The Final Proof Reveal…Food Memories!!!

Hello amazing people. I hope this reaches you and your loved ones in a well place…so much going on these days. I send my love out to you.

I am so grateful to have this outlet to share this process. Thanks for tuning in with me. Especially anyone who has followed my journey from the beginning, to finally seeing this completion.

So. I finally received my proof copy in the mail. I waited two days to open it, nervous. Nervous it would look bad again, requiring another round of fluffing. Nervous it would look good, requiring me to finally push the publish button. Despite my quaking, this morning I drew a tarot card and decided to dive in. Here’s what happened.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is image1-1.jpg — Nine of Pentacles and the waiting package

The first card I draw is the Nine of Pentacles. A lovely lady in her fruitful, peaceful and protected garden. She is admiring the completion of a physical creation. This gives me solace as my hands shake whilst ripping the package open. I certainly want to have the calm, full of gratitude kind of aura this lady has, but all I am is nervous! My breath shallow, I slowly lift the copy out of it’s package…would this copy be the one that urges me to finally release it into the world?

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is image2.jpg — The front of the final proof, and Tower/Fire cards…yow!

The first view is of the front cover. I chose to change the arrangement of the picture and title so I could use a different template for the back cover. It isn’t the most amazing arrangement, but it ain’t half bad. I kind of like it, actually. I also chose to switch to a glossy finish, which looks classy too. I’m kind of feeling more like that lady in the garden now. I flip through the inside, I really like the look of the formatting. I really like it. I feel…gulp…it is time to decide to be done. To press print.

I am drawn to choose two more cards now that the worst part is over…ones that exemplify my next step with the book. I choose the Tower and the Knight of Wands. Double gulp!

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is image3.jpg — The back cover and looming presence of the initiation cards

Satisfied with the front and inner matter, though a little nervous about the nature of these cards, I turn the book over to inspect the back. I like this view a lot. I included a picture and a little bio here and it looks nicely spaced out. Triple gulp…I think it really is ready.

But what of the cards? The Tower, showing a lightning bolt decimating a structure, ablaze and people jumping out of it, is not exactly the warm and fuzzy nature of the Nine of Pentacles above. A peaceful garden it is not. And the Brother of Fire, he’s also not just sitting around being grateful. He’s moving quickly, aiming towards his goal with passion and determination.

What this means to me is that in the course of just a few minutes–before opening the package to now holding the final proof in my hands and writing about it–I have gone from a safe, contemplative place to one of readiness for a powerfully transformative stage in my creative process. One that requires strong and determined action on my part. One that requires the risking of heading into major foundation shaking. Often the Tower card might indicate to not do a thing, but coupled with the Brother of Fire, it feels like it is saying, “Yes this will totally rearrange you, to hit publish and release this into the world…but you must! You must! We must! Let us ride into the fire and be transformed!”

I think I just might be crazy enough to follow that guidance. By the next time I blog, I very well may have pressed “Publish” and have Towerish experiences to report to you. For now, I am sharing these images with you, shaking in my boots but also feeling the Brother of Fire within me. I do believe I am about to ride into the Fire.

*Nine of Pentacles from the Golden Universal Tarot by Roberto De Angelis; Tower and Brother of Fire from the Tarot of The Spirit by Pamela Eakins.

An Ode to Serena Toxicat

With the world in flames–virally, socio-politically and literally–I have forgotten to mention a most powerful occurrence that has happened in my world. The passing, and honoring of, dear Serena Toxicat.

Serena passed in late July and an online memorial was created by her community, led primarily by Sumiko Saulson. It was this event that I want to write about, although there are many things I could say about dear Serena.

I knew Serena through a mutual connection with Isis Oasis and the Fellowship of Isis, both of us having ordained through the organization for Priestesshood. As it is a large, world-wide group, even though I was connected in this way, I rarely came into contact with Serena. On occasion I was able to witness her performances as a musician at the Fellowship Grand Temple. What I remember about Serena was her absolute uniqueness, her dedication to working with cats, and her creativity. Yet I have to also say that one of the things that most struck me was her appearance and energetic vibration. Although (at least not in the performances I witnessed at the time) she did not mention it, I knew that in some way Serena had walked with the struggle of Anorexia. I had no idea whether she was currently struggling, or had “overcome” this when I witnessed her performances. I just knew that somehow she had also been initiated through these struggles in her life. And of course I dare not ask her, as “Hey so have you, or do you currently struggle with, Anorexia?” isn’t the most becoming way to create connection. Especially with someone with Anorexia. At least that’s from my personal experience.

Anyway. At this memorial, not only did I witness the confirmation that this was indeed one of her struggles, but that she also wrote and shared publicly about her struggles with her community. I had seen some of her writings on her struggles with depression in general, but this was the first I had heard of this…that this struggle was much more widely shared and known about. That she did public readings of her writings about it, that she had book launches widely advertised, that many in her circles knew about this that she struggled with.

This is what struck me so profoundly, on this day of her memorial. As a fringe member of this community I watched as friend after friend talked about Serena and the effect she had on them. Of her graciousness, of her creativity, of her spicyness, of her mystery. But they also spoke of how authentic she was, in the sharing her struggles, and how much that affected them just as deeply.

As I am on the edge of readying myself to release my own memoir about my struggles with restrictive eating challenges, bracing myself for what may come of my revealing this publicly to the world, the witnessing of this honor to Serena took my breath away. The sheer number of people that showed up to honor her, appreciate her, showed me something I had really needed to see: that I can share my own deep inner struggles with the world and still be connected to community. That my struggles might not ostracize me as much as I fear, but may actually bring me closer in contact with real relationship. That the sharing of my struggles, and my authenticity in doing so, might actually help others.

I saw this unfold before me in such beauty during her memorial. I was juggling my sadness with her passing, but also this overwhelming sense of inspiration I was receiving from her community’s honoring of her. It was almost as if Serena, from beyond our distant, earthly connection, was standing next to me as I listened.

“See here,” it was as if she said, pointing at the Zoom screen. “See how the sharing of your struggles can result in Love. Go forth, dear one, as I have, and see that you too can be held, and hold others, while being seen in your wholeness. Go forth. See here.”

I felt like on that day I received such an empowerment, that it is hard to explain, only through the possibility of her spirit infusing me. I am struggling with focusing my writing today on describing my experience instead of listing the ways she effected the world, using my words to honoring her. But it is this I wanted to share–her death, her memorial, her loving community–and how seeing this seemed to be encouraging me, supporting me, lifting me up as I quake in my boots envisioning disaster from releasing my story publicly.

I feel it is kind of morose, and hopefully not disrespectful, to share how someone’s eulogy has inspired me tremendously…but it is true. On that afternoon, and by the grace that is Zoom, I was surrounded by reflections of the community’s love for her. Whatever she considered her Priestess work in the world I don’t know for sure, but that day this was her Priestessing for me. Thank you, Serena. I will go forth.

Serena Toxicat left behind a large legacy of creative manifestation. “Her novels included Evangeline and the Drama Wheel, a cosmic sci-fantasy about a cat-human hybrid named Evangeline in a cybergoth band, and Ghosts in Bones, a touchingly candid fictionalized account of a woman who struggled with anorexia nervosa that often mirrored Serena’s battle with the disorder. Her poetry chapbooks included, You Send Forth Constellations, Paper Wings, and Consciousness Is a Catfish: stealthily grim, subtly spiritual poems. She had short stories in Wickedly Abled, Scry of Lust 1, and Scry of Lust 2.” (Sumiko Saulson, HorrorAddicts.net).

She was also a life coach, certified in Neurolinguistic Programming (NLP) and had a YouTube channel dedicated to her coaching tips, readings and strange and wonderful musical craftings. Find out more here if you are interested: https://www.youtube.com/c/SerenaToxicat/videos. Her books are available on Amazon.

Embers

Feathery wisps

Of dead ancients

Flutter before my eyes

Onto my hand one rests

And I say a prayer

For the forest that is no more.

Also congealed in these drifters

Young children’s toys

Beloved family photos

Perhaps the double ash of a loved one’s remains

Fluttering, all

Before my eyes

Holding the tears of many

My gut wrecked and aching

Forcing nutrients so I can survive

To hold you

Resting, these embers

Tens of thousands, in these little shards

Before my eyes

A great transmutation

Water tankers detonating

Helicopters whirring

Through the choking haze

I struggle to stand tall and nourished

As the world burns down around me

The Final Edit, Beach Style

9am. Already 88 degrees outside.

I decide to drive south to hopefully reach cooler climes and a quiet beach nook to begin the task of facing my book one last time before its printing. Wind in hair, and sweat already forming on skin, I head down Highway 1 to the Monterey Bay.

First stop, ACME coffee in Seaside. I’d never been here, but at the suggestion of a good friend decided to try it out. It’s a hidden gem in an industrial area but it’s known for strong brews and I certainly need one for this task. I settled on the Mexican Mocha. Lovely.

Back in the car, and curving down the highway I reach Pacific Grove and Asilomar State Beach. It’s only 10:30 am and the sides of the road are already packed. I’m a bit bummed I’ll have to stay in my car to have any privacy. That is if I can find a parking spot.

I do, and decide to get out and take a look around. The 80 degree, slightly cooler breeze hits my face and I’m glad I made the trip. It’s not much but I hate the heat so it’ll do. I walk down the planked path to the edge of the sea, its rhythmic waves and seagulls honking in my ears.

I grew up on this coastline, and each time I make the drive down a certain familiar comfort comes over me. I have a few family members I visit here–although they are all dead. My trip usually includes the cemetery (a few streets down from here) and this oceanside where my mother’s ashes have been absorbed into the great liquid mystery.

Amazingly, when I look down from the plank path, there are only a few people here on this plot of sand. I am urged to hunt out the perfect spot for my morning, and perhaps afternoon, editing adventure. I find a nice little shady nook and set up my place, nestling my Mexican Mocha and water into the sand, extracting my proof copy, pen and notepad.

I lean into the nook’s sandy dune wall and look out to the sea. I take a deep breath in. Ahh. This scent, this view holds so much. As mentioned, it literally holds my mother, as well as memories of sitting on this white shore with my now dead boyfriend. It feels incredibly ironic and meaningful to be heading back into that story as I sit here on this same beach.

This coast. Beauty, interlaced with decades-old grief. Refreshing coolness, mixed with the dread of whether my book will be too horrid to put out. Or rather, whether the experience of others reading it will be. I face these fears every time I pick it up.

Not today. Today I commit to walk past those fears and to dive in. I begin.

Over the course of the next few hours, I am totally sucked into the story. I am laughing, I am crying. I am proud, I am nervous. I can’t believe I wrote this. The formatting looks more beauteous than it did a few days ago, and the story reaches me more emotionally than it has in a while. The pages seem to glisten, sparkle. I wonder if it is the Mexican Mocha, the level of caffeine running through my veins. It’s possible, yet I feel it may be more related to what has happened inside of me in my readiness to be seen as an author. To be able to stand in my story and share it with the world.

I hold this book in my hands and feel so grateful. I close my eyes and let the waves comfort, and remind me. I feel the sea breeze whisking across my shoulders, and wonder if my ancestors are here with me, supporting me, pointing me. I rise and make my way down to the lapping waves, letting them cool me. I lean against a crystal embedded tan boulder and look at the equally crystalline waters at my feet. I sink into memories, these memories, of mother and death and love and struggle. I cry again.

I look up and through the rocks in the near distance there is a family of Sealions basking in the unusually warm rays of the sun. One of them lifts its head up and peers at me. Again, I feel as if the more than human world is speaking to me, supporting me, seeing me, getting ready to finally do this.

I nod at the furry creature, he (?) seems to feel satisfied and lies his head back down. I turn from the sea and find my way back to my nook to carry on with the task at hand. I am filled with determination and confidence. I feel more ready than ever to move forward for whatever strange reason. I lean back against the dune wall and tip the edge of my sunhat to shield the now blaring sun. I take in another deep breath and dive back into the final pages of what will soon become.

Almost, Almost There

Well folks, Food Memories arrived in the mail on Thursday.

I waited another few days to open it.

I was nervous. Nervous it would be ready, nervous it would not.

I finally decided to open it, and lifted it from the envelope to rest on my lap.

Thicker this time, from the formatting and added content, it was heavy, solid. Of that I am proud…I have written a real, materialized thing.

But that satisfaction was quickly distracted by the image, the cover image–the one I am using to sum up the story of my life. Staring at this image, it was pixilated, grainy. I felt my heart sink, and the inner voice of “Here we go again, another round…”

I could leave it be, call it “rebellious art.” I really do just want to be over with it! But there is something else inside of me that wants to push through and make it look exactly as I envision. It is not good enough for me to release to the world yet. I am good enough, that is not the issue here. It is a quality of creation I want to accomplish, and try as I may, I do not have the tech skills to pull it off on my own. Believe me I’ve tried. Researched and fumbled, but could not shift this image to clarity.

It is oddly ironic, how fuzzy I still feel about my identity on this planet, and the struggles I am having in making my cover image read clear. The level of frustration and anger I felt at not being able to accomplish this graphic imagery feat also feels directly related.

Anyhoo…now I am with that. Needing to ask for help, again, to do a cover overhaul. Needing to delay this process for a few more weeks…Harumph.

And that’s just how it looked on the outside. I peeled open the fresh pages to reveal to myself the Inside, and the formatting is pretty. The layout I am satisfied with. There are a few typos only a print proof could reveal, so it’s another on the list of what I need to get outside help for to fix as my formatter has my manuscript held captive in her InDesign program. Another place I feel I wish I didn’t need someone else but reality bites with my level of tech. Someday I hope that to not be true!

Flipping quickly through the book made me wonder if I dare actually read the entire book again to see if there are more typos and edits I want to do. Overwhelm and frustration whacked me as I thought about this. A part of me wanted to say “f*ck it!” and hit the publishing button. So DONE with this. But that other part, that determined part, is somehow stronger. It urged me to put the book down, to close the computer, and take a few days off of thinking about it…but to definitely go through it one more time. To definitely ask for help with the cover. Harumph!

So now I am with all of that. And I will side with this part that wants to persist…at least for one more print run. But if all doesn’t work out, I might just say “f*ck it!” and let the “rebellious imperfect art” thing a try.

Feeling all the feelings, and grateful for all I have at the same time. What a weird tension of opposites to hold, especially during these times.

Wish me luck :}

Cover Draft Reveal…Food Memories!

Well folks, it’s almost time. My memoir, Food Memories, is about to be published. Yikes!

I finished the final formatting and updated the cover (this image is of the first draft, had to work on the drawing’s roughness) and have requested a proof copy. If it looks groovy I will be moving forward with publication. Soon.

I will say yikes again, I am terrified! I am a very private person and this revealing is crazy. Writing this blog has been great practice, thanks friends :}

But I am also very ready. It’s been over 4 years now (at least in the actual writing of it), this process simmering and writhing and pushing to emerge from me. I am glad to see myself seeing this through.

I have many hopes for this book, and what its publication may unleash…and yet I am trying to not be too attached as it is my first. Trying is the key word, how does one not have some expectations for something that’s been sweated and cried over for years? Trying.

The whole marketing thing zaps my brain into freeze mode, so we’ll see how that goes. For now, all I can say is look at my cover :}

Primal Fear

TW: I by all means do not mean to disrespect the Black Lives Matter situation with this entry. It comes from a recent personal experience and I acknowledge the layers of complexity and privilege with what is happening.

I am sitting in the car. It is just past midnight.

The crinkling of the wrapper crunches in my palm

As I gobble down the night’s protein bar snack.

I look up to see a white car passing slowly by.

It suddenly swoops into a parking space several cars ahead.

I think nothing of it.

A few moments later I sense the air thicken.

A primal fear swells in the space

As a black man walks down the sidewalk

Towards my car.

I try to squash this fear,

Rejecting any sort of possible racism I may be feeling about

The danger

Of black men in the night.

I have black friends

And I stand with people of color

And I hate that there is this fear, rising.

But the feeling is real and I taste it,

Along with the chocolate and grainy bits of protein crumbles in my mouth.

In seconds the passenger door rips open

And the scent of cool air and wet pavement whooshes in.

My heart is pounding in my chest

As the black man…kid…reaches over

To try to wrestle my car keys from my hand.

I scream, “What the fuck are you doing??”

The words stream effortlessly from my mouth.

I feel his own young primal fear body thicken as if surprised.

As if it is the first time he has done this.

The smell of mother’s cigarette-smoked car fabric

And electric pheromones

hangs in the air between us

As our initiation begins

Hospital Gown

Today, on my walk

I saw cast aside

A hospital gown.

A few hundred feet forward

A bleached white hospital blanket

Was lying in the road, as if a cast off shell

Of someone ready to leave their horrible experience behind.

It sometimes brings me shame to say

That I am not that person

And that I’ve found reasons, many reasons

To be in hospitals.

To have to be in hospitals.

After all, it’s crazy to actually want to be in one

So I’ve always found ways to make it necessary

When the yearning arises.

Granted, it’s been a long time since that yearning

Appeared

One might say I am in “full recovery” from needing

Wanting

Yearning

Finding a way

To be in hospitals

To need to be in a hospital

To get to wear that gown

To have to be wrapped in that blanket

To feel safe and warm and like

I can’t kill me.

Funny what a walk will do

Those memories

Food Memories Update

As I sit here today, I realize this blog has become a mish-mash of sorts: updates on my memoir publication process, random spur-of-the-moment rants about my relationship with food and body, and an occasional burst of poetry.

My original intention for this space was to recount my adventures with trying to eat more joyfully despite the physical pain and discomfort of it all, and while I have done that to a degree, this blog has seemed to take a few turns from that place. So hats off to those of you who are still with me on this twisting theme roller coaster :}

Today I am pulled to give an update on the progress, albeit slow, of my upcoming memoir, Food Memories. Thanks also to those who have stuck through this with me as I wriggle my way through this process.

There isn’t a whole lot to say aside from the fact that I am closing in on the final touches of the last edit, have a cover/format assistant helping with its appearance…and am really close to hitting the upload/publish button (gulp). I still think it is a totally crazy thing to be doing this, but I am doing it anyway. I still tremble in my boots in thinking that the private thoughts, memories and revealing nature of my book will be out available for public viewing. For public commenting, kind or nasty.

And I still also fear that nothing will happen after I release it. Silence, grasshoppers, nada, nilch. That all of the years and money and fear and hesitation will have been for “nothing.” That is one voice in my head, of course. I know that the “process is the journey,” and I’ve learned so much from it. Yet there is a part that still really wants this book to have a powerful meaning and effect on its readers. This part wants to experience validation and proof that my urge to write and share this sensitive information, to splay myself out naked in front of the world, had some reasoning behind it.

Yet there is a part of me that is bracing, and accepting the possibility of only the chorus of crickets. And for that to be okay. For the fact that I had a powerful urge to create and share this thing, before I die, and that I did it. I’m really feeling more and more okay with that being it if it turns out to be true.

The ironic thing here is that I am not feeling pulled to do any marketing on the book, other than here, to get more people to view it! It is terrifying enough to have it available for public viewing, let alone me actively parading it around trying to get people to read it. I simply am trusting that it will find who it needs to find in the river, and if there is any kind of need for interaction that comes of that slow burning fireball lobbed into the universe, I am available. But purposely putting effort into getting thousands of people to read it? Sheesh no!

I have to laugh at my complicity in my own possible authorship demise, lol, but it’s true. And I am sticking to it unless some other opportunity reveals itself.

So. The update:

~Final edit, check.

~Cover and formatting, almost check.

~Boots quaking, definitely check.

~Acceptance and (mostly) non-attachment to outcome, check, check and check.

Thanks again for following my loopy process :} When I hit that publishing button, you’ll be the first (and probably only!) to know.

Longing

I saw you today

Just a hint

Your primal wispy coat

Flashing

Grace and portal

Into something deeper

This longing

Rests rooted, buried

Far within

Although skilled in denial

Now

Hollow grief fills me

Memories

Searching, your absence

Now

I admit my longing

Seeking connection

To merge with you, The Larger

I long I long

For so long I’ve longed

And when I see you

I want to enter your skin