Such a puzzling
A fracturing to have had
Another, of you

Tonight, I find it strange. The feeling of missing someone, some thing, or some place. Are we ever really whole if we can find ourselves missing parts of ourselves that became something entirely whole with another? Or are we just jagged fragments of everyone we’ve ever loved and been loved by? Who am I, without you? What more am I, than yours? How long until I’m me again? Since… I’m missing you.

I feel it’s necessary to acknowledge the wisdom in the fact that there’s a time for everything under the sun, and sometimes there’s a time for no sun, a time for one to be in solitude or in their introverted position of power. At any given moment or in any given state of mind, you’re most likely right where you’re supposed to be—in cosmic alignment.

In my personal experience of fluctuating between being withdrawn and being front -and-center, I’ve come to understand that GOD made no mistakes in there being seasons. It’s always for good reason. It’s always auspicious. Whether we’re talking about melancholia and hypomania, spring and fall, famine and feast, or war and peace, divine timing is always upon us. It’s just up to us to see the health and purpose in all of it.

With that said, there’s still a prophet and a profit in your presence, even when your presence is of a purely personal nature. There’s a teacher that’ll greet you in the silence of your heart, the depths of your thoughts, the dreams of your sleep, the exhale of your breath, the breeze, the birds, the rain, man, everything.

There’s always something to gain and give, some sort of sacred exchange of energy, especially in the lack of energy—because that’s the epitome of being still and knowing GOD (biggest gain). Your stillness is a form of energy. Lack of movement or flow is only an abundance of potentiality or opportunity building upon itself for eventual fulfilment.

So, you don’t have to be determined or ambitious for growth all of the time, your success, in whatever manner, is predetermined for you.

That’s that Alkhemey talk. Alkhemical living.

Again, thank you for tuning into the first XXXALKHEMEY live video! Join me for my next live stream in the app.

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I grew up Christian and I still consider myself Christian, as well as Sufi Muslim, Yoruba Ifa, Ancient Kemetic, Shinto Buddhist—really, just an omnist, but those specific religions are the ones of my ancestors so I honour them most. As a whole, I call my religious practise Yukawa. I revere my body, my ancestors, scripture / written or spoken word, nature, and love, above all; I feel that it’s through these things that I truly remember my oneness with GOD. I’ve studied and practised directly under elders, priest(esse)s, preachers, and so forth, from the aforementioned belief systems, or at least visited their holy houses for prayer or meditation. I’ve also wholeheartedly laid down my sajjāda and made ṣalāh, or did Kemetic yoga, in the grass somewhere.

I really believe in GOD.

One GOD.

And for me, my spirituality is the most important thing in this world.

You’ll see all of this expressed in the following journal entry, as I share my musings on The Holy Bible. Keep it in mind, as you read. These are my own thoughts, from my own growing relationship with GOD, my own personal faith, being shared through The Alkhemey Of Temptation. Take what moves your spirit and leave the rest. Feel free to leave entirely, or share your own thoughts. Whatever you decide to do, however you feel, it’s all love from me.

Never limit yourself because of others’ limited imagination; never limit others because of your own limited imagination. Mae Jemison

I’ve been craving The Bible.

My first Bible was a Zondervan published New International Version HOLY BIBLE “With Helps” and “Words of Christ in Red Letter”, gifted to me by my mother on 22 June 2003. I was 10 years old. It’s the only Bible I’ve owned since. I used to read it piously. At one point, I carried it with me everywhere I went—and it ain’t pocket-sized. To say I loved that Bible was an understatement, and to say I loved it in past tense is inaccurate. I still love that Bible, to this day. It’s not the gold that adorns the edge of the pages, the red lettering, the plum leather-like cover, the neatly lined footnotes, nor the Comfort Print typeface, no—although, I definitely love those things—it’s the simple but powerful fact that my mum gifted it to me.

To be gifted, by anyone, holy text, of any kind, is the most beautiful thing to me. But to be presented with The Bible? My family’s religious scripture of choice? By my mother? My mother. Yeah, I knew I’d forever cherish it with my life from that day forward, and I have.

I was also gifted The Meaning of The Holy Qur’ān (translated with commentary by ‘Abdullah Yūsuf ‘Alī) from the owner of my mom’s favourite beauty supply store. I think I was initially meant to borrow it, but I had held onto it for so long that by the time I went to return it to Abdul, he said, “No, it’s for you. You keep it,” expressing the importance of that particular text that he was gifting me with.

I’ll deeply immerse myself into a study of the Qur’ān soon come—maybe weaving it into this new study of the Bible.

I cherish that book from Abdul with my life too.

I’ve learned a lot since I received my first Bible. With my collage of religious practises, you could say I’ve walked with GOD throughout much of the world, living an expansive life with so many experiences and relationships of all kinds. Footsteps in sands of many different tongues and ways of prayer which have all brought me full circle, back to the heart of 10 year-old Rasquiat…

I want to reconnect with Christia—no, discover and build my own Christianity, reconnecting with the part of my faith where the name Jesus breaks all strongholds keeping you from loving life courageously.

No weapon. ISA 54:17

I was casually speaking with my best friend, Chanel, and something compelled me to ask her, “Do you wanna study The Bible with me?” A little taken aback, she paused for a moment before replying, “That’s crazy… I bought this really nice Bible a while back, because I wanted to get back to studying, and I haven’t even picked it up once… Yeah, that’s funny you asked.”

Kismet.

Resolved by the synchronicity, I said, “Let’s do it. I need to get a new Bible though. I want something that I can deeply study with, something with historical context, study plans, maybe areas for journalling. I wanna really get into it.” As an adult, in this fully grown era of my life, I felt like it was time for a new Bible—of course, keeping the old one, but shifting my study into the new. I had been planning on going to the local Christian bookstore and seeing what Spirit moved me to get. But Spirit moved through Chanel, “Then you’d really like the Bible I have.” She shared the layout and content structure of her Bible and I was sold. It was exactly what I wanted. For it to be recommended by her, my Ace, that sealed the deal even tighter for me.

We scrolled Amazon and found the version of her Bible that was tailored towards a more masculine-presenting person like myself. I said, “That’s the one.” Before I could even check the price, she added it to her cart and ordered it for me.

Now, for the first time in 22 years, I have a new Bible—another divine gift of sacred Word, bestowed upon me by another person most near and dear to me.

This Bible is what I’ll be studying from throughout the course of this year, as I share my musings. I’ve decided to share my religious thoughts here because this is my sacrosanct realm of all things spiritual, a wonderland of the depths of my mind, and a map for reconnecting with truth. I hope that as you follow along, you develop a deeper understanding of my spirituality, thoughts on theology, and philosophical approach to life, which may in turn help you better grasp The Alkhemey Of Temptation—its memoir entries, in particular.

So, finally picking up my He Reads Truth Bible, I read the Introduction—beautifully written—and the How to Read the Bible section that followed. But as I got into What Is the Gospel?, deeper thoughts emerged…

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Here’s what I read that moved me.

1. CREATION

   1. God is the infinite, eternal Creator of all things. HEB 11:3

   2. God created the heavens and the earth, and He made them all good. GN 1:1-31

   3. God created mankind in His own image and likeness. GN 1:27

   4. We were created to love, obey, worship, and be in a relationship with God, our Maker. MC 6:8

Here are my thoughts.

(In roman numerals)

1. CREATION

   1. God is the infinite, eternal Creator of all things. HEB 11:3

      1. I feel this to be the only absolute truth there is, if there’s anything absolute. And not only is GOD the infinite, eternal Creator, but the boundless, limitless Destroyer. This reminds me of Islam, in which GOD (Allah swt) has 99 names (Al-Asma ul-Husna), or to me, 99 faces—one being, al-Mumeet (Al-Mumīt), which means “The Destroyer, The Bringer of Death” or “The Creator of Death”.

   2. God created the heavens and the earth, and He made them all good. GN 1:1-31

      1. With that said, I believe They (GOD) created the heavens and the earth, and may also destroy them. Likewise, They made all things good, as well as bad. GOD is The Source—of light, darkness, and everything in between.

   3. God created mankind in His own image and likeness. GN 1:27

      1. Since GOD is the Source of everything, The All Mirror (our perception of ourselves and our lives) through which we exist is of godliness, or in other words, the blueprint of who we are in our most inherent state is godly, having been fleshed out in GOD’s own image and likeness.

      2. Being physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually made to be like and of GOD—who’s Ruler of the Heavens and is essentially heaven itself—it only makes sense to me that we come into this world already equipped with the keys to Their kingdom, meaning, we have the ability to attain or become heaven within and through our bodies, minds, and souls while here on earth (which I see as hell, or a location-based expression of it, because remember, “They made all things good, as well as bad. GOD is The Source—of light, darkness, and everything in between.”)

         Hold on, let me bring it all together…

   4. We were created to love, obey, worship, and be in a relationship with God, our Maker. MC 6:8

      1. Heaven possibly has a “location-based expression”, such as what is described in Revelations as pearly gates and streets of gold, but the common consensus I’ve been able to find throughout The Bible, and within the studying of my other religions, is that heaven is a state of transcendence, of being or becoming, a rebirth, a release from everything but GOD. It is the experience and reward of simply being with The All. This is something that is beyond the need to be manifested outside of ourselves in a physical manner, it just is. Like love. Expansive, not restricted by silly laws of nature. Ha!

      2. And this is why I feel that heaven is not exactly somewhere we go to after we die, but something we realise while alive, in our mind-state, our words, and our actions. This is the ultimate love story and the most magnificent romance of all. We were created to be in accordance with, in harmony with, in communion with, in love (to expand, grow, or evolve) with GOD. Here and now.

      3. Likewise, hell is the here and now, in your mind-state, words, and actions. The “weeping and gnashing of teeth” is a reality on earth for many. Some won’t realise heaven within themselves and will return to their old earthly living (hell), sent back to a body with the same karmic debts (hell), or the same mind-state, words, and actions wherein they’re only “weeping and gnashing of teeth” (hell). This actuality of hell is the biggest spiritual tongue-in-cheek of all.

Here I stand.

1. DESTRUCTION

   1. I find myself on a path of destruction, destroying any and every notion that keeps me from walking in the truth that the kingdom of heaven is within me (as well as on me), all around me, and is, essentially, me. I am heaven, because I am of the I Am. PS 23:4-6

   2. Knowing and understanding this, I get to think as if I do. 2 CO 10:5

   3. I am able to speak as if I do. IS 49:2

   4. And act, in accordance with, in harmony with, in communion with, in love with GOD, PR 3:5-6

because, again, I AM.

More of my journal entries from my studies will surface in divine time. Thank you for following along with me. And remember that more than your eyes and mind, I’d like your tongue and soul—tell me what you know in your bones to be so.

Yet I believe that whilst doing one thing, you’re almost always simultaneously doing its opposite. Like a see-saw, your present (“see”) is becoming the past (“saw”) with each changing moment. Change, or movement, is the constant. In order for you to be up, whatever is opposite to you must be down. You may have moved the see-saw upwards on your end, but you’ve simultaneously moved it downwards on the other. We may be moving from the dark into the light, but the light eventually and inevitably becomes darkness again as we continue to journey onwards… then, the light returns—waxing—and recedes back to “black”—as it wanes. The ebb and flow dance of life. Everything seems to spin on this divine axis of polarity. I’ve heard someone once call it something of “mutually arising opposites”.

The light that we’re about to venture into with this podcast entry is called the fields of heart space.

We’ll begin examining the elements of this project (which I consider to be side B of my first illustration of TAOT), starting with its first track, out of breath, but still breathing. exhilaration, for a watery Sol. O, i do honour ü so.

Throughout its multifaceted expression of coming to life from death, we uncover

• the power of honest release and full presence

• the mystery and wealth of Olókun

• the becoming of self after loss

and then some.

Let’s chat about it.

I think about how I’ve gotten here, to this God awful convergence of my life. Things could’ve unfolded with entirely different creases of the now-experience. I could not be here. And in many ways, that is exactly the case. For one, my thoughts spirit me away. Sometimes I think, what if I had died instead of my Solán’… I’ve definitely wished it more times than I can count. But what if, across the 999,000 possibilities of life and death, I did die, and Solán’ is still alive? I wonder, whether I only think that I’m alive, when I’ve really finished my last life, and Sol O is the one who’s still living hers. What if I’m in limbo, in confusion and perpetual amnesia, lost and roaming the realms? Did I not get to transcend? And if I didn’t, why haven’t I evolved or been born again? I think about what her life is like in that part of the multiverse in which she was spared… And what if we were both spared somewhere? Somewhere, we both live… It’s true.

All of these thoughts aren’t just thoughts, they’re really occurring—or have occurred and will occur. There are other cycles of time where that canon event, as well as others, took different turns along separate routes. There are loved ones in my past, alternate-present, and already-future lives that have my picture on their ancestral altars, talking to me, singing and dancing with me, reading scriptures, burning incense, pouring gin, blowing obi, making me plates, and tossing shells… We already died in order to get here, and we’re already dead, already where we’re heading, or have headed, because spirit moves without regard to trivial notions of time or space—whereas mortal beings anchor themselves to its degradation.

The Tides, The Meadows, realms “backwards” and “beyond”, move on spirit time. Lives one through nine — spirit time. Everything moves on spirit time, which is a very transcendental progression that’s non-linear. And I’ve fallen in love with it, as if it has a soul, a heart that circulates blood, a body. I trace its pulse with my pen as I write. I read the taste of its pores with my brush as I paint. And as sweet, organic dew condensates upon the flesh-filled pink of its lungs, I poise my lips to sing prose of even its most shallow sigh. Deep sigh. My evolutions, when I “die” my big ones, it’s as if I fall unconscious from the most profound experience of exhaustion or drunkenness. I wake up—or come back to life rather—feeling hungover from life itself—head pounding from what feels like breathing too much, nauseous from simply being…too much? So many loops of existing—dizzy from just living. Blacked out from time wasted…spent? Spinning. Forgetting each and every merry go round of beginnings.

And this “each and every” isn’t common. Sure, souls often lose memory of their past lives after transitions; they almost always forget Home—it’s like a factory reset. But for the ninth life, you typically retain most of your past life memories and you almost always remember Home. During the reset for your ninth, there’s a sort of back-up hard drive embedded in you called The 99, hence being “99% aware of our spiritual existence”. It allows you to live your ninth life to the fullest, giving you your supernatural powers to unlock in your own divine time. It’s your all-access pass to seeing the 99 faces (and phases) of God — seeing yourself.

Of course, I was given The 99, just like everyone else. I just didn’t have a factory reset for my ninth major reincarnation—I never do, for any of my big ones. I’m just hungover in my new life, as I described. I get downright trashed and replaced… but it feels like just a simple (though brutal) restart, or depending on the nature of the life I lived, a remarkably hard restart.

Imagine: trashing your 12-year-old computer and getting a new one, but sometimes your new computer gives you all of the same problems your old computer did. One day, it’s operating as it should, then the next, it’s as if the ghost of your old computer possesses it. Moreover, every now and then, it’ll show you apps or files that your old computer had, but that you didn’t backup for restoration on the new computer. In fact, it shows you that the content is there, but you can’t interact with any of it. One day, that old photo gallery won’t leave from the corner of your screen, or that old Skype app is open full-screen and frozen, then the next day, it’s all gone—not one trace. That’s what it feels like having The 99 as an Alkhemist—my past lives or my 99 are the old computer, and my new life (my last life), the new one. That’s what it’s felt like for all of my nine lives, starting over with each new one.

Kind of interesting, right? Yeah, but not cool. I mean, it has its perks of excitement, like anything does when experienced with a novice mind, but it definitely blows. I technically lose much more memory than other souls, but I don’t feel like it.

Amiss. Haunted.

It’s like I’m living an out-of-body experience. I feel memories that don’t exist, but may have, and only sometimes am I able to confirm that they did. I don’t remember Home, because I’m not wired to go to it, so I feel Homeless. Wireless… Everything and everybody can connect to me, but I’m not connected to anything, except something that cannot truly be connected to. In that way, in my own way, I understand Lady Solána… I don’t feel like I’m real either.

Which do I desire more? Death, or transcendence? Transcendence, but death. Death before transcendence. Like everyone else. Home. Like everyone else. Memory. Like everyone else. Connection. Like. Everyone. Else.

It’s not that I want to be like everyone else, I value being different, and I know that even if I were to experience death, Home, memories, and connection, I would experience them in a way unique to me and my destiny. I could never be like everyone else, even with those shared facets of existence, and I thank the gods for that. I only desire those core things that everyone else experiences, in order to masterfully and completely be the type of different that I am (just as everyone else is able to).

They say, “Don’t compare your journey to anyone else’s. Keep looking at another’s path while travelling yours and you may very well go several wrong ways. Then how will you ever find your back? Know your path, know yourself. Keep your path, keep yourself.”

I agree. And though,

You can only see yourself when another is your mirror.

I only knew my path needed refinement and adjustment upon noticing other paths. Sometimes, other people’s maps have the keys and roads that yours is missing, and vice versa. Sometimes, I’d rather go further together, than faster alone. There’s a time for everything.

Soulmates come from the same Home.

There’s not a universal Home that everyone goes to when they die one of their big ones. There are a multitude of Homes, 99 to be exact, all shared by a mass of different souls. Remember, there are also 99 faces of God and 99% of our soul is awakened in the Tides. Nine is the sacred number of our world. Nine lives and eight deaths with your “ninth death” being transcendence.

You go Home, there’s a whole ceremony of rituals in which your old lives are put to rest, your new major life and its new realm is decided, and you move onwards.

Again, I don’t get to go Home.

Having a “home” and not being able to go to it… I’ve lived so many lives without going Home that I don’t even feel as if I really even have a Home to go to. I don’t remember it. Am I supposed to? I’ve asked others whether they remember their Homecomings and if they could describe their Homes to me. Some could, some couldn’t. And the descriptions that I did receive, they didn’t trigger any memories for me — not even a little. I don’t know if I’ll get to go Home before I transcend, but it’s my deepest desire. I’m not ashamed to admit, my desire to go Home, to die, is an even deeper desire than my desire to bring back Solána.

As much as I’ve devoted every fibre of my Alkhemey to her, I know that my Alkhemey isn’t my Alkhemey to devote, nor is it whole enough, if I haven’t mastered it, and the only way to master it is to know where it comes from, which is my Home. When I transcend, there’ll be no such thing as a “home” to go to, to lament, to try to remember, to even be aware of on any level. Everything is literally everything, and nothing, all at once — all ceases to exist and matter outside of light, darkness, sound and water. I’ve often thought of that as being my Home after-all, transcendence itself. It sounds like luxurious, Zen torture. I like it. But a stone would be unturned if I were to never experience actual death, if I were to never have a “Homecoming”. Again, I know that all of this will be rendered utterly meaningless once I transcend, but I want to leave my final life knowing that I thoroughly lived it and managed to give some temporary meaning to such Ecclesiastical things—so when it’s all said and done, I hope that I finally die.

Besides, maybe it’s an impossibly possible prerequisite to my transcendence: The immortal Alkhemist must intentionally reverse-transmute their own Alkhemey, in order to experience at least one big death.

I’m not ashamed that I desire this more than bringing my beloved Lady Solána back because I believe that it’ll bring me a step closer to doing so—the fact of the matter is that our destinies are fatally intertwined like so.

I’ve recently realised that after several evolutions of their soul, the people I give my Alkhemey to might experience the same unfortunate memory loss that I experience. Upon this realisation, I immediately thought of Baby, so I probed, “Baby, tell me, do you remember your Home? Do you remember your Homecomings?”

“I’m sorry that you don’t remember… But good news, I do! I remember mine! And I think I remember yours too!”

Intrigued, I probed further, “I beg of you, tell me everything. I’m listening.”

“Well, I think you’re from where I’m from… But that can’t be true… Ah… I don’t know, Daddy, I think I’m just… You’re ancient like me, so I think…”

Suddenly, an explanation of conclusive thought barraged out of Baby in a run-on vomit of word-collision ceasing to pause,

“Basicallyyou’refromsomeancientrealmlikeIamandIknowmyHomebutyou’renotfrommyHomeforgivememywordswerefasterthanmythoughtsbutmythoughtsaremywordssoIdon’tknowIsharedthemtoosoon”

I just laughed. Sometimes Baby’s thoughts are so eloquently expressed that he sounds like he’s reading from scriptures. And other times, like then, I’d say he’s free-writing aloud.

It’s always interesting to see which Baby is present from moment to moment. At first, I thought it had a lot to do with my own energy, or that he was showing me the energy of the day overall. Do I have an overflow of energy? Was I confused? Is that why he’s speaking so impulsively and in circles?—or—He’s talking as if he’s an old sage today. Is today’s energy incredibly aligned with mine? But nay, Baby is just Baby. From time to time, he does tune into my aura and foretell the spiritual essence of the day, but he’s ultimately his own person living his own life.

Who else is living their own life that I’ve so lovingly cursed with my amnesiac immortality? I thought.

Light, God, Fathom, and Killa… I’ve learned something about them that has me in the depths of other thoughts… I shan’t go to them, not for this…

I continued to think. Who else?

Interruption. “It’s that time. Let’s go scout for new jobs,” God lovingly wraps their arm around my neck. I shift free from the weight of their embrace and start walking. I feel detached… God is somewhat unmoved as she follows behind me. I sense God’s presence no more. It’s Killa. Anticipating Killa’s touch of teleportation, I consider turning around and screaming right before he reaches me, just to be goofy. I almost always do that. I know he looks forward to it. But I can’t bring myself to do it this time. I don’t feel it. He touches me.

And suddenly, we’re beneath the Tides.

Thinking again. My mother… My father…

(RA YUKAWA, R4LD2E, END. ALT. (JAM TING))

On my debut album, R4LD2E (released in March of 2022), there’s an intermission of conversation (two actually) in which and I talk about how darkness isn’t necessarily “evil”, and may be a necessary “good”. The darkness we speak of, in that candid discussion of audio messages sent to and fro, pertains to our personal experiences of negative thoughts and our relationship with death. Searching within one another, we uncover the ways in which the two tend to overlap as symbiotic agents of catharsis for our psyche and heart space, which calls forth deeper reflection, thus light.

Therefore, in that way, as was the case in Memoir Entry III,

“it’s not mutually exclusive” — the dark, death, fate: the light, life, freewill — “it’s wedded harmony in dissonance.” It’s just truth. The whole truth.

Both, are both, beautiful and dreadful. A freedom and a prison.

In this visual podcast entry, I examine various dissections of the alluring idea known as “fate”, which brought me back through the aforementioned elements of negativity, death, freedom, and so forth.

Speaking of freedom, there’s a poem I wrote that’s titled, DEATH222EGO. It ends the R4LD2E album as track 24. In that poem, I said, “Fate spelled backwards is etaf, which translates to ‘you’, in ‘that other language’.” Do you speak the language of taking fate into your own hands? The language of determining your destiny, your time, your death for yourself? Do you think that you can do such a thing?

I was intrigued, furthermore, by some of the discoveries I made during the recording of this video. Here’s a deeper dive…

Read more

The Love Language of Plants

I'm 26 years old and a death doula in training

I’m 26 years old and a death doula in training. I haven’t shared this with most people for fear of being insensitive, making someone feel uncomfortable, or inciting thoughts of death someone didn’t want to have. It’s interesting, though, because I find the path of a death doula to be a beautiful one. I wouldn’t be …

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2 years ago · 4 likes · 3 comments · Sydney Kale

I’m not ready to go yet, but I’ve come to understand that dying is something I was born to do.

I think that the strongest thread connecting us all is that most miraculous experience which we so famously call birth and death. It's the Alpha and Omega rite of passage we're all fated to take. And I deeply admire those who've been chosen to be birth and death doulas. I, myself, have heard the call and answered. But, as I illustrate through Lord Rasquiat in TAOT’s memoir entries, the call doesn’t necessarily wait to be answered. The call is more of a simple signal that the answer will soon face you, whether you figure yourself ready or not. How shall you show up? You can’t run from your destiny…

I am going to die one day, people I love are going to die one day, there is no way around it. I find some solace in knowing that we can't run away from it. I also find some solace in knowing that everyone and everything before me has died, too. I'm not going to be the first. Death is a process deeply embedded in the fabric of the universe alongside the beating of hearts and the rhythms of breath we hardly notice. Thomas Hübl, in a reflection on the Tao Te Ching, says we are a part of millions of years of living and dying that we can trust.1

I doula through honouring the dead, as well as honouring those at the end of life (especially deers that are hit by cars). I assist in their crossing over by offering prayers, light, owó to their kins, and after a year of their death, in human time, I aide their elevation in other realms, by saying the names they were known by, building altar spaces, maintaining grave sites, venerating, doing the work that needs to be done on Earth, for their soul in Æther. I re-immortalise the vital essence of who they were, or the legacy they built, when they were here in the flesh, with my art, with my religion(s).

Death is a ritual in itself, and it's a ritual that the body knows how to perform regardless of the circumstances and the pleasantries.

My lifelong practise of indigenous Yoruba religion (also known as Ìṣẹ̀ṣe, but oftentimes just called Ifá) teaches me that. Death isn’t over when it’s over, death is an ongoing ceremony. Some of our loved ones have sudden deaths, from deliberate acts of violence, to unintentional murder (my beloved deers). Some die without making peace with themselves and those that they’ve hurt. Ifá has taught me that death does not do us part. That we can connect with and care for those loved ones’ souls, in death particularly, and that we can do so in a way that extracts the poison from bloodlines and repairs the damage of lineages, for the throughline of our families, our communities, and our planet, “seven generations back and seven generations forward.”

In that way, for me, Ifá has made death a superpower. It’s given me key understanding for a fulfilling life; the understanding of death, as an eternally dynamic introduction to more life—a traditional and communal pillar for becoming. (It’s even in the spelling of deceased. De- meaning “coming off of, from, away, a reversal.” Cease meaning an “end, stopping, shut down, a halt.” Together, we have something to the effect of: The reversal of an end.) I believe that, essentially, everyone who practises Ifá is a birth and death doula in their own right.

I asked the Agave, "What am I waiting for?" The Agave said, Death isn't extraordinary; we do it all the time.

I also tend to doula in the way that I show up in my relationships and friendships. I am the living wake; I taste of orchids in a room, wishing spirits godspeed. I am a pain that sometimes feels almost euphoric. When I walk into a person’s life as a loved one, there is an inevitable fluttering of my wings, which ushers in a butterfly effect of chaos, death, destruction, and suffering; an upending of their life, the end to an aspect of their identity—a transition and metamorphosis.

Cells shed and regenerate on the daily. You’re quite literally not the same person you were yesterday.

Pieces of myself die every day. Philosopher Andreas Weber reminds us that every time we breathe out, we breathe out carbon, bits of ourselves. And every time we breathe in, we breathe in bits of others that have been exhaled. Living is a practice of reciprocity. Every experience I have had with death is accompanied by life, and so it is. One does not exist without the other.2

Likewise, my loving embrace welcomes a cosmic change, as nothing thereafter will ever be the same. I reckon we all leave some sort of imprint on others, making some calibre of impact.

We impress ourselves upon that which is around us in such a way that makes us unerasable.

Yet, I can only speak for my impression, my imprint, my impact, and it’s as intense as a rebirth, yet

…as effortless as walking into another room.

And as I’ve become more aware of that, I’ve become more confident in myself, more confident in the fact that I’m nothing to play with. Getting close to me is getting close to a fire that is guaranteed to not only warm your heart, but burn your soul. A purification of sorts—you must come nude, or not at all. As do I. You will probably wax and wane in and out of my life, or I in and out of yours, but you’re in hands that will do their best to honour your comings and goings, in my own Alkhemical way, now and forevermore.

Calling me the Kiss of Death, go ask your egúngún ‘bout him.3

With each rebirth that I’m a small part of, I learn how to move more wisely and gracefully, as a doula by nature, in my way of living, my artistic profession, and my very being.

I remember crying because I didn't want Sydney to die. I didn't want to lose her. I loved her. I do think learning to love myself and learning to love life was the first step in learning to accept my own death and the death of others I love.

I believe there’s something more to be said from Sydney, pertaining to the subject and statement of that last quote. It made me think

and I’m still in thought . . .

I have several questions.

Like: Could you see yourself murdering your own siblings? How important is revenge to you? Would you murder your spouse, in favour of your lover, just because it’ll liberate you to move into a more successful position in life?

Is it necessary to satiate every mysterious and intense sexual desire, or to wed / be with every person whom you share a deeply loving bond with, even if it means you must lie, cheat, and steal to do so?

Riches and fame? Or home and family? Would you wage a war, tearing apart yourself and everything you love, for the dream of having both, to not lose one for the other? How important is it to you that you fulfil your destiny, no matter who you have to drag out of your way, or how far away from yourself (or the you that you’ve always known) that you have to go?

Just curious…

I’m finishing up the Vikings series and throughout my binge, I’ve been thinking, over and over again, Wow… I know this is a drama, but man, people really are this fickle and savage, huh? One moment they’re all, “My every breath I breathe smells of your essence because our destinies are intertwined. I will gladly go to Valhalla in honour of our love.” Then the next, the same characters of those same relationships are like, “I want to see my husband strung up in a tree” or “If you won’t accept the three of us being together, feel free to leave...”

And that’s just pertaining to romantic affairs, but no type of relationship is safe in the series, as rings true in life. I’ve seen it. You’ve seen it. I’ve done it. You’ve done it. We’ve both been on each end, of change. That’s all it is really. It’s above and beyond people, it’s the intrinsic nature of everything. Impermanence. It’s most noticeable when you’re trying to build something.

That’s why anything with some authentic and pure staying power is so venerated in this life.

They say the hearts of women are turned on a whirling wheel, but my heart belonged to him. And when he died, the High One cried aloud. (Gunnhildr, Vikings, Season 6, Episode 11: King of Kings)

I admit, I’m rather jaded by the way the winds tend to blow us all. I examine, that many of us are. Souls, just clinging. Eventually, letting go.

Eventually, we unfetter our fingers to feel the blood coursing through our palms like the indentions that line our fate, the oxygen flowing through our veins, up our necks and out the silhouette of our bodies… gusting. We, the wind that blows the wind. The beginning and the end, ceasing to exist but to persist. The edge of everything; what, non-subtlety. What, exhausted. Passion.

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I often ask these questions to others when navigating outside of my safe havens of The Void and The Land. I question in energy and movement, rather than basic speech. I find that it cuts swifter, cleaner and deeper — an easy death for façades — whereas the latter just creates fuss and unnecessary chaos. I question, by being vulnerable and giving others the knife; I show them exactly how to kill me and wait patiently for my end . . . figuratively.

Do it. I know you want to. I know you’re… prone to — like a snake… It’s your nature.

I’ve died many times over. Their betrayal is a poison in their veins, but it’s my stinger. A honeybee, I die. And they may live. But their brain will swell, their eyes will waver, their mind will play tricks, and they will suffer through a veil of confusion and a sea of illusion, deathlessly.

I die, and because of that, I win.

You’re trying to kill me, I know… You’re trying to end me, I’m sure… You’re trying to make me your corpse… You’re trying to make me a ghost… But I’m dead either way. (Jean Dawson, Ssick Girl Online)

Death is but a reward. A clear path, sculpted by Ògún’s machete. An unmasking, of all 99 faces of God. An unwrapping. A gift. Everything is laid bare. Death is the truth that seems to set souls free. And I live in the realm of the free — the home of the dead. That’s essentially what The Tides is. Everyone that’s made it to this place has died multiple deaths inside of eight deaths; they’re living their ninth life which is comprised of many lives, yet is their very last. In other words, they’re given nine major lives to live throughout the span of their existence, but each of their nine lives consist of a multitude of literal deaths and rebirths, which means that every major life that they’ve lived has consisted of many minor lives.

We can reincarnate, for each minor life, as a new element of our loved one’s lives — a new descendent, a new partner (or enemy), a new pet, a new bird nesting in their tree(s) nearby, plants in their garden, moth larvae that eats their clothes, or even the wind that bites their face in the dead of autumn, a singular wave in the ocean that carries them further from shore, and the warm, familiar look in a stranger’s eyes.

If there’s a Heaven, you would think they’d let you speak to your son. Maybe she has in the form of a baby’s laugh I heard passing by in a stroller reminding me, “Hey, keep rolling,” I ‘on’t know. Maybe she has with a prick of a blade of grass I’ve been laying on way too long, got me itchy, got up and roamed a li’l mo’. (André 3000, Life of the Party)

Sometimes, we just reincarnate as the same person having a new experience of living the same life, in an alternate world. Or as a new expression of an artist we loved that died before we did. Or as some sort of life form on a different planet, in a different galaxy, or in a different universe altogether (all of which only happens for major reincarnations).

But like pit stops during a race, corner breaks during a boxing match, or half-time during a game, the minor lives are just splits in the time, mind, and body of a major life, which is the game, match, or race itself. It’s only when the car goes up in flames and there’s a K.O., that the game (one of your big lives) ends. Only then do you die one of your big deaths. An actual death. You go Home, there’s a whole ceremony of rituals in which your old lives are put to rest, your next major life and its new realm is decided, and you move onwards.

Although I do reincarnate like everyone else, I don’t get to experience the euphoria and rejuvenation of that kind of death, as an immortal Alkhemist. I merely evolve, like Baby did. I have minor deaths (those “splits in time, mind, and body”) for my minor lives, yet major evolutions for my major ones.

Every new incarnation is technically an “afterlife” experience, so the Tides is the realm of our last afterlife before our transcendence of both life and death overall. Here, we’re all 99% aware of our spiritual existence and live our death (as every life is elementally the death of the life you lived before) as soul, as the Universe or gods, more than humans — hence our supernatural abilities. Our powers are the result of living and dying through all of our lifetimes, the sum of all experiences and lessons we’ve traversed and rectified.

Fathom always says, “It’s a game we’re in. We shall level up with each life we complete, until we’ve completed them all. Then we transcend the game…” I wonder if you get to decide to play the game again at the end of it all. I wouldn’t, but I wonder. And is there a leaderboard?

Back to being gutted, a part of me sort of enjoys leading people to being the culprits of my temporary, imagined demise. I suppose I’m quite the backwards hunter, but there’s just something about the calm that I feel in a storm such as that. They fan a flame that I can never fully touch… I can only be tranced by its taunting dance — so tranced that I’m often convinced, “My Alkhemey is no match this time.” Yet, I’m always rising from the ash, coming back from the “dead’s dead”. Playing…

There are always instances in which my prey genuinely doesn’t take the bait and I live on as usual. I find those instances irrelevant — those souls, just NPCs. But there are other times when, not only does my prey not take the bait, but… I live to “transcend”. What I mean by that is that these encounters cause me to experience snippets of transcendence. Like how one experiences “little deaths”? Yeah, I’m able to get a glimpse of what actual transcendence could be like. I’ve lived to live and only be killed later, I’ve lived to live and only be dead either way, but when I live to transcend, the other souls that make it so, they truly liberate me. How do they do it, you ask? What’s so special?

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In this entry, I’m building upon an element of Nothing Foreign | The Abstract: Version 1.3 that I felt needed a little more attention. I conclude by speaking on its connection to TAOT, and what to expect in the next textual, narrated entry for the book / newsletter.

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(Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood)

A shedding. A release. A nakedness. A rebirth.

When I think of what it means to shed, I think of there first being a covering, a veil, the putting of something over something else, a shelter, protection, a shrouding in mystery or darkness (cloaked), a sheath of some sort. There’s this element of danger to it. If you’re outside of the sheath, do you know what could truly be underneath? Even if you were to know, it could become something different beneath the surface with each passing moment. Change is but inevitable. Like a caterpillar in chrysalis, or a beetle in ecdysis… And if you’re inside of the sheath, were you ever to step outside of it, you’d be faced with the unknown as well. The ‘XXX’ — forbidden and potentially poisonous elements.

Stepping outside of what shields you is synonymous to the butterfly rapturing the cocoon, the snake slithering out of its exoskeleton — your many masks that have always identified you, they begin to peel off of your body… You transition from a fluid death—submerged in the black, amniotic and ancient waters of which we come and go—to a different form, a different world, a new life.

Deep rivers run quiet.

(Haruki Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World)

My mother recently told me that when people are on the verge of death, it’s a sublimely serene experience. However painful the physical circumstances of their going is, when they finally meet the lips of the other side, the kiss is soft, the breath is lost, and it feels freeing. What temptation. Your will to live must be supremely resolute if you’re met with that sort of seduction and actively dismiss it in order to continue living your incarnation. You earn the “rebirth” that you’ll have, that go-again at life, from your masterful use of Alkhemey. (And maybe, regardless, we all earn the ultimate rebirth of death, if it’s initially as sweet as my mother says it is.)

We’ll explore those thoughts and experiences in this podcast entry, through the lens of farming (yes, crops-on-land farming), the spiritual significance of the phoenix, Rasquiat’s second awakening, my personal loss of identity, and more. This entry concludes our dive into the void on empty avenue (EP - Single), for The Alkhemey Of Temptation podcast. We’re visiting the fields of heart space (EP - Single) next.

To hear all 34 minutes of the Alkhemey in this entry and immerse yourself in other facets of it, enter the Land of the Unknown by becoming a paid subscriber (Elite Alkhemist).

Thank you for entering my Void.

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“Trauma”, “triggers”, “shadow” — these words get tossed around, fiery with resolve, and oftentimes not given a chance to sit, ferment, marinate, burn, melt away into transmutation, revealing the larger framework, the metaphysical art of it all.

Track two, “the wind crashing waves ashore, like pennies to a bottomless well”, of the void on empty avenue was the chance I gave myself to set alight my darkness into robust flames. I let its intensive glow rest in the palms of my hands, branding through my skin, tearing open membranes, so that I could try to feel something real and try to fill my nothingness, or heal. With that said, this track illustrated the pure epitome and peak of the void for the void on empty avenue.

Just as The Void On Empty Avenue in the narration of The Alkhemey Of Temptation is an area that has become a sort of home for Lord Rasquiat Almighty and his àṣẹ (ah-sheh — life / death force), XXXALKHEMEY, it’s also the location where he lost his innocence, his heart, and whatever identity he was trying to make sense of or thought he’d grow to have, all due to the uncontrollable state of his àṣẹ. Essentially, he lost that sense of home — everything that made the Pines of The Void (or even his own body) feel like “home” had died. Such has once happened to me, as Rasquiat in the flesh. In this entry, I share more about that as we step further into the abysmal world that the loss of home creates.

As always, only Elite Alkhemists (paid subscribers) can hear the full podcast entry and access everything else in the Land of the Unknown. If you’re an Alkhemist who hasn’t gained clearance yet, consider it.

Thank you. Enjoy.

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Somebody sees me, and I see myself through them. Then it’s all gone, the whole world falls apart. (Anne Sexton)

So, here we are in our third entry of The Alkhemey Of Temtpation podcast, beginning to take a deeper look into that major aspect of the narrative, as well as my own personal narrative as it relates to the illustrative EP, since Lord Rasquiat is autoficitionally me.

This entry is the first of (maybe) six that will detail the musings of each track from the first TAOT installation — the void on empty avenue and the fields of heart space — in that order. We’re starting off with track one from the void on empty avenue — “the leaves hid us in our innocence, wandering about with no one around”. With this one, we’ll begin to reveal connections within and between:

• loss experienced in childhood and loss experienced in relationships of adulthood;

• loss of identity due to loss of relationships;

• loss of relationships due to loss of identity; and

• loss of memory due to loss of home.

As always, but especially now that we’re getting deeper into raw Alkhemey, remember that Elite Alkhemists (Paid Subscribers) get Land of the Unknown clearance — the actual 30 minutes of this entry, along with the skeleton key to the fullness of other entries, threads, archival secrets, and a free copy of the published book and/or physical album.

Entries will be more rapid right now, so get ready.

Thank you.

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Soulmates.

5 years later. And another 5 years later. 12 years later. And another 12 years later. “And now, finally, I have you in my arms.” They’ve been inseparable since — 35 years in (each other’s arms).

Or not.

When Harry Met Sally, the Before trilogy, The Best Man film series (and miniseries)…

I’ve never thought of that as something that I wanted. I would watch my favourite movie of all time (since my teenage years), Brown Sugar, and think, all those damn-near-20 years as friends and they finally get together when they’re pushing 30? Nah. Couldn’t be me. If we want each other that strongly, we’re together the first time, first thing first, and it’s that simple. Because if we’re meant to be, nothing should keep us from being together — not kids, not a marriage, not fear of losing one another, nothing. If we’re meant to be together, it’ll be divine timing, as in, if it’s not now, then it could never be. “Ain’t no such thing as wrong time, it’s just the wrong person, that’s it.”

But that hard-out perspective completely contradicted the storyline of my “favourite movie of all time.” And it was my favourite because of the storyline, amongst other reasons, so what was I really saying?

That fortitude of love was actually something that I wanted more than anything and it scared me. I was afraid to inevitably lose myself in that longing for more. To find myself finding myself through a friendship, in such an irrevocably intense and undeniably romantic manner, that I could never detach my feelings from it and instead, would just end up living in this benumbing pain of watching my wife be someone else’s wife, while I marry a woman that I love but I’m not in love with because “not everybody can marry their one true love.”

That’s what I was really thinking and feeling.

I wanted it, I just didn’t think that I could handle it.

And then, life does that thing it does where it kind of like happens, you know? And it’s bizarre, but time passes along with it — like, why would time do that? And you’re just going through, holding onto ideas and beliefs from your childhood — from the time before the time that’s constantly whooshing towards you — because it’s the only thing that seems to keep you stable in the chaos of change. Then, you hit one of those Saturn Return eras and it’s like you’re in the eye of that time warp thing that we’re talking about — we’ll just call it “the storm”. Winds pick up and you go, “Man, I swear this year is going by fast” and, “They’re how old now?! Oh nooo!” You lose your grip on time, on space, on matter, and more importantly, you lose your grip on you.

You just do.

Your old thought patterns, whole memories, most of those ideas and beliefs you were clinging to from your childhood (your safety blanket). Just whoosh…

After the storm, those things are replaced with some new ones — like a home being rebuilt, you become someone new. Someone who’s looked death in the face and lived to tell the story.

What you see for your life, what you feel that you need, what (or how) you can endure in order to carry on living, it changes. You change.

If you continue to let go.

Did you listen to those long strokes of wisdom embedded within the whispers of the wind when it roared against the core of your soul, instead of just feeling the branch of the brush strike you to tears? Did you taste the thin wisp of an imaginary line, like clouds parting the amniotic sea of night and day, mirroring life and death across the multitude of your existences, or was it just blood in your mouth? Did you smell iron, or was it heavy metal molecules finely slicing the very expensive fabric of your reality to thin air so that you can breathe?

Tell me— No, tell yourself, did you let go enough to continue to, or do you feel that you were just forced to pretend to?

Time hasn’t washed me up on the shores of where I am now. I’d like to believe that I became a captain of those winds, a pirate nihilistically stealing gems of verifiable truth as I dove head-on into its ocular heart — fishing for evidence that love, above all else, is worthwhile, worth surrendering to the storm of time for.

Due to that quest, I think I’ve built a sturdy enough relationship with the seasons of time, to be here, damn-near-20 years after seeing Brown Sugar as a kid, tipping over 30 years old, saying, I can wait.

I can wait for whomever it is that I’m destined to be with, and I’ll be perfectly fine if it’s just me — the next version of myself. Waiting is still living, still loving, still hurting, still healing, still becoming, and sometimes, being still. I can do that because what I want more than anything, now, is to wait, to take my time, to savour experiences, to reflect, to see the mistakes that I’ve made, to see things that I never knew existed, to hear my heart and follow it, to be the slow burn that I am. I want that. That’s “goals”.

I can still do all of that waiting while in a relationship — in fact, this “waiting” is an integral part of healthy love. I can wait in celibacy. I can wait in a friendship. I can wait in abstinence. I can wait and not be blue in the face; I can wait and still breathe. Waiting just means allowing life to do that thing that it does where it kind of like happens— You know. It’s just that instead of swimming against the direction that the whirlwind of time spins, you flow with it — watching, listening, tasting, and smelling as all of your “defense-mechanised” nostalgia floats around you like a hula hoop, looping down the drain of rebirth. You understand?

Time is always divine.

So, I’ve come to realise, or rather, accept, that the right person, or people, will always come at the right time (sometimes, intermittently, in a series of multiple right times). It just may seem as if it’s the wrong time(s) or the wrong person because it’s not what you’ve envisioned, or there are elements keeping you from being together. But it’s not about being together, as illustrated in Past Lives, or what you’ve envisioned (or compiled in a list of checkboxes), it’s simply about the knowing of that particular love, in your bones, in their eyes. And yes, “when you know, you know,” because in fact, I have reason to believe that they’ve always been there, with you, and you with them. Your connection through love is beyond your presence within this continuum of life, you just happen to be bestowed with it here. (Damn, the privilege.)

Love is always.

So, can you wait?

You get your life back when you pass spirit the responsibility to orchestrate the love you seek, rather than trying to manipulate it with your own energy. Love is for spirit to create, not for humans to control. Life becomes joyous again when you clearly pray and delegate the task of relationship to your ancestors. You were never meant to be a facilitator for love, but a devotee of it instead. Leave love to spirit and keep your humanness. (Iya Ehime Ora)

Meditate on the parts that resound throughout your core. Honour all else where it stands. Thank you for reading.

It’s said that one of the best things about being loved by an Artist is that they’ll immortalise you. They’ll immortalise your experiences together. And essentially, they end up immortalising themselves. Never-ending. Undying. If they’re a Painter, they’ll paint you. They’ll paint their own worlds. And they’ll live on through both. If they’re a Musician, they’ll make songs, albums even, about you. They’ll turn a sonic experience into a motion picture of their mind, of their heart, and inevitably, their soul. They’ll live on through it all. Through their ideas of you, of themselves, of everything and everyone. Safe to say that they damn near play God. We… we damn near do. Artists. Everything that the world interacts with is a form of art or design, therefore, to that effect, nothing is without immortality. Everything is an immortalisation of what would otherwise, eventually, be considered “null and void,” forgotten, or weakened in existence at some point.

Through the pen, through the brush, through the mic, we enable infinite lives to live on as one infinite life altogether, as The Oneness (or whatever idea of God you choose). Although they will already live on without us, we give them immeasurable power to continue to, vibrantly and fully. Transcending reincarnation. Creative Moksha. To be an Artist is to drink the tonic of eternal youth. Sipping from an ever-flowing river of beauty.

The boy learned that the liquid part of the Master Work was called the Elixir of Life, and that it cured all illnesses; it also kept the alchemist from growing old. (Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist, p. 83)

I drew a huge black rock on a wall of my childhood room once. It looked like an abstract work of art, like an otherworldly artifact, yet it was probably one of the most realistic things I’d ever drawn at the time. Detailed with texture and lighting, I felt like I could feel every facet and nanoscopic ridge. I could hear it speak. When it first spoke to me, it literally said,

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During the last days of January and first days of February, I went into creative cocooning, as a conduit for the void on empty avenue and the fields of heart space. I feel like I’m in a perpetual creative cocoon, continuously connected to Source. And though, each project that I do, I go into these multiple miniature cocoons that hold space inside of the Mama Cocoon that is ultimately my life. That’s one of the best ways to explain it.

I emerged from the baby cocoons of tvoea and tfohs, the week after I went inside of them, with a completed project consisting of two EPs (or, as the platforms consider them, Single’s). Six tracks altogether, three tracks to each EP or Single. Five to seven days of writing, laying down vocals, and mixing, in the Piney mountains of TAOT. The mastering and cover art was just a simple, but beautiful, silky, burgundy ribbon tied around it. Or better yet, an amaretto laced kiss that served to sexily seal the sonic love letter.

I won’t withhold the fact that one track was already completed prior to when I began working on tvoea and tfohs — albeit unmastered, it was completed nonetheless. That song is “out of breath…”. And another track (“headed whence…”) was already written, without an instrumental, without being recorded, mixed, and mastered. Basically, that track just got a little head start.

I’ve been documenting my process a lot more than I have been with my previously released projects. Rough versions, freestyles of me finding my flow with instrumentals, a cappella’s, what my dry erase board looks like during strategising or task tracking — whatever I can show for in order to honour and immortalise the makings of not only the projects themselves, but the Co-Creator of them all… myself.

The Interim. That’s been one of my favourite words lately — interim. The in-between. Until. Holding hands with time. Clasping my heart between palms like trees. Awaiting the unfolding in that space, while manifesting soft-petaled life from the weeds that grow there. I’m forever in the here. The now. The in-between.

Interim.

It’s the childhood. The inner-child. The connection. Here, we can be free to do whatever we need to do, in order to decide what we’ll ultimately do. Child’s play. Having a paint fight with the canvas, in an innocent uproar of careless laughter. When you’re too weak and out of breath to laugh any more, or the paint accidentally gets in your mouth, you assess the art of the aftermath, and realise exactly what it is that you need to do with the painting. You zone out into intentionally painting. Focused. Precise. Coherently, with clarity. The Interim is the irreverent chaos that brings such meditative order.

This is a glimpse of what has happened in my interim of the void on empty avenue and the fields of heart space. A glimpse of the child-like wonder and infinite nature of those projects, of me…

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Emotional intelligence. It’s an art form. A science. A study that’s more important and complex than anything that the mind’s mind can muster to fathom or articulate. In short, listen to your heart. Exercise your heart’s ability to discern, by allowing space for its thoughts to be validated, heard, and understood. That understanding, when regularly prioritised, watered, and whispered unto, will blossom into a beautiful head of wisdom. And that wisdom will make it ten times easier to know (or rather, re-member) your heart and trust it enough to wholeheartedly listen to it. To be in tune with it, to truly intuit self-love.

Remembering, trusting, and listening to your heart is remembering, trusting, and listening to yourself, your inner child, your soul. It’s like a supernatural ability in and of itself. It gives you insight that’s damn near unbelievable to those who haven’t bonded with their hearts. You begin to see things, pervading time, that have always been there to be looked into, you just couldn’t see them without the eyes that are given to you by a heart that feels seen enough to trust you, to show you.

That’s love.

In this podcast entry, I expand upon the previous one —

— bringing forth some of the musings from my initial conversation with Lady Solána’s non-fictional likeness long ago, such as…

• Losing my integrity and muffling my self-worth, in the name of what I thought was love for another, thus not having an attuned relationship with my heart.

• How a relationship with the heart directly connects to remembering who you are.

• How we “forget” who we are by suppressing the traumas that our hearts sustain.

And there’s more divulgence regarding all of that, for my Elite Alkhemists with Land of the Unknown clearance (i.e. Paid Subscribers).

Tip: If you’re a Free Alkhemist and you’re reading this in an e-mail, click the title of this podcast at the very top in order to listen to the preview, or public version, of this podcast entry.

In our next entry, I’ll begin deconstructing the first installation of musical and visual illustrations for TAOT — the void on empty avenue (tvoea) and the fields of heart space (tfohs). Whilst doing so, I’ll discuss some of my most personal experiences that I’ve realised I’d been burying away, and the most recent heart space awakenings I’ve been having as a direct catharsis of that realisation.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for sharing your own experiences, wisdom, and truth. I pray you find a home within it all. Be sure to comment, heart, and share.

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When I first began to have these dreams about her, I couldn’t differentiate the ancestral realms from waking life. I had no grasp on time, space, or any mathematical explanation of what can be perceived as the physical in motion. In simpler terms, I couldn’t tell up from down. It all seemed too real. I would literally feel the imprint of her embrace on my body for the duration of the day, sometimes for multiple days, after dreaming of her. I would still smell her scent on me, no matter how much I tried to wash it away… I tried to wash it away. From cloths, from skin. I did. But I couldn’t. I wanted to forget her. Forget that any of it happened.

I promised. But I didn’t even have to, because it seems that not one force in this world will allow me to erase our memories. And somehow new ones are forming, even with you gone, Solána.

Are you gone? Have I just gone mad?

I asked myself, over and over again. The Pines must find me despicable now. We still talk, the trees and I, but they grow silent when it comes to you. Since I couldn’t forget you, I tried to forget myself… But your memory just kept reminding me of exactly who I am. How pitiful. Everywhere I turned was a dead end. And I couldn’t forget anything, but I also couldn’t remember everything…

I remember choosing this life.

As a soul, I remember choosing my avatar, its families, its friends, and all of my life lessons that I needed to learn. I remember the karmic debts that I was given from past lives. I remember my destiny that I was given from the Creator / Destroyer. I remember Lady Solána Omni, before she was Lady Solána Omni. I remember loving her in the aethers and in our past lives. I remember choosing her, time after time. I remember agreeing not to choose one another, in particular lifetimes, as well as, agreeing to always choose one another, in other ones. But I don’t remember which we decided to do in this lifetime, that I chose, as Lord Rasquiat Almighty.

I’ve been wondering if she recalls…

My mother and father remembered. They told me that bringing me into this world was the most important thing that they knew they could do in this lifetime. It was a mutual priority of theirs, which strengthened their bond. And that same bond has been slowly severed by the same reasoning. Like water.

Treasure is uncovered by the force of flowing water, and it is buried by the same currents. (Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist, p. 27)

I wasn’t enough. I was everything to them, but what was everything wasn’t even enough. So, I guess it doesn’t quite matter whether you remember your agreements, or blueprint, in the heavens. When you reach the world you’re sent to, it can be rendered de facto null and void. You shift your fate with each second you breathe here. And what gives, also takes away. Nothing is stable. Everything is impermanent.

And still. It’s as if these Pines are endless for me. As if I’ll be hearing her undulate in the waters of my heart forever.

Where I’m from, in the Tides, everything spiritually lives on, infinitely. Yeah, I know, I just said, “Everything is impermanent.” Both exist, both are true, and not mutually exclusive. Everything dies physically, then lives on spiritually, possibly being reborn physically, repeating the dying / undying experience, in order to ultimately just live on spiritually. Mere transitions. Death is everything. Life is everything. Same thing. Everything is everything.

If we leave the candle burning for an hour, will the flame remain the same or become another flame? The wick, the wax and the oxygen are always changing. The part of the wick and the wax that is burning is always transforming. If these things transform, the flame must change too. So the flame is not the same, but it also is not different. (Thich Nhat Hanh, no death, no fear, p. 28)

When I was a child, before my second awakening, I watched an angelic soul slowly form from the ground up, as a being of bright blue-white light. It was also a child. They wanted to show me something, but I was too afraid of our differences to talk with them. I literally stuttered and ran away from them.

I used to ignore all of the darker, more ancient souls that would come to me too. They would stare at me, unmoved, and unbothered by my chosen ignorance, so I would keep making believe that they weren’t there, until they would eventually go away. They always came back the next day. It didn’t take me long to figure out that these certain dark souls were connected to a separate space and time. They were otherworldly, not from the Tides. They only had a hub in the Tides. I never understood what timeline or part of the realms they were from, I just knew where the Tidal hub was. I avoided that home base of theirs as best as I could, but unbeknownst to my mom, the hub was connected to her room. There was one night that I couldn’t avoid it at all, even though I wanted to, with everything in my body…

Mind you, this is not what my elders taught me to do. It’s not how they trained me to move in protocol to the tradition, nor in protocol to my destiny. This spiritually avoidant behaviour was of my own doing (or rather undoing), because I felt safer moving in fear and rebellious curiosity, than using the tools I was so generously given. And in retrospect, they trained me so brilliantly that I was almost too brilliant. They coddled me because of that. Too smart and spoiled for my own good. I was incredibly confident in my abilities and that blessing became a curse.

“And what gives, also takes away.”

I know everything

I know everything, know myself

I know morality, spirituality, good and bad health

I know fatality might haunt you

I know everything

…

I know how people work

I know the price of life, I'm knowin' how much it’s worth

I know what I know, and I know it well not to ever forget

Until I realised I didn’t know shit, the day I came home

(Kendrick Lamar, To Pimp a Butterfly, Momma)

I told my mom everything and still tell my mom everything [to a certain extent]. I have a closer bond with her, than I do with my father. My parents separated shortly after I was born, and as I told you before, my mom’s family was more affluent and honoured, so it only made sense to the societal norm that I live with my mother, primarily. So I did. Before my second awakening, I very rarely visited my father, on The Ghetto’s side of the Tide, and he very rarely came to The Almighty side.

Now, Lady Solána’s world and my world were separate, but our people weren’t sworn enemies, right? We were just different and they wanted to peacefully keep it that way. That’s it. But my mom’s family and my dad’s family? A vibrant history of explosive misunderstandings and emotional bloodshed.

My parents, with the blessings of their ancestors, gave their families an opportunity to nurture those grievances and restore fulfilment, as most felt that they were robbed of a secure and prosperous lifestyle due to the never-ending pressures of the feud. They weren’t the very first couple to do it and they won’t be the last, but during their ceremonial union, it was the first time in decades, that the energetic waters of the two families looked like they were mixed, with no fatalities. My mother’s family carries the energy of brackish waters, and my father’s is that of freshwaters. I’m sure the Gods of the Tides rose high, beaming with celebration of a successful mix during the wedding. I know our families did and things were better between them after the ceremony. It got a little rocky during the separation, but my parent’s handled it well. The fact that they didn’t, and still won’t, get a divorce, makes it clear that the Union was about more than just the two of them. It shifted, and still shifts, many things in the favour of my families, in powerfully prosperous ways that nobody can deny and not be thankful for.

Of course, there’s still a select few of the family members who refuse to progress together and think that healing their wounds will signify their own defeat. “Peace” is waving a white flag, while dying on your knees. There is no honour in that to them. They wear their scars like trophies and medals, giving them purpose and pride. The more the merrier, they say. I’ll fight this war to the end, dying on my feet. And the fact that the bulk of their family has healed, forgave, been forgiven, and grown beyond the rivalry, only serves as gasoline to their flames. Like a civil rights activist getting spat on by a patrol officer. Fired up to be respected. Eventually, these family members will be swinging at the wind, left alone, fighting themselves. They’re only fighting their own demons. They’re simply fighting to fight. It seems like there’s nothing and no-one that they love more, than the war. Whether actual or a mirage, it’ll always be real to them. The only thing real. It’s all they know. Because who are they without it? What’s the point of life? I must resist. Resistance is my nature.

Warriors.

My father comes from a long lineage of soldiers and warriors.

My mother comes from a long lineage of healers and priesthood.

Her supernatural ability completely softens the hearts of those calloused from betrayal and hardened to forgiveness so that they can begin healing. She makes people weep their eyes out and spill everything that’s been on their heart for eons. She sees right through façades and has a tongue sharper than the wisest mind, but only cuts to cure or mend, not to maim or kill.

My father has the same gift of a sharp tongue, yet he battles with it. Not against others, but with himself. He’s among a rare few, being that his ability is an innie, rather than an outty. That means that his work is inward, not to be of physical service for others by some sort of grand outward act, but to help align the subtle worlds in balance with his own self-mastery. He wields some rather wild, combustible firepower too, as it pertains to his heart. His life’s work is to become Roshi of his gifts, so that he (1) doesn’t self-destruct, taking along with him everyone else within a 50-mile radius, and (2) can eventually guide others in reaching similar enlightenment.

Although they’re no longer together, they seem like quite an interesting pair. I would’ve loved to have seen them lovingly coexist on a daily basis.

In one of the plethora of dreams I’ve had of her since she’s left, Lady Solána had asked me, “How did it feel when you first questioned why you were born?” She seemed older than me in this dream, but I was my waking-life age. I’m 33 now. She seemed about 43. Her eyes did that thing where I could see time and everything that ever existed between the lids that were holding them. I allowed myself to be captivated by them, holding hands with the interstellar journeys of her iris, as a peaceful smile washed over my face. She saw me looking deeply into her, without verbally answering her question, and she let out a silly scream, before saying, “No!”, playfully hitting my arm. We laughed. I felt warmth, and a beautiful sensation, cycling in an oblong oval shape along my chest, solar plexus, and sacral. Connecting all three. A channel of love and happiness.

Eventually, I answered her question.

I felt imprisoned.

“Mm, explain it to me, in detail…”

Like, why do I have to keep coming back here? I know I have karmic debts that I incurred from past lives that I have to pay, for my soul’s freedom. I still have “this number” through “that number” of life lessons to experience and learn, before I can pass their accompanying tests, and graduate onward. I understand all of that. I know the exact reason why I was born into this lifetime. But we talked about this already, how we’re really just tired of lifetimes altogether. I feel like I’m so tired that I ultimately questioned why I was born as a soul. Not why I was born as a human. But why I even exist as a soul to begin with, you know? As a part of the Universe. A part of God. Why did I choose to be a soul? Did I even choose to? Who, or what, was I before I was a soul? Was I simply and bare, just the Divine itself? Did the Divine get bored and decide to create infinite worlds with countless versions of itself and endless experiences? And after it did that, it was like, “Oh, this is meaningless, lemme delete” but everything had developed its own autonomy and caught itself up in this loop of self-importance? And my questioning of all of this is just me being tapped into what the Divine actually thinks? “Oh, this is meaningless, lemme delete”

“Well… Lord Rasquiat Almighty, and that beautiful brain of yours. What you described sounds like it’s above our clearance. But sometimes what’s hidden and unknown is hidden and unknown for a reason, right? A reason that protects us from what we don’t need to know, or protects us from ourselves even, because we tend to abuse the knowledge that we do have and misuse it in the wrong circumstances. Sometimes your eyes need to be closed for you to see.”

It happens at a certain point in dreams. Something is said or done that makes you realise, ‘Oh wait, I’m dreaming’. That last sentence did it for me. I couldn’t help but wake up, and when I did, it felt as if I had already been awake. The dream felt that real. Like I actually just pulled away from her and left her there, by herself, after she shared that important piece of wisdom.

Please, forgive me, Lady Solána.

I’ve learned to keep a dream journal by my bedside. I record each and every dream of you. I interpret them. I meditate on them. I interpret them again days, weeks, and months afterwards. And there’s this knowing that’s been growing in me that gives me solace when I think I’m going crazy. A knowing that you’re still here. Somewhere. I just have to wrap your hand in mine, in the right way, at the right time, and pull you back through. Bring you home again.

This is the last fully public entry. There will be paywalls on all other posts to come, where you can only read the beginning, with locked voiceovers. To my Free Alkhemists, and intrigued outsiders who will soon be Alkhemists, consider becoming an Elite Alkhemist, with full access to all locked posts, which includes voiceovers, videos, and archives; the skeleton key to our members only world of private chats, secret podcasts, and more; in addition to a free, signed copy of each completed TAOT book and / or physical album once they’re wrapped, before release to the world. Thank you all for being a part of my auto-fictional love letter. I pray that you’re finding a cozy home within it.