Everything is Prophesy
The need to explain has left my body.
The way I see, everything is prophesy. What we write, listen to, read — the way we breathe, dance, sing — our vision, our love making… it’s all building our story.
It’s All Coming was the title of the first iteration of this blog. I wrote it for myself to remember every moment is a moment of ecstasy. I learned I don’t need to be climaxing to be in a state of rapture because I AM a state of rapture.
About a year ago I had a stint of writing erotic fiction. But nothing is fiction. I took a pen name — Cassandra. The story with her was that snakes whispered in her ears and she had the gift of prophesy but nobody could hear her. Behind this story is that she couldn’t hear herself. When I took her into me, I was unclear — was this real? I wrestled in the tension between me and me.
Then I switched identities.
Before that, there was Faye’s Awakening. Faye had a realization: she could turn fantasy into reality. And it was easy. Focus. Play. Sensation. Okay, maybe simple. Maybe not easy. It wasn’t at first because I didn’t believe it. The ease with which it was all coming through me.
I didn’t recognize myself. He saw me. That helped me breathe. I stayed. I played with Faye. I grew to love her.
Faye is my middle name. I never felt like my given name. Probably because it was given. And I didn’t like its shape. Or the fact that I hadn’t created it. At least, not within my waking consciousness.
Everywhere, there’s a lot of talk about “finding yourself,” and there is a subtextual idea that there is one person, a freeze frame of perfection, who is the one you’re looking for. The “best” version. Everything else, then, is demonized. Like Mazikeen.
She thought she didn’t have a soul. But then… she wanted one. And so she found it.
On the quest for identity, we go through many. (well, I don’t know how you do it…) Then we face a challenge. How do we interface with these facets? How many versions of us are allowed to play at once?
How many of you do you go through in a day?
For me, it depends. Usually, at least 7 but sometimes more like 100, depending on the weather and the music I'm listening to and if I feel like crying. There is the 6 year old little girl who likes to be held in the morning, and who likes to play dress up and dance in the rain and run barefoot in the grass and lick flowers, but that is also the 33 year old me. There is the 15 year old who really knows nothing but that sex is where attention comes from and that the other girls don’t like her. She’s learning. There is the 33 year old me who is a success no matter what because she claimed it so. There is the tortured poet who is always in heartbreaking ecstasy. There is the ecstatic poet. Same thing. There is the one who slithers on the floor and forgets she is human. There is the one who now likes Taylor Swift again. There is the birthed overnight visionary who surfaced into a rapturous frequency and started believing in her brilliance. There is celebration. There is genius. There is madness. Every ounce of it tells a story. Has weight. Informs the moment, eternally expanding.
It’s all prophesy. I wrote it in journals and text messages and playlists long before I noticed it pouring from me. How confronting, to see what they saw years before I did. How inspiring. I poured 200 poems out of me in a couple weeks once, my first dance with the mystical experience I now know always. Divine madness, something beyond me working its magic, my awareness sharpened like a dagger reflecting the unseen.
See enough change and it starts to feel like less a rollercoaster and more like a black hole. Curious euphoria, without psychedelics. A space where gravity is so strong you cannot escape it. Nor do you want to.
I had my taste of psychedelics. Pulling out ahead of myself. There is no wisdom without experience. Just a temporary high and a yearning for another trip. Sometimes you go too far out. Sometimes you need to regress. Time is curious. It wants to know.
Four years ago I made a playlist called Rhapsody and Rapture. I didn’t realize that was a prophesy either. Until I did. Realize it, that is. Desire manifest.
All desire is prophetic. Mostly we’re unaware of the desire bubbling up within us but I decided to know it like my life depended on it, because it does. Look through your journals and see which stories you keep writing.
I look on my desk and see the world informing my current.
Be too much, and then a little more
Master your messy
Pleasure frequency
Play every day
River of bliss
Bender of beauty
And there are paintings everywhere, things I’ve made. Plants on every surface. And flowers pressed in the pages of notebooks. Beauty reflecting back to me through everything I see. An outer lushness born from an inner cultivation process.
The need to explain has left my body.
I weave the field with ecstasy.
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Faye’s Awakening: Journey to the Bun Goddess
10000% worth enlarging and reading ps.
Ahhh this is multidimensional brilliance refracted and reflected. Such flow. Many lines were my favorite, although: “An outer lushness born from an inner cultivation process,” takes the cake for me 🤌🏼✨
This has stayed with me for the past few days. I can relate to the prophesying. I wrote a short story once before becoming a mother, about the precious connection between a depressive mother and her struggling son, and years later, I was in that same position. I wrote about falling in love with a younger man, and years later, it happened. Of course, I wrote my misery in journals for years before I decided to leave my marriage - that seemed more like me working up the courage to do so, rather than prophecy. But there are so many examples of how my fiction has informed my reality, in a completely unconscious way. Now that I’m conscious of it though, I wonder how to harness this power. I feel a tenuous grasp over this already, but it’s hard to articulate, the way you, so evocatively, do. Your essay’s got my mental gears churning, but I know that’s also my head’s desire to always lord it over my heart. And even if I do crack the code of manifesting my desire, I don’t think I can do that until I wholeheartedly believe that I am worthy of it. Sorry, I know I’m rambling. But your essay’s got me thinking. Oh, how I love the flair and focus of your writing!❤️