Caricatures and Other Honest Exaggerations

Poetic Interpretations of Experience

By Heather Stargazer

Available in Paperback for $8.99 and Kindle E-Book for $2.99

Back Cover of Paperback-

“When I look at someone’s face, there’s something in my brain
that just clicks- that breaks down their face into elements that go
into a caricature. It might be like the way a chef tastes a dish and
can break it down into elements what went into it.”
-Steve Breen
“The problem became this: We became a caricature of ourselves.
We were after the light, and it began to look as if we were after
the heat, not to reveal some information or not to find out the

  • Mike Wallace
    “There is such cliché to certain roles that all I can do is try to make
    them realistic and work for the times, and so the audience won’t
    see me as a caricature of something, but rather as an actual
  • Kelly O’Hara
    “In other words, the people who populate my books are
    more than just caricatures.”
    -Jeffery Deaver

Thank you for checking it out!

Appreciate you and am grateful for your support.

May all the light you shine be reflected back to you!

The Prince Before The Adversary

The prince first before the adversary.

The witch before the who?

 The question of unknowing/

The means of pushing through.

The ram above the doorway.

The blood that spilt in veins.

The eternal never glowing.

The sheep, the wood, the claim.

I am not sacrificial.

Nor am I to eat.

I am meant for climbing mountains

and landing on my feet.

I do not wish to martyr

 at the roads unpaved but crossed.

I do not wish to wander.

My soul is never lost.

 I do not wish to reach you,

 or for you or for me.

I do not wish to teach you

for learning minds are free.

 I do not wish to love

what stole my piece of sleep.

 I do not wish to blanket

 the wreath of all my gorgeous grief.

 I wish to climb the narrow tress

 that leads always to out.

 To the light that stars sing

 when they’re trying not to shout.

I wish to feel the solidity of the waves

that float upon the sand.

I wish to bask in all the glory

 of trusting outstretched hands.

 I wish for you not to listen,

or speak or think, my dear,

the only wish I really wish,

 is loving without fear.

 Prince stood atop the mountain,

forgetting light’s not sound,

blocking all the beams

 so the waves just went around.

The shadows that were cast

were bright and thick and red.

The prince now the adversary,

the wicked which is dead.

by Heather Stargazer 2020 (lower case “c” with a circle around it) Tell pirates- ARR!

Alejandro Martinez- Geometric Transformable Models

Alejandro Martinez has spent over a decade exploring a whole new way of viewing geometric forms. Form, frequency, and function unite to transform these models into the constituents of the Universe. From the macro to the micro, all fields of study are encompassed in these forms. You’ve never seen a cube do this before!

Brew yourself a pot of coffee and join us in conversation.

This casual chat surely isn’t one to miss!

Thank you, Alejandro for your diligent work at taking a different approach to new tech that WILL positively impact the world and the future.

Because there is so much information to cover, the video has been loosely broken down into three parts-

Part 1. Introduction (00:00:00)

Part 2. Mechanics (01:44:00 ish)

Part 3. Philosophy (02:56:00 ish)

Alejandro is looking for a team of people from varying disciplines to help him further the research and development of the Geometric Transformable Models. If you would like to know how you can help explore the possibilities presented in these transformable models, you can contact him at the links below.

Para más información sobre Modelos Geométricos Transformables en Español-

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Thank you for your support by liking, sharing, and subscribing.

Help Yourself -(Devil Makes Three) UnPopular- A Series of Current Events

UnPopular- A Series of Current Events
A Collection of Digital and Mixed Media Collage Art By Heather Stargazer 2020
Music in this video Learn more Listen ad-free with YouTube Premium Song Help Yourself Artist The Devil Makes Three Album Do Wrong Right Licensed to YouTube by [Merlin] IDOL Distribution (on behalf of Kahn Records); AMRA, Kobalt Music Publishing, LatinAutor, and 6 Music Rights Societie

What Species of Different?

What species of different?

It’s not really that we want others to think differently. That’s not at all what we want. We want others to think in our particular variety of different so they’ll be different from what they were but the same as ourselves.

The whole premise is a collection of voices that speak out against the larger, louder collective voice. Smaller voices speaking out against the voices speaking out are unwelcome by both. That’s not the different we’re looking for.

My voice affects others. Your voice affects me. We are affective. But to what degree? In what direction?

Is my voice “come hither” to you? Are you shrill and grating to me? Did you hear what I said? Was I listening? Talking is not speaking when singing is off key. It’s all just noise then. No one wants to hear it.

My little voice comes charging through, A drop that makes big ripples. Being a wake isn’t a being  dropped. Being the surf isn’t being a float. Still, there is an integrity in the tension. There is a wave beneath the drain. Many drops ripple when a single wave moves in circles. This is the reason the pond grows. This is the expansion of the surface. This is where we go to break the tension.

My voice can carry across the water. Many voices can get drown out by the wind. It is the air and liquid that decide the conditions for transmission. Information will only go so far. The waves go further. Singing is favored by the wind. Speaking stops the air by pushing out. Talking forgets to breath. We suffocate our voices in case the small drop might move us. We lean into the surface as if it were solid. As if it could bear our weight. As if we could float in the ripples these tidings bring.

A stone can cause a similar ripple but sinks to the bottom and drowns. Now it is host to the foods fish suck off the bottom. Drops become the waves. Lost to the motions they’ve caused. Seeds can sail on wind and sea and are gentle enough to not ripple. They may make it ashore.

These voices we collect and assume will sing in tune are speechless when they hear what you have to say. The quiet that sat listening. The politeness mistaken for agreement. Oh, I forgot to say, my different is different from yours. My bubble is a drop that floats. I’m not responsible for a wave caused by my falling. Gravity never suited me well.

I don’t think we’re supposed to be a smooth surface. When the wind blows, our voices yell back at us. We can’t understand what they’re saying.  But we still keep talking. Different species of different sounding the same.

The Memery of the Ages

The memery. The questions of significance. What these pictures tell us. What do they sell?

I am surprised at the newness of the concept to people who claim to be read. Pictorial story telling is common throughout history. It is on the walls of caves.

The conversation was of the Great Tartarian Empire. The civilization lost to a flood of mud. A place well documented but yet denied.

We drifted over the purpose for bible stories in stained glass windows of gothic churches and the dark ages of Europe.

Europe. The roman catholic strong hold of “civilized” us.

The idea or thought or what if, the whole world was involved in trade and travel. What if everyone knew it except the Europeans who were in the throws of dark ignorance by a crown that called itself God’s liege? Only scribes or priests or “men of the cloth” were privy to text. The rest would have to settle for the majesty of glass. The rest would have to be told what the words said. The rest would think nothing else exists outside of the Empire of darkness.

Until… until… until people started asking questions. Until some learned to read. Until some power needed more because words would be the cause of losing.

So, who better for the job than a pirate? Who better to sell an idea that was already stolen? Who is fool enough to trade their glass for gold? Where did all this mud come from?

It seems everything living breathes. Expands and contracts. Thoughts are alive when they are allowed to breathe. It is normal for power to expand and contract.

Humans have five physical senses but 80% of the information comes via the eyes. Our vision is the entry to our minds. Control your vision, control your mind. If words are thoughts that can be seen but the mind cannot read them, the eyes are shielded from the ideas therein. Our eyes can’t hear the words. We can’t listen to the text.

These pictures, these images, this memery of the masses is not new. It is not clever, although sometimes they are, witty. They are pictures informed by the context of our mindset. They may not look the same to me as they do to you. Without a text to read, much of the context is a con.

A picture is worth a thousand words. The words used are from a vocabulary. Limit the vocabulary, limit the power of the image. Increase the power of the image by depleting the powers of the words.

A thousand evidences set before you. A thousand evidences denied. Because they don’t fit in the picture. Because they don’t suit the vocabulary. Because they don’t con the text to those who can read between the lines. The images are an interpretation of a story that has already been told. But that’s not what was written. And how do we know what was written is what happened? The evidence is contrary to the picture.

Put down the glass. There is no gold. You are the increase of your own vocabulary. The evidence is written all over us.

There are gigantic structures all over the planet. Similar symbols carved in rocks EVERYWHERE. There are Egyptian artifacts in the Americas. There are trinkets from the far east of Asia in Scandinavia. But they only look at the mitochondrial DNA. They only look for the mothers.

There’s a huge push right now to get us to get our genes tested. Ancestry influences something. What is it? What are we looking for? Who are they looking for? Why does it matter?

I can’t wrap my brain around the sense of continued hiding. This uprising is necessary and called for. The polarity has been offset by the spin. There is a new environment and the charge must be grounded to regain equilibrium, discharge. A great blast.

I’m not surprised by the foolishness of humanity. I’m not surprised by the reactions of the actions. I am not surprised by any of it.

It is to be expected.

What else could correspond to the rhythm of this dance? It is the stumble.

All things that get too great break down into lesser things. It is the nature of it. Whether it be an individual or a civilization, everything is subject to its parts. People break down when their need for power exceeds their capacity of charge. Civilizations break down when their power is dispersed among its masses.

The Great roman Empire could not keep Europeans from seeing the light. Dawn was quickly approaching. In this case, the best way to keep control was to convince the people that the empire was responsible for the dawn itself. The Empire brought the Sun to the people. They needn’t learn to read. They need only to be told a new story with new pictures. The trick is, keeping the same bards, the same tune, the same song.

There had to be an evolution. The pictures were not the same. People were learning to read. The con of the text needed to be updated.

None of this changed what was buried in the ground. None of this could lift the scars carved into the rocks. No picture or words could lift the history from the stones.

It’s easier to believe we’re infallible. It’s easier to believe that it’s all a lie. It’s easier to believe whatever feeds the hunger within us, the sad children that we really are.

All this talk about Jesus and the Piscean age, about Moses and the Jews and the sheep, about how some great leader of our time will become the “avatar” for the coming of Aquarius.

And they wait for it. They breathe it in night and day. The sword of a single god. An ancient text that was mistranslated through the wrong contexts of words over and over and over, and it pains me. It pains the soul in each turn of my DNA. It is the mindfuck poison that so many believe. It is the destroyer. You believers of it participate in the destruction and praise its glory. So stupid to believe you have any control. So naive to think that you have any part in anything outside the collective demise of such tragic and holistic pursuits.

Who are any of us to think we matter to that extent? Who are we to believe that humans have any bearing on the intricacies of the mechanics of space? We are a speck on a molecule in a system that equates to nothing more than dust. Nothing matters outside of the external cell that is the bubble of human. We can pick up on energy currents. We can communicate telepathically. We can disconnect from the web that is the picture of fear. We can see the words and hear them in our minds. We know better. We fucking know better.

We can do better.

This is all retarted.

You want an avatar? You want a new age? You want freedom and safety and a difference in the song. Un-con your text. Read the picture of glass you’ve goldened yourself. Who do we think we are?

Why do we think anyone has any more information than us?

These are the tricks of the trade. The trade that has been world wide since the evening of the Dark ages. The avatar does not bring it. How fucking dare us give our power to any avatar. How dare us acquiesce to our lesser fate. How dare us allow the picture to continually be drawn from our illiteracy of self. It’s a disgusting affront to the gift of life. It is a deviance from the glory promised as if it lives outside of ourselves. As if it must be bestowed on us. As if we have any say in that.

One time, a long, long time ago, humans thought they could control the fate of the planet. They thought they could control the weather and the placement of the planets. They thought they could direct the field. Because they were power hungry. Because they thought control over the forces was superior to adaptation. They underestimated the force of the field. They were shocked when they discovered it was a bow. The evidence we deny is the evidence of this event. We deny those humans could have been capable. But we should believe that we humans are now capable.  And that we know what we’re doing.

The Universe will continue to do its thing whether we like it or not. And woe to any who misunderstands their place in it. Woe to any who would try to dominate it, to pull it, to direct it against its will. There will be a corresponding reaction. There will be a regaining of balance through equalized polarity. There will be a reset. It won’t be the first time.

Who are you? Who are we? Is this amnesia self-inflicted? It is easier to confuse ourselves with mind games than to accept we are powerless over the universe. It is easier to force the field around us into an unhealthy tangle that only strengthens the knots.

 Are we really so afraid of the consequences that we have brought upon ourselves by giving our mental capacities up to the likes of our own self-portrait? Has this whole Piscean age been a denial of the truisms that we pretend to fish for? Are we afraid of being sheep because the Ram is the leader of the zodiac and if we submit to our own self-governance we will have to submit to the reality that sheep can climb mountains? Sheep can clothe, shelter, and feed us without having to sacrifice themselves? Is that why they were the demanded sacrifice of that age? Because it was completely unnecessary to kill them in order for them to be of service? Because killing them would render any future service impossible? Because without them, there is no cloth for the future dressing, there is no milk, there is no presence to graze the grasses and fertilize the land.

So, by calling ourselves “lambs of God” and following the “shepherd” blindly, we forget that we can climb the mountain. We forget that the Ram is the leader and isn’t in need of a shepherd. That it is the shepherd that is dependent on the flock for domestication and not the other way around.

Be a fucking sheep. Lead yourself where to the places the shepherd’s feet won’t climb. And Oh, what visions await you there! What beautiful sights to texture your thoughts. Picture it. High above it all. No glass. Only a sheep on a mountain. What can be seen?

We could talk next about Jesus and the school of fishing. But It doesn’t seem necessary. Abrahamic monotheism isn’t the only or the oldest religion. Nor is it the only record of this shared history. However, it has been the most destructive.

We could talk about masonic symbolism. We could talk about the transfer of power from one picture to the next. We could talk about how none of it holds any water except the saliva we spit at it. The blood we give it.

If I ignore someone who is bothering me, eventually, they will leave me alone. Eventually. So, there’s a choice. Put up with having to ignore it until it stops, defend against it and take and action to make it go away, or ask it why it does that? Why bother someone for amusement? How fucking bored are you?

I hope you are starting to get the point that it is all an illusion of power and that no one really has it. What a relief. Please stop arguing in and amongst yourselves. If people aren’t allowed to be angry, they get angrier. People should be pissed.

Years I’ve spent, trying to decode the madness. Trying to read the pictures without the text. Attempting to figure out how to adapt. Nights spent terrorized by the memory of the last blast of the string when the tension of the bow became too taught. The swing back as the arrow shot ricocheted back into the ground and pulled the Sun into our orbit, for a short time, before the ripple of the blast reordered our solar system.

The Sun is not the Father. Venus is not his mistress. Humans may have been the cause of all of it and we may be trying to do it again. It’s not a very good idea. It isn’t going to work. We are not that powerful. We only have the power to destroy ourselves. When are we going to learn?

No amount of rearranging in the solar system will tell us who are daddy is. Tell the kids you’re sorry, Mom. Earth is a single parent. The child within is crying. When are we going to grow up?

If this is the “dawning of the age of Aquarius”, it might behoove us to remember that it is a time of darkness. It is in the specks of light. It is the far-off star. It is the hopeful promise of a wish to be fulfilled in the distance. It is gigantic and charged and electric. It does not dwell on the trivialities of the small details. It is not concerned with the old ways. It is the all of everything expanding. It is the 4th state of matter that is plasma. Ionic and excited.

Apparently, that requires representation. An image. An “avatar”. It’s funny to me when people say any man that is living today is the potential avatar for Aquarius. Silly fishies! The water bearer is female. And now that we know, we can see her likeness drawn in the pictures we couldn’t read. She is the vocabulary that will rewrite the context of the human image. She is here to spark the insights missing from the texts. She is lightning striking stone. She doesn’t ask us to submit. She will not be controlled. She is the image of self we have been denying.

I will be the first to admit, I need to adapt. Need to humbly accept I have no control over the universe or others. Only charge. I need to take charge, be in charge, lead the charge, of myself. Will I be a positive or a negative leader? How far can I emanate my glow?

What kind of star are you? What type of system rules?

Can you picture being truly in control of yourself? Can we let go long enough to see the lengths of the reigns?

From what history has taught us, does it do us any good to hold on? Would any amount of evidence ever be adequate?

Would making a meme help? Would posting it get your message across? How would it be read?

Me. Meme. Me Me Me. Memory.

How will it be remembered? Will it be muddied, buried, carved in stone? What have we really learned so far? What do we want to see next? Where are we going from here?

Braining Ourselves In

Section 1-

“Between stimulus and response there is a space…in that space is our power to choose our response. In our response, lies our growth and our freedom.” Viktor Frankl, Auschwitz survivor.

Just like our experiences can change our DNA, so too can they change the structures of our brains. This to a great effect, is much more substantial to our overall progression as a species and as individuals because it influences our processing of the world around us and determines what decisions we will make and in turn, what actions we will take.  The stories we tell ourselves about the world and our place in it are what is building the world around us.

When the narrative of our stories is altered, everything is altered. The plot, settings, and characters can remain the same but by changing the theme or context, the entirety of our view changes so now the characters and setting and plot all become altered to suit the new theme. The same old things look different. We can’t view them in the same way as before. Everything stayed the same except the perception of the viewer. So even though we can’t change history, we can change how we see it. It’s how we change ourselves.

Stories are an important method of teaching. We tell kids stories because they learn from them in a fun and interesting way that doesn’t feel like learning. When we imagine ourselves as the characters, a part of our brain becomes them in a very real way. Through our empathic co-journey we are forcing our brains to have an experience that can be and often is as visceral as our real-life experiences. Sometimes more. Stories are so captivating; we lose ourselves in their alternate reality. We can go there to escape our own. Or learn lessons we don’t want to directly expose our actual selves to. Or to relive someone else’s moment. Moments that changed time. Changed history. Changed us. Changed our brains.

People from all around the world have regional cultural expressions that are rooted in the history that bred them. The Hindi cultures are different from Native American cultures and both are different than Abrahamic. The Australian Aborigines are even different still. The stories that each of these cultures tell their children are the building networks in their brains. Repetition reinforces those networks. Strengthens them. Builds them into adults who will repeat these same stories to build similar brains, build similar cultures. It’s tradition.

What stories are we telling ourselves? How have they made us who we are? What kind of brain has been constructed in each of us? What have our brains built? What minds us? Are we cool with that? Do we like our brains? Seriously, no judgment, no shade, no one is listening but you…. Are you happy with your brain? Do you tell yourself nice stories? Are they true? Is your brain nice to you? Does it say offensive things? Does it lie to you often? Is your brain mean to you? Brains don’t just think things; they feel things too. They are the commander of your entire nervous system. They are the chief of your organ systems. The are the king of your crown. And all of your other parts are conscious of that fact. What kind of ruler is presiding over your mental kingdom? What thoughts are leading you? Where was I going with this? It’s something to think about.

Philosophy is the “love of wisdom”. Psychology is the study of the “breath, the soul, the mind.” The combination of these two teachings allows us to examine the parts of us that make us who we are and love the wisdom that self-knowledge and self-awareness bring.   Modern psychology is basically a therapeutic method of rewriting our internal narrative in a way that helps us strengthen a storyline within us that promotes personal growth and mental and emotional healing.

They say, it takes twenty-one days to form a habit. Most of the studies I have read extend that time period to around two months. It takes much longer to break a habit. Are we trying to quit cold turkey? Are we replacing our habit with a new one? Are we deprived from the source of our habit and quitting against our will? Our plan? Our intention? If replacing, is the replacement any different? Is it a substitute? It is a cure?

I used to tell myself one thing about what happened. Now, I tell myself something different. The past can’t be changed. “What’s done is done.” “It is what it is,” as my brother would say. This is confining and restricting and freeing and a relief. Depending on how we choose to view it.

Blame is the easiest way to avoid growth. As long as issues are externally driven, the need for internal turmoil is obfuscated. Growth never occurs. We have no control over outside events but we do have control over how we face those events so, concentrating too much on them causes undue stress. We can control certain factors that are within our means but so much is outside of our control that the feeling of powerlessness becomes overwhelming. We are driven to action by this in an effort to quell the stress of the fear of the unknown. Take some part of it and wield it to our defense. Give ourselves the false illusion that it should be some other way. We become resentful when things don’t go along with the stories we tell ourselves of how it was “supposed” to happen. We can be eaten alive by this. There are plenty of things we can control but they are almost exclusively within ourselves. Whatever we are unable to address manifests itself in our waking lives so that we must look at it. These avoidances of self will grow larger and larger until the exterior world we have build around them threatens to take us down. We had the power of control the whole time. We just weren’t controlling the right thing. Ourselves.


Breaking the Glass-

When I thought about the old advice given- to “Be passive” and “Just do what you’re told”, I wonder how many suffered because they didn’t fight. When I think of the old adage, “Better on my feet than on my knees”, I wonder how many had died in vain with their soles buried deeply beneath them. When I thought about any approach to fighting, the thing that stuck out most was the cause. Of course, the opponent must be considered to be effective but in order to fully effective we must understand the reason for the approach; the cause for the action. Why act at all? What are we fighting? What are we really fighting for?

Mostly for the thought of, “What have we got to lose?” Just, ourselves. Only everything. Adjust ourselves. Own everything. Own ourselves. Adjust everything.

“We do these things not because they are easy but because they are hard.” -JFK

This is where “Choosing our battles” becomes the choice of many lifetimes. We all fight our own battles. Why can’t we win them for the collective? Would choosing to fight our own battles be the utility of weaponized healing to eradicate the enemies within? Would winning our own internal wars wage a ravage of healing tides that fight off insecurities and fear with sharp awareness and strong hearts?

We can’t fix anything until we fix ourselves. Individual fixings. Healing our solitary masses. We all hurt the same way, but different.  Maybe, if we share how we’re healing, the repair will become the thing we’re fighting for instead of against. Our power may even exceed our expectations.

In order to fix my world and in turn THE world, I have to understand myself and growing is not wasting my time. Although, I did build a couple of lives I’ve hated. Had to demolish both of those. It’s ok. The first I held onto tooth and nail. Fought for it with my everything. Refused to let go. Lost myself in it. Carried around the weight of it like a growth beneath my skin. It was hard to get past it because it would flare up every now and again. Make its presence reknown.

I had to build a life I could hide in from it. I had to shield myself from it. I had to run further and further away. But it always found me and would drag me out by the ankles every fucking time. It took a lot of fighting it off before I realized I could fight it off. It took a lot of “What the Fuck?” to unfuck the fear that kept me from unhiding. The fear that he would take them. The fear of the lives they would have. The fear that I wouldn’t be able to protect them. The fear that he would hurt me and hide me and lie about it out of spite. Because he had tried before. Because he had tried so many things before. Because I had failed. Because he had failed. Something had failed. Or so I thought.

I didn’t see the stains of it all over me. I thought it was just my color. I didn’t realize that I had learned to not trust anyone nor believe in the goodness of their intentions. I was attracted to people and circumstances that reminded me of prior situations in which I had failed to receive my desired outcome so I would reenact the parts and get mad at the replacement parts when they didn’t know their lines. But again, and again the same character. Like those films about reincarnation where the spirits keep repeating. Different faces, different names, same eyes, same intentions.

It was me who was the problem. Trying to gain acceptance in male dominated industries because I was too little and girls weren’t allowed to play street hockey. Trying to be heard in a room full of talkers. Hiding under the table to feel the squishy, rubbery, “pop” of the fake grapes and Styrofoam apples that were certainly not meant for eating. Feeling upset that people kept wiping their shoes on me. Feeling the coolness of the window breeze into the cramped undercarriage of a room that forgot I was there. To feel most at home and comfortable when I could hear all of the voices of the people who couldn’t see me.

I didn’t have to be under the table. I could have been in the yard; up in the cherry tree. Because I couldn’t play hockey, I got to ride bikes with Meaghan and Dawn. I didn’t need to be afraid to sit at the table or participate in the game. It turns out, I am very uncomfortable there. I would much rather be on my bike. I would very much rather be in a cherry tree. I would much rather hang out with Meaghan. I would rather break my life down again than to hide another moment. Than to cower beneath a table or allow anyone’s threats to retreat me.

I need no approval to live. I need no cover to hide. I need not fight to be. To exist. To love and learn and express and shine and to make good for myself and children and to build a life with a solid foundation grounded on my terms, protected by my own boundaries.

I asked about female philosophers and why they were always also something else. A writer, a scientist, an artist, maybe, perhaps, but always something else and other than just and only. I always found it odd that a man could make his life by speaking and repeating himself and having others follow him around listening to him speak and repeating after him. It’s a true and historical phenomenon. Some didn’t even actually write their own thoughts, the people who listened would transpose them for them and then it wasn’t necessary to do anything other than speak.

The unequivocal answer to the question lay in female practicality. Women would feel such actions of merely speaking would be a waste of breath and effort unless some other beneficial function materialized from such rhetoric. Otherwise it remains mere rhetoric.

There’s a divide amongst us but it isn’t a straight razor’s edge. It’s not even a sword. It’s granulated shards of fractured glass that are so scratched and sharp nothing would want to be seen through them. We don’t even know who we’re cutting. It’s not even glass anymore. Just sharp, sandy, dust that will embed itself in our skin if we attempt to clean it up without cover. Bleeding from cuts we can’t see. Big shards first, then sweep the rest up dry, vacuum the edges in the places the broom won’t reach, wipe the floor with a damp cloth. Be mindful walking barefoot for a while until the confidence of clean floors comes back and we decide if the windows actually need to be paned. Is the replacement now a complexi-glass that won’t even break with bullets? Is it an open-air market with breathable curtains that block the view but are easily cut or torn? Is it the invisible nothing that can’t be seen or cut or torn or broken? Was it ever really anything at all? Was it ever really clear? How can the nothing that is everything be divided? Can it ever be small enough for our sandy eyes to see?

Poverty consciousness is a trauma response that inhibits effective decision making and nullifies the inaccurate perception/ assumption that it is the fault of the individual as opposed to a systemic problem the has cultivated fear response strategy instead of helping to improve the situation of the impoverished allowing them to know what decisions they should make. In the position of poverty, the values are inherently different than that of others who are fortunate enough to have more than their basic survival experience and an underlying condition of trauma. Poverty, on psychological terms, can be described as any type of severe lack very much including any emotional needs that the emotionally impoverished may have suffered through not having. The system could be any authoritative group which deprived the individual from their basic needs. This could be society, government, institutions, religious organizations, companies, friend groups, or family. By recognizing that the entire system is sick, we are able to better understand the source of lack and resolve the poverty issue at its core.

It’s this premise that pushes us to do things, be a part of things, participate in stuff, without really understanding the implications or agendas or why. We need to fulfill something that is lacking, whether internally or externally. I’ve been told, nature abhors a vacuum.

What is dividing us? What enforces the repulsion? Why is there a battle between men and women? Why do we feel one side must be submissive? What deeply engrained fear centers does it poke within us? Why is it such a trigger? For everyone? Like it or not, the world is dissolving because of our childhood issues. When are we ever going to grow up?

It took a lot for me to kinda grasp some of that. Most I’ll have to accept never knowing. We always know more than we think we do and always much less than we’ll admit.

We all have those experiences that crack our shells. Paint the world the colors it is. I’ve been grappling with a few of my own. The little things that build up to big things where you can only learn the things you did because of the things you’d already learned. And it’s just what was needed. Even though it was greatly unwanted. Because the battle within demands healing. I had to really look at this second life I had created and why I’d place myself in it. What kind of poverty consciousness drove my desire to continue accepting terrible behavior as a substitute for self-abandonment? In this case, should I be passive?  Should I stand my ground and wait to be buried? Is this the hill I want to die on? Is it worth it to endure? What qualifies as success in this circumstance? Can that only be measured in value?

 There was one time I was doing yard work while texting on messenger, he (we’ll just call him “He”) asked me what I was doing and I told him I was pruning my apple tree. A little while later when I sat down on the swing, he texted me, “Ah, that looks nice.” I was like, “Whoa. He can see me.” You’d actually be surprised how often the average Joe is spying on their neighbors, or exes, or employees. Any doubts you have can be quelled by the size of the market catering to such wants and needs. I have been spied on quite a bit. It’s happened so often, I’m past anger and into annoyance. Technology has given people with nothing to consider a whole lot of other things to do. And people with control issues some type of creepy, make-believe power that anyone with and Ebay account can possess. Ah! The world in which we live. The government may be watching you, but your neighbor’s girlfriend’s cousin’s roommate who saw your picture on Facebook, might be watching you too. Just to feature the real real. It’s a thing.

I figured as much when he had asked earlier if I was an exhibitionist. That’s when I stopped watching Netflix in the bathtub. He asked if I was going to blow dry my hair. How’d he know I do that?

It was a game and I wasn’t sure the piece of my involvement or the purpose for the play. I was pretty sure it was to monitor the information I was gathering and the means by which it was dressed. Keep your friends close and the competition closer. At first, I thought it was business. I always knew it was about ideas. At first, I thought it was about business, and science, and reputation. But, I think it’s about much more than that now.

I figured they had been watching for a while. There was another one who kept me tied up in all kinds of “calls”. Recordings of conversations that seemed to be digging for answers. There was definitely something going on behind the scenes that not only was I not privy to, but intentionally excluded from. They even went so far as to show up at the last minute to a place I’d said I would be. I had said I would be there for several months before hand but they showed up with no warning and then the one followed me and the other around. I even got to meet the one they all follow. I walked right up to him and showed him my work. He was clearly impressed. He saw my notes. He saw my drawings. He knew what he was looking at and he complimented me. It was a moment of my universe that connected me to the rest of it. I felt like all the weird shit that had kept me out was finally going to have some purpose that was going to help all of mankind and the guy who’d been trying to figure it out for fifty years was very much in reality patting me on the back. He was so sweet. It was so humbling.

So, the one I went to see, who had been sending me pictures and projects and working with me and asking me questions and making some progress, got up on stage to give his talk. He said he’d been working with me and nothing had come of it. Very subtly but quite publicly denouncing and dismissing my work and involvement.  I pretended not to notice. It wasn’t really a jab, was it? I pretended not to notice when he put people between us in photos. We aren’t really together, are we? I pretended not to notice he stopped sending work. But kept sending, “I love you’s”.  Now I would only receive reading material and articles, songs and what seemed like duplicated text conversations. Even though, the work we did then predicted “seasonal” earthquake occurrences and even some other seriously notable observations. Which will be significant in and to the future. Even though I knew better. Even though I acknowledged that I was lying to myself. Even though I knew the ideas were right. I helped myself be wrong because I loved him. Or, I loved the idea of not being under the table, of being a part of the conversation. Of having a friend. Even though I wasn’t. Even though I didn’t.

There were many, many, times shit like this would happen. They always knew/know what I am and was doing and would strike out with things before I could even put them up on posts or videos or even speaking them to a friend in the room and suddenly actual human beings would be addressing the conversation that they were not only not included in but not in the room, building, phone, computer. Where are these mofo’s? Are they in the television sets? They’re probably in the fridge.

 I’d usually make sure to discuss these instances with a few select friends and family to ensure that I wasn’t losing my mind, becoming paranoid, or projecting fears. At first, they definitely thought I was nuts. It’s super weird after all. But after four years of this shit, they now remind me of “that one time’s” because there’s so many, I can’t keep track anymore.

It wasn’t just the ambiguity of a watchful perch. It was the way Myself and others were treated for asking questions. For including information outside of the prescribed dogma, and for having good ideas.  To be called names, threatened, stalked, accused, weird, weird things. Something deeply disturbing and unhealthy is going on and it has little to so with joyful discovery and a lot to do with power, control, and whatever else I can’t care about. It’s not for me.

The most destructive thing about it is that it is not the intent of most members of the community who are just amateur enthusiasts who have no idea what kind of wolves are prowling. We fall for it, hook, line, and sinker because we are predisposed to the fringe and are happy to be in the acquaintance of others who share our enthusiasm, interests, and feeling of being outsiders. This is the feature that is being exploited. It’s what makes us easy prey. And easily directed to follow the leaders who promise us privy passage to some place those who would reject us aren’t smart enough to go. It’s super sad. It’s the point of poverty consciousness that drives this machine and it will drive itself into the same place it advocates against with an army of misguided followers ranting and waiving flags behind them. And all of those who did not know they were even following, just got caught up in the currents. I was vetted often and regularly discarded but still always watched until they caught me by the heart and that exactly the fissure that shattered all of it.

The mainstream actually knows all of this already. Your only opponent is yourself.

It just sucks çuz I wanted it to be real. I wanted them all to be better people and realize that this modus operandi is multum bullshitis. Because any method used to over throw an existing method must invariably be different in structure as not to rebuild the very thing that was sought to be torn down. “You can’t build a new ship out of old wood.” Or, whatever. A big lesson I learned from this very example because I was doing the exact same thing. It’s how I learned. ‘Cept, my ship was my life and your ship is a battleship. How about you stop judging me for my dishes and get your uninvited ass out of my kitchen, freaks. So creepy. I must have some pretty decent information. Must be pretty good at something to have had a neighborhood watch.

I can’t speak for what drives others. What I can speak to was the statement that was the hammer that cracked my glass. The first truly honest thing I can confirm.  – “We have different values.”

Absolutely. As much as the science is intriguing, as much investment that was made, my gage of success is not measured in the value of power, or pretense, or followers, or my name in a book a hundred years from now. What good is any of that if we’re all sick from the damage it causes? If we’re all lost and angry and mean? How does that help the world? What I value is humanity. How I gage it is in how we treat each other, friend, acquaintance, or stranger. Mostly how we treat the vulnerable and weak. The stock of the second life I was building plummeted when I saw the cruelty and exploitation of the humans who were in it to help. When I saw the baselessness of intellectual malice for fun. A sport. Underhanded  plays that can wipe out people’s lives with a hack, a video, a laugh, and a high five. This is not the company I wish to keep. Believe me, if you are not in on it, you’re a pawn in it. A piece to be played. It isn’t worth it. Raise your value. Raise your standards.

I was trying to earn something. Certainly, wasn’t money.  Respect, maybe. Pride, yeah, I guess. An answer to something, definitely. I could list my resume of work but it didn’t earn me any of that. I could mention my education and name drop people I know. Hand you my card. Direct you to my videos. Tell you to watch my head talk. Nonsense. So much of it. I have no right to tell anyone what to think about anything. But I still have a voice. I still want to be heard. I still want to contribute to a service that evolves humanity. But in a humane way. In a compassionate way. In a way that embraces the nuances of curiosity and rejoices in discovery.

I’m not a scientist. Never have I claimed to be. I am an artist who is driven to express and create from what I see. I am a writer so I write about what I know, what makes me curious, what’s exciting, or sad, or amazing. Occasionally, I write fictional stories that are only believable because they touch on some truth within us. What I have been writing here is a truth that is unbelievable because it touches a fiction within us. I am writing about the lies we tell ourselves. The things we eat and feed on to satiate a hunger within, drink to quench or numb or desires. When what we should really devour is our terrible fears about who we think we might be if we ever quit eating. What would be left of us if we digested all of our fear?

I thought I was going to use these strange visions in my head to help humanity by contributing to the advent of some new kind of machine or tech that would give us free and simple communication using natural means and heal some of the damage that we’ve caused. Turns out, I might not have to reinvent that wheel if we could just take a minute and see the power we possess. The clean and free energy that is our natural communication with the self. That all this preaching about eating organic and we’re still feeding our souls shit. That maybe, just maybe, it’s the infrastructure of the self that must be rebuilt if the system is to ever heal or change. That we musn’t be afraid of eating our fear. If we don’t, it will just continue to eat us.

High hopes. She’s got high hopes. Hot plasma drives in the sky hopes.

I thought I could withstand the adversity and insidiousness and bypass the rhetoric to still obtain the information needed to further my personal directive. Create something that makes the world better. Sounds cliché and legit. But artists are like priests. We don’t get to pick our fate. We are who we are. We cannot not go toward the calling. The pull is too strong. It’s blinding. It’s a tortured gift. And it becomes enflamed when violated. It becomes poison when used for the forces of selfishness and greed. It becomes polluted when the intentions are not pure. And it makes me sick.

I thought I was dying. I thought there was some sickness or disease taking over my body and I was going down. I went to the doctor for a year. Got every blood test they would give me. Got MRI’s and nerve tests. I was low on D and iron. But that was an easy fix that left me no better. It wasn’t a disease that was making me sick. It was my attitude. It was the people around me. It was what I was allowing my gifts to be used for that was destroying my body. I had to let go of it.

I had to say, “Enough is enough.” And disconnect. Completely.

It’s not that I don’t want to study the petroglyphs and megaliths and plasma. I do. God do I ever. There’s so much to learn and share. But I fear that in the current state of the human being, the powers will not be used for good. They’ve barely scratched the surface and look how they’ve already been exploited. I have to look at how I’ve been handled. How this work and participation are being handled. Not only by those with the power to do damage with it, but also by those who are being used for the same exploits, unaware, and unknowingly willing to give their gifts to the same powers that be. Fuck no. It’s not your show.

I have stepped back so I could see. It’s one of the first things a master painter will tell you. “Step back”. It’s the only way to get a true perspective on what is before you.

When I stepped back and took a good long look, I cried. I cried for months. I was angry. I was angry at them but I was also angry at me.  I didn’t want to be angry anymore.

The weight of the anxiety that accompanies any drive is proportional to the weight our value of the task adds. If it feels heavy and we think it’s going to be heavy, it just gets heavier. We keep adding more weight. Until we can’t carry it or it picks us up and carries us off to places we might not want to be.

It’s not so simple as just walking away. I wasn’t crying only for this. When a living thing experiences a threat or stressor, the living thing acclimates itself by building in either a warning system, a defense mechanism, or both. Those new features are transferred to the next generation in the special codings of the species’ DNA. Sometimes these new features become so predominant as to create a whole new subspecies and if great enough, an entirely new species. That is how evolution works. And it can happen in an instant. In one individual’s DNA, that change is transferred to the very next generation and then carried for generations to come. Sometimes growing into an elaborate feature or sometimes being buried through nonuse only to surface again multiple generations later without warning. DNA is funny that way.

So, when I say I was crying for my ancestors, it was because the anger and sadness of their experiences has created warning systems and defense mechanisms in my DNA that my own experiences have only fortified and added to. I don’t want to carry it around anymore.

This experience, this “event”, was that catalyst necessary to help break the codes residing in my spirit.

These engrained patterns appeared again and again throughout my life in the forms of my actions and decisions. I was a terrible mess. A ball of insecure fury with an eye for spotting treason. All I really wanted to do was to play and learn and discover. Most of all I wanted to be loved and accepted. Isn’t that what we all want?

I couldn’t see why I was different. Only that I was. Only that I wasn’t included. Only that I was happier alone because I didn’t have to pretend or explain or filter or be silent. It was the few kind hearted adventurers who would lend me strength and hold mirrors up to the beauty. To the knowing. To the rarity of wisdom. It was those healers that changed my plight. It was them who saved my life.

I put myself in positions where I was vulnerable and would rage against the dying of my light. When I was the one who kept putting me in darkness. Some of which, I could not escape.

I thought all of these lessons had taught me enough to jump, tuck, and roll. I didn’t realize how much they would break me. Nor how many more there were still coming.

When they did come, and I couldn’t lie to myself anymore, I knew it was time to leave. I knew it was time to feel it. I knew it was time to cry.

But you can’t just take one step back. That’s not enough to see. So, one by one, my foot falls tipped away until all of my toes were in the background. Until The house had become a hill and the town had become a map and the world was a spot on a diagram of the universe. Then I shined a light behind myself so I could see where my shadows fell. Where I was dark. Was it my darkness or an overlay of silhouettes? And at that distance, I could see the distortion of the lives, the skew in the perspective.

It turns out, it’s those little maps that saved me. All the screenshots, and saved videos, all the times friends and strangers reminded me, all the unprompted responses from humans who can’t help but let me know they’re watching, because what fun is torment if the victim isn’t aware they’re being tormented? What power has the tormentor then? What good is support if you can’t feel its presence?

And for what? For me to truly see who we all are? For the light to be shine behind all of us? For me to quit the stupid game because I want completely different results? Because My magic is sacred and so are you. And we are worthy of more. Of better.

So, I cried. I cried and cried and cried and cried. I took antidepressants because I know it disqualifies me from your game. Blue pill, red pill, right? Remember when you asked me that? I hate taking medicine and I still cried anyway.  And I knew you’d be watching. I’ve been nuts before. I know my limits. I acknowledge my crazy and my sanity too. I stopped taking them a long time ago when you weren’t looking. Because what I am is not depressed. Though, I was. What I am is a sane person who still has a lot of feelings because I’ve had a lot to deal with. What I am is an artist who can see things differently. What I am is a soul who has too much clear direction to be too far lost. My success cannot be measured in anything material except for the continued existence of my being. That is a true success. To be in one’s own skin and feel like that’s right where you’re meant to be. And the only way to get that it to be willing to tear it all down and let it be what it was because that’s not you anymore. That’s miraculous.

I was not ready to teach you because you still had so much to teach me. I want my words and work to mean something. There’s a lot of competition and fiery debate. There’re commercial and governmental spies. There’s a whole world of hungry people scared for information. And I will not contribute to the demise.

When I do speak, It’s well researched and well-thought-out. Because I don’t want the bad energy of teaching people the wrong direction. I know how to make mistakes. Who would any of us be if we weren’t at some point, wrong?  I can teach you all about that. And that is what some of this is about. Being wrong. Admitting it. Making mistakes. I don’t want to repeat them. I don’t want to respond to the experiences passed on in my DNA. But the truth is that all of those defense mechanisms needn’t be applied if I tune into the warning systems and strengthen those through discernment. Turn that weakness into a strength.

Some might say I’ve failed and, in some regards, I did. But I didn’t. I won. I win. Winning. I overcame. I did not back down. I backed up, backed away. Took a good fucking look. At the records I kept. At the journaling I have done. At the unbelievable loving support that I have gotten from real love, real friends, real strangers, and real me. I picked up my shit. Took it to that dirty dusty room all of my grandparents’ souls were living in. And we cried. We looked at it, felt it, forgave it. We realized the strength it has taken to live our lives and to embed such strength in our cells and our walls and our DNA.  We realized how much it means to our children. And I could feel them grieving. I could feel them singing. I could feel them healing.

We are a past that we can never go back to; we are the present that is yet to be; we are not the future that we are creating. Or at least, we don’t have to be.

Many ancestors have visited me. Friends I never met in life and a few I did. People who still walk with us have been guiding me, teaching me, showing me the way. It would be an afront to their loving efforts to keep anger. It would be a dishonor to their lessons if I stayed the course. They came to shift the wind. The storm they brought was strong. I am rebuilt. Anew. And I want something different. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want dignity and self-respect. You can’t unbreak the shards. But you can melt them down. What once was a window to see through, is now cup to drink.


Masculine, Feminine, and Child- The Internal Family Within

“The real you is still a little child who never grew up. Sometimes that little child comes out when you are expressing yourself in some way. These are the happiest moments in your life- when the real you comes out, when you don’t care about the past and you don’t worry about the future. You are childlike.”- Miguel Angel Ruiz “So, like a forgotten fire, a childhood can always flare up again within us.” Gaston Bachelard “If any human being is to reach full maturity both the masculine and the feminine sides of the personality must be brought up into consciousness.”- Mary Ester Harding “Each one of us needs to discover the proper balance between the masculine and feminine energies, between the active and the receptive.”- Ravi Ravindra “Gender is in everything; everything has Masculine and Feminine Principles; Gender manifests on all planes.”-The Kybolion

Strength and Wisdom Tarot

Hello I am Jodi, I am an intuitive tarot card reader, I offer many services, including my random readings, as well as monthly, and Mid-monthly readings for all Zodiac on my YOUTUBE channel.

I also offer Mystery Healing boxes, and mystery healing box starter kits. They bring out the Highest properties and qualities of your crystals and stones!

They are BLESSED and Hexed meaning, that they stay TRUE to the owners and by any means of malice or ill WILL, will not work for another Unless they are Gifted.