A newly-arrived Los Angeles transplant takes part in a no-refunds-provided spiritual journey.

Quickly disposing of our corporate Starbucks coffee cups in fear of being judged by hemp-loving, incense-burning, damn-the-Man hippies, we walked into the Manhattan Beach Marriott. The room was markedly less Marriott than anticipated: an ambiance that consisted of a 30-chair circle and a maraca rattling, rain stick thrusting, and indigenous Amazonian drum pounding ditty awaited us…

Read more about my shamanic journey HERE My Predestined Date with Shamanism | Prose Before Hos)

I am so utterly tired with pseudo romance and warped perceptions of love. I see so clearly past those thin veils of cryptic text and unspoken word that it hurts. Bile in my belly. Simmering fire behind my chest. The fog of unnecessary warfare before my eyes.

When I think of those few friends who have figured out what it is to love broadly, appropriately and selflessly I am restored a little.
When I think of my creative kin and the emphatic love shared between artists I am restored a lot.
When I think of turning my back once and for all, seeking better company, putting self first, I am restored almost to completion.

Let the games play on where they will I suppose.