What a way to start a birthday…

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It’s not that I am always depressed, it is that I am always aware of whether or not I am happy. By constantly stopping to check, ‘Am I happy?’ for me, the opposite occurs. I very rarely lose myself in my ‘living’ or pass time without counting it or lose myself in a moment. I am overly aware of my surroundings, my feelings, the way my hair looks, my body temperature, the pain in my knees, the amount of make-up I have on, how do I smell, am I hungry, is my belly sticking out, is there something in my teeth?

I thought it was OCD, the constant systems check, and I find myself organizing things by color, shape or size quite often, and being completely engrossed in it and unable to live the rest of my life until the task is complete. A little nutty, but there are worse things I could be doing. But that’s just a small part of it. There’s a bigger piece to the puzzle.

I am overly sensitive to and worried about what people think, while masterfully making it seem like I couldn’t care any less about it. I just reread the above two paragraphs and decided to delete them, since they weren’t all that important enough to be a full blog post. And maybe someone won’t care about them, or worse, no one will even read them. So why bother to delete it then? So I didn’t. See?

I don’t know if I am alone in my feelings, I’m sure I am not that unique or important enough to stand out any more than anyone else, or have something so special about me it couldn’t possibly be duplicated. We are all the same, I imagine. At the end of the day. So it makes it hard for me. Hard to love, hard to hate, hard to see people for what they are because I truly strive to understand the minute by minute decision making process, as if we always start at zero and nothing in our past or our nature influences how we behave. Yeh right. People are creatures of habit, street cars on a track, we don’t change much, nor do we want to. And yet…. I want to believe the we can.

I am an author. I write books. Well, I write scenes about the same people over and over and I hope to make all of that into a book. I did make one book. It’s good, you should read it. I put everything I am into it, everything I am. It is my life, it is my sound board, it is my bleeding heart, it is all my hopes and every last fear I have. It is me, divided into several main characters set in a fantasy world in another time and possibly another dimension entirely which was unknown to me until one of my characters said it. I can’t say everything I think or feel, no not here, so I say it in my book. I am secretive, deceiving, misleading, manipulative, all to mask who I think I am, while not really knowing the true me at all. I have habits, things I like, music that soothes me, but it is all very vain and showy and my outward personality is boisterous yet fun and inviting. I like people. I hope they like me. I  hope they know who the fuck I am, cause I don’t.

I often feel clogged. Like my brain is trying to solve some human mystery of the ages, and that I am just wasting time while the world hangs in the balance. I watch TV and regret it, but the next day I watch more TV. I don’t really know what I think. I don’t really know what I believe. I am an enigma and a contradiction all at once. I am no one, and I am everything.

I didn’t set out to write any of this. Tomorrow is my birthday and I am tired of living a lie. But I have created so many lies that taking them down would mean starting over with nothing. Big lies. Costly lies. Lies that will change the entire world as I know it. It gets heavier each day, harder each day, but then I realize, I may not be lying at all. I may have actually built something to be proud of, to be involved in. Maybe. But maybe I don’t give myself enough credit. I certainly don’t imagine myself as I am and I wish for the day I could decide. Who to be? What to do? Where to go? None of those answers come.

My father sent me $100 for my birthday. His card arrived by regular mail, with his DIN number printed after his name. Like a VIN number on a car, you get a DIN number when you’re a convict in a maximum security prison. He sent me a check from the ‘inmate fund.’ Totally weird. For a man who left us with nothing when we needed it most this $100 feels like a bandaid on a shotgun blast to the head. Thank you. I will appreciate it anyway, and make sure to waste it on something stupid. Maybe I can tell the daddy-less little girl cowering inside of me not be so crushed anymore, daddy sent a hundred bucks. That and a bag of chips and you could turn a lifetime of being exposed to the world without any fatherly protection or guidance into a 45 minute liberating session with a shrink.

929 words in and I am beginning to feel a tiny bit better. Or not. I know this will not see the light of day anyway. Even on my birthday, none of this will be relevant or important. I know, whine whine whine, wo is me. Yeh well, I feel shitty. I feel alone, I feel desperate and I feel lost. It is my lie that keeps me in this dark place. Or is it?

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Matterhorn – Marie

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I was able to achieve hypnosis faster the second time around. Except for the normal buzz of Brooklyn at the top of my hearing, I was deep within minutes and receiving images I wasn’t even asked for.

To reach a past life we descend a set of steps from a tranquil garden of healing, over a bridge. Or at least that’s what Herve spoke to me while my visions were very different. Instead of being outdoors in a garden I was inside, again, in a magnificent estate with a domed glass ceiling where I could see the sky above. Birds fluttered across the massive space, confused by the glass perhaps but content in the sun’s warm glow. I was in an indoor garden, one that was neglected and rotten, the entire place was. But it was still somehow peaceful, tranquil and familiar. I could muster a red hibiscus flower in my mind to add some life and color, but the garden itself was ancient and quiet. I don’t care to dissect this, but apparently my safe place is somewhere that no one has been for a very long time.

Descending the steps to the count of 10 always gives me a chuckle, as I ascend into my beautiful, sorrowful, dilapidated garden. However, I was able to thrust myself in the opposite direction and imagine myself rushing down the steps and outside as Herve instructed. But there was a ferocious thunderstorm that impeded my way. I was told to find a path to the most relevant life, and instead I was in a deluge, fighting through it, not seeing anything! My luck, only my brain would contradict me like this!

Then Herve instructed me to find a bridge, the bridge that led me to the next life to explore, but on that bridge the wind picked up and the rain came down even harder. All was dark and grey as I crossed but suddenly…..

A golden field. I ran through it towards a beautiful lonely blue mountain in the distance. It rose so high above the other peaks, seemingly alone on the top of the world, yet still connected to a range. I ran my hand over high golden grass, playing like a happy child, daydreaming, laughing to myself. All the time Matterhorn, the blue giant mountain watched over me, with my parents no where in sight.

I was in Switzerland. The year was 1516. 501 years ago.

Herve asked me if there was a house near. I didn’t see one so I looked. I came upon an old farmhouse with a very triangular roof and steep pitch. It was deserted. I went inside and found dusty tables, benches and a grey stillness over the entire place. But it wasn’t scary and I was delighted to have somewhere to explore. This was my place, where I came to play.

Herve moved me forward and I found myself in a little town. Busy, horses, wood carts, children playing. I spotted a little boy with bright blonde hair. I followed him a bit, we played. I pet a horse nearby. Everything was fun, exciting and I heard myself giggling as I described it all.

Then I was in a shop. I saw an older man, grey hair, wearing ‘spectacles’, he was tall and thin. He made toys for the kids in town, wooden ones. They didn’t work well and he made other things like tools and odd inventions but they never seemed to work either. Herve called him a ‘tinkerer’ and that was accurate. I thought the old man was funny and he liked when the kids came to see him. He gave us all toys and told us stories.

I walked through the streets and heard my mother’s shrill voice. “Marie! Marie!” with the French pronunciation. She was looking for me and I was in trouble for wandering again. She dragged me back home where I saw my father. A big round man with a big round bald head and a little hair by his ears. He had a big warm smile and he winked at me as my mother chided away. She started nagging him too, about not disciplining me, but we just shared a smile. She pulled me to my room and stripped off my play clothes and stuffed me into a dark dress with an ugly dark bow. Then she stuck a dark colored hat on my head that had another ugly bow.

We moved forward just a few days, I believe, when I saw a group of men meeting in the town square. I tried to listen without being seen, and realized they were upset with one of the shopkeepers. The old man that made us toys! They wanted him out, these corrupt political types, not liking someone because he was good and would not do what they wanted him to do. I was so worried for him that I went to my dad. I was whispering to him, I didn’t want my mother to hear. As much as he understood and agreed with me, he said this was how the world was, and that I should not interfere. So I asked him, since he knew more about the world, could he help the old man that makes us toys. He smiled and nodded but in my heart I knew there was nothing we could do.

We moved forward in time again. I was in my 20’s. I was not married yet, to my mother’s dismay, but outside my house stood a young man, shy and sweet, asking for my hand. My parents discussed it with me while the young man waited, and that made me uneasy and nervous. My mother pecked away at reasons why I needed to marry this man while my father very calmly said it was up to me and that I should do whatever made me happy. My only thought was that I felt bad for the young man, he was so nervous, and how awful could marriage to him be? It was another adventure, so I agreed.

My husband was skinny and tall but sort of bent at the top, weighed down by his own doubt and self pity. He wasn’t good at anything and didn’t have a trade, so he did busy work for everyone in town and it was good enough. Years passed and I finally had our first child. I literally had a labor pain while sitting in Herve’s office and he moved me forward to after the birth. And then, there he was. My son. I was holding him, cradling him, rocking him. I knew in that instant that this was my purpose; to have him, to love him, to raise him. He snapped my life onto its course, after a lifetime of daydreaming and hapless wandering.

I had a daughter as well, two years later. We moved ahead in time and I saw our little family at the dinner table, chatting away. I was fixated on my son. He got all my love and attention. I played with him, I doted upon him, I loved him completely. He reminded me of the little blonde boy I played with as a child and that made me happy. Somehow I could remain a child, with my son, and share the happiness I had as a kid with him. I wanted him to know true happiness, as I did at Matterhorn. And, my daughter sat there and swung her legs happily off the bench and looked around curiously the way I did when I was young. But she didn’t feel like she was mine. I wasn’t connected to her the way I was to my son, and I was filled with guilt over it. She was so sweet and innocent and deserving of all her mother’s love, but my son had it, and I spared very little for her. It made me very sad and angry with myself.

Years passed, my son was grown. He wanted to leave our little town, our perfect life and travel. I didn’t understand where he wanted to go or why, and I tried to convince him to find a girl and get married. He refused, with his beautiful bright smile, melting my heart. He was so strong, so confident, so focused on his journey, and nothing like his father. He was the best of me and of my dad. I heard my husband telling me to let him make his own decisions, the way my father defended me against my mother. I literally said to Herve, “I’m just like my mother!”

My son left and my world came to a grinding halt. I was so sad and broken hearted. A few years passed and we heard nothing from him. My daughter was getting married. I didn’t like her choice of a husband, but she was elated. I was happy to see her happy, she deserved that. My husband approved of the young man as well so again I went along with it. But I had my reservations and, ‘if he hurts her I’ll kill him’. Even as her wedding day came, I was focused only on my son again, and the loss I felt so deeply. I mourned him, even as everyone else believed he would return.

My father had a bad cough. My mother was worried. He said he was fine, but he died shortly after. I did not want to revisit his death as it was absolutely tragic for Marie. I felt my throat tighten and the tears rush to my eyes. I told Herve I did not want to go there. I had realized that my father in Marie’s life was my grandfather in this one. My father’s father Peter, who I was so close to. I loved him so dearly and never left his side when I was a kid. He died when I was only 10, but he is still with me. I call him my guardian angel. Along with my mother’s mother, I have some muscle on the otherside.

My daughter had two children of her own. Her husband turned out to be ok. I never had to kill him but I don’t have to like him either. My daughter would bring her kids over to cheer me up but I was still so focused on my son. At this point no one would say ‘don’t worry he’s coming back’, it had been too long and a mother always knows. I was filled with sadness and heartache, even as my home was filled with loving, deserving family, I only wanted my son back.

My husband was hurt at work. Some clumsy non-life threatening injury that only infuriated the poor man. He was tired of working, he was tired of the labor, he was tired of being told what to do. He was too old to do what he’d used to do and now he was working for his peers who now owned their own shops, and he was beneath them. It was hard for him, but he was a good man and I did love him very much.

We jumped forward in time, to after my death. I saw my daughter, her husband and her children at my grave site. Herve immediately intervened and instructed me to go to my death event first. I saw myself alone in the dark, crying myself to asleep. I was alone, I was nearly 70, 68 sticks out in my mind. I literally cried until I died of a broken heart. I had so much guilt for not appreciating or loving my family for all those years, I only focused on the loss of my son. It shattered my life, the day he left, and I never saw him again.

Until I crossed over. Herve instructed me to move into the period of time between lives and the first face I saw was my son’s! In our last session my spirit guides had intervened and did not allow me to see any loved ones so Herve asked where they were now. “They are leaving me alone this time,” I said, and basked in the light of my son’s smile. That was all I needed to heal, and that was all Marie needed to understand the sadness and loss of her life. It is only temporary, and we are all reunited again.

Herve asked me if I recognized my son as anyone I know. I was immediately overwhelmed with emotion. I could feel the tears streaming down my face. “Yes, it’s my nephew.” And so the world gave him back to me again, and our relationship has new meaning now. He is one of the only people in my life that impresses me, spiritually, with his vast understanding of our soul’s journey. He knows we are here to experience, to learn, to grow, and he is such an old soul that I swear he’s back now just for vacation. There is no one as interesting, as warm, as loving, as untraditional and weird, as wonderful and intelligent, as my nephew. Except of course, for me.

We started today’s session with a goal, to find my sadness, the dark pain I carry in my heart. My loss, this person who I mourn. I think we found it, and I can heal now.

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Versailles – Alis

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I arrived by Uber car at 223 Jay Street before my 2pm appointment. I hate being late so I made sure to be early. I called Herve, (Er-vay) the hypnotist I was there to see. He came down to greet me at the door. He was tall, thinner than I expected, with a kind face and expressive eyes. His voice was already familiar from a phone conversation we had a few days prior.

He brought me to a little office in this really interesting older building that he described as a “maze”. I felt like there were random staircases and hallways leading nowhere and back to each other, like that weird painting. Yeh, you know which one. The room was comfortable, it had good energy. The chair I was meant to sit in was less daunting than I thought it would be. It literally spoke to me with it’s cushiness, ‘come in, sit down.’ So I did.

Herve felt comfortable with my level of understanding of mind, spirit and hypnosis in general. I only had one prior experience that I even acknowledged and I remembered that with an air of disconnect and uncertainty. But he was calm, thoughtful, and he was a good listener and he relieved any pressure or nerves I had about what to expect. I needed to trust myself, as I always have, and I was supposed to be open, open to whatever came through. So I was.

We started with a small exercise. He held up a pendulum and immediately we both had the same thought, his was in jest, of course. ‘Is he going to start swinging that thing in my face saying ‘you’re getting sleepy?” I thought. But alas to my relief, he did not. He acknowledged the moment jokingly and said, “No I’m not going to do what you think, but you are.” He handed me the pendulum and asked me to hold it eye level and imagine it swinging like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. Easy enough, except that immediately the thing started swinging back and forth rather than side to side! He asked me to imagine in my mind, the clock pendulum swinging side to side, but this time I made the thing swirl into a circle. He thought that was good. After several attempts, the pendulum continued to swing, more vigorously, back and forth, until I literally made a concentrated effort and a small grunt which sent the thing spiraling into a frenzied circle that landed in a perfect side to side swing. I was fucking amazed.

“We use those same micro-muscles when we are under hypnosis,” he explained. And that I should trust the process, trust my mind, and trust what I saw. Even if it felt like I was ‘making it up’ it all stemmed from my subconscious mind, which is what we wanted to access anyway.

We did a short 15 minute test that felt like 3 minutes. I visualized a happy childhood memory of my cousin James arriving for a visit and then he led me to visualize my mother’s womb, and what I heard and felt there. Muffled voices and warmth. And then I visualized my birth. In hind sight, and after speaking with my mother, what I saw was accurate and we had a moment of ‘holy fucking shit!’ while I recovered on my couch at home.

In my birth visualization I could see the doctor, masked and covered up to his eyes, holding me up like a prize and babbling inaudible words with a cheesy grin. Probably something like ‘there you are little baby’ and it was a silly thing to recall. Herve asked me who was in the room and if my mother was holding me, but my response was obviously unexpected by him. There wasn’t anyone in the room with my mom and I was immediately whisked away while she laid in the bed motionless. I saw one nurse, and she was black and the other I did not ‘see’ but knew she was there.

My mother confirmed this. She had a Jamaican nurse whom she loved. She had told my mom, “We’ve had boys all night, but you’ll be the one who has a girl.” And she was right. The fact that the woman was black was a detail I didn’t share with Herve, it didn’t matter much at the time, until I recalled the visions to my mother and mentioned it as more detail became clear. My mother launched into another ‘Holy shit!’ and told me about the wonderful Jamaican woman who took such good care of us in the days after my birth. That I was whisked away after the doctor pulled me out while my mother was asleep! My father wasn’t in the room either but commented later how the doctor was so serious before I was born, and then he was delighted and cheerful, just the way I saw him laughing as he held me up. Well then, we must be on to something here.

Next Herve said we would dive right into a past life regression which was the purpose of my visit. I wanted to find the source of my books, the source of the sadness I feel in my heart and the unknown person I mourn who has been missing from my current life. I wanted to find a life in Ireland or Scotland or confirm that I was a gladiator in Rome as I always suspected or a warrior king like Alexander the Great, who maybe I fought with. But you have to be open to whatever you find and trust yourself to show you what you need to see.

Herve asked where I was, what I saw. My conscious mind stayed fully aware and active and became like the peanut gallery, reacting to what my subconscious mind brought forth like a skeptical mother in law. I wanted to blurt out, “You’re not going to believe where I am.” But instead I just laughed, because I couldn’t help it, as the beautiful Palace gardens of Versailles materialized around me.

FRENCH!? Yes, go with it!

I was 14, I was wearing a beautiful white and gold gown that someone had lent to me. I had no jewelry which told me immediately that I was not a princess, nor anyone royal or even rich for that matter. I didn’t belong there and felt very out of place. I wanted to hide behind the giant hedgerow and swirling green topiary. Herve asked me to find my reflection so I peered down into the fountain water and saw I had golden blonde hair twisted and pinned up like crown on my head. I had pale white skin and was very thin. Not in a chic way, but in a malnourished sort of pathetic way. But I was very pretty and I knew that was why I was there.

Herve asked me my name. I said Alis. (Ay-lease)

He asked me what year. “17” I said. “What’s the next digit?” he asked. “7” I said. “Try to find the last number if you can,” he said. ‘6’ my mind whispered but it couldn’t be. I doubted this now and thought I had regressed into a high school lesson about the revolutionary war! But that was America not France! “It might be another 7,” I said, “Or maybe a ‘1’” as if taking it forward or back a few years would change the truth.

There was an older man with me in the palace garden, maybe in his sixties. He had taken me out privately to speak to me, to convince me of some thing he and my family wanted me to do. He was some military captain or important man of the court. I wanted to hide from him too. It didn’t make sense. Why did he want me to marry a well to do man, when I was a peasant, beneath him? I didn’t trust him, nor did I trust my family now either, who would benefit from my marriage to someone I didn’t know, let alone love.

There were other men in fancy coats, dignified military generals of sorts, having tea in the palace. I noticed an older man, the leader of them, who was loud and boisterous and sweaty. He spit when he talked but the other men listened and laughed in agreement. I didn’t know what they said, Alis was only passing them.

Herve asked me to move forward in time. I found myself in a house dress, I was 19. I never married the man I went to the palace to meet and I could feel my family’s disappointment and anger. I was supposed to save them. I was going to be their meal ticket, despite how unhappy I would have been in a loveless marriage. I was in my room alone. Alone became the theme of this life and I felt it right from this moment. I saw a mirror on the wall, my bed, my meager belongings. I had next to nothing and I lost my family too, who I could hear in the next room. But I couldn’t face them, so I hid away.

We moved forward in time again. I was in my 20’s. I was walking along shops and store fronts in a town or city. I was looking for someone. A young man my age. I liked him, it wasn’t serious or anything, but I wanted to see him. I wanted to smile. Instead I saw the boisterous man from the palace. He was shouting into a crowd of young men, poor peasants and I knew he was recruiting them for the army. I found the young man I was looking for in that crowd, listening to the boisterous one and believing him. He wants to go to war. I tried to explain to him, these are not trustworthy people. What do you think they do with peasants? They send them to die. But this young man wouldn’t listen to me. He had a sense of duty and love for his country.

Herve wanted me to move forward but I refused. “I am still trying to convince him not to go.” I said. I spent another few minutes there with him but to no avail. I knew he would go and he did. And I knew he would never come back.

I spent the next years alone. Estranged from my family. Our house burned down. Accidentally. I don’t know who did it, but it wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t me. I didn’t have anything anyway and it was almost liberating. So I wandered. I was homeless but I was still young and pretty, in my early 30’s. So people helped me but I was worried. I knew I wouldn’t be pretty forever and then no one would help me.

A building caught my eye. A beautiful white building in the sunshine with iron gates on the windows and flowers on each sill. It was curved so subtly, settled on a main intersection and corner. I was intrigued by the architecture, that they could make a building rounded in the front. I guess I thought houses had to be square like they are in the poor sections. I watched rich people come and go. Dressed beautifully, with horse drawn carriages and attendants. I envied them for a moment, wanting to live there. I realized, had I married, I might be living there now. It was the first time I felt regret for not doing what was asked of me. But I was strong of mind and didn’t care for those things then. I would have to keep surviving on my own.

Then I found myself in a cemetery. My mother had died. I waited for my family to leave before I visited her grave to say goodbye. I didn’t feel I had a mother anyway so the loss was not significant. She had been so angry with me for letting the family struggle that we never had a relationship after that. I didn’t trust her from when I was young. I took care of myself anyway, so I didn’t shed one tear at her grave.

I worked for a fat disgusting man, cleaning his house. There were kids there but not mine. I don’t know where their mother was or if they were his. They were very badly behaved. Running and screaming and getting in my way. The fat man would make a mess on purpose so I had to stay longer, clean more. He liked me, but of course, I hated him and wanted to get away as soon as I could.

Herve moved me forward again and I knew I was in a house now. I had moved in with my friend and her husband and her kids. I helped their family and they kept me off the street. She was my only friend and it was the first time I wasn’t alone.

Herve moved me to the end of my life. I found myself in my friend’s house, in bed with a fever. They said I was dying but I didn’t believe them. I was so strong willed I thought for sure I would be better soon. Herve asked me if I died there, “No.” I said. He asked me to move to my death event and I found myself still in that bed. Turns out, I did die of that fever. I think I was 43 years old.

Herve asked me what I felt, as I crossed over. Immediately I became very emotional for the first time during the session. “Sadness” I said. I was leaving a life of solitude and struggle. One without love or trust. One where I thought I was strong for not needing anyone, but it was the love of others I truly wanted. I didn’t realize until I left my body. I felt myself transition into spirit form. Herve asked me what I felt again. “Disappointed.” My spirit self was disappointed with Alis, for being so stubborn and strong willed and unwilling to trust and love. Trust and love was the point of all this. Love is the point of all.

I moved into a healing state where I continued through the feelings of emotion, disappointment, sadness, but also reflection and understanding. On the other side you shouldn’t have feelings like sadness, and if you do, you go to a place of healing. Herve asked me to find loved ones who crossed over but I couldn’t leave the reflection ‘room’. “They want me to stay here.” I said. “Who does?” he asked with renewed interest. “My spirit guides.” They wanted me to feel these things completely, so the lessons I learned as Alis resonate with Jessica. Jessica has the same issues now. Not needing anyone. Feeling strong and independent when in reality she feels very alone. The weight of the world is on her shoulders and she’d rather not bother anyone with her burden.

I wanted to stay in that healing space and reflect but it was already 2 hours into Alis’ regression and the 3rd hour of my entire first session. I was ready to come back to Jessica, to remember everything Alis had lived and to learn those lessons now.

“Forgiveness.” I said. Herve wrote it down. “I have to forgive myself when I don’t do the right thing. When I don’t make the right decision. It’s ok to make the wrong choice.”

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Chris Cornell 5.17.17

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Musician Chris Cornell arrives for the 2009 MusiCares Person of the Year gala in Los Angeles

We all carry this sorrow and this loss inside of us that is centuries old. The idea of the single life to be lived to the fullest and that’s all you get is so misleading and limiting to us spiritually. We are all on a very long process to learn and to love. However sometimes these past lives stay with us much longer than we ever thought that they could. And we carry with us love that has been lost, events that have been traumatic, pain that we’ve been through, we carry that into our current lives and it goes untreated. Unresolved. And people like me, who FEEL the depth of thousands of years don’t have a voice. And the problem with an eternal soul is the idea of this unresolved suffering is from a time so far passed that you could never resolve it. Pain like this can never be reconciled or healed because the people are gone, the events are gone, that life is gone. And people like Chris Cornell who killed himself seemingly out of absolutely nowhere because in his real life he was so happy and fucking had everything. But no our real lives don’t get our real selves. Our real selves are in our art and in what we create. What he created for millions of his fans was not a fantasy persona but his real self. People tell me ‘you didn’t know him personally so you can’t possibly be grieving’. Well that’s not true and I don’t fucking buy that because the realest he ever was was in his art and in his music. He showed me exactly who he is and he’s just like me. As I show exactly who I am in my writing. My real life doesn’t get the real me. My real self is not there when I go to work. My real self is not there when I pay bills. That is bullshit beyond bullshit and sometimes your real self isn’t even in your day-to-day life with your family. My real self is between two covers of a book. Chris’s real self is a series of sound waves, in his music. That’s who he was, that was his real self. And if I am honest I knew exactly what he felt and I know exactly why he did what he did and it should not be a shock to anybody. Because we are so diminished and taught to be so small BUT our eternal souls are so gigantic, as big as God because we are God himself, but if you believe that it’s called an ego or you are a narcissist. Meanwhile our real selves are diminished every day and of course someone that deep, someone who is that old of a soul will not want to put up with it longer than they can stand. We handle our pain everyday and it’s the day we don’t want to anymore that ends this journey to simply start the next. I empathize and I understand him. It doesn’t mean that I too will take my own life but I will recognize that not enough is done to address this issue. And more people like us will choose this dark path back home because we can only carry this weight for so long, while the world IGNORES it. You forget, we are eternal souls having a human experience and no more. Do good, show love, do better for others, that’s the fucking point. And Chris DID THAT. He was done. It’s ok.

My idea for a radio show called ‘Elevated’ speaks to people about this empowerment that is so deep inside of us that we are taught never to tap into- as much as they tell us to be strong- they don’t fucking mean it. They mean to keep you small and keep you consuming. You’re a consumer. That’s all you are to them. But to me you are the entire world and the world inside of you is part of me too. It’s time to elevate each other and elevate ourselves and understand the internal struggle that comes from the eternal struggle we are forever battling.

Keep it to yourself…

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I wrote a book in hopes to have someone outside of my head to discuss it with. Selfish, I know, but I never wrote the book for anyone but me anyway. I had been writing it for YEARS upon years if I even remember correctly, and never shared it. It is for me, it is for my characters, and they have a story to tell someone. I was happy being their sole audience until I decided to workshop it, and everyone loved it.

So I decided to finish the book and with the help of two AMAZING ladies I was able to do that. And I self-published, hoping a few people would be interested, or everyone in the world! So I waited, books sold, reviews came in, people told me they LOVED the book. But something odd happened then. They would have very little else to say. They would comment on an event, a specific act a character did and describe it to ME in vivid detail as if I had no idea this happened, and they would use very excited language and body language, but nothing more after that. And I was elated and disappointed.

At first I thought, maybe it’s not that good of a book! Not profound or moving enough. There’s nothing deeply spiritual as I had hoped for, nothing moving my readers to want to discuss their experiences with my story. I was self conscious about something I never wanted to share in the first place. But I was just being selfish again. I wanted to know what my characters made people feel, I wanted to know what they thought of them and how they impacted them and changed them, but feelings like these are very private aren’t they?

I realized, people HAD a profound reaction on a visceral, primal level within themselves. They had a very personal experience, however wonderful or disturbing. And it was none of my business. I was rude to ask. I have to trust this conclusion now, as the overwhelming feedback is positive and the reactions are strong, so something is happening, but I fear I will never know what it is. But I guess, I was never going to know, since I was never going to share it, not until they found me dead in a pile of manuscripts that THEN got published as I decayed in the earth. But if one person has a reaction strong enough to change one small thing positively for themselves, then I would be justified in this great undertaking, but I will never know it happened.

So, that’s fine, keep it to yourself.

I stand with Standing Rock #NoDAPL

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I saw a brilliant message on one of the protestor’s signs… You can’t drink oil.

All of my life I’ve always had a deep seeded feeling that we have to conserve the water. I don’t know where this feeling originates, in my ancient soul, in my human heart or in my practical mind, but it has always been evident, that water is life.

There is a revolution going on in this country that the media has all but blacked out. A revolution for, not our country, but for our mother earth. Someone must stand up for her.

Fracking, drilling, deforestation, what do you think the end the result will be? Of course our land and water will continue to be poisoned, of course our politicians continue the destruction to make millions for their billionaire friends. Of course they don’t care about us. It’s as if they are not even part of our planet, cause what living creature could destroy the place they live?

Standing Rock has an opportunity to join all Americans, native or immigrant, black, brown or white, christian, atheist or muslim, all of us together to stand for OUR collective earth. This is our home, we can fight about our differences later, but this is a fate we all share, and we must be vigilant.

I’ve decided to collect supplies and get them out to Standing Rock in the coming weeks. I am also going to donate the entire profit I get on each paperback sale, which is $9.67 when purchased through my publisher, to Standing Rock’s cause and ongoing support. (Truthfully, I will donate an even $10) To participate use this link: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/thegreywoods

This is our fight, our revolution, our earth. You don’t care until it’s your water. North Dakota sounds so FAR AWAY to a New Yorker like me, but mark my words, it is coming this way. Water is life. You can’t drink oil.

We must stand with Standing Rock.

Comic Con

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Yeh, that’s me. That’s my book, more importantly. And that was New York Comic Con.

I never in my life realized how important it would be to meet my fans face to face. Well, I can’t say fans unless I say instant fans. They had no idea who I was, what my book was, or what the heck it was about… but they were drawn in by larger than life black and white pencil drawings by my friend Emily. They walked right up, stepped right into the Grey Woods and said…. what’s this about?

To which I replied a hardly practiced explanation that was perfected over time. After saying it 300+ times, I think I can say it now with ease. Shall I?

The Grey Woods, a place where you can access all of time. All of history. Anyone that’s ever lived, any event that’s ever happened, can all be accessed there.

That seemed to be enough. I would pause and assess the look on my new fan’s face. Interested? Yes. Eager to hear more? Yes. And on I went about Atya infiltrating the Grey Woods to influence her own future, drawing unsuspecting Fin there, seemingly to help him but alas, her own agenda was in play. The story hinged on Fin’s cousin Madros, the ‘Jim Morrison’ of the fantasy world. Good looking, artistic, talented, loved and tragically self defeating. It is he who holds the future in his hands. It is his choices that will bring us to darkness or to the light. And Fin is scrambling to understand why Madros is such a complete mess!

Sounds interesting to me.

Atya helps Fin understand Madros’ behavior by showing him past events that seem to explain his present choices. Ah ha! Walking in someone else’s shoes. Gaining empathy as well as understanding. Knowing WHY someone is the way they are. We never get to do that!

So, that was my pitch and it seemed to have a very positive effect. Half of the people asked…. how much is it? I was delighted. But more than money I wanted the book in their hands so I raffled off a bunch  and one person a day walked away with a hardcover.

I was meeting incredible people. Creative-types. People out of their minds crazy like me and weird and introverted and it was beautiful lol and I loved it! Some were dressed up as their favorite characters from stories, movies and TV shows and some were in plain clothes, just eager to find the next adventure to lose themselves in. But I loved everyone I met. They were all amazing and I truly wish them all the best in their creative endeavors. And I truly hope they love my story.

Thank you, Comic Con geeks, for being my instant fans and I hope you stay part of my Grey Woods family. Cause that’s what we are now. I consider you friends and family and I hope to see you again at the next incredible event. Cause I found out you were just like me and I am like you, and there’s nothing more liberating than finding people you belong with.

Thank you.