Happy New Year!

Happy New Year everybody! May we continue to bring healing, creativity, laughter, increasing awareness and shifting consciousness in the new year. May we overcome the most difficult of challenges for ourselves, our communities and for humanity at large. May we have the courage to be our most soulful, authentic, and deepest selves and find a continuing and expanding support we need in our local and global communities to do so. Blessed Be.

Full Body Milkyway High, the Ley Lines of Our Collective Anatomy, and Sloughing Off Spiritual Lochia

A good book makes you pause and think along the way about interesting concepts or your fundamental beliefs, but a great book has you held captive, internalizing every bit of the journey, conscious of both your own journey and the journey of the narrator and living in the space where the two intersect. Squirming, weeping, gutted, and scraping yourself off your butt with a spatula, only to take your book with you to the bathroom, to pee, like a new mother does with her just born infant glued to her breast. Wiping lochia from your raw, stitched, bleeding vagina, hovering with a wadded up tissue by achy quivering muscles over a salty stinging sitz bath, spasming painfully, half numb from frozen menstrual pads, wondering how your life could possibly carry on the way it had before, the previous day, the way it had in the previous years since your own emergence onto the planet.

I had to put Wild by Cheryl Strayed down at page 169. I have a child who needs my attention and my own writing to do, but I will finish it before the other six books on my nightstand.

From Dogtown to Helltown and not a decade too soon...
Took a walk with my dear family on the beach and realized I am in fact a beach person. I have had this realization again and again in my adult life, but it never ceases to surprise me. Growing up on in a one bedroom apartment on one of the busiest, dirtiest, most congested streets in America, I feared going outside. It meant contending with sarcastic hoots and hollers from teenagers peeling in uproarious laughter, sneers from men who liked little girls, and confusing conversations with lost foreigners seeking directions to destinations all across town. When I was my son's age I had a lemonade stand out front and someone hurled a large Gulpie at my head from a car while the traffic backed up in front of me. I couldn't see whose deep adult voices laughed joyously through my tears. When I forgot to lock the front door, strangers would walk in asking to use the bathroom or the phone. People would leave their Slurpies and hamburger wrappers on our front step. Over the years we called it our front porch, first in earnest wishfulness, grateful to have found a place to live after years of couch surfing, squatting and house sitting. Later we called in our stoop in irony until the irony faded and it was a porch to us again, even though it was just a concrete slab.

Our step was public landscape, like a curbside or a park bench on which to sit and put on shoes, to scrape dog shit off on, on which to lace up inline skates. We were there to serve the needs of beach-goers, to bribe parking spots from, to entertain, to steal planters, geodes, and garden ornaments from. At night men would yell at their girlfriends and call them whores as they argued out front. Occasionally, there were gunshots at night, sometimes I was home alone glued to infomercials like a lifeline to the outside world. Often coworkers would pass by sloshed and someone would vomit in front of our kitchen on my mom's desert rose in the middle of her succulent garden. By day, sandy families in soaking clothes wrapped in equally drenched towels with diarrhea dogs in tow, would drag their empty coolers and boogie boards, propping them up against my front door while they loaded their cars and left piles of trash in the sand all across our beach in their wake. In the 80s you couldn't walk three feet without stepping on tar, a syringe, a used condom or a cigarette butt, usually all four.

On Venice Beach, I scurried down the boardwalk like a scared mouse on quads, darting around the manic tourists stuffing melting slices of Ray's pizza in their mouths as they gaffawed at homeless pirates pushing crafts and street performers escalating willing crowds' applause with shrill crescendos or base hip hop beats. Vying for pocket change and cash money in swaggering jumpsuits, naked in chains, or dressed like a Gandhi ninja walking in a James Brown like ecstasy over glass. The smell of perfumes, churros, nag champa, and overflowing dumpsters filling the air and mingling with cheap orange chicken kabobs or Italian sausages drowning in watered-down relish splatting on the hot bubble gum and firework stained asphalt street below.

Venice Beach was in its afterglow, with its noisy steroid-induced hubris. The chaos of oily Blue Blockers-clad, banana-sunblock-smothered tourists sweating through their headbands and leg warmers in slow motion gaping at hanging T-shirts with Bart Simpson catch phrases and swarmed by MC-Hammer-pants wearing Alladin Jedis on skateboards. Crisscrossing through stoned window shoppers irately yelling nonsensical tirades strung together by expletives.

By my 20s the beach was cleaner and I came to meditate there, soaking up the beauty of an empty beach in the middle of the night. Now, even living a mile from the beach might as well be a landlocked mountain range to my mermaid soul. If it weren't for my connection to the ocean, the constant presence of constellations and the moon's rise and fall, I might never found the angels or been initiated to this work. The sumptuous fluidity of the undulation like a belly dancer's abdomen, the evocations of heaving rip tides like mini Bermuda Triangles, the crashing of waves like shamanic exorcism, all coexisting in an elaborate rhythmic dance.

Sometimes, all it takes to heal the body or spirit is immersing your self in the moonbeams or the darkness, the churning ocean waves, the inimitable sands. The vast wisdom and oneness of the universe permeates the pebbles, imbues the air with a holiness that is deeply enlivening and fortifying to the soul. The earth is truly our mother. This becomes obvious when you lay face down, half-orphaned, half-broken, on the naked earth. She holds you, siphoning away sorrow, cradling you to her bosom. Three deep breaths of her ionizing sea air and one primal moan into her stony sand, may lead to a sedated state of bliss. Ten minutes buried in the sand, or floating on your back gazing at the tapestry of heaven may be all you need to remove suffocating ropes of despair or a gnarly web of sticky disenchantment from around your sacred human vessel.

Tomorrow night I do my monthly deejay spot on Ptown's Outermost Radio. I plan to venture into more pop diva territory. May even go experimental Puddles Pity Party on your ass. So tune in to 92.1 WOMR-fm in Ptown, 91.3 WFMR-fm in Orleans or streaming at womr.org from your electronic device. We have now partnered up with Radio Free America, so you will be able to hear my Pandora's Jukebox shows at anytime pretty soon. Watch out, it's a creeper.

Adopting the Chanukah Fish and Loving Grandma Chicken

Around here, we celebrate Chanukah, Winter Solstice, Saturnalia, and Christmas in the ritual bath houses, oracle caves, and underground grottos of the ancient temples of Cape Cod. If you celebrate holy days from all world traditions, then there is always something to celebrate, and most often the holidays are interconnected and related to earth seasons and astrological events. The global cultures of our brothers and sisters on this planet each have unique flavor, stories and art. Just as each region has beauty in its flora, fauna, geography and people. Celebrate what you want, and celebrate in love.

In between my channelings and writing our family has been honoring the holy days. We've been baking cookies, singing carols and playing Christmas tunes on our new 'electric piano', and frying latkes. I organized the bathrooms, bookshelf in my son's room, and set up the fish tank. Bought my son a Chanukah fish, which pleased him so much, he is over the moon for his armored Plecostomus. Managed to make a bunch of jewelry (some manly works among them) and I fixed a bunch of my old jewelry. I have weird necklace karma, because I always manage to break necklaces immediately regardless of what materials I use, twine, string, metal, hemp, and a plethora of latches. This always leads me to the conclusion that I must have been beheaded in a past life, because what else could it be? Couldn't possibly be my lack of grace or finesse. It's the obvious conclusion, right?

I like to bake and stuff chicken at Christmas time, because it reminds me of my Polish grandmother. She didn't bake chicken herself, but she always felt like one. She was more of a Campbell soup casserole and Jello mold queen. She liked when I slept over, because I would sleep next to her under her electric blanket and give her a back rub. First, she would take off her wig, and what remained was a tiny bird's nest of sweaty brown hair. She would wash off her painted on eyebrows and take off her weighty beige bra, revealing hanging mounds underneath her translucent blue nightgown. She'd lift up her nighty, exposing her ice cold gooseflesh which I'd rub down down liberally with Tiger Balm. Don't rub too hard or the skin might detach! Every time I got the feeling you get seeing a drag performer for the first time, shock and awe. Maybe even fear, of this stranger, like a troll who has unmasked her disguise.

In the morning we'd eat devilishly grown cataloupe and cottage cheese tasting of pesticides. I didn't like egg beaters. Before dawn she'd be watching the news and I'd be trying to figure out how to distract her or myself. At some point tennis would be on endlessly while she tried to teach me to knit, impatient and badmouthing the 'fairies' of pro tennis, or the Winter Olympics. When I showed no aptitude for knitting, she'd drill me about having a boyfriend. It seemed like some sort of punishment for not meeting her expectations. She was worried about me having so many boy friends, when I should be stealing kisses on the playground.

At some point the pinochle deck featuring burlesque dancers would come out. She'd shuffle, waxing nostalgic about her Bowling Championship days, and she'd show me old photos of my grandpa's Egyptian girlfriend from WWII. "The love of his life." My family was no stranger to guilt. She'd ask me to do my Elvis impersonation and I'd sing Blue Suede Shoes with gusto or a rousing rendition of Hound Dog with pelvic gyrations, winding up my shaky right leg with as much machismo as I could put on for an eight or ten year-old-year girl. Afterwards my inner tomboy-ishness felt validated, and she didn't seem to care that I didn't want to act like a lady: fold clothes, knit, sew, and make beds with a pedantic perfectionism. I'd play catch with my grandad before minding the rotisserie chicken out in his succulent garden surrounded by statues of St. Francis. It was my favorite part of any Blue Christmas, because it genuinely made her happy. It even thrilled her.

Hero didn't take me up on rubbing the chicken down for some reason. Not even when I called it greatgrandma and danced with it, singing to it in a rockabilly hiccup. I always save the last dance for grandma.

Rest in peace Sweet Adeline.

Goddess of the Violin: Onyay Pheori on Healing Wisdom

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program for a very important news bulletin. Goddess of the stage, Onyay Pheori will be on a musical addition of Healing Wisdom on Cape Cod's Outermost Radio tomorrow Thursday at 6am PST/9am EST streaming at http://womr.org

Violinist, lyricist and singer Onyay Pheori discusses her latest albums, her new found fame in South Korea, her adventures with the Earth Harp Collective, and more. Fun show! Lots of TMI. Listen in with your morning breakfast.

92.1 WOMR-fm Provincetown, 91.3 WFMR-fm Orleans or streaming at http://womr.org Download the new app!

Z Budapest will be on my show come January 8th, so stay tuned for that. It's gonna rock!

Auntie Poltergeist and the Enchanted Stenographer

My birthday is Thursday and 33 happens to be my favorite number. I dont know where I go sometimes at night, but sometimes I wake up wondering whose life is this any way. It could be some mad-cow triggered early onset Alzheimers Fukushima radiative waste release related senior moment, but I would like to think it is a side effect of my line of work.

Readings have been going exceptionally well this week. The beloved departed seem to be getting feisty and riled up in celebration of the season. Mother Mary is leaping off of my altar, walls are shaking, people are using morse code tapping at my windows, birds are wildly cawing, little old ladies are making wise cracks from beyond the grave at my expense and my clients' relatives are stealing candles. I have so few remaining family members, and this orphanhood adds to the pleasure of meeting my clients aunts, friends of the family, grandparents, moms, dads, sisters and brothers.

Channeling messages for a new client is like getting adopted, doing a wellness check up and being hired to translate for a mediation to avoid going to trial all at the same time. It produces all of the joy of attending a wedding or a family reunion with out any of the drama. In no small part due to the influences of the season, I am feeling honored and overjoyed that this work continues to amaze me, blow me away really. If your heart hasnt wept with another, if you haven't put yourself in someone else's shoes, or allowed your departed loved ones in, you really havent delved into the season's true emotional center. It fascinates me that that the more open my clients the more crystal clear the material comes through for the readings. A person neednt be aware of their angels, only willing to face the deep underlying truths communicated by their guides and eager to explore the wisdom imparted and then boom...names, places, dates, and more importantly, revelations spring forth. Artsy people tend to have the most entertaining souls around them.

For my birthday my son got the weighted 88 key keyboard he has been waiting for. After his Christmas recital we made a duet of Lila Fletcher's The Birch Canoe, which I suspect is the basis of the song Mad World origionally by Tears for Fears. I have yet to learn any Chanukah song, but the Birch Canoe is sufficiently melancholy.

I try to avoid having my life flash before my eyes around my birthday, but resistence is futile and I need only surrender. Like an orgasm, every birthday is a little death. And rebirth.

Upcoming Guests on My Radio Show Healing Wisdom

Violinist, song writer and shamanic healer Onyay Pheori discussing her upcoming albums.

London stage actress Rachel Handshaw discussing her muses, Shakespeare, poetry and inspiration.

Dr. Rupert Sheldrake, biologist author discussing the interconnectedness of all things, new science and skepticism.

Feminist author and Dianic Wiccan Zsuzsanna Budapest, discussing her amazing autobiography about her fascinating life through political unrest, as an immigrant refugee. Her journey had her fleeing in the stealth of the night from occupied Hungary to Austria via swamplands, to studying improv at Second City in Chicago, acting in New York art films, and starting the women's spiritual movement in the 1960s, a subsequent witch trial and interview with Johnny Carson.

Dr. Seeta Narsai, Ayurvedic doctor discussing motherhood from a mind-body health perspective.

Boston-based Odissi-style belly dancer Kalidasi Burgess discusses this ancient temple dance from India and Hindu spirituality.

Tune in Thursday mornings at 9am EST/6am PST to hear Healing Wisdom live streaming at http://womr.org or if you live anywhere from Provincetown to New Bedford, you can find us at 92.1 WOMR-fm Ptown or 91.3 WFMR-fm Orleans

Dr. Robert M. Siegel on Childhood Obesity

Tomorrow on Healing Wisdom, is Dr. Robert M. Siegel, medical director of the Center for Better Health and Nutrition of the Heart Institute at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center and he’s joining us by phone. Dr. Siegel is a professor of Clinical Pediatrics at the University of Cincinnati. He earned his MD from New York University. He was a general pediatrician for more than twenty years before joining the Heart Institute and was president of the Medical Staff at Cincinnati Children’s from 2008 to 2010. Dr. Siegel’s research interests include dietary and physical activity interventions in obese children. Tune in to 92.1 WOMR-fm, 91.3 WFMR-fm or http://womr.org at 9am est.

2,400 Acres of Tribal Land Set to be Usurped

Indian Givers! When does it stop? When there is not a single spot of land for the native people of this country? This is not 'uninhabited' conservation lands where only plants and animals and their ecosystems are being disrupted and destroyed, which would be horrible enough. With European settlers' history of creating genocide on the original people of this country, hunting their food sources, battling them until they moved to nearly inhospitable regions further West, and then demanding by death or imprisonment that they pick up their cities and move again, how can this THIS be happening? Whatever happened to the vision of folks like John Muir?

As part of the NDAA, the House passed a bill which steals 2,400 acres of Apache Native American lands and hands it over to a foreign mining company to exploit and destroy. This means that access to all of the traditions and cultural teachings associated with the last vestiges of lands which facilitate the communication of sacred knowledge and teaching of cultural wisdom and identification is being robbed out from under our collective feet. These are our brothers and sisters. This means that the space native people were given to live, practice their ceremonies, have access to medicinal plants, and create community is being robbed from them in the name of national security. Since when did inhibiting religious freedom and creating cultural genocide become part of a defense budget plan? I guess that is a strategy that has been oft employed.

Mother Earth and the Death Culture

The difference between Mars and Venus is that war-like Mars energy promotes conquering, competition, and death, and love-promoting Venus energy promises unification, community, and life. Why do so many people feel betrayed by religion? Why does it fall so short of our expectations for so many of us? We can try to extract the aspects of it that reflect the cultural misogyny, racism, classicism, xenophobia, and other political agendas that clouded the spirituality at the roots of organized religion. Once we make a concerted effort to sterilize old doctrines, viewing them through politically correct rose-colored glasses based on our modern conventional wisdom, what we have left looks very much like the tenants and customs of the old earth-centered religions which centered on creating balance and harmony between plants, animals, people and our planet. When we extract the patriarchal and misogynistic constructions and ideologies of monotheism, purging them of futile exercises in condemnation of our basic humanity, we are less left at odds with our nature, less at odds with one another and more compassionate to the world around us upon which we are dependent.

What is religion in the tradition of monotheism? It is the rituals and belief in purifying oneself and absolving oneself of intrinsic deficiencies and acquired sin to be accepted by God in the afterlife. It is preparing oneself for death and life ever-after. The path of the earliest earth-based religions celebrate the cycles of life, preserving the perfection, wholeness and integrity of original self, the global community and the earth. It is preparing oneself for life and living in love. The fear of death and loss of safety makes the status quo desirable, whereas the courage to embrace life and its unknowns requires people take chances and make ongoing changes. When fear is replaced by courage, doubt is replaced by faith, repression is replaced by expression, avoidance is replaced by exploration, competition is replaced by community, free will replaces blind obedience, and a knee-jerk inherited value-system locked into shame, guilt, regret and self-hatred is replaced by beliefs based on authentic experience, kindness, love and creativity thrives.

There is nothing wrong with single parent families, but there is something innately destructive to societal structures that do not honor the feminine as holy and divine, as equal with the masculine. There is something critically fatalistic and futile in a religion that excludes the Mother Creator figure, and renders the only important mother as mere vessels of God's seed, Mother Mary. Is it any wonder Father God is so pissed off and angry all the time slinging around eternal damnation like a cowboy in the Wild West shooting his pistol on the dry chaparral of immortality with no wife to keep him company. All alone and unmatched on his omnipotent mountain in his wrathful and eternal perfection.

Incredibly Distasteful News Brief

Cracking the Pandora Myth: How Women's Pussies Got Blamed for the Downfall of Mankind Which Actually Led to It. Working title ;) Picked up major steam in some fabulous revelations for my book this week.

Fracking for The Cure on Planet Pandora...In National News: Scientists for Surgical Hair Removal have linked depression, low self-esteem & the inability to get a date with pubic hair. For The Cure: Feminists for Cosmetic Liposuction teamed up with Pink Drill Bits for Fracking to create pink EstroBits, SoyGrrrl donuts for moms on the go. 10% of profits from every greasy, artificially-flavored, hormone-disrupting donut wrapped in a leeching BPA-lined plastic baggy, goes to fighting breast cancer.

Our new Pope is so amazinglicious, that he's recommending Christians stop condemning other religions, insisting that there are more commonalities between them, than dogma that separates them. In a bid to win favor with circumcision advocates of the Christian faith, he's endorsing a rabbinical mouthwash for Priests. Brit MilahFresh, in new MetzitzahMint and Maztzoball flavors, from Low Hanging Fruit: Kosher Sauces, Medical Supplies and Environmental Impact Studies for all Occassions. "Choose Brit MilahFresh: Because boys aren't fully clean until their Metzitzah fully clean!" A recent surge in Low Hanging Fruit stock may be due to the increased market for sauces in drier climates, old fashioned circumcisions, and studies on the potential uranium impact on countries who have stuff we want, bad. The incredible claim that Brit MilahFresh mouthwash leaves your tongue and salivary glands Clean as a Whistle and Soft As a Baby's Behind has yet to be undeniably refuted by peer reviewed scientific studies.

Community Spirit Award Day was turned into a massive teleconference due to carcinogenic vog. An award for most creative high environmental impact aerobics class went to Old People With No Blood Relations for their ingenious use of gas leaf blowers in public places. Uncle Sam was quoted in the Status Quo as saying, "It is an amazing how when you stop giving a shit about the future, your whole world opens up and the possibilities are endless." Until that cavernous hole swallows everyone and everything up.

More Sunshine on a Chilly Late Autumn Day

These are from my photoshoot with Susannah. She chose Sunne, the German Goddess of the Sun, as her character.

A Night at the Sea Tangled in Unruly Hair That Might as Well Be Rope

It doesn't take an alien abduction to lose time. It doesn't take a mushroom to solve a burning mystery.

The rough lapping sea on a chilly night, is syncopated with the quiet rowing of unseen fishermen. Though the air is clear, the heaviness of low-lying fog banking on shoulders of weeping tavern storytellers is palpable. Gasps and held back tears stifle breaths in the rib cage like snares that smother traffic on a busy city street linger like a mother's last words. Attempts to keep attic dolls smiling and perfect peaches in tight mason jars fail miserably as you stumble clumsy on up and down yesterday's stairs, kocking over dolls and jars like dominoes. There is no sense in munching aspirins with a sour stomach and intestines full of compounded mistakes, but drinking them down with water might give you time to think about dreams you chased away after asking for them. The silence cuts Matisse paper dolls out of museum walls. It suffocates the shy sly vulnerable volatility of the cranky prankster with pockets for ears.

The universe dosed some sleeping fawns with too much love for this endless game of cards in a study where reading the books lessens their Rayndian value. Rolling down honeymoon slippery slopes and falling off the cliffs of a Virgil paradise are a thing of the Victorian past.

Shimmying bows of light from a desolate pier break on heavy rocks and pound a hidden shore. Surrounded by skeleton trees bending blithely in the non-confrontational winds, forgiving the numbness of limited thinking in human shells. The arc of a ship awaits a return to the stellar dimensions of the cosmos. A star explodes to underscore a verbal epiphany shared by friends cool to their lava strength inspirations. Exhalations are lengthy and the brain tries to wade in shallow waters amongst centuries of old friends piecing together the stories of by-gone eras. Peace by piece.

It was a night of stage fright and ylang ylang, a sensual floral aroma that scours scenes from your timeless psyche in an attempt to clean the muck and restore the reflective sheen of cooking pots in your soul's kitchen. It was an evening of reverberating empathy between a woman who flies over the streets of horse-drawn-carriage-London and a woman who grew up being chased by a flying magician, with a top hat, cane and cape, through endless vineyards into the dawn. Vain attempts were made to save the family from this flying wizard with piercing blue eyes who spoke telepathically in this recurrent nightmare. "You know you cant save them, its only you I want. This is a dream, and you're not waking up, you're coming with me."

This is a night that facts, figures and scientific studies hold the secret to finding one's voice in the dark chamber of resistance. Rejoicing arm and arm, basking in the modernity about them, rainbow stickers on new cars, electric street lamps, their painted lips and love of the theater not making them vulnerable, as it had, not so many incarnations before. Suddenly, the faint superimposition of a narrower cobbled lane with taller buildings on either side looms over the two. Someone or something with heavy feet sinks into the sidewalk behind the heels of the startled ladies. It vibrates the body and triggers a vertigo falling into the past, descending from the comforting present into a historical moment. A sharp object seems to dig in through the base of the neck on the blond, followed by a blunt whack with another object, a squeezing possessive firm hold that feels like Satan's love, and a strong blow to the head. This is what remains in the spirit body, not the DNA. Every stolen nook and cranny of human safety sucked out of a human vessel like a vacuum-sealed envelope to a God who betrays good girls gone bad. Buttons and bits of brightly colored lace lay around a corner like a clawed scarlet macaw. Such birds belong in houses, in large cages. Not on the streets past midnight.

Imagine, will you for a moment? Taking a dip into ancient history, a night ghosts have long tired in reenacting. A fruitless search by Scotland Yard, revealed inconclusively multiple suspects. Multiple handwriting samples spark copycat theories, wannabe notions. But you know the truth. And perhaps more importantly, so does she. The inhuman eyes that slashed throats like veal on a butcher's block and sealed it with a hairy kiss. An entity carves black holes in the comprehension of historians for ages to come, and leaves tongueless question marks on shaking forsaken flesh, on twin Magdalenes in brightly colored bows. And the ghosts of these stage actresses will inhabit many places, before they find their homes again. Madness junkies, escape artists, trying to out run the flying magician who stole bodies and made them his temporary home. The blood thirsty thief of night with inhumane eyes, holding a torch for death culture only similar vampires could understand through the evocation of the hateful "god". Floating by the homes they once owned, these wonder if their return would be welcome.

A calligraphied tattoo on the scapula reads: Don't you dare remind me. If you burn fossil fuels with rage, they don't last as long as when you burn them with love.

For the empath who can transport herself into someone else's shoes and view through their eyes, it is sometimes hard to know if she is feeling herself or someone else. Am I the dreamer or the dream? Whose life is this anyway?

Dining in November & Mining Through the Archives

Nothing like cold weather to make standing over a hot stove enjoyable.

Perscription for a balanced, upbeat person whose environment is filled with cosmic scorpion power punches and bugs for typewriters:
1) Light a fire in a hearth or in a German beer mug.
2) Scry some Sylvia Plath, Lord Byron or Anne Sexton poetry.
3) Eat a food that wiggles and lather it in garlic and butter.
4) Retell your dreams over a martini or write them down in the deep dark of the night.
5) Let the midnight trees and starlight soothe you with mist, recognizing the hard work you do.

This is a self portrait from the netherworld of teen angst.

This is a drawing I drew in 1991 of the kid who sat next to me at the back of my fifth grade class.

And, this is a my teenage feminist response to the Cinderella Complex.

"Infantilism with Angela" Teen Nanny Art that lasted a lot longer than the job. Do not scribble notes for your manifesto/feminist zine, called, Funky Cunts' Guide to the Emotional Universe.

Nor should you read a booked called, Cunt, around children when you are a nanny. The ironic and herstory-based reclamation of the word and the importance of gender equality through radical rejection of gender stereotyping may be lost on your employers. Your explanation of the fact that Cunt was a word for chalice, used in priestess rituals in neolithic times in matrifocal cultures may only further build the perception that you are a creep. And you did attempt to smoke a cigarette around a child in your charge, so perhaps you are a creepy sixteen-year-old punk after all.

The Spunky Side of The Box

Step right up! Step right up!

Weighing in at 160 pounds of sheer musical muscle, DJ Boxtart is coming at you with 3 hours of intergalactic pleasure this Sunday from 9 to midnight streaming at womr.org. Prepare to be amazed by Pandora's Jukebox. Guest DJ Marisa will joining me in ring with a set, some live music, and we will be pondering some of life's great mysteries. Place your bets and Call us up to make a request, if you dare. The night will include pop, electroswing, Latin jazz, early blues, rock, world, and hip hop, baby. Our Ptown side show has it all.

Wanna Learn More About Edgar Cayce?

This Thursday at 9am EST on my radio program Healing Wisdom, Peter Woodbury discusses the life and work of famous channel medium Edgar Cayce and past-life regressions.

Peter Woodbury, has been a trainer at Edgar Cayce's Association for Research and Enlightenment for twenty years. He plays the famed Sleeping Prophet on stage. Mr. Woodbury is also a social worker in his own private practice. Peter Woodbury, MSW, received his undergraduate degree in psychology from Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts and his master’s degree in social work from Boston University. He trained in hypnotherapy and past-life regression techniques with Dr. Brian Weiss, Dr. Allen Chips, and Dan Brown, PhD.

The Electrical Impulses of the Planet

When you're a professional medium, it's refreshing to make discoveries without the help of the dead. I'm a big girl, I can make my own observations too. Like, bribing my kid to practice for his piano lessons with ipad time works. He is definitely under the spell of the sushi monster math app, he's completely possessed by Cut the Rope, and he has a deep soul connection with the xbox. Moreover, not all hockey moms make their crying infants go back into the rink and let their kids eat ice off their skates and demand that their potato bug faced minimes take after their beer guzzling DD lovin' dads. In fact, most of these not predominately sports attired families have been over the Sagamore Bridge at least a few times since birth.

I found out the one certified homebirth midwife who travels to Cape Cod is moving, so unless I plan for a immediate conception and premature labor then my dreams of multiplying here are sunk. I wonder what my OBGYN would think about my birth plan, or my Orgasmic Birth spreadsheet? "Week 34: exercise too much, make love too often, take too much caster oil, and go on really long hikes, pop my amniotic sack with a knitting needle and then have oral sex thereby increasing the likelihood of infection." Inducing labor naturally is basically just living the Los Angeles dream, except the needle is inserted through the vagina, not into the forearm. I often envisoned myself giving birth alone under a waterfall which means I am even more primitive than previously suspected. According to Bill Wallauer, Jane Goodall Institutes' leading chimpanzee researcher and videographer, in my recent interview with him for WOMR, in the wild birthing chimps seek solitude.

Viewing life through a shamanistic theosophical transcendental worldview is pretty soul-sating. The complexity of human consciousness in the afterlife, as well as the interplay of spiritual beings on earth makes the hypnotic trance of the boob tube less inviting than ever. Not that dont enjoy me some Portlandia or Nature program every now and then.

Chimpanzee Videographer Bill Wallauer on Healing Wisdom Thursday at 9am EST

Wanna know what scrambling through the hills of the Gombe National Park in Tanzania with a camera documenting chimpanzees is like?

My next guest Bill Wallauer did so for 22 years, documenting the daily dramas of their society. He recorded chimpanzee births, rain “dances” and even some vigilante justice. Hear about his life on the edge of a forest. Wallauer and renowned primatologist Jane Goodall met in 1989, while Wallauer was on assignment for the Peace Corps. Tune in to 92.1 WOMR in Ptown, 91.3 WFMR Orleans, or streaming at WOMR at 9am EST Thursday.

Autumnal Health on Healing Wisdom

My guest this week on Healing Wisdom on Cape Cod's Outermost Radio is 4th generation herbalist Anya Messina discussing Autumn and Winter Health, herbal baths, and kid wellness. She holds an advanced degree from the East West School of Planetary Herbology and has studied with Rosemary Gladstar. Tune in Thurs at 9am est on 92.1 womr Provincetown 91.3 wfmr Orleans or streaming at http://womr.org

Pandora's Jukebox Goes Back in Time

Me and my laptop got struck by lightning as I updated my last post. I figure either Thor doesnt like me waxing poetic about love diaries and French films or Morganna (Celtic war goddess) is a big proponent of violent video games. Hater. I always wanted God to reach out and touch me, I just didnt expect it to be so charged. Or, maybe that is just Thor's way of flirting. Like, hey baby, I got my eye on you. How do you flirt back with an ancient Norse God? And, what would I even get him for the holidays anyway? A wrought iron fence, an old oak tree, a lookout tower on top of a great mountain top? It poses a lot of serious questions. Ironically, guess who must use her ipad? Listen for my primitive all vinyl deejay spot tomorrow from 9 to midnight est.

IPad Withdrawal and Alternative Healing

My beloved Hero needed a day home from school, because he has Sun in Cancer. It's been a very moony week for him. He was having "severe stomach cramps" this morning and I think its related to iPad withdrawal as much as needing to poo poo and possibly a side effect of the wonky California rolls we ate from Trader Joes after shoe shopping. We took away his iPad privileges yesterday morning when he socked me wild-eyed and threatening after I told him the device couldn't come with us on his ride to school. All the way there he threw a kicking-and-screaming tantrum. Suddenly, like lightning it finally hit me...lo and behold, the Ipad games he was playing (the innocent ones where happy smiling cows innocuously squish pigs and gofers into red fairy dust death clouds) made him aggressive, sullen and less than life-affirming all back-to-back in a cascade of intense emotion. This morning I think he was bio-chemically dependent on his iPad fix*, and quite literally today was experiencing some sort of withdrawal stress. His Indian doctor couldn't find anything physically indicative of any illness. So, we drank tulsi tea and came back to Mother Earth.

I took the day off and we took turns reading about fairies, drawing new herb cards and adding new parts to our favorite board game "Wildcraft", he added alternative cooperation cards and created a skeleton board game. I took out some of my childhood (and young adult) artwork, and showed him some of my early sketches. (I'd wanted to show him the flower fairies I used to draw.) We sharpened and organized an ever-dwindling and growing array of Prisma color pencils, snuggled a lot, napped, baked chocolate chunk pumpkin cookies. After which he followed every request I had for him to assist me in cleaning up, with no protests whatsoever. Laying in the dark and snuggling he asked me questions about death and he pondered reincarnation, and we talked at length about the life cycle and where we may be in 500 years before he fell asleep peacefully.

Here's some stuff I did in junior high.

Year Book Cover Thumb Nail...

Queen of Hearts at the Bar...

Probably snacking on something like this...

Sherwood's Daughter, Kismet, and Channel Mediums

When we were wee lil' towheads in diapers and yellow slickers, my first friend borrowed my Thriller album. I remember because somewhere there is a photo of us. Me with the album, and Liera hitting her plastic military drum with batons. Our moms had written lengthy letters to each other by beeswax candlelight about metaphysical ideas, lucid dreams, astrological events and lovers while my friend's mom was living in a tiny unheated apartment in France, subsisting off croissants and herbal teas. Our mothers met as teenagers when they were original members of the Mythopoeic Society, a group of young fans of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, who wrote plays and acted out scenes from the works of the Inklings, long before Sherwood (my mom's friend) became a fantasy author. My baby friend, Sherwood's daughter, Liera, had the prettiest name I'd ever heard and it stuck with me over the years.

Fast forward to high school. At an arts-focused boarding school, my pals and I got to talking about baby names, because what else do Renaissance-garland-crafting, vintage-dress-wearing girls who sew with floss and drink whiskey from flasks do, when they are not reading Victorian literature? I told her I wanted to name my first baby girl Liera (her middle name unknown to me). And after some debate about the uniqueness of her name, coined by her literary mother, we realized kismet had brought us together again. She started telling me tales about my Appalachian mammau, her uncanny psychic ability and her Cherokee blood. She waxed poetic about my mammau's love of Edgar Cayce and channel mediums like Seth Speaks' author Jane Roberts. It wasn't until several years later that I read anything by either of them, but at that point I learned that it was my grandmother who introduced my mom to channel mediums and their far out ideas. It kind of blew my mind, even though I'd heard of some of her mystical experiences, because God bless her soul, she was quite a hillbilly.

On November 20th my interview with Peter Woodbury, of Edgar Cayce's Association for Research and Enlightenment, will be speaking me about the life and work of Edgar Cayce. Mr. Woodbury received his undergraduate degree in psychology from Harvard University and his master’s degree in social work from Boston University. He trained in hypnotherapy and past-life regression techniques with Dr. Brian Weiss, Dr. Allen Chips, and Dan Brown, PhD. Peter is in private practice as a psycho-therapist and hypnotherapist in Virginia Beach, with a focus on the use of spirituality and faith as tools for personal transformation and liberation. He is Edgar Cayce presenter, global tour guide, and aregular contributor to A.R.E.’s member magazine Venture Inward and somehow finds time to play Edgar Cayce in the popular one-man show titled “An Evening with Edgar Cayce.” Listen for my upcoming shows Thursdays at 9am EST on 92.1 WOMR FM in Provincetown, 91.3 WFMR FM Orleans, and streaming globally at http://womr.org

Licensed Professional Counselor Wanda McCallum is on Healing Wisdom at 9am this Thursday on 92.1 WOMR-FM Provincetown, 91.3 WFMR-FM Orleans and streaming at http://womr.org discussing a very new technique called the Higher Brain Living(TM). It is said to be unique in that it allows you to experience multiple brain waves at one time. It's effects on the brain are compared by its creator Dr. Michael Cotton to the brain activity of monks who have been meditating for thirty years. Tune in at 9am on your womr.org app to see what all this Higher Brain Living(TM) is about.

Homemade Pumpkin Pie

My seven-year-old and I threw together this pie tonight. Raven and Hero were in heaven.

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Mix the below ingredients in a medium sized glass bowl. Stir in your wet ingredients into the dry ingredients bit by bit to create a smooth consistency. Knead the smooth dough into a ball. Grease your 9 inch in diameter pie pan with butter. Place the ball into the center and press your dough out until it covers the width of the pan including about 1 1/2 vertical inches. Bake 5 minutes on 350.

Crust Ingredients:
- 2/3 c. ground walnuts. (You can place them in a plastic sandwich bag and use a mallet to hit them if your coffee grinder doesn't work. Pounding things with a hammer helps relieve tension.)
- 1 1/2 c. rice flour or blend of rice flour, tapioca and potato starch flour. (Trader Joe's now sells this gluten-free flour)
- 1 tsp. cinnamon
- 1/4 tsp of clove
- 2 tbsp. coconut oil (room temperature is ideally soft)
- 3 tbsp. water
- 2 tbsp. maple syrup

In a large pan, cook your cubed pumpkin on medium heat in the coconut milk. Cover with a lid until the pieces soften. Add the sugar. Simmer. Mash everything together, stirring everything together so that your pieces become mushy puree. Remove from heat. Mix in butter, maple syrup, vanilla, spices, and finally 3 whisked eggs. Pour pumpkin puree into your crust. Bake on 350 for approximately 45 minutes. After about 30 minutes sprinkle coconut sugar on top for a crunchy topping.


Filling Ingredients:
- 4 c. cubed Sugar Pumpkin
- 1 c. granulated coconut sugar
- 3 large eggs
- 1 1/2 c. coconut milk
- 2 tsp. vanilla extract
- 4 tbsp. butter
- 1 tsp. pumpkin spice
- 2 tsp. cinnamon
- 1 tsp. clove
- 1/2 tsp. ginger
- 1 tbsp. maple syrup


And if you're feeling extra motivated, throw together some bananas, eggs, and cornstarch (plus maybe a few other items) and make something like this. Tonight is my first time using coconut sugar, and it's delicious. The brown color is very appropriate for autumnal baked goods.

VRBFarmers - Roomy Lakeside Chicken Coop Comes Furnished with Insomniac Cats and Contraband Reptiles

Amazing Columbus Day Weekend. I wasn't lucky enough to get paid a lot of dough to discover a new route to old land, ignorantly insist I knew who the native inhabitants were, enslave some of them, steal their stuff and bring them home with me. But, there was some cultural confusion and I may have inadvertently made a few box turtles ill with my foreign microbiome, stowed away some dust mites on my irritated skin and forgot to get a $2 redemption on a glass bottle of fresh unpasteurized milk.

In the process of searching, finding and losing shelter, I packed and unpacked our bags several times over three days, nearly landing my son and I a few nights at a classy hotel in White River Junction, a heated barn on the southern tip of the White Mountains, and job at the co-op at the collegiate epicenter of agro-hipsters. After a couple of moon-tossled Mercury-dazzled nights, we finally set sail into a barn-dabbled, red maple-sparkled, orange-leaves-sprinkled vortex that spit us out in a tree heaven at the foot of a sign that read: "Creekside Cabin", with an arrow pointing south. After being nearly attacked by guard dogs, guard goats and guard chickens and trudging ankle-deep through a dangerous dungfield and touching an electrified fence, we were led to a screened platform covered in a hodgepodge of old doors leaning against a single paper-thin wall a few yards from Mosquito Rapids. No electricity, no kitchen, no outhouse, no fire pit...No problem.

But, there was one problem. A building needs walls, don't you think? I'm not a big fan of commercial logging, but houses need wood. While I may be a paper-waster, I can use more than my fair share of sycamore leaves TP or mullein napkins if the mood strikes me. I can eat dry cereal for breakfast, I'm no Polythene Pam. Huddling in a pile of familial bodies under paper-thin blankets with paint splotches and cat hair on a dusty sunken mattress, breathing in deeply and exhaling onto each others' faces to keep warm under musty polyblends, is lovely in a chilly cabin with a wood burning stove working hard to keep you pneumonia-free, but this is a chicken coop in October in the mountains and there's no heating or insulation of any kind! Give me a car, a yurt, or a tent and I can survive the night. Hell, give me a sukkah, a bottle of Manischewitz and three feverish bearded rabbis under a mess of camel-fur prayer shawls, and I'll make due...but don't turn my boy's tears into icicles. These runaway guests need to finish their staycation, STAT!

Terra Luna's Snow Bird

Our pal chef Tony Pasquale will be off to New Orleans chasing warmer weather pretty soon. But if you're on Cape Cod this week craving a "dip in your hip and a glide in your stride" try the Aphrodite absinthe, so-called for its hint of muira puama and damiana. Terra Luna will be waiting to enliven your senses and quicken your imagination.

In addition to finding nifty bartenders like the affable oil-painting, Collin McGuire, who has filled the restaurant with ambient rustic art, Tony is the voice of THE SQUID JIGGERS BLEND Wednesdays from 6 to 9am on 92.1 WOMR Provincetown, 91.3 WFMR Orleans and streaming at womr.org

Although you may not be scaling wrought iron fences barring the public from entering haunted manors up for sale lining Bourbon Street, you can kinda make believe you are with a hoodoo-licious Nawlins' Sazerac...

And, deejay/waitress Justine may even crank up the jukebox, filled with some Scungilli magic while you eat artichoke pate...if you are very lucky.

You don't have to be a strega, neopagan or even love squid for this little eatery to make a Lunatic of you.

The Domestic Goddess of Radishes

In the old country, eating radishes was a cure for everything. More from my day with my Austrian cousin...

Pespectives on the Mayan Calendar and the Global Mind

Here's my interview with esteemed toxicologist, environmental scientist and cancer researcher author Dr. Carl Johan Calleman. Podcast Here.

Dr. Calleman has a background as an accomplished cancer researcher and environmental scientist followed by a 20-year-long involvement with Mayan culture. The latter has included work to promote Mayan elder Don Alejandro Oxlaj, head of the council of elders in Guatemala. As a young scientist, he was mentored to a PhD in Physical Biology by a member of the Nobel committee in Stockholm, and later served as a Senior Researcher at the University of Washington in Seattle and a cancer expert for the World Health Organization.