personal, Uncategorized

see you on the streets

They told me that growing up with mental illness can affect how you view the world as an adult; the smallest acts of bravery, of cunning, of strength can leave someone tormented by their own demons a little breathless.

In my opinion, it makes people like me, who struggle to find sleep over the sound of doubt, more able to see small pieces of magic woven into the thread of my life.

Here’s a secret: I firmly believe there is something magical about cars, especially my car. When I saw it, after weeks of back-and-forth with the dealership, I knew something was so strangely me about that car, I needed to drive it. Since leaving the lot with the keys in my hand, I have given my black Nissan Juke the name Regulus Kavinsky. Tomorrow, I go to the DMV to pick up my custom license plates with GRYWRN in Tahoe blue letters.

I have always been weirdly attached to the things that I drive; I have given them all names and cooed to them lovingly from the driver’s seat. My first car, a forest green 2002 Jeep Cherokee was called Bessie. I taped a sheet of paper with rules to the dashboard in order to give passengers ample heads up that I wouldn’t tolerate being treated like a taxi, a trash can, or given any bullshit about my driving.

The last car I drove before Kavinsky was a silver Ford Explorer, nicknamed Smeagol – I always imagined that if that fucking monstrosity could speak, it would be a horrible, wretched noise. I punched the radio hard enough to break my skin and damage the screen.

Kavinsky, on the other hand, is much less aggravating. There is a sensation that I get when I top one-hundred miles per hour in that car, switching between manual and automatic seamlessly. It’s an emptiness in my chest, a void where the sadness and anger usually sit like scavengers waiting for prey. I drove out to a lake last night, a lake filled with ley lines and irate spirits. Kavinsky was immobilized by the thin sand and my sister pushed him out while my feet were introducing the floor to the gas pedal. He is now coated with a layer of pale Nevada dust and my anxiety sits in the passenger seat in place of a shrewd Scorpio woman.

“Your car has tattoos, just like you,” my dad had said when I showed him around. My car is an extension of myself. A heart outside my own body. There is a large green Slytherin vinyl on the back window, surrounded carefully by Latin words, song lyrics, and Ouija planchettes. I have stored maps in the glove box and emergency kits in the trunk because there is always time to seek adventure or to be a menace. My camera, Dick III, anticipates trips to graveyards and tattoos shops from his seat in the back. My fur-child has left herself all over Kavinsky, as well – there are window markings and enough hair to assemble another dog.

Johnny Cash and Imagine Dragons and Kurt Cobain come with me on coffee runs. The scent of autumn and hemp leaves permeate the seats, a residual scent from either my fingertips or my soul. There are books, stacks and stacks of books, and headphones scattered throughout the interior.  I sit and whisper away, away, away as I go, with tears streaming down my face and shaking hands on the wheel. The deterioration of my control is a devil on my shoulder, a blessing and a curse. I carry crystals in the doors and tarot cards in my purse. A large white text saying “Go Smudge Yourself” warns other drivers that I carry the power of the dead and the moon under the circles beneath my eyes.

My godmother has the same car and I tell her secrets while we color my hair black to match my wardrobe and Kavinsky’s paint. There is a ballad written about him, dedicated by a tenant above my work who was sworn into my servitude in exchange for leaving an inch long, unseeable scrape on the left-hand side. I was, surprisingly, never mad about that incident – because now I have a friend who writes songs about my car and I am almost always covered in bruises and scrapes; it would make sense that Kavinsky would need some, too.

A car is a second home. A car is just a moving piece of magic.

k1k2

That’s all there is,

The Book Witch

 

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books, personal

hello, it’s me (back from the dead)

Thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting for me to post again; my fiance and I have been in the process of finding an apartment, packing all of our shit, and moving said shit for the past two months.

I have a lot to catch you guys up on. I have two new tattoos – a thestral and a crown of thorns. We live in a brand new place, and so far, I absolutely love it. Jay graduated so we’ve been navigating that. My car broke down on the day we moved all of our furniture – so we’ve been carpooling ever since. I have a fuck ton of pictures to show you guys. But first, I wanted to tell you why I didn’t write while we were moving. Firstly, I work a shit ton. Spare hours are hard to come by and I was basically managing every aspect of our transport by myself so Jason could finish his classes in peace. There were not a lot of free seconds to devote to writing, unfortunately. Secondly. my space is so crucial to my sanity. I’m an introvert, an INTJ on some days, and an INFJ on others. I am an autumnal spirit who needs solitude and peace before I can function like a person. I also have OCD and anxiety, so everything must be in its proper place. (When I say I have OCD, I don’t mean that I’m afraid of germs and dirt. I mean that I have a little voice inside my head that the psychiatrist I went to actual said “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier? You have classic Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and no one has ever diagnosed you properly, so that sucks”) My personal space is so fucking crucial to my mental health. My home is where I go to recharge, it’s my witch’s cottage, my castle. Don’t fuck with my home or the inhabitants.)

I strongly believe my first home was a song. Maybe it’s because I was raised under the wings of two Cancers but “home” is a very fluid term for me. Maybe it’s because I spend so much time trying to reign in the fireworks under my skin that “home” has shifted from person to object to lyric so frequently.

Anyway, my first home was a song. It was the only thing that held a glimmer of safety and I tucked myself under the lyrics and stayed there until I was strong enough to be my own crescendo. That song was “Skinny Love” by Bob Iver. I know! You were expecting something by Johnny Cash, hang on, it’s coming. Wait for your fucking turn. You can tell me forty thousand times that Skinny Love is about unrequited love, which, for some, it might be. For me, Skinny Love has always been about suicide and depression.

I’m going to tell you a secret. It’s not so much a secret now because the shame is wearing off and replacing itself with something more vicious.

The years between my thirteenth and nineteenth years of my life saw NINE suicide attempts. You read that right, fuck off. I don’t really want to talk about them but they were never supposed to not work so let’s just leave it at this: I’m really horrible at committing suicide. Kind of like how I’m horrible at communication or not using “fuck” as a filler word. I can point out the lines in Skinny Love that helped me recover the next morning after I downed a bottle of narcotic pain pills. I can point out the lines that I sang along to with red-rimmed eyes and panic attacks crawling under my skin. This sucks to talk about so let’s finish on a high note – Skinny Love was something that I always thought was written for me. Not in an egotistical, people-are-writing-songs-about-me way but in “Listen, you sad little bitch, the universe is trying to tell you something”

Hence, my latest tattoo. When I got my thestral patronus, I thought “Fucking perfect, I’m a morbid piece of shit with a death pony as a spirit animal. Who could love that?” Who will love you, who will fight? This leads me into a brief discussion of my second home: myself. I never really cared for myself as an object of permanence until I started decorating the walls. I think my partial sleeves actually started my journey into self-acceptance. Not self-love, that’s a work in progress.  I have all these pieces of my soul etched on my skin and it gives me great comfort to know it’s giving everyone a forewarning before they talk to me.

The other tattoo I got, my crown of thorns, lives ever-so-happily on my middle finger of my right hand. It’s a homage to two things – Johnny Cash’s cover of Hurt and my Catholic upbringing. I’ve always felt like us reformed Catholics wear a crown of thorns. My crown is formed of guilt and grief. I’m sure there are other ties that bind us to our thrones, but those are mine.

Thirdly, as you can probably guess, I find a home in the books that I love. They become part of me, so I cover myself in them. I cover my shelves with them, my bathtub is lined with them. If I ever saw someone trying to hurt one of my books, they would get a right hook to the jaw.  Harry Potter, Wicked Lovely, Looking for Alaska, and the Raven Cycle are series that I consider to be especially comfortable.

Lastly, I find my home in other people. Before you get all judgy and start accusing of being a false prophet of introversion,  let me tell you something – I am very particular with the people that I settle into. Above all things that I am proud of, I am most proud of the fact that when I decide to love something or someone, I love them with all that I have. I made a home for myself within the confines of maybe four or five people, tops. One of them is my sister and one of them is Jason. Jason is a very interesting choice of residence, as I am always so sure that we could break each other entirely.  My OCD makes me think I am the catalyst to his destruction, my tarot cards say I am the catalyst for his resurrection.

By the way, my sister gave birth to my goddaughter on June 2nd. Little Annabelle Jade, my little Gemini trickster queen.

So now Jason and I have a tiny 900 square foot fortress and in turn, I have other dwelling places within that home.

I feel as if a home has a different definition to every individual, but I always think of it as a place where I can tell the truth of myself without judgment, a place where I can let my magic reign free with no fear of consequence.

Here are some pictures of my tiny home

deskliving roomravenwitch

Yes, that IS a Ronan Lynch quote above my witchcraft station. Call me morbid but I thought “Not death but his brother, sleep” was a perfect addition to my bedroom. Fight me, I dare you. Did I happen to mention that I got my DNA test back? Guess who is 65% Irish with a Russian and Bulgarian twist. It explains my kinship to the Lynches and Kavinsky.  It also explains my intolerance to the sun, weather above 60 degrees, the spectrum of human emotion, and my love of Jameson.

Speaking of books, I finished Labryth Lost and it was surprisingly really good.  The lore was interesting to read about and I appreciated the way the main character was written. I was surprised by the romantic twist but it was one of my favorite LBGT moments thus far in a book. I also read Diary of a Haunting and it was an easy read but the ending actually snuck up on me a bit. I am having a super hard time getting into A Court of Wings and Ruin, I think because I honestly prefer the Throne of Glass series and I think Aelin and Rowan could kick Feyre and Rhys’ ass. Fun fact: I like slow burn books IF YOU COULDN’T ALREADY TELL.

While we’re on the topic of my favorite literary couples, can we have a moment of silence for all the Dreamer trilogy niblets that Maggie keeps dropping? Not going to lie, I cry when I see them. I save them to my phone and look at them when I need a moment of cathartic release.

I’m currently listening to The Song of Achilles on Audible and reading a physical copy of  My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry and I have already picked out which quotes I’m going to get added to my Book Sleeve. These books are going to destroy me, I can sense it.

I will start blogging more often, I promise. I’ll have to give reviews of the books I’m reading now and keep updating everyone on my domestic bullshit. I’m back in business for tarot readings since I have more privacy, so tell your friends.

That’s all there is,

The Book Witch

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poetry

rage and love, wings and claws

you’ve always been able to hear words to see them, picture them behind closed eyelids but i can taste the syllables and feel the letters, their thorns and petals                           trace my hands over them like they were the notches in your spine

you could look at me and say “coffee” and it would taste like burnt Folgers and mountain air                                                                                                                                                 and salt running down my cheeks

it would feel like running my fingers over the rocks on the edge of the river i was raised in                                                                                                                                                              it would feel like getting splinters on the bottom of my feet from sitting on nostalgic wooden porches

you say “coffee” like a cacophony of broken memories and i can feel the vibrations in my bones

i can run my thumb over the people i’ve learned, the people i’ve been. their stories bend open like they were a book and i was prying apart the spine.

you can say “grief” and mine will be unparalleled to yours. they’ll have the same meaning, same consonants, same iambic pentameter                                                                   but yours tastes like honey and mine is whiskey that burns the back of our throats

it tastes like i cut myself on the crown of thorns over my head, on my fingers, on my wrists
(blood drips over a sacrilegious cupid’s bow, my knuckles are stained red)
it tastes like forgive me, forgive me, forgive me
it tastes like the smell of gunpowder wrapped around a cerebral lobe. the cracks in my ribs were born from recoil and haphazardly decided soulmates. (there are crystals forming where my heart used to be)
it feels like bruised kneecaps from falling

to

the

floor when you watch a heartbeat for the last time

now, it feels like tires screeching on 2 am pavement and the sting of a tattoo needle,       (if you look close enough, you can see blood and ink collide in the water, a war that’s been raging for years)
it feels like a muscle reflex, a flick of a finger, anger blooming where love used to be

it feels like a point between awake and asleep; smoke curled up around tired eyelids and electricity humming inside veins                                                                                                 now i’m an electric lover; the lightening and then the thunder

when you say “home” i can taste the saltwater and the rain                                                        i can feel pavement under my body, a beacon to the lonely and the restless; home is a fluid place with the consistency of syrup

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photography

I Write With My Hands About Things I Do With My Hands

Sup, mofos.

Remember my fiance? You know, the one who I think is super fucking stoic and mysterious but is actually just a huge nerd that makes goat noises?

This fuck weasel?


Guess what he did!

No, you have to guess.

He upgraded my camera. He upgraded my little Kodak to a beautiful, sleek Nikon D5600. Not that I didn’t love my sweet Manon but the local community college did not know how to teach me professional photography on a Kodak. So, let me introduce you to Richard Campbell Gansey III aka Daddy Dick.

He’s beautiful, yes?

I’m stoked because I can now invest in some photography classes during the summer. Here’s a comprehensive list of “what this means for everyone in my sphere of existence”:

  • More pictures of tarot readings
  • More pictures of crystals and bones
  • More pictures of books
  • More pictures of coffee
  • Humans being dragged into adventures on a more frequent basis
  • Obnoxiously spontaneous day trips
  • “I need a fucking picture of that”
  • “I need a picture of your fucking face”
  • “Hold fucking still”

 

Here are some (edited) pictures of bookish layouts that I’ve done in the last couple weeks (taken on the Kodak).


Here is an (edited) picture of a shirt that my boss designed for me that I turned into Tumblr trash.


Here’s me with Daddy Dick.

I also decided to get an Apple Watch, because go big or go home, right? I’m very surprised with how much I like it – I went on a hike yesterday and it was really efficient to have the watch on instead of trying to use my phone for everything.

So, I’m going to be working on photography quite a lot in the upcoming months. This Mercury Retrograde is absolutely kicking my ass; I’m normally an extremely restless person who needs to be engaging in some sort of creative outlet to feel sane and I’m usually small and consistently angry, but this is something else entirely. This is some “I’m afraid of my own shadow, I don’t know who I am anymore” My sister and I are going to get crystals to combat some of the disruptive energy buzzing around the atmosphere. I’ve had an insane amount of drive to do tarot readings lately and when I was up on my mountain I had a weird pull a card pull a card pull a card feeling tugging at my gut. I drew a card.

 

 

Queen of Wands, as defined by Maggie Stiefvater in my raven oracle deck, is essentially the “fire breathing over-protective viciously caustic bitch” card. In case you were wondering how that fucking translates into something important – I pulled my personality on a card. I rarely ever draw fire cards. My birth cards are the Moon and Strength and I typically always end up with Death somewhere in my spreads. Honestly, I think it’s the first time I’ve ever paid attention to the Queen of Wands but I am now paying very good attention and listening very well to whatever the world is saying.

The Queen of Wands is the dominant feminine energy of the element of Fire. She is not afraid to demonstrate her power to others nor does she shy away from a challenge. She is therefore a strong leader who is focused on her desires, intending to get what she wants. Thus, the Queen of Wands indicates that you are strong, independent and able to take care of yourself and sustain your own creative vision, even in the face of adversity. You know what you want and how to get it, and you are masterful at engaging with others to achieve your goals.

Called. The. Fuck. Out. It’s always a little bittersweet when the universe is like “Yeah dude, you have the magic but you kind of need a kick in the fucking pants to remember to use it.”

In bookish news, I put aside Me, Earl the Dying Girl favor of Labyrinth of the Lost by Zoraida Cordova. I needed some more magic and less male narrative in my life. Normally, I gear myself more towards male-oriented novels because 97% of the time, I can’t relate to the main character when it’s a girl. Unless she’s like, basically Satan, I cannot handle the tortured, love-sick monolog and the internal struggle to be “just like other girls”. I have never once had a desire to be the same as someone else and I hope that I receive a nice uppercut to the jaw if that ever happens. I digress;  I like Cordova’s novel thus far, I have always had a strong inclination to the study of brujas and Dia De Los Muertos. I hope this book does the culture justice. I just finished Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea and the ending was not bad! I really enjoyed the story and I’m considering getting the second book in the series but I’m so behind on my TBR that I can feel my soul dying a little every day. Just kidding, I don’t have a soul; but my TBR is fucking insane, I wasn’t kidding about that part. I noticed that audio-books have really changed my interaction with reading as a whole. I was driving the other day, running errands as we adults do, and I realized that I’ve started to equate certain parts of town with certain moments in books. Seventh Street now reminds me of when Ronan stole the Pig and raced K. The parking lot of Ulta out on Pyramid Highway will always bear the weight of Kit finding out that Della is pregnant. It’s a strange sort of reality, where words have started to paint themselves into my town.

In terms of other creative projects, I am currently teaching myself to embroider so I can give people dish towels that say shit like “go fuck yourself” and “thug ass piece of trash” because you know, I love them. I’d like to be able to embroider patches someday because I fucking love putting patches on shit. I’m trying so hard to put more energy into bullet journaling. That’s right, friends, ya girl is Bullet Journal Trash. Honestly, though, I have tried and tested so many fucking methods of keeping my shit together. I have the attention span of a five-year-old so traditional methods are not good for me. My BuJo (shut the fuck up) is less of a planner and more of a Book of Shadows and memoir cross-over. The most organized aspect of it is my “Important Dates” page where I basically write down any appointments I have that are at high risk to be forgotten aka “any appointment I make, ever.” Here is my cuss-word filled BuJo in all its glory, paired up with my rude-ass pencil bag that has more lipsticks and lighters in it than actual pens. 

My 2017 reading accomplishments page is sad, I know. I got sucked into the Raven Cycle series and it spit me out, completely unmotivated to read anything else, ever again. If you need me, I’ll be continuing my existential crisis over the search for a dead Welsh king and the fact that I have the same soul as a street-racing farmer.

That’s all there is,

Carry on –

The Book Witch

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personal

Sunday Ramblings

So, I’m finally crawling out of the despair pit that was my Post-Raven Cycle Reading Slump. I’m still completely over the moon with that series – it was a life changer but I’m easing my way back into other literature. I read Aristotle and Dante Discover The Secrets of the Universe and was pleasantly surprised with how much I liked it. Then I tried a contemporary romance and that was a mistake, so I gave it to a friend and moved onto Me, Earl & The Dying Girl which gives me a sneaking suspicion that I, too, might die at the end. I’m also listening to Between the Devil and The Deep Blue Sea and also enjoying it quite a bit.

On an unrelated note, I strongly recommend listening to podcasts about subjects that you enjoy if you ever feel lost, they’ll help you rediscover your love for “stuff”

On a semi-unrelated note, here are some updates about my life:

  • I’m coloring my hair to black in a couple weeks. I had a black fo-hawk a couple years ago and I loved the color but the length was a bit much. Trying to keep up with my growth right now is a bitch, so I’m going to nix that problem right in the roots. (That WAS a hair pun, you’re welcome)
  •  I have an appointment to get my thestral tattoo in a couple weeks and I’ll also be adding to my fingers; my tarot symbols didn’t take very well to my skin but my artist is the most amazing human ever and I have no doubt that she’ll be able to fix that.
  • I may be upgrading my camera! Seriously, I’m so excited. I did not expect to love photography this much. I also plan on giving my sister my Kodak, in the event of said upgrade, because she loves taking pictures and it would be nice to have a buddy.
  • I have been agonizing over my Imagine Dragons tattoo. Combining five songs into a single bicep-sized image is basically torture. I was stoked when I finally created this masterpiece on my computer and have thus decided to have thousands of tiny needles engrave it on my skin. imgine dragons
  • Last but not least: I ordered a DNA tracing kit in order to find out more about my personal heritage. That’s what this particular segment of my odd ramblings is going to focus on: family.

You know the word: family. Familia. Teaghlaigh. Семейный

It’s defined as all “descendants of a common ancestor”.

My mom is adopted so I don’t know anything about my ancestors. The fact that she was adopted has no relevance to my life other than that. My Papa and Mimi taught me that we chose our own family, and I’ve stuck to that doctrine throughout my whole life. I am closer to and more loved by people who aren’t even in the same genetic pool as I than some people that I share blood with. But, more on that later. The moral of the story is that my mom was so loved that my grandparents chose her to be their child. I share no blood with those same grandparents and yet, I share their hearts.

Let’s talk about my dad.

Our last name is “Primak”, which is a very Russian rooted word. So, we know that much. I go by “Hayden” because I feel as though an alias is something I was born to have and middle names can totally count for an alias, right?

Fucking right.

My dad…

dado

(The resemblance between us is uncanny, by the way)

My dad was in the middle of building a student union at my University when I was much younger. He was one of the upper dudes who told other dudes how to do math-y shit and how to not be idiots. My dad, for lack of better terms, is not an idiot. I keep thinking about this particular time period because there’s a memory that has lodged itself so far into my brain that I have theorized it would take some serious sort of accident to dislodge it. My dad took me to the University library. It was different than it was now, but I remember two things:

  1. I was scared shitless. These college kids were tall and smart as fuck and I was an awkward Catholic school kid. I imagined every one of them looked at me with disgust and years of wisdom beyond mine. Little did I know that they were all dying internally and had I paid better attention, at least 26% were in pajamas and 38% were hungover.
  2. My dad doesn’t have a lot of words to say. He’s one of those individuals who doesn’t fill your life with meaningless bullshit if he can help it. As a child, I did not understand that. I grew up around Italians and Italians are the loudest breed of human beings who love (I say this with as much endearing fondness as I can) meaningless bullshit. Today, I very much understand that my dad offering me admittance to this library of scholars was his way of saying “I see you reading, and I see your passion for it.” I had been put down for my love of books for so many years that this realization was a bucket of ice water to my brain.

Long story short, he’s someone that I do happen to have a blood relation with, and who I am grateful to have a blood relation with. My dad is the reason I have a caffeine dependence. I look for him tucked in corners of my town, in cafes, on Lander St, in the stars. Jason, bless him, can now take one look at my face, see the tears in my eyes, and know that I am about to say “My dad and I always came here” or “This is something my dad would love”.  I don’t have those moments as often with my Mimi, because she follows me in my grief, in my sorrow. She does not bind herself to places like the living but wraps her absence around my wrist like a leash. I always thought “I am not like the people I come from” and I will be the first to tell you, as an adult, how wrong I was. You believe yourself to be an individual completely separate from your paternal or maternal influences but I am at least 48.5% Lou Primak. My dad is the smell of really fucking good coffee and pine trees. He’s old leather briefcases and the ridges of a baseball glove. He’s learning to ride a bike and the first time I went to Seattle. My dad is a winter child, like me.

I have a few moms at the moment, so let me talk about that really quick. I have my biological mom, Violet. I have my stepmom, Heather. I have my god-mom, Tonya. I have other moms who have picked me up along the way, but these ones are the most prevalent in my everyday understanding of the world. My Mimi was also my mom but she’s gone now and crying was not the point of this post. Obviously, you know I’m blood-related to Violet so let’s discuss Heather and Tonya because they are prime examples of “The blood of the covenant”

Heather is my dad’s wife. They got married when I was, like, nine or ten. They gave me a brother –  Jackson, who looks like me in dude form and has more energy in his pinky finger than I do in my whole body.

Heather is autumn leaves, a river in the distance, a home cooked meal when you’ve been living off of Ramen. Heather is an ocean of creative energy, a new project, a summertime nap. She’s the moment when the season changes to autumn, the brief seconds between “then” and “now”. She is my kindred spirit, the whole reason I got into blogging and cooking and photography and crafting. She’s the driving force behind my ingenuity. She’s my model introvert; she showed me that being comfortable with yourself is what really makes us unique. So many people lack the ability to sit with themselves for an hour before they begin to hate it. I look at kids who have stepparents that they feel bitter towards or dislike and I can’t even begin to tell you how ignorant I am on that topic. I had someone who helped me through so many difficult areas of my life and still put up with my shit, even though she had no obligation to do so.

It’s one of those phenomena where you look at your life under a microscope and can say “Holy shit, thank you”

Tonya is my god-mother which means, if you haven’t a clue about Catholicism, that if everyone died, she would be my new mom. She has actually said at one point “If everyone dies, I get to be your new mom. I mean, I am your mom. But this would be, like legally. It’s on papers at the lawyer’s office”. She’s also said things like “If I ever heard someone talking to you like that, I would spider-monkey over the counter and rip their throat out.”

Tonya was my spirit guide in another life (more on that later) and she probably gave birth to me in another one, too. She’s a fucking badass and I feel quite a bit better when I’m in her presence. She has that calming, “All is well, child. I’ll fuck a bitch up” vibe going for her. Tonya is rose quartz on a living room table. She’s a cone of incense and smudging your home with sage. She’s a wildfire, a hurricane of kindness and honesty. She’s a Pride flag, bright and burning. She’s a tattoo needle, a patch sewn into your heart. She’s a leather jacket and a Johnny Cash shirt. I am not blood-related to Tonya, her dad was a firefighter with my Papa, but I would never be able to put a tangible amount on how much I love her.

In short, I am not doing a DNA test to find my genetic relatives. You know why? Cause fuck that. know who my family is. I refer to myself constantly as a “walking contradiction of impulsivity and contemplation” meaning I’m the type of person who moves on a whim but budgets for it, the type who decides to dye her hair black but waits a month, the kind who suddenly realizes that they need a motorcycle but sets up a piggy bank for it, the kind who thinks “I need a new tattoo” over twenty times a day but spends more time designing them than getting them. The kind who says “Fuck it, I’m doing a DNA test” but holds off for five weeks.

I am a pretty big believer in reincarnation. In fact, I would probably say that it encompasses most of my thoughts on the afterlife.  I don’t actually believe in an afterlife but I think most people are recycled into new things. I do, however, think that some of us don’t get more chances. Like, when Hitler died they were like “Bro, what the fuck? We were gonna make you a sunfish or some dumb shit so you could learn but you just kept going?! We’re gonna have to scrap you, this energy can’t go anywhere else. You piece of shit, what the fuck. We were able to recycle Pontius Pilate for fucks sake”

So, in my search of my DNA, I’m hoping to find pieces of me scattered amongst the globe. I’m hoping to put them together and maybe resurrect the story of my lungs, my hair, my eyes.

That’s all there is,

Carry on,

The Book Witch

 

 

 

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poetry

But you, Oh God

You cannot raise a child with spell-books tucked under her arms or superstition carved into her skull and expect her to not wear her pride on her skin. You cannot show her the wilderness inside her and not want her to grow wings. You watched her, with dirt under her fingernails, blood coating her knuckles, as she found magic; you stoked the love inside her until it burnt her to nothing. Now she is here, a cacophony of the people who rebuilt her, a dragon among the men. She has been to the cathedral and learned the words in Latin. She engraved them on her heart and when they rejected her, she found a different god. She wears a crown of thorns and destroys herself so that her flesh can match her blood. You made her, you made her, she made herself the ravens scream at night. You gave her a name that meant “light bringer, light carrier” and forgot that mythology has bestowed those creatures of death the same burden. You gave her compassion and a need for solitude; you raised a wolf in place of a girl. When she laid her soul bare on her skin, you wept for the innocence lost and she wept because it was finally unerringly visible. She is part of the cycle, the thread that runs through the circle of time. The day she was born was a day that signified the end, the beginning, and all the other pieces thrown haphazardly in the dark. Shards of the people before landed on ribs in a way that turned her into a weapon. You tried to contain her in one universe and found that she cannot be restricted to a single space.

She grew up learning tarot cards as an extension of herself. The moon and the carnivores are her companions. She hurdled over her fear of the dark, embracing it in scarred arms. She became a book witch, a bone witch, a water witch. She changed her hair, her blood, her voice. There’s a rage inside her that you wouldn’t believe, a love inside her like you couldn’t imagine. She learned that she felt everything all at once and that it was her ultimate undoing. She understood that it would destroy her, so she tried to destroy herself, instead. She loved so outstandingly hard, with such violent fervor, that she ripped holes in her chest that had to be sewn back together with ice and fire. The people she loved tried to take her wings and forgot she had claws. There’s a restlessness inside her that sings for home home home but she chose to be an ambassador of change – she has no home except herself. Her soul is a haunted house broken, broken, rebuilt. 

Grief and rage carry themselves like matches inside her veins. She turns to words, tries to create poetry, when nothing is left – when everything has been burnt away. She is a piece of stained glass, a religious experience gone wrong.

And when they told her that she would never be able to love someone until she loved herself,

she replied “Bullshit. I have never loved myself. But him, Oh God, I loved him so much I forgot what hating myself felt like”

 

raven tattootarot fingersz 1tarot fingersz 2

 

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books

We Are Okay Review + Birthday Shenanigans

Sup, mofos.

My 22nd birthday was yesterday so I’ve been super busy in anticipation of that particular event. For those of you wondering, I went to a Death Cab for Cutie concert on Thursday night AND IT WAS MAGICAL AS FUCK. I’ve been to concerts before and I really enjoyed them. I’m a music-oriented person. Nine out of ten times I’m going to remember something in terms of what songs were playing or what songs were popular at that period of my life. So, concerts are a good place for me. Being introverted has its drawbacks in the sense of really, really hating fucking crowds but I’m also a super aggressive and angry introvert and that balances me out a bit. Anyway, it was magical. It was one of those times when you get goosebumps because suddenly everyone is singing along to a song that you used to fall asleep to and the nostalgia is tangible. I was amazed at how alive I felt during the concert and my friend that took me (an early birthday present, bless her) was just as stoked, which was awesome. I hella started tearing up during Soul Meets Body but it’s okay, we don’t have to talk about that. The moral of the story is that I am now a concert junkie – look out world, I just gained another tier of Crazy.

On my actual Womb Evacuation Anniversary, I spent the day getting completely fucking wrecked with my soul sister who happens to also have the same Womb Evacuation Anniversary. Jason has the stomach flu, though, so I had to cut my 10-hour drinking spree short. St. Paddy’s is such a fantastic day to be of legal drinking age and have a birthday because the amount of whiskey that one consumes is completely justifiable by saying “FUCK IT I’M IRISH”. I have definitely decided that I need to permanently ingrain my day of birth into my flesh by getting a Celtic tattoo. Sue me, I like body art.

A lot.

Okay, so here comes the nerdy part. I had a fucking amazing couple of days and then the bookish gifts started flooding in. I got my March package from my pen pal and she picked out some seriously rad looking reads for my library (because she’s a Virgo and I collect Virgos because they understand me). My incredibly sweet Uncle Grapes (it’s a long story, it’s fine. Everything is fine) sent me some money so I went straight to Barnes & Noble. I even got a year membership! No self-control! Also, for someone who has such immense tolerance for physical pain and alcohol, I sure don’t have any tolerance for people or expensive books. My boss (also a Virgo, I was not kidding when I say I collect them) found me amethyst bookends. She remembered that I saw them a few months back and didn’t feel like splurging so she went ahead and did me a solid. Here they are in their glorious and majestic as fuck nature.

book ends

They’re so pretty, I could just die.

So then, my mother-in-law presented me with a personal library kit and a book embosser. That’s right, I have a book embosser now. She got me a copy of The Scorpio Races because one can never have too much Stiefvater in their lives AND I EMBOSSED IT.

embosserlibrary kit

 

She used my fiance’s last name on the embosser and that made my cold, dead heart warm ever-so-slightly. I’m going to emboss everything I own and then if someone tries to run away with one of my precious babies I will hunt them down and emboss them, too.

Anyway, here’s a little snippet of my thoughts regarding We Are Okay (by Nina Lacour)

  • I read Hold Still a few years ago and really, really liked it so I expected the same kind of enjoyment from We Are Okay 
  • LBGT characters? Yes! Sign me THE FUCK UP. Gimme all the representation, all of it. 
  • It was a little tricky to get into, the story starts off pretty timid and vague but once I was in, oh boy, was I in.
  • Marin is extremely relatable; her grief is so realistic there were times that I thought I could hold it…if I was careful
  • The character development is astouding  – for real, some of the best CD I’ve ever read. You go from being like “Okay, what’s going on, send help” to being like “Something very profound just happened and I think I missed it because I was too busy watching these people unfold”
  • THE PLOT TWIST IS THE WORST THING EVER. Like okay, Nina. We get it, you like crushing people like ants under your feet but this is cool, too. There will be no spoilers ahead but I can tell you that the thing was revealed and I had to reread it because it was so unexpected.
  • It had a lovely nostalgic feel to it. There was such delicious descriptive language. It felt like road trips and Christmas and beach trips all rolled into a delightful little package of soul-crushing sadness.

 

I give it a solid 8/10 and highly recommend it for fans of contemporary fiction or who need to feel understood.

I also finished Anna Kendrick’s autobiography. It was good, I’m not a huge fan of biographies but I powered through it because I have a huge crush on her. It’s okay, I read her book. We’re friends now. You can definitely tell where she starts to get more confident in her story because she switches from objective storytelling to snarky asshole over the span of a couple pages. I’m just glad I finished it, to be honest. Her humor was so on point but I truly hate stories of Hollywood and fame. I detest them.

I am now looking for a new audiobook and trying to get through Truthwitch which is becoming better, the further I get into it.

I’ll talk to you guys when I’m done with my vacation so I hope you have a lovely week.

That’s all there is,

The Book Witch

 

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