I had a magical time this past weekend when we went on the train up the coast.

What does the sun feel like when her reflection appears in the water? Is the image representative of how she feels inside? I don’t know. I’m angry inside and scared and bitter and sad.

Trump represents a lot of pain for me. I hold the pain within over long periods of time and don’t let go.

I’m not sure I should keep trying to fight and stop this cycle of chronic pain in my cells. I’m an open vessel that holds the pain I witness and feel in my pelvis and throat and chest. My ankle. This is what it is to be human.

My writing is a journal of feeling pain and suffering for humans and animals. An exercise to be done with intention and consciousness. It’s where my art comes from. It gives me the ability to be who I am. And when breathing self care into this, I see I’ve been struggling to be my own guide through the ever-cyclical Fool’s Journey.

We can get our lights put out at any time of the journey. I spend hours flitting between The Devil and Justice, swords of 4s and 8s—upright, reversed, upright, reversed. Stuck.

In longhand, I am writing a book that’s being channeled to me by an 18th century sex worker and brothel owner.

Living life in that period was brutal. The research and soulful connection with my muse, Gwendolyn, creates a synergy with female ancestry.

Gwendolyn’s perspective and view point are full of the disgrace that I feel. The rage that I feel for being oppressed, for being forced to conform to this society that is totally against my nature.

It’s no longer going to be forced. I am wild with care for my environment and my friends and family. The design is present.

Writing is narrative medicine. It’s my medicine and I would be lost if I did not write. My writing community means the world to me.

No one will dissuade me. I will not be forcibly fed. I am committed to telling her stories. To telling my story however it is flowing out.

Death and grief are my experiences.

These are woven with experiences of joy, like the train ride. The actual writing. The seeing friends and family. Making a meal for loved ones. Feeding the cat. Touching a tree.

I will be here doing these things. I will feed and take care of as many people as I can. I will create. I promise I will listen to myself.

I am so very mad. We are starving.

With love,

b elizabeth bell