I’m available to the stories that the crows tell in stark winter.
I’m available to showing up in other people’s dreams, where I drive a white Mini Cooper and service a long line of seekers waiting outside my house for my gifts.
I’m available to the cord magic that the spirit of my genius sister weaves, because we both understand time.
I’m available to the walks with my she-goddess dog materialized as snow and fur and breath and a good dose of attention to the sky and the earth, wind and crystalized water.
I’m available to praying for my 12 tree witnesses outside my apartment just cut down to the roots by corporate progress. ‘Transform this shit,’ I command them softly, and they answer from below: ‘Our dying roots will do it, at your command.’
I’m available to my partner who believes in my subtle wickedness and witchyness whose force can bring down the house and other empires. ‘Well done,’ he always says, even when he suffers.
I’m available to my Yoruba Gelede mask whose imperial stature identifies the soul working on the right hand path and on the left hand path.
I’m available to putting a spell on my insulting boss so he ends up as a sleeping beauty with no savior.
I’m available to being saved myself by grace and bliss in my ecstatic dance with life.
I’m available to saying: ‘I don’t think so’, ‘Not today,’ and ‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’ in the name of my nondualist religion that only makes sense to me – Oh, glory.
I’m available to my alchemist friend who reminds me of the first lesson he gave me: ‘Don’t forget this: We don’t just say, fuck off. We say, fuck off and die.’
I’m available to the stories that the Tarot tells, the questions that the cards make me ask, and their whipping of my ass when I go small: ‘Ask big, will you?,’ the Tarot says, though its voice is a hell of lot more commanding than I can conjure here.
I’m available to the force that stretches my mental and emotional elastic: ‘How is your spying on yourself today? Is there a difference between your yes and amen?’
I’m available to my devotion to saying: ‘No difference, only distinction.’
I’m available to being clear about what IT is, whatever its form.
I’m available to Medea speaking from beyond her grave of her poisoned lover and children. ‘Was it good for you?’, I ask her, and she says, ‘Yes, it was sublime.’
I’m available to sending smiles and blowing kisses to my dead parents, every time a shamanic gate is opened by my chief ally, the wormwood.
I’m available to the booze that I make myself, and dedicate to the stars whose names are ‘Your Fortune’, or ‘The Demon’s Head.’
I’m available to peyote and the Guadalupe in the fire. ‘Come geometry. Get my head between my legs, and let me see infinite lines and the restored to beauty decaying head of Saint Catherine of Siena.’
I’m available to Lilith whose Qliphotic incense sends me straight to hell. ‘Hello, I’m Camelia, who the fuck are you?’ I ask boldly beyond the gate, and the demons go, ‘We’re your servants, mistress. Will you tell us a story tonight? Come on, read us a poem, or a fairytale.’
I’m available to the amphitheater of my palace of memory where Oscar winning actresses play a witchy game of transferring power: ‘Are you a Jew, or what? Get over here. This unnamed Crone appointed to the task needs to wrap this white silk tallit around your left hand. Show us your naked tits, so we can see what’s holy.’
I’m available to my Holy Guardian Angel who makes my heart beat when it stops for no good reason.
I’m available to the Blue Bird Order and the Tibetan monk initiating me into the art of swinging my ritual belt.
I’m available to my life and the bells tolling.
I’m available to saying ‘Yes, I get this.’
I’m available to my infinity.
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