Burnt Sage & Blunt Truths

There is something profoundly strange about opening my eyes and realizing I am no longer in the Pacific Northwest. Or, as I have called it more than once, the Pacific Northwets. I no longer wake beneath that soft gray ceiling that hangs over western Washington. There are no evergreens outside my window standing dark and watchful in the mist. No cool marine air sneaking through the cracks. No mountains lingering on the horizon, appearing only when the clouds decide we have earned the privilege of seeing them. Instead, I wake up in Arkansas. Arkansas, where the air has weight. Arkansas, where September apparently did not receive the memo that summer is supposed to be packing its bags. Arkansas, where the heat does not merely surround you—it climbs into your bra, sits down, and makes itself comfortable. And every morning, for the first few seconds after I wake up, my mind has not caught up with my body. I am still in Everett. I am still in the apartment where hummingbirds visited the balc...

I have arrived. Not gracefully. Not quietly. And certainly not with one of those perfectly curated photographs where I’m standing beside a “Welcome to Arkansas” sign with good hair, a clean car, and a caption about exciting new beginnings. I arrived tired. With pneumonia. Bone-deep, soul-deep, don’t-ask-me-to-make-another-decision tired. I arrived with boxes, cats, Mom, Dakota, receipts, road grime, stories I’m not quite ready to tell, and the lingering suspicion that somewhere between Washington and Arkansas I personally offended at least three gods of travel. But I arrived. And those may be the two most important words I have written in a very long time. I arrived. Leaving Wasn't the Hard Part People like to romanticize leaving. They talk about closing doors, starting new chapters, following your heart, and taking leaps of faith. That shit looks fantastic embroidered on a throw pillow. Actual leaving is uglier. Sometimes leaving means looking around at a life you w...

PEOPLE NEED TO STOP CHECKING OUT OF THE MORTAL PLANE!!! (except for that one orange dipshit) YES. THE MORTAL PLANE IS CURRENTLY CLOSED FOR DEPARTURES. (except for that one orange dipshit). Nobody else gets to fucking leave. The gates are shut. Charon is on mandatory PTO. The Valkyries have been sent home. Anubis has been informed there is a paperwork backlog. Elysium is at capacity. Because goddammit, Cam. There comes a point where grief stops arriving politely one loss at a time and starts feeling like somebody is kicking holes in the fabric of your world. And “I just saw you at Paganicon” is particularly cruel. My brain still has fresh evidence that you  existed . I saw you, I talked to you. I squished upon your person. YOU OCCUPIED SPACE IN MY WORLD and right now I'm being asked to comprehend a reality that contradicts that evidence. So yes. EVERYBODY STAY THE FUCK PUT. Attendance is mandatory. No early dismissal. No unauthorized astral fucking field trips. I've had ...

  A Witch Without a Plan If you know me, you know I always have a plan. Usually I have Plan A, Plan B, Plan C, three contingency plans, a backup contingency plan, and at least one option involving spite, duct tape, caffeine, and sheer fucking determination. Right now? I am officially a Witch without a plan. Mom and I came back from the Alaska trip (which was bought and paid for BEFORE the wreck), and I brought back the nastiest of viral infections. Still no word from the insurance. Or my attorney. It has been 239 days since the wreck on December 23rd . 239 days of doctors, pain, appointments, medical bills, physical limitations, paperwork, attorneys, insurance companies, and trying to put a life back together after somebody else's mistake blew a hole straight through ours. A month ago, we were told the settlement was coming. We planned around it. We made decisions based on it. FMLA, movers, packers, giving up the apartment, etc. We started preparing to move and finally get ourselve...

  There are moments when the news stops feeling like headlines and starts feeling like heartbreak. Right now, Spokane is living one of those moments. Entire neighborhoods have been reduced to ash. Families have fled with only what they could throw into a car. Firefighters are working around the clock, often with little sleep, standing between walls of flame and the homes of complete strangers. Thousands have been forced to evacuate, hundreds of structures have been destroyed, and the smoke hangs over Eastern Washington like a heavy reminder that everything can change in a single afternoon. For those of us watching from the other side of the state—or from across the country—it's easy to feel helpless. We see the videos. We read the updates. We whisper, "That's awful," before scrolling on. But this is exactly when communities matter. If you have ever wondered whether one person can make a difference, the answer is yes. Donate to organizations providing emergency shelter...

 People love to tell you how beautiful Washington is. They show you the mountains. They show you Puget Sound. They show you ferry boats gliding across blue water while orcas magically leap in the distance. What they don't show you is Everett. I've spent nearly two years here, and if you ask me what I'll remember, it won't be the scenery. It'll be the staggering cost of simply existing while watching a city slowly surrender to disorder. This isn't an attack on the people who are struggling. They're often victims of circumstances far bigger than themselves. This is about a city where ordinary, working people pay extraordinary amounts of money for the privilege of stepping over someone else's crisis on the way to the grocery store. I pay more than two thousand dollars a month for a two-bedroom apartment. Two thousand dollars. For that price, you'd expect clean streets, responsive services, safe public spaces, and a sense that the city is improving. Inst...

  There comes a point in adulthood when you realize your entire existence no longer fits in the backseat of a Chevy Impala. Neither does it require six semi-trucks and a convoy worthy of a military exercise. (*side eye to you know who, I see you over there.....) Somewhere between those two extremes lives an ordinary life. Mine. As I prepare to leave Washington, people keep asking me the same questions. "Can't you just mail your books?" "Ship your clothes" "Why don't you just donate everything and start over?" NO. Then it's.... "How much can your car hold?" The answer is... enough for the people I love. The Rogue will carry me, Dakota, my special co pilot who will remain anonymous until we return to Arkansas, two cats, (until we hit KC then it will be 4) our luggage, medications, important documents, and enough snacks to survive an interstate invasion of gas station food. The rest? That's what moving containers were invented for. I...