Things about me you maybe didn’t know, and other random witch things

In my early twenties, I lived in an all-pink apartment. Everything was one shade of pink or another, including the kitchen counters, back splash, bathroom vanity, bathtub, and tiles. Pink was not my first choice or honestly, any choice. But the rent was cheap(ish), and it was close to art school and work. There were a variety of shades in the pink spectrum, ranging from a soft “carnation” from a Crayola box, to Barbie pink, to raspberry jam. I have always liked stark white walls. I went to the paint store and purchased 2 gallons of stock white in eggshell and it didn’t go very far because every wall required 4 coats to adequately cover the pink. Being the novice home painter that I was, I had not anticipated the cost of this cosmetic upgrade and realized if I wanted to purchase enough paint for the job, I wouldn’t have enough for rent for nearly 2 months. So the apartment stayed half painted for the entire 18 months I lived there. Friends seemed to like the pink and were always remarking how it changed the light in the space, making our skin extra flattering. 


While at art school, it was required for folks pursuing a degree to take live-model figure drawing classes. The class was always packed when it was a female model, and only 1/3 filled when it was a male one.


Science fiction contains loads of non-fiction elements. Or are they simply coincidences? Take Stranger Things the series on Netflix:

  • I also get nosebleeds after I do deep psychic work and/or experience intense synesthesia.
  • I am more intuitive when I am wearing an eye over.
  • Static is similar to my drum’s beat.
  • Take away the sensationalism, the “Upside Down” shares similarities to some spirit worlds.
  • Music is both a way to cast spells and protect against spells and energetic influences (sorry if this subtly spoils season 4)


My young teen wants me to be less witch and more muggle when being his mom with his peers. Not because he’s embarrassed, but he fears that they may say / do something hurtful to me. I wonder if boys also carry the witch wound?


This whole month, it feels like a bandage has been torn off. The spirits advise to take a week off, here and there, when I can. 

It’s not that I can really afford to, but I also know that it’s something I cannot afford not to do. That is, I am learning how personal rest is being socially responsible.


I overhear someone say to another: “But I want to meet real Canadians. Here in Vancouver, I’ve mostly met Asians.”

I will myself to not snort and snap and yell— with exasperation and hostility. I hold it in; the silence curdles.


The incense continues to burn. 

With the spirits, we share intensely, eyes lost in each other, tenacious and longtime friends. We talk about everything. There’s an easy intimacy, a safety and comfort, but also a realism and sense of practicality. 


Being as sun-deprived as I have been throughout this year’s wet, wet spring, I behaved like I had won the lottery when the first warm days of summer arrived, frivolously and without care for consequences. My shoulders and neckline are now pink and tender. I reach for my Rose Mist*, and the drops gently cool the skin’s surface. Instantly, relief is found. 

*The Spell of Roses Mist for skin and aura.


Body dysmorphia. 

How painful it was to look in a mirror or a reflection on glass.

How I would leave the room when a camera was pulled out or a group photo was suggested.

The exaggerated admiration of others, and the internal put-downs.

Fruitless sessions in therapy.

Until the hot nights with the Devil.

Fuck it up, fuck it all up. Do you see? Really see? Do you see how beauty is the permission to be?

The Witch archetype challenged my perceptions.

Shapeshifting became a form of active medicine.

The shedding of skin that was never mine.

The trust to be looked at again, to be visible.

For an identity to emerge, and for multiple faces to be embodied.

I think back at this, especially when I’m in front of the camera. I’m no model. I’m just me. And it doesn’t hurt or feel scary anymore.


There’s the loneliness because one is alone, craving intimacy, yearning to be known.

There’s the loneliness from being  misunderstood. 

There’s the loneliness from not knowing the feeling of home, yet famished for it. 

There’s the loneliness of no one sharing the colour of your skin.

There’s the loneliness that comes when family  denies.

There’s the loneliness that comes from self-betrayal.

There’s the loneliness because spirits know us, yet they aren’t here in the physical.

There’s the loneliness because while there may be some sense of belonging, there are often behavioral and philosophical expectations. Any personal expression or viewpoint that is too much or not enough — too political, too fringe, not fringe enough, too sensitive — can threaten the sense of safety.

There’s the loneliness of being frustrated with our own complexities, days where we feel we are in a void, in pain, confused, or simply exhausted.

There’s the loneliness when we miss someone dearly, and yet the door is closed, and must remain that way. We stick our foot out, trying to prevent the door from shutting, the wishing, the inventing of the whys, the playing out scenarios that only result in a frazzled nervous system. 

There’s the loneliness from loved ones moving away, losing their memories, passing on. 

There’s the loneliness of forgetting to be a neighbour; we are so self sufficient or worried we may offend, that we don’t knock next door, to borrow an egg or a cup of sugar. We need to make plans lest people are offended if we stop by to say we care. 

There’s the loneliness from the lack of permission to be human.


A friend shared a podcast with me, titled The Stuff The British Stole, put out by the ABC Radio National. This just might be my new go-to for car rides.