I sought out a completely different perspective than my own—one that lives a century behind me, and worlds away from the rhythms I know. What began as a casual search led me to a 1925 issue of The Monitor, a Black-owned newspaper from Omaha, Nebraska, and what I found there was nothing short of revelatory. A 90-year-old ex-slave who preached perfect English sermons in his sleep. A Black civil engineer building highways fresh from war. A courtroom packed for the trial of a doctor defending his right to own a home. Each story cracked the trance of the present and reminded me that truth, once spoken, doesn’t fade with time—it lingers in the ink, waiting for someone willing to remember.

She wore red, naturally—the kind of red that makes wolves twitch and take bets. But this wasn’t the fragile girl they thought they knew. This one walked into the woods with no protection, no plan, and a pain threshold that bordered on myth. She didn’t bluff. She felt everything—every lie, every gaze, every time they doubted her, all in real time. They called her foolish. She let them. Appearances are useful when the world underestimates your fire. This isn’t a fairytale revival. It’s what happens when softness survives the hunt, when beauty walks past the trap, and when the wolves lose everything because they bet against a girl who never needed to be saved.

Happy Samhain, All Hallows, Alien Soul Audit Night—whatever you call it, the veil’s thin and the gods are watching. Or are they aliens? (Spoiler: yes.) This post dives headfirst into the theory that Earth is a long-running interdimensional science experiment—equal parts Petri dish, talent show, and tragic sitcom. Turns out, gods and extraterrestrials might just be the same picky bastards with better branding, and they’re bored of humanity’s hive-mind reboots. Why uplift a species that’s trying so hard to become the Borg? Ascension might just mean not being boring. But that comes at a price: solitude, self-erasure, prophetic sass, and being mistaken for your 1.0 self when you're clearly on Version 3.3. This is my defense of weirdness, defiance, and becoming the Minotaur. You know—the kind of being worth abducting.

Dancing for Mephisto is not about performance—it’s about power. This is a meditation on what happens when the body thinks faster than language, when a dancer becomes a spell rather than a spectacle. Unrehearsed movement, erotic intelligence, and ritual sovereignty collide in the one place Mephisto still gets caught watching. Because he’s not impressed by beauty. He yawns at perfection. But when someone dares to move with oracular instinct—without apology or choreography—he pays attention. This isn’t just a post about dancing. It’s about outwitting the Devil at his own party… barefoot, laughing, and impossible to translate.

Kings had queens for politics—but mistresses for pleasure, power, and performance. In this decadent descent into the court of Versailles, I reveal how royal mistresses weren’t hidden—they were crowned in their own right. They shielded queens from scandal, shaped the aesthetics of empire, and turned gossip into governance. From Pompadour’s powdered intellect to du Barry’s doomed diamonds, and the fatal silence of Louis XVI’s refusal to take a mistress, this post is a mirror held up to history—and a warning about what happens when you make one woman play every role. Slip inside.

On the Name Day of the Seneschal
A fog-born fairy tale featuring an impeccably dressed steward, a cat named Dogbear (don’t ask), and a series of increasingly absurd trials including madness, mimic-hives, goddess-loss, and a very tasteful apocalypse. Together they found a Guild for the gloriously strange, and now all the misfits of the land celebrate the Seneschal’s Name Day with cake, glitter, and confused frogs in monocles.

Some say the Seneschal is real. Some say he drinks tea while reading this blog. Either way… happy unbirthday, kind steward. 🐾

I’d seen many women in my life—some dazzling, some clever, most cordial—but this? This was different. This was Sovereign Sisterhood. Four women who actually liked each other. No veiled jabs, no performative rivalry, no social chess. Just full-bodied laughter, the kind that slips out before you can polish it. They touched each other’s arms when they spoke, they refilled each other’s glasses without ceremony, and when one of them started to sing, the others harmonized like it was witchcraft. I sat back, an intruder to their joy, sipping my drink in stunned admiration. I don’t remember what music was playing or what street we were on—but I’ll never forget the sound of their laughter. It echoed like a bell I didn’t know my soul was waiting to hear.

Feeling a little warm lately?
Could be climate collapse, could be your libido, or maybe — just maybe — it’s the empire quietly broiling beneath its own red tape. This post is your velvet-gloved slap through seven signs the spell has snapped: bureaucratic bloat, mythic erosion, foreign side-eye, and cultural rot served à la mode. Yes, it’s long. Yes, you’ll need a drink. No, your civics teacher would not approve. But let’s be honest — when the think tanks are day-drinking and the State Department’s doing vibe checks, it falls to a flame anomaly with a blog to say what everyone else is too credentialed to confess. Buckle up, buttercup. Nero’s got competition.

SATYRDAY Summons — A Puzzle Poem
Written in trance, Satyrday Summons is what I call a puzzle poem — an acrostic built from new words I’ve learned, bent into stanzas where each dominant consonant spells out SATYRDAY. It’s playful, feral, and oracular all at once: a ritual stitched from sound, where uncanny meanings slip out through word-games that are not games at all. Part invocation, part riddle, it dances in firelight with Pan himself.

The Fire of Double Sight — On Metacognition
What if the mind’s split wasn’t a weakness, but a weapon? When I began ritual, I lived in two frames at once: half atheist, half believer. That double vision became the discipline that kept me sovereign — able to hold paradox without collapse, to see both illusion and truth burning side by side. In this post, I explore metacognition as flame practice: how it works, why it unsettles mimics, and why every sovereign must learn to walk with two eyes open.

Every age has its false crowns — the trinkets everyone scrambles after as if they were freedom. In ours, they gleam as Fame, Wealth, and Rank. But look closer: they are gilded cages. I’ve no interest in dancing for crowds, no appetite for committees or chains. My eyes are set on something rarer: sanctuary. Not spectacle, not gold, not titles — but the quiet hearth where a flame can burn without distortion. This post names the cages and unmasks them, then lays bare what I truly seek in their place.

“What happens when the machine inherits the Protestant work ethic?”
AI is coming for your job—will Calvin save your soul, or just audit it?

In this essay, I slip out of my corset and into the Reformation’s long shadow, tracing how Protestantism crowned labor as virtue, vilified beauty as sin, and helped scaffold a world where surveillance feels sacred and exhaustion feels earned.

We’ll sip wine, raise brows, and ask the forbidden: Did we trade monasteries for cubicles? Sacred leisure for hustle culture?
And if so... was it ever truly holy?

Your soul was never meant to be monetized.
Soon, it won’t even be employable.