four millennia stretch between us
you with your reed stylus
I with my ink and keyboard
four millennia ago, the goddess whispered in your ear
four millennia later, the dark gods whisper in mine
we are not so different, you and I

we are not so different, you and I
with our poetry and our pleading
our devotion and determination
your words reverberate in my chest
your heartbeats echo through the ages
I pray mine stand the test of time


“Sinister is Saintly”

the walls are ashes
they’re looking for you
peace, peace, peace
in the starred ceiling
you’re not lost but wandering
They are with you
we are with you always
peace in your compass
solace in your vein


While I’m thinking about religion, about those who would tell me I can’t worship my goddess because of the color of my skin, Bast interjects:

You humans set so much store by appearance! She sighs a sigh only the Felidae can manage, pitying and frustrated and patient all at once. A tiger’s stripes help her hide when hunting; they aren’t chosen for their beauty. Why must you complicate your lives with such paltry issues? Can a black cat not bear a white kitten? Does a mother not nurse whatever babe cries in hunger? I love all my children equally, regardless of their appearance. If I can love you awkward, gawking humans in all your foolish complexity, then I certainly can love you no matter the color of your pelt. Her frown is as telling as the twitch of a cat’s tail. No mortal will determine who may follow my path, and certainly no mortal will tell my children whether they are deserving of my love or not.

I’m left a little speechless; I don’t often see The Lady with her fur up like this. All I can think is, go mamma!

She smiles. Thank you.


If I have to be the crazy one, jaw clenched and fingers twitching for a blade or a cigarette, writing dirges on paper napkins, then at least send me back to when the crazy ones spoke prophecies from their mountain shrines. If I have to hear voices and share my headspace and my heart with hungry ghosts, at least let the masses build a temple to our dark triad so I might tend your sacred fire and read death tales in its ashes. Instead of averting their disbelieving stares, let the masses come kneel at my feet with gifts of gold and jewels. Let them grovel for my intercession, your benevolence. I can be the oracle, it’s in my blood and all my dreams, but this isn’t a good time for madness. In another time, another place, I’d be washed in rosewater and draped in white linen; here I can’t even display the markings on my skin or speak the truth of their purpose. Here I must smile and nod like a doll; there, I could bare my teeth and let your howling explode out my lungs and they would weep and ask for more.

I could do such unimaginable, incomprehensible things in a place where the mad are recognized for what they are, conduits and scribes and truth-tellers. But fear not, my beloveds; if they lock me up, I’ll carve your words into the walls until my fingernails split. And then I will write in my blood.

Words Thoughts Fragments Ep. 13

Since we didn’t have time to film this week, today’s episode is comprised of snippets from other episodes. The topic is one very close to my heart – cat fostering. We have been fostering cats (mostly kittens) for about a year now and it’s been a challenging but very rewarding experience. If you have the time and space to devote to a foster of your own, please consider making that difference in an animal’s life. Or, if you can’t foster, consider donating money, food, or supplies to your local rescue or shelter. Every toy or can of food helps, and what might seem like a small gift to you may make all the difference to an animal in need.


I wake with salt water in my throat and Charybdis curling my tongue, so thirsty I feel like I’m going crazy, I need to swallow the sea, swallow the world.




I wonder – if you were changed back, returned to the fair body for which you longed, would you be happy? Or would the insatiable beast still live inside you, like the woman lived inside the beast for so many millenia?

I think you would dream of shipwrecks. I think you would wake with blood between your teeth.


Inanna is a god of many faces and great complexity. She is at once the girl on the dancefloor and the warrior on the battlefield. She is the receptive maiden and the wrathful woman scorned. She is silk and diamonds and bullets and brass knuckles. She presides over the dawn and the dusk, and She has walked the long dark road between on bloody feet. She loves; She wars; She punishes; She guides. She is the kind of freedom that can only be obtained by fighting back, by tearing a place for yourself in a world that would push you down. Inanna will not wage the war for you, but She will put the sword in your hand and show you how to use it – and when you are triumphant, She will dance with you on the battlefield.