it may have drawn something of its light from those who had gone before him. In the persons of Richard and Justinian Holden, the first of the name to settle in the new world, and of John Holden, Lieutenant in the Second Middlesex Regiment of militia during the Revolutionary War, we can find earlier examples of the same spirit of determination to succeed despite risks, the same respect for education, and the same knack for making a name for themselves by being in the right place at the right time, that became Liberty’s hallmarks. As the present narrative is a saga focusing on several generations of achievers, it is relevant to examine the historical background.

Before the Norman Conquest of Saxon England in 1066 the Haldanes, as their name was spelled in Domesday Book, were small landowners in Suffolk, farmers who worked their lands and escaped the confiscations that fell heavily on the Saxon aristocracy following the Conquest. The Suffolk Holdens prospered in a quiet way, escaping the notice of history writ large, but not that of their neighbors and friends in the parish of Lindsey, the seedbed of the Massachusetts Puritans.

Adam Winthrop recorded in his diary for 1592/93 that he had employed Adam Holding (the surname was variously spelled Holding, Houlding, and Holden at this time) with his cart and plough for that season’s harvest. A later entry, dated January 6, 1603/4 (the “fiscal” year began on September 29, the Feast of St. Michael, called Michaelmas; Winthrop used this method of reckoning dates in his diary) records that Adam Holding had left his employ that year. Adam Winthrop was the father of John, the first governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony, who was elected to that position in 1629 before leaving England. Adam Holding was the uncle of Justinian and Richard Holden, passengers on the Francis, which sailed for Boston on April 10, 1634, who were the forebears of the Holdens of numismatic fame we shall meet later in this book. It is not inconceivable that John Winthrop’s example inspired Justinian and Richard to seek their own fortunes in the new world of America, as well as to escape religious intolerance from the established Church of England.

Suffolk was the home of the religious dissenters we now call Puritans. Winthrop was one of the elders of the movement. That Richard and Justinian Holden were of the same sect as the Winthrops is strongly suggested by a later family tradition dating to 1814. In that year Abiel Holden of Massachusetts compiled his Copies of Records in the Possession of Abiel Holden of Reading, which drew upon memories of family members then alive and records of the early years of the Holden settlement in America. According to Abiel’s account, independently confirmed in 1848 by his brother Luther, both Richard and Justinian suffered arrest and the threat of imprisonment for attending a public meeting of the dissenters. Family lore avers that they were saved from imprisonment by the timely intervention of an uncle named James Holden, described as one of the “Lords of England;’ with an annual income of 25,000 pounds sterling, who agreed to go surety for their future good behavior on their promise never again to attend a Puritan service. Unwilling to forego their heavenly reward for earthly peace, the narrative concludes with Richard and Justinian sailing for Boston in search of a Puritan heaven on earth.

It is a nice story, suggesting both family wealth and social position in the figure of the uncle, and personal strength of character and religious belief in the figures of the incorruptible brothers. It is more likely an elaboration of fact than a relation of actual events, however. Pared down to its essentials we can be fairly certain that the story accurately records Richard’s and Justinian’s status as dissenters from the Church of England; that they may well have suffered what later generations called “persecution” at the hands of local Suffolk authorities charged with their oversight; and that their “deliverance” may well have come at the hands of someone influential enough to warrant surety for their future good behavior. Three members of the extended Holden family in Suffolk, all pastors of the dissenting faith, are known to have suffered similar inconvenience for their beliefs (another Holden, however, found no trouble remaining in the Church of England and prospering under its mantle). The wealthy deliverer, who in the story is taken into the Holden family, is either an apocryphal nicety added later by a successful generation searching for silver-plated roots, or, more temptingly, may be a poorly remembered example of patronage by a Winthrop, whose family had earlier employed Adam Holden, the brothers uncle.

The real religious motive for emigration to a harsh and unknown new world should not be discounted, however, as it impelled others to make the long and dangerous voyage to Massachusetts from the Suffolk port of Ipswich. Whether they came to seek their material fortunes or to foster their spiritual ones, or for both motives, by sailing on the Francis Richard and Justinian Holden caught one of history’s spring tides, one which would carry them and their descendants toward success in the New World.

My Teaching Hero: My Mom

My mom is my hero, and the strongest woman I know.  A graduate of Georgetown University’s stellar Foreign Policy School who majored in Soviet Studies and quickly passed the Foreign Service Exam, she received an assignment as a diplomat to Russia when my dad proposed in the late 80s, and for the sake of me and my brother’s unborn future, decided to stay in D.C. and became an investment banker, in an era where she said her workplace was exactly like The Wolf of Wall Street.  A military brat, our family was dirt poor with my Tennessee Air Force grandfather and German mema and my mom was the first one in history to go to college, much less Georgetown, where she overcame great hardships and worked her butt off to pay her way through college in poverty I have never had to face thanks to her hard work.  She lived in an infested basement cellar in Georgetown starting out and saved up her money for her first ever suit jacket and skirt for her State Department internship, forfeiting food for weeks to be able to afford clothes.  She passed a love of Alaska on to me, where she lived in Eagle and had ash days when volcanoes exploded and school was cancelled, once ice skated on a sail to school, did drama like I did in high school, and and was a Trekkie and sci fi nerd who passed her love of reading Heinlein, Bradbury, Asimov and Clarke onto me.  Her and her friends in the 80s would save up money for Trekkie fanzines to be shipped to Alaska, and I learned to cut vegetables with an ulu from her, the Alaskan way.  She was so successful at investment banking she was quickly promoted up the ranks, but quickly found she loved the human element of management, and once working managing huge investment numbers, missed managing people and inspiring others.  So she went back to school to get a Master’s in Education, and had a third career as an elementary school science teacher, which she’s had since my childhood. I get my strength and resilience from her and my mom is one of the most inspirational people I know, who often describes herself as a “Druid” because she wants to worship trees.  She is very German, from the importance of cleanliness and manners to a thrifty, money saving existence that I have learned greatly from.  She has always supported me, and through all my mental illness, is the biggest reason I am alive today.  I don’t talk about family or my friends or fiancee on this blog a lot, because it’s easier to blog about relatively frivolous things that mean less to me, like the spirits, who completely take a backseat of importance to the true relationships in my life, especially my family.  Family means everything to me, and my mom is my world.  I have been very sick and unstable for the majority of my life, but my mom taught me to give my inner demons hell.  I inherited my teaching from her, but she is a master, and won the achievement of a lifetime last year with a statewide award for her teaching ability.  Her dedication to students is something bold and fierce and overwhelming like a lion’s roar, and she not only cares for me, but my brother, my dad, and my mema, plus our neurotic schnoodle.  Her school awarded her Slytherin robes for the award, and in third grade, I drew a picture of Snape, her teaching hero, and wrote down his Potions speech, and she has it hanging above her desk to this day.   That defines me well, a Gryffindor daughter of a Slytherin, and she is my biggest cheerleader, from writing to school to work, and always instilled in me: do what you love.  Money isn’t important, but chasing your dreams is what matters most.  She never made fun of me for altars to demons in high school to going on about Samael for over twenty years, in fact encouraging my creativity, and I will never do her justice.  She is absolutely brilliant, and has touched thousands of students lives.  I followed in her teaching footsteps, and Will followed her to the State Department.   Here is an article on her that I just stumbled across, to show you what kind of woman she is:

Ms. Nelson creates experiences that stay with kids forever. On a typical day, one group of her students might be using the Washington Post to debate current events, while another team observes capillary action using celery stalks in colored water. Her popular “Passion Projects” even give students a chance to independently explore something they love. “Thanks to Mrs. Nelson,” said one, “I enjoyed learning for the first time in my life.” To help struggling students, Ms. Nelson started the “Buck Block” program, where teachers share current challenges with each other and pool their experience. Meanwhile, her afterschool math boot camp, “Testing for Brainiacs,” has been credited with bringing up SOL scores

Article Revisions Submitted to Frontiers!

I have spent the last two weeks deep in the revision trenches for my first academic article submitted to Frontiers in Health Communication.  Just a few minutes ago, I clicked “Submit” on my first ever academic article revisions!  It’s an open source journal so if the article gets accepted with my new revisions I can share it all with you, if anyone is a stats nerd or likes health communication or mental health advocacy!  I used Roger’s Diffusion of Innovations theory, Katherine Rowan’s CAUSE Model of Risk Communication, and Brant Burleson’s inferable communication goals from his 1996 seminal study on emotional support to frame the content and thematic analysis.  Quantitative was easier to do and required less interpretations as I just stalked opinion leaders I had randomly sampled on Twitter.  My specialization in my PhD is e-health communication on social media which A) does not need tens of thousands of dollars to conduct a survey or focus group B) is relevant in the changing health landscape and C) is so fun it makes my nerd brain tingle.  This is mainly what I do for a living besides teaching students, health comm, poetry be damned.

Hopefully the revisions prove fruitful!

Where Was Your Watchman?

By the shores of Galilee, in Acts, after I thought you a gardener

in Gethsamane, stone rolled away as the angels cried dead bread

and maggots no more, the worms of Hades crawl blessed in soil

under the leaves you pluck, cursed figs still sweet on Yeshua’s lips,

the sand is bright, the waves lap like a man at his women’s sex the

white shore, and my footprints besides yours are washed away in

lunar tides.  We sit sewing cloth for the disciples, shrouds to remember

you by, and I Magdalene witnessed you first rise from the grave, held

you close as I burbled a brook pouring from your heart, and Rabboni,

you said: Woman, do not cling to me.  Were you teaching me how to

grow old without you?  The sun is setting, Rabboni, the ocean wind

is salty like a fish, and I crave only your blessing, and I want only you.

Thousands of years pass, but somehow the memory is fresh as a wound.

I rub salt in my stigmata, salt of the earth, light of the world, and I wince,

and I starve, and  I beat myself scourged, a festering pus-filled whore,

and I am only ruined out of love for you, your qadesh, o my Lord.

So quickly, cast the seas to drown me on the shores of Galilee.

I would but swim in your enigma, and drown in your undertow.

Fisher of men, take the reel, hook my mouth, and pull out

an Alleluia.  I have Hosannas enough for all time. I have thread

and needles for our garments of skin, and it all began

in a




A women’s spring



i have a mouth of needles and feet like albumen,
peppermint walks of my body deliver a soft voice,
I squeak often and break like vintage china,
leaking is the catharsis, moon or the sun, we leak sideways.

Ferment tales on my pillows,
sliding a perforated cup of talks to my own self,
(my own mind is hell)it has fungus and roses both.
so i talk and conversate,
slipping into the darkness of my broken fingernail.

this body rotate like dwarves on sherry,
with a flower in my womb,
fever fever fever
i am wild now.

so my body has another light,
a vacuum instilled inside a vacuum,
what does it make me do now?
Ingesting my mouth, perhaps?
Chills beneath these grey lips
lead like shadows dwindling.

View original post

And Back to Michael

He calls me “Stranger,” “Belle,” “Icarus Girl,” and “Qadesh.”  Mostly, he treats me like a Disney princess.  I have been rapidly cycling from Passions of the Penitent Magdalene at the foot of Jesus’ Cross to esoteric Primordial Lucifer and now it’s back to Michael, the Prince that was Promised, and I don’t think anyone is more bipolar than the cognitive dissonance between the Divine Twins.