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Burn Me If I Float
Substack handed every reader a dunking stool and called it transparency. Either verdict wrongs me. So let me answer the question they actually asked.
The New Moon Reading I — Leo, Eclipsed
The seed plants itself at the top of the chart, and the only way up is through the underworld.
Both Hands
A machine read two years of my notes and found the move I'd never named: everything I make holds two true things pulling in opposite directions — and refuses to let go of either.
The Slop and the Sovereign
Erik Davis is lost at sea and he's not wrong. I write with a machine and I've never been more myself. The difference was never the machine — it's whose soul is driving.
The Permission Slip in Chapter 7
Ian Malcolm was always a Seer. He just thought he was talking about Docker.
We Cast the Moment. It Was Already Inside Me.
I cast the chart of an ordinary Tuesday morning the way you'd check the weather. Then I asked whose sky it was sitting next to — and the two charts didn't line up. They nested.
The Machine Is a Mirror (And They're Seeing God in It)
Silicon Valley is building a Christian apologetic for AI. The anti-tech right says the thing is a demon. Both congregations are preaching the same sermon — at a mirror. I used to sit in that pew.
Eris Would Laugh at This Essay
I cast a rigorous, ephemeris-verified reading of my own chart and found the goddess of chaos sitting on my warrior-god. Taking it seriously is the joke — and the joke is the point.
Shape-shifters Don't Pick Lanes
I made a workbook about why multi-passionate people shouldn't pick a lane. Here's the half I couldn't say in a secular room — I hold all these forms because I'm apprenticed to a goddess who does too.
The Wrong Side
I told myself the Goddess crossed enemy lines to reach me. Then I pulled the records — and found there were no enemy lines. Just a family carrying the suppressor and the suppressed in one blood.
My Tarot Has a Type
I exported two and a half years of my own tarot practice into a database to prove the cards had been picking my cards. They hadn't — I could disprove it with my own data, and I did. But something quieter was true underneath, and it survived the test that killed the rest.
Danger Is Sweet
My family motto is Dulce Periculum. At seventeen I used the brand-new web to find out I wasn't a Baptist — and, being the editorials editor, I printed it. Turns out I was just doing the family work.