How I manifested my husband breaking up with his girlfriend, and then a gas leak to get out of work.
I can see the future and apparently cause it, too.
I wanted my husband to break up with his girlfriend — while actively telling him no, no, don’t do that! — and then one day he came home from work and his shoulders were bowed at the edges and his eyelids rimmed a little pink. The dark bags under his eyes had swollen to little puffed paisley shapes. He suddenly looked much older than he was.
I broke up with…
My partner in his Arizona Cardinals sleep shirt, maroon and yellow. The Nike swoosh over his left nipple is gumming off. There is a small hole at the collar.
How do you want your eggs? The “s” at the end of his words gets lost into a “th” sound, and my heart flutters.
I take scrambled.
Good, cause scrambled is all I can cook.
His smile is a crack of white in his red beard.
He opens drawers and rustles pans and only cocks open one half of the stainless steel fridge to get the twenty-four pack of white, non-organic…
Do we need to spice up our sex life more, do you think?
He’s pumping slow, rhythmic.
He’s not close to coming yet. He’s been working on how to control it, when he cums.
It’s an esoteric, sex magick kind of thing. Magick with a “k.” He’s like that — super into how the mind and body work together, become one, become something he can manipulate in sync.
That’s why he meditates on a hard purple cushion in the corner of our guest room, his office, every morning. Even Sundays, when I’m still in bed, swiping through my phone.
how I live and thrive with ethical non-monogamy
Hi. My name is Paige. I am queer, I am a Millenial, and am polyamorous.
What does that mean? What is polyamory? Well, it is and it means lots of things. At its most basic, being polyamorous means I sustain multiple loving, intimate, romantic relationships at a time.
Below are the Top 5 Things you need to know about my Millenial, polyamorous life.
finding the time to sit and read
I am not doing well at sitting and just being right now. I seem to be popping from thing to thing, project to project. No time to commit to anything. No sense of accomplishment with my various projects scattered about my desk, my table, my two or three different houses, my mind.
So how do I find the time to just sit and read my decks for a little while? I have some very cool spreads I am interested in exploring further. I read a few chapters of this or that Tarot book…
drawing the Nine of Swords every day
Monday I drew the Ten of Swords.
My coworker said that meant I was simply working too hard.
A glance at my calendar and the thirteen check boxes to be filled, the four programs, the three separate cities, the 222 miles to drive: yes, I could see what she meant.
But the Nine of Swords? Paired with The Emperor?
A little harder for me to interpret. A little harder for me to share that I’d pulled it. Again. And again. And again.
It’s only Thursday. I’ve drawn the Nine of Swords and the…
after a week of Swords, now I wield Magic
I had a rough week last week. Everything I put hard work into, (everything!) crumbled. Just didn’t quite turn out right. How did this happen? How was everything I was trying to sow turn bitter, go black, fall apart?
Sometimes, that’s just how it goes.
What do we do?
We pick up and move on. That’s the nature of life, of strife, (which is all the Swords suit represent). It is, ultimately, ephemeral. The cards even say so. We might have to stretch our minds to conceive of the notion of…
my first dabbles in the art of divination
My husband laughs as I pull from the crinkled box a deck of Tarot cards. My first ones.
They arrived from across the world from two opposite directions on the same day (as I paced and wailed and checked out all the library books in anticipation). They felt so good in my hands.
I will tell you, though — I also felt a little silly. Standing at the counter: what do I do next? Do I riffle through them, look at each one, take each card out in turn before I try…
an excerpt from the notebook I filled
Write about leaving in the mornings and how fucking clunky all the bags you carry become as you put your hand in your pocket and must now find the keys.
Write about the look on the black cat’s face when the door closes on him. You tell him you’ll be back, but cats don’t use language like that.
Write about trying to the leave the apartment when you aren’t sure this fight is worth continuing, and even more write about how you aren’t sure you could win it.
Write about trying to walk…
we pretended to watch Iron Man in the back row of the local movie theater
I pretended to my mother that this boy was really someone else. How close those lines blur between pretending and lying. I was an actress, high school was my stage.
Tires marked the path home — black lines cutting through the white to the asphalt below. It is always blacker in Montana. The skies are bigger there — more places for you to get lost.
He knew the way back to my house, though the wrong turn was getting in the car to begin with…