Monday, April 28, 2014

Where Are We Going?

Okay, so I’m leaving now.

Still, I am not going to hide from you. If you look for me, you will find me.

I am not becoming someone else.

I will keep writing like I always do, and I hope that you will come around to read it sometimes. You can even come around just to point and laugh at me. To poke and to prod at me.

Consider this to be an open invitation!

Saturday, April 19, 2014

The Lesbians Have Fled the Soup (POLL)

I’ve always wanted another name, different than the one I’ve got. As a kid, and growing up, and now, I’ve wondered a lot about Mom and Dad and about what made them go with… “Katy.”  


I’ve got my problems, you see, and another name could have changed it all for me. Right up front. Right out of the starting gate, another name could have made me something… unforgettable. Something powerful. Something exotic, something that roared with strength and with meaning.

Like I could have been “Leija.”



I believe the right name can conjure spirits. The right name can open doors. It can seal and unseal fate. Me, I could have been… “Princess Anahita Autophagia Onassis XIV.”

Do you know who never gets turned down for a car loan? Princess Anahita Autophagia Onassis XIV, that’s who.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Scrying Over You

Scrying is crystal ball gazing. It is Ouija board. It is all the ways of making the subconscious conscious.

Like maybe you will take a bowl. You fill it with water and with oils. You run a stick around the edge until it sings. When it sings, in the song there are words. You write down the words.

You are scrying.

Or maybe this woman – this woman over here – with her it is all different. Like maybe she  will light a candle. She sets down a sheet of paper and she sets down a pencil on the table. She stares into the candle until her mind blanks. When her mind blanks, then her hand writes. What her hand writes, she does not know. She writes down words that she reads only later.

She is scrying.

Or maybe like this guy. This guy over here. What the hell is he  doing? Maybe he is using a dowser’s rod. Or he is mirror gazing. Or he is shell hearing. Maybe he is tasting a taste in his mouth just by touching some something that you’ve touched.

If he is, then he is scrying, too.

Or… me. What about me? What is it that I am doing? I tie a bag – cloth, dark, tight – I tie it around my head and I lie down on my bed. I lie on my back. All around me are little scattered scraps of paper. On the little scattered scraps of paper, I have written questions.

Now I lie and I wait. I wait for paralysis, I wait for Tarab, and I wait for answers to my questions.

I am scrying, too.

I am making the subconscious conscious.

I am finding the answers to my questions about Doctor Belloq.

*           *           *           *           *

You want to know where the answers come from, don’t you?

It’s alright. Everyone does.

Everyone wonders, but the truth is I don’t know. The truth is I do not worry about it all that much. The truth is I do this thing and then that  thing happens.

But you want to know if this panic-induced demonic hallucination ever really tells me anything new.

Me too.

*           *           *           *           *

I started dating Doctor Belloq fifteen months ago. In those fifteen months, Doctor Belloq has spent three weeks in Nepal.

She’s spent two weeks in Haiti.

Four days on Easter-fucking-Island.

In the past fifteen months, Doctor Belloq has been lost overnight in an underground Mexican cave.


In the fifteen months since Doctor Belloq and I started dating, she’s been on sixteen of the islands of Micronesia.

She’s almost been arrested in Yemen. She was briefly detained in Brazil.

Fifteen months. That is what fifteen months in the life of Doctor Belloq look like.

*           *           *           *           *

Less than one-half of all Texans believe in evolution. Nearly one-fourth believe that the President is Muslim. One-fifth believe that our governor has banned Obamacare.

In the fifteen months since Doctor Belloq and I started dating, I have not stepped foot outside of the State of Texas.

*           *           *           *           *

Maybe I knew. Maybe something hidden deep inside me connected the dots all by its lonesome.

Maybe I did not need to hear it from Tarab at all.

But it was game night and I was with some friends out at the home of Veva Purvious and I was drinking cheap moscato and I was unlikely to win the game.

I lay down on the couch to clear my head and then the room was too yellow and then I could not move. The game continued without me and no one seemed to notice when the dark shape appeared over me hissing and pressing me down.

Tarab said, “Veva Purvious will win this game.”

I tried to move a finger.

He said, “Doctor Belloq is never coming back to Texas.”

He said, “She’ll list her house on Monday.”

It was true: About the game. About the house. All of it.

And maybe it did not take a seer or a prophet – no supernatural intervention required! – to see that Doctor Belloq was unlikely to let grass grow up between her toes. Ever. To do a happily-ever-after bit with me and the kids and a white picket fence. Maybe a scryer would not need to be much of a scryer at all for that information to reveal itself.

But I was scrying all the same, and this is how I found out about Doctor Belloq.

For the past fifteen months, this blog has been the story of me and Tarab and Doctor Belloq, and this is how the story ends.  

This is how we clear the way for the story of Veva Purvious.