On the importance of dining with witches

Last night I had dinner with the Witches. Yes witches. The reclaiming witches, the Witches I met amongst the California Redwoods, with my lover Trouble, my dear friend Tessa and my newest love Lolo. I guess at some point I should talk about that experience, but writing it down may prove ever to hard for I’m not sure how to condense such a magical and unexpected week into words.

However talking about last night seems so much easier because it just happened and beyond the haze of booze and the likes its still vaguely graspable; it’s a night filled with memories made of soft peach fuzz. (I’m really overplaying the lack of memory here, I had like three cocktails, but there was something heady and decadent about the night that makes me feel as if I was bathing in champagne and drinking honey.)

Yet perhaps it is important to set the scene. It was one of those weekends where the days were made of liminal space. It was a weekend where I only ever watched the first 3 minutes of any show on Netflix before growing tired of half baked plots and finding my concentration wandering back towards scruff where parades of beautiful men sailed past me and I got lost imaging their lives, lives filled with mundanity and adventure in equal measure, of lives much like mine, and lives I’ll never grasp.

Which is perhaps just a way of saying that I had planned to spend the entire weekend working and managed to do actually a lot less then I had planned. Nick had just gone out of town, and suddenly being in our room alone felt abundant. I danced, I was naked, I… well I behaved like I do even when he is in the room, but having no one else there was indulgent.

Yeah I jerked off a lot. Whatever no shame. I also listened to a lot of folk music. No I did not do them at the same time. I also had several dalliances with several beautiful men who I came into contact with digitally before spiraling into their bedrooms. (IS this the space to talk about this, I wonder, how much does one divulge, one’s important to say, how much must never be spoken of. Is it my fear of being judged, and internalized homophobia that keep me from speaking honestly? I guess it comes down to a question about the intersection between authorship and audience, or even authorship and perceived audience it is more the people I imagine are reading this that keeps me from writing what I would normally write. Yet I notice even when I write just for me, my ego keeps my desires in check, keeps my thoughts from staining pages. Perhaps this is the space to explore this, but I think that’s probably something for a later day.) I played games, I walked, I walked for ages, I walked the city at night, I got lost looking for the moon, I did none of the chores I had half thought I might do. I drank loads of Kombucha, I marveled. I was gloriously, hedonistically lazy and I slept wrapped in sheets of down drinking in dreams.

But really I felt like I had done nothing. there was this point where I finally deposited my pay slip from work and it felt like a real accomplishment. It was a weekend where my mind was enshrined on an alter of fog. I could hardly move to see myself from within this confusion. Time, what is time, I measured this weekend in time, in two days filled with meandering.

And then there were the Witches. We are four. Four NYC witches looking for away to find ourselves and explore our spirituality in this concrete jungle. We met in a garden in alphabet city, and for those of you who have ever walked pasted it, I am sure you have paused and thought, there is magic here.

What we spoke of I guess is personal, though I can tell you I am sure the neighbors really enjoyed the chants we started screaming, drunk and nowhere near any keys around 11. Especially as nothing beats a chant that’s meant for hundred and sung by 4. But it was so lovely to slide back into that past experience, I felt so connected in a heartbeat to the world I thought I had left in forest. And this whole weekend where I sat wondering what the fuck I am doing with my life, sort of faded away, because clearly what I am meant to be doing is giving foot massages to people and reading the tension in their toes like tarot cards. I re-connected with part of myself thanks to the witches that night, and the fog lifted and the haze of drink settled in, and everything was as it should be. it was about subtle shifts, and slight changes, and a realignment. It was about tapping back into truth and feeling loved and supported.

The night ended with a walk across the Williamsburg bridge in a torrent of rain, howling along with the wind and desperately wishing that I would be struck by lightening just to know what it feels like to be a conduit for such immense power; I thought of little and I sang.


Taking Posession



Finished Possession by A.S. Byatt on the subway last night, I have been listening to it as a book on tape for the last 2.5 months. slowly savoring it, reveling in every moment. As the doors opened at our stop last night the audio book, drew to a close and finished with a simple, THE END. I did not shed a tear, i did not stoically cry, THERE WERE BIBLICAL LEVELS OF FLOODS MADE OF TEARS FLOWING FROM MY FACE. It was so bad  that in a moment of sweet sweet love, Nicholas just held my hand and said “Why don’t we just ride the subway one more stop.” Which was much needed as at this point the world was just fractured light so distorted was my vision by my own weeping. I’d like to say it helped, but really all it did was give me enough time to collect myself in part as I continued crying all the way home. which was an even longer walk owing to the missing of the stop. (It’s at this point that I would like to let you all know I was also sober.) If you have not read it, i say to you, CANCEL all plans for the week and run to the nearest book store, for POSSESSION could be in your possession and never again will an insipid day strike for when it does, simple read a page ANY page of this book and nothing but wonder and awe will follow from it.


I’m clearly slightly addicted to this book, I worry that I’m going to go into withdrawal, that every book I devour after this one will never again give me that same high. A.S. Byatt’s words are literary crack. I want her poetry to swim in my veins,