April 1, 1996, Monday. Four mushrooms, 3 grams Peganum harmala.

rad cat motorcycle boy!!!! meoRoaralll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I wonder when I can't snap my fingers if it is because of the innocence still in me, or the clumsiness?

Today was a grand journey.

You should see, when you go seeking, all the voices clamoring for attention, each with a story to tell. They shout "me, me, listen," but I know I can only carry so many stories. I pick where possible. It is like healing. You can give, but you cannot give all or there will be no more of you to give.

I lived many lives, almost heroic kinds of lives. Full with passion, breath, struggle, challenge. This happened after my encounter in green space in the upstairs bathroom, a floating realm where I waved to my friend Randy, saw him and his comfortable grin float by. I could open my eyes and see the "real" world, close them and be in the green place. Here I found her again. She, female, my teacher, my friend-spirit. She teases, chuckles, beckons, offers the white light, beams with winged creatures. She is like a queen of faery but different. She is an archetype of the female in my stories, the female in my life. And she is more. She is alive.

"a gift?"

I saw her smile, witnessed her laugh, her white teeth, her tongue. She knows that Sarah, my wild bride, contains all of her magic.

There is a roar, I turn surprised, open my eyes, she disappears. The closet door looms, and I open it. Woosh! A black jaguar leaps--at me, into me, consumes me, swallows the squirrel inside and at first I am afraid. Then I feel the power of this animal, stretching, pulling at my bones and muscle, growling in my thoughts. I let it dance, I go downstairs. I lie panting on the couch, and feel this is part of what I sought, the strength, the confidence, sparked by the feline inside me. It is part of why this journey was, to know myself, to believe. Other animals touch me, but I ask the jaguar to stay.

It is here that the visions flood, the lives, the stories, the myths searing through me. At once I am tied to wood poles as lightning and thunder crash about me, the water lashes my flesh, I yank and scream with aliveness, and in another instant I falter, knightlike and cut through, impaled in another body somewhere up a tropical river. In this life of half-completed quest I feel death, feel myself decompose. It is wild and I am not frightened of it.

There are other lives, all of them whole lives, not past lives but somehow I live them. Now, I remember only fragments.

I write pieces of my Jan & Kiri novel. I touch the end of a chapter, and am struck by a vivid window, or light, into my other story, the girl in that story, rain splattered, blood dripping all over her, vulnerable, her blue eyes pleading, needing another, a point for Ander (or I?) to seek her out, go to her, right then.

I write this down, and the vision goes. It will be part of what I tell.

Soon I hush into a beautiful feeling and sleep.

My parents and Aunt & Uncle visit the next day.

Life is beautiful,

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