You are viewing ladyeuthanasia

Previous 10

Nov. 3rd, 2013


[sticky post] Redirect!

Hi everyone,

This blog ends here, but have no fear.

Maria Alexander's Bloggalicious Snarkfest lives on!

Check out the new website, complete with tales of booze, unicorns and whirling, razor-studded pasties.


The Management

Mar. 21st, 2013


Me, Masturbation & Clive Barker


I just finished an essay for Peter Crowther and Pete von Sholly's latest project coming out from a British publisher. I'm not sure I can talk about the project yet, but my contribution is an essay that's an R-rated literary romp about my former film mentor and favorite horror author. The first line of the piece is:

"My first masturbatory fantasy was Clive Barker."

It sort of goes downhill from there. So to speak.

When Pete asked me to write about Clive, I knew couldn't write a dry-as-dust bio. It had to be shocking, personal, and entertaining. I wanted to reveal Clive the man alongside his work: his kindness and generosity, as well as his diabolical imagination. Clive as both the shaman and sinner. To reveal both his sense of humor, as well as his profound spirituality.

There's even a funny anecdote that involves Neil Gaiman and big noses.

When I learned Clive had been in a coma last year, my world stopped. Yes, in some ways he's immortal because his contribution to horror is so sweeping that he's touched generations to come. But he's human. And I want people to know about him, the person you might not guess he is based on his writing alone.

It's a love letter--agape love, that is, not eros, although it reads more like the latter than the former. I don't know that anyone else would have published something like this.

Anyhow, I've seen von Sholly's illustrations and they're incredible. Many other amazing authors are contributing, too. I'll be sure to announce when you can pick up Pete & Pete's creation.

Now back to the completely wicked book-in-progress and the thriller short story cooking in my head.

Feb. 6th, 2013


"Saturnalia": When Your Nightmares Write Stories

Something chittered and cackled as it danced in the shadows of the naked trees. Maria skirted her dead jeep, putting it between her and the noise, afraid that the creature would burst through the foliage. She tried to make out what it was, but the trees flanking the road confounded her eyes with their twisted limbs. Thick smoky rivulets streamed from beneath the battered metal hood, further obscuring her vision. Yet something rustled beyond the sharp, frosty branches of the forest walls. Something feral and utterly frightening

-- From "Saturnalia"

In 1999, I had a really effed up dream.

The dream was not only scary as hell, but extremely detailed and well plotted. It included an entire ensemble of strangers, a brother named Joshua who had died, and a town with a secret so dark it could only hide in a Louisiana swamp.

I wrote it down immediately and called it "Saturnalia." The details of the dream were so deeply carved into my memory and psyche that I even named the main character after myself. I didn't act like myself in the dream, though. I was naive, trusting, religious, forgiving...a person sure to find trouble.

(Okay, arguably I'm the kind of person sure to find trouble, but this is another kind of trouble.)

First Person, Worst Person

Anyway. I originally wrote it in first person. Although I love first person -- my two most popular stories are in first person, present tense -- it just didn't work for some reason. It felt too much like telling someone my dream and not a story. (Then again, when I read it out loud to my old writing group comprised of women in the film industry, I got bitched out for scaring one of the members. It clearly worked on some level.) When I moved it out to third person past tense, it helped considerably, but for many reasons the story remained a mess. I'm still kicking myself for handing in the gooey lump of crap that I did to the Dark Faith anthology editors. "Saturnalia" definitely belonged in either of the anthologies they eventually published.

Washing Up After Heartbreak

As if hitting bottom, she just didn't want to wash up until after that heartbreaking rejection. I gave her to a friend who lives in New Orleans for a locality check and to a Hispanic friend for a cultural check. They picked the gummy, gross bits off of her and I set to scrubbing her head to toe. I then had my writing group read it and they came back with a resounding YES.

Where You Can Read "Saturnalia"

While it didn't appear in Dark Faith, you now have it for your enjoyment in both of these great anthologies:

Left Hanging: 10 Tales of Suspense and Thrills

Blood Rites: An Invitation to Horror

But Seriously -- WTF?

Where did this dream story come from? This total heart-fuck, mind-fuck, spirit-fuck of a story -- it wasn't inspired by the news or anything I read. Maybe my brain stored some kind of aborted nightmare baby one of the many times I was watchin The Wicker Manas I ate Morning Star Strips.

Mmmmm. Morning Star Strips.)

Whatever the reason, I'm glad it happened.

Poor Maria. I wonder if she made it out of Ville D'Or alive?

Jan. 21st, 2013


Why I Painted a Cool-Ass TARDIS Dress

This last weekend, my beloved and I journeyed to Santa Barbara to celebrate our 4th anniversary. Because he's the most extraordinary man in the world, he indulged me when I asked if we could take a painting class at The Painted Cabernet, where you drink wine as you copy a pre-selected, super girly painting under the instruction of a real artist. As soon as I saw the TARDIS blue of this last Saturday's picture to copy, I had to go dip a brush in that luscious paint.

(I didn't paint this. It's the original painting we were to copy.)

I'd never painted before. I spent a year in a Disney workshop with Bob Kato learning how to draw mostly by osmosis from the Imagineers and other artists, although Bob took pity on me from time to time and taught me stuff, but that involved mostly pencils and some charcoal scribbling. My sketches survived only because I managed not to bawl on them over my comparatively incompetent doodling.

When we arrived in the painting class, I felt weirdly confident that whatever strayed from my brush tips wouldn't make me cry. Maybe it was because Mickey's yellow shoe wasn't crushing my self confidence. Or maybe it was the dearth of Imagineers. I'm not sure. My Evil Plan propelled me fearlessly toward the canvas. Our instructor Amelia gave us smocks. I got her favorite smock, upon which a friend of hers had painted a heart on the chest one day to heal her broken one during a rough breakup.

I now had two hearts. Oh, yes.

I listened carefully as Amelia gave us the download on brushes, paint and...other stuff I can't remember because I stopped paying attention as soon as she pumped a wad of that heavenly blue on her palette. I was hypnotized by that color. It evoked visions of Nine in his leathers, Ten in his tennies, and Eleven in his bowtie. Bowties are cool. Blue is cool.

TARDIS dresses are cooler.

As soon as I started making noises that I was enjoying myself far too much--and not just because I was drinking champagne--Amelia came over and cast a somewhat puzzled look at my swishes and swashes, but continued to make encouraging noises. (She was actually a very good teacher.) As soon as she left, Bret leaned over for a look.

"AWESOME!" he said.
TARDIS dress

By the end of the two-hour class, I was thrilled. Behold: a 1950's TARDIS dress! I added numerals 1 to 11 in the background and gave her a necklace with the key to the TARDIS.

Bret and I were beside ourselves with fan joy. I was particularly pleased with my subversion of the class and my triumphant first painting. Poor Amelia, though, squinted at the thing as we chattered and asked, "Will more than a few people get the reference?"

Something broke in my head when she asked that question, dampening my excitement a bit as I realized I was really in another world. We then explained that, in fact, lots of people in science fiction fandom would get it and shared with her the goodness of The Doctor.

Me, Two Hearts and a TARDIS dress

Now, if only someone would make me this dress...

Dec. 22nd, 2012


Narrative Interaction, Fandom and Christianity

The WyrdCon Companion Book has been published! It's free, fully interactive and includes my paper that takes on Henry Jenkins, Harry Potter and 2000 years of Christianity. It's called, "The Greatest Story Ever Interacted With." Not for the easily offended...

Download the book PDF here.

Check out an excerpt from the first half of the paper:

Narrative Interaction: Filling in the Gaps

Narrative interaction entails the myriad ways in which audiences contribute to and celebrate their favorite stories. Fan fiction—defined as the fiction produced by fans based on a popular novel, movie, TV show or other franchise—is one of the best known forms of interacting with a narrative. According to scholar Francesca Coppa, fan fiction "fill[s] the need of a mostly female audience for fictional narratives that expand the boundary of the official source products offered on the television and movie screen."[1] Transmedia storytelling pioneer Henry Jenkins says, “Fan fiction can be seen as an unauthorized expansion of these media franchises into new directions which reflect the reader’s desire to ‘fill in the gaps’ they have discovered in the commercially produced material.”

Fan fiction is only one type of narrative interaction or what Jenkins calls “participatory culture.” He explains, “patterns of media consumption have been profoundly altered by a succession of new media technologies which enable average citizens to participate in the archiving, annotation, appropriation, transformation, and recirculation of media content. Participatory culture refers to the new style of consumerism that emerges in this environment.”

But “participatory culture” didn’t begin with the emergence of new technologies.  Participation in the narrative of Christianity—including annotation, appropriation, transformation and recirculation—has been ongoing for centuries. The practice of storytelling to fill in the gaps predates Christianity itself.

[1] Bacon-Smith, Camille (2000). Science Fiction Culture. University of Pennsylvania Press. pp. 112–113. ISBN978-0-8122-1530-4</a>.

Read the whole paper now!

Dec. 19th, 2012


Obama Doubts His Faith? (Prediction Comes True)

Remember in this previous blog post when I said:
On the other hand, his transits on January 21, 2013 are definitely indicative of a pleasant inauguration day. Lots of heartfelt communication, expansion in power (although not an easy one), and a sense of new self. This comes  after a seriously brutal transit of guilt and self-doubt around the middle of December. He might even have heavy religious doubts. On inauguration day, he’ll still be reeling from the burst bubble.

And then this happened:
On December 14, 2012, Adam Lanza, 20 years old, fatally shot twenty children and six adult staff members at Sandy Hook Elementary School in the Sandy Hook village of Newtown, Connecticut. He had killed his mother, Nancy Lanza, at their nearby Newtown home before driving to the school. After shooting the students and staff members, he committed suicide.

If ever there was something faith-shaking...this is it.

While you have seen him tear up, you can believe he has taken this deeply to heart. He probably even blames himself — if not for what happened, then most certainly for anything that might happen later.

I don't mind if he has a crisis of faith. It's healthy and makes us rely more on reason than blind expectations. And while I want him to make this personal, I don't want him to take this personally and crumple. I hope he finds the strength because he's going against powerful foes a he backs an assault rifle ban. I want them to feel the concrete in his fist when it hits the political structures that have kept this country at the mercy of NRA interests.

Rock on, Mr. President. We, the People, are behind you. The reasonable People, anyway.

Dec. 16th, 2012


Bun Bu Ryō Dō: The Twofold Way of Pen and Sword

by KisaragiChiyo

As some of you might know, I'm recovering from hand injuries I sustained at work. This has impacted my life like a moon-sized meteorite slamming into San Francisco. Not only do I have to use a voice recognition program to write — both at work and home — but for the time being I can't wield a bokuto, much less an iaito or katana, until my hands are in better shape. While shinkendo is highly ergonomic — way more so than any sport — it's best that I rest my hands altogether.

Bushido on the Bench

Until I recover, I can only observe in shinkendo class, which is exactly what I did today. And just as I have been pondering bushido and what it means to be a samurai when not practicing the martial arts, Sensei brought to class today some notes compiled by Nicholas, one of the top students at Honbu dojo. He had compiled several ideas and philosophies that Obata-kaiso discussed at a recent class. (Thanks, Nicholas!)

Bun Bu Ryo Do

One of the philosophies was of Bun Bu Ryo Do — the twofold path of pen and sword. The samurai were successful for so long because they studied both cultural and martial arts. They mastered both the pen and the sword, making them formidable intellectual and military opponents.

People sometimes ask me "Which is mightier, the pen or the sword?" This question bugs the shit out of me. It's not only cliché but completely fuckwitted. So if you can possibly restrain yourself, please refrain from asking it. But what I can say is that being a writer makes me a better warrior. I'm a complete person. And apparently the samurai agreed.

Isshin Nigan Sanzoku Shite

Another concept that Obata-kaiso spoke of that startled me was Isshin Nigan Sanzoku Shite, which is a sort of hierarchy of the body. Obata-kaiso says that we must take care of our bodies in the following order: heart and mind; eyes; feet and legs; and hands.

This kind of rocked my world because, as a samurai in training who is currently "handless," I would have thought that the order would be reversed, that we would start with our hands, feet and legs. But as part of my recovery, I've been studying biofeedback and this hierarchy perfectly matches what the biofeedback specialist Dr. Stephen Sideroff talks about on his CDs. When healing from injuries, first address your thoughts and feelings, as well as the way you "look" at events, because if you're stressed, you lose vital blood circulation to your limbs — which is how I got into this hand mess to begin with.

"Sword = Soul" Bitches

At some point, I will ease back into things. I'm perfectly productive with the tools that I have with which to write, but I long for my sword. Your sword is an extension of your soul. That's why, whenever a friend shows you an edged weapon that he or she bought, you must be respectful of it, even if it's a rusty piece of junk from the bowels of Beijing. Because insulting their sword is like insulting their soul – something I generally try to avoid. It's just the right thing to do when you are on this path.

The Blade Goes Both Ways

Life is full of setbacks. You have to keep moving forward however you can, keeping your eye on the goal. Yet in many ways, this doesn't feel like a setback. I'm learning more about swordsmanship and bushido than I ever could on the mat or in front of the target. My spiritual life is richer and I understand certain concepts far more accurately from watching than from doing. And more than ever, I appreciate my Sensei and dojo mates for the good friends (and in some ways family) that they are.

Wishing you all health and happiness these holidays!

Dec. 4th, 2012


The Cat in the Fireplace

Open Fire

On November 29, 1995, I brought home a wee gray kitten to the Neo-Georgian house I was renting with my then-husband in downtown San Jose.

The first sound she heard as I set down her carrier was the crack of gunfire.

I had noticed on the way in that the street behind mine was blocked off by the police, and was grateful that my own street wasn’t closed so that I could bring home my precious cargo. I didn’t realize that there was a hostage situation (San Jose! Love!) taking place in the house behind ours. I had just set down Ophelia’s cardboard carrier box in the bathroom when shots rang out. I hit the ground, my face level with her little nose as it poked out one of the holes.

“It’s not always like this,” I told her. “Honest!”

We had asked the insane landlords if we could have a cat and at first they told as we did not “deserve” to have a cat unless we took the feral stray that they had recently found. We consoled The Crazy by reassuring them that we only had their house in mind. It would be easier to train a kitten not to scratch their vintage wallpaper than a fully grown cat that had already developed habits.

eat (Nom!)

Love at First Sight

Eventually they relented and the landlord’s wife directed me to a friend of hers who was a foster mother for the Humane Society. I went to her house to see the three kittens she currently had locked in the master bedroom, isolating them from another sick cat in the house. I entered the bedroom and two kittens — one black, one calico — launched themselves from the big bed as they ran for their food dishes. The third kitten, perhaps only two thirds the size of her siblings, turned up her tiny gray face to me and walked straight toward me, mewling until I picked her up. She was so tiny that she fit easily in my palm. “The runt of the litter,” said the foster mother.

(Ophelia and one of her siblings nursing on a male cat named Jack. Don't judge.)

I went home and told my then-husband about the kittens but I said nothing about which one I liked. He went with me the next evening to see them with the understanding that I would stand back and let him interact with the kittens so that he could see which one he liked best. He didn’t seem to have a favorite. But later that night, as we watched The X-Files, he said, “The little gray one, huh?”

It felt like someone had turned on the sun inside of me. I nodded.

I named her Ophelia because her melodious meow reminded me of Aunt Ophelia’s singing in the Addams Family. I had loved her the moment I saw her. She was to keep me company as I was writing at home. That enormous old house built in 1906 could be drafty and lonely, not to mention more than a little bit haunted. She delighted me in every way — except perhaps the way my then-husband had taught her to climb up his thick Levi jeans. (Ahem.) But she had no faults. Affectionate and charming, she was the perfect companion.

A Fateful Night

And then one night in late March 1996, Something Very Extraordinary happened that changed my life forever. I was home when it happened and could reach no one on the phone. I was terrified and alone. But I wasn’t really alone. Ophelia was there. And what I thought was terrifying instead then quickly turned into something powerful and profound…
Who shall comprehend such things and who shall tell of it? What is it that shineth through me and striketh my heart without injury, so that I both shudder and burn? I shudder because I am unlike it; I burn because I am like it.

St. Agustine’s Confessions, 11:9:11

The experience bonded us in a dramatic and mystical way. From that moment on, Ophelia was a big part of my spiritual life. As more Extraordinary Thinges happened, and my life exploded with mystery and wonder, Ophelia never left my side. Not that she had a choice, but she tended more often than not to stand by me rather than flee under the bed.

(Oooooh, no! There goes Tokyo!)

Major Changes

The marriage fell apart for various reasons soon thereafter. She moved with me to San Francisco, where I sometimes caught her playing Witchfinder General with her fuzzy mice as she dunked them in the toilet. When I was about to leave San Francisco to move to Los Angeles, the vet found a lump in her stomach that he couldn’t explain. “She’s not an outdoor cat, is she?” he asked. That’s when I remembered the evening over a month prior when two mice had broken into my in-law apartment. She had killed one before I got home, while the other ran loose in the parlor as she indulged in a nonchalant bath. I threw away the dead mouse and locked her out of the bedroom, shrieking, “You had better kill that thing! That’s your job!” The next morning, the mouse had vanished — into her belly, apparently.

Life With "Pye"

When we arrived in Los Angeles, my life was quickly plunged into immeasurable chaos and pain. I soon lost my hands to injuries and couldn’t work.

(Strutting around the new apartment -- I'm sorry, HER new apartment.)

As I stumbled in the darkness of disability, she saved me in more ways than I can ever tell other human being. Our pets are beacons to our souls — Ophelia so much more so than any other pet I’d ever had because she was there when the Very Extraordinary Thinge happened. She was my witness. My Pyewacket (although I would not see that movie for a couple more years). I could never deny the tender, simple wisdom in her meow or ignore the loving scrape of her tongue on my hand or cheek.

Pigeons Are Friends?

One day, I heard a pigeon cooing at the big window somewhere behind the papasan chair. When I went to investigate, I discovered it was Ophelia talking to the pigeons outside on the ledge. She had learned to mimic the pigeon coo perfectly. That’s when I declared that she needed another of her species and adopted Cairo Egypt the next day. They loved each other very much, although the prim and proper Miss Ophelia did not always appreciate Cairo’s bouncy, trouncy, in-your-face, how-many-dishes-can-I-break-tonight lifestyle.

Cairo Egypt thinks you have fucked up taste in movie stars. 
(Cairo Egypt thinks you have fucked up taste in movie stars.)

Cato and Clouseau

Ophelia bitched out my bad lovers, put up with me smooching her silky head and ears, and was generally the easiest cat to live with I have ever known. She had this plaintive meow that seemed to say, “Is this the Complaint Department? I want to register a complaint. Complaint #1…” I was never exactly sure when the list of complaints had been fully registered, but I listened all the same. We played “Cato and Clouseau,” as she would wait for me to come in after work and then pounce on me from behind a piece of furniture.

More Extraordinary Thinges happened, although not as extraordinary as the one the year before. She comforted me when my tears soaked the carpet with grief. I did not want Extraordinary Thinges. I wanted a normal life. Ophelia reminded me with her patient, golden-green eyes that I needed to learn grace.

Painful Separation

Then the time came in mid 2006 when I was to go to France for a year with The Frenchman. I made plans to take Ophelia and Cairo with me, but the vet said no. They were too old to travel to the south of France, she said. They would never make the journey. Broken-hearted at the idea of being without my two fur babies, I talked to my parents, who agreed to take them for the year.

Every day, I missed my kittens, but most of all Ophelia. Even in my happiest moments in Aix-en-Provence and Paris, I missed her so keenly that I couldn’t stand it. I had given my family some disposable cameras so that they could take pictures and send them to me, which they did only once.

The Cat in the Fireplace

Then, like The Doctor in that episode of Doctor Who, “The Girl in the Fireplace,” even though I had promised her I would return for her at a certain time, I didn’t. When I came back to the United States, my parents refused to give back my cats. I was completely devastated. But it was difficult to argue because my mentally disabled sister loved Ophelia so much that I felt Ophelia was doing great good by being there.


The Frenchman and I moved in together and adopted another kitten — Robespierre, Le Terreur — before I discovered that my family was not taking the best care of Ophelia and Cairo. (Ophelia seemed okay, but Cairo was a total mess.) When I told The Frenchman that I wanted to force the issue and take back my cats, he told me that he did not want three cats. He refused to take them back. He would give away Robespierre if I did that. I thought I would die. I couldn’t get out of the expensive house lease that I had signed where I lived with him and wasn’t ready to give up the relationship. Maybe I could convince him over time. I waited to no avail.

His selfishness destroyed the entire relationship by the time the lease expired. But at least I was free.



Still, it wasn’t until my mother died two years later that I was able to recover Ophelia. While visiting my father I noticed that Ophelia, who was then 15 years old, was a little under the weather. Her litter box contents looked abnormal. When I informed my father, he gruffly stated that he didn’t want to have to deal with it. "Just take her," he growled. I felt terrible for my little sister, but Ophelia was clearly ill. I scooped her up, took her to the vet for a quick check-up and blood test, and immediately drove her for six hours to Los Angeles. I cried all the way home for joy. My sweetest love, the Sweetest of Peas was with me once more. Never a day passed that I did not miss her. I loved her more than any person or animal. Four years had passed altogether. In that time, I had since retrieved Cairo, but he had died despite surgeries and thousands of dollars of the best vet care.

3 Cats on a Couch

After a slow introduction, she got along famously with my two other cats. I had since rescued Saphron, a golden Bengal, who was completely bonded to Robespierre, but who quickly adopted Ophelia, as well. The three cats so loved each other so much that I started a Tumblr account documenting the redonk called, “3 Cats On a Couch.” People could scarcely believe that three cats in one small condo got along so well. I had the world’s cutest clowder. I would show people the Tumblr account and say, “This is how we roll at my house. All is full of love.” My new boy friend — a big, tenderhearted animal lover — was completely smitten with her. She captured the heart of everyone who met her.

Sickness and Love

As her health declined near her 16th birthday, she needed so much care that I was afraid to leave her. I found an excellent pet care service that could take her whenever my new boyfriend couldn’t. The house became unruly with her messes: numerous urinary tract infections had made her permanently leery of the litter box. And she required a special diet that the other two cats loved too well. They often pushed her out of her dish so that they could gobble her food. I had to start feeding her separate from the other cats, which she hated. She was too social to eat alone and her appetite suffered. I wound up having to sit with her as she ate. It was ridiculously time-consuming.


Yet I never cared that her needs were so great. I never minded cleaning up a single mess or giving her numerous medications. It mattered little to me that she was so high maintenance during meal times. I loved her more than anything. She was The Cat Who Had Witnessed Very Extraordinary Thinges. The Cat Who Had Saved My Life. My Pyewacket. Ophie-Wan Kenophie. She Whom I Loved Best. I wrote silly cat songs for her like the Calypso tune, “I Love Me a Little Gray Cat” and the Shonen Knife-inspired, “Kitties in the Kitchen (and They’re Bitchin’ Bitchin’ Bitchin’)”.


After riding a roller coaster of health problems these last six months leading up to her 17th birthday, Ophelia slowed down dramatically this last weekend. On Saturday, December 1, I wrote on my Facebook timeline:
With a raspy yowl and a quivering paw, my little Ophelia is fading before my eyes. She prowls the house incessantly, confused, disoriented. She no longer knows where the litter box room is. All places are alike to her, as Kipling says, but not because she is wild. Rather, because she is frail, frightened, sinking into the mists...

By late Sunday afternoon, I knew she was going to die. She could no longer walk and her pupils were wide with death blindness. The vet offices were closed. So, I wrapped her in her favorite fuzzy blanket, placed her in an old kitten bed and lay down on the floor with her, soft music playing and candles blazing atop the piano.

(Remember what I taught you about grace, Momma.)

I wrote on Twitter:
Oh, Grief! Death pads in softly on cat paws, yet you bite savagely while He still stands on the doorstep.

The raspy yowl diminished to a feeble cry that escaped her small wet mouth every once in a while when she soiled herself. I did my best to keep her clean and dry, all the while talking to her, reminiscing with her, telling her how much I loved her. I texted with friends. My boyfriend was working and didn’t have access to his cell phone, but I left him messages anyway. Great savagely bit my heart, over and over. The pain wracked my body. Tears scalded my eyes and cheeks. My neighbor came downstairs and stayed with me. I continued to stroke Ophelia’s ears and head, cuddling her, kissing her as she trembled, my tears dampening her fur. Whispering in her ear sweet nothings and words of appreciation for her life, love and devotion.

Distracted by conversation, I didn’t recognize the moment that she passed until Robespierre solemnly approached the kitten bed, sniffed her and looked up at me. A hush fell over the room and for a moment everything seemed brighter. But then a cataract of darkness tore through my soul…

Some say that animals have souls and that our familiars become our spirit guides. I don’t know if that is true. I would like to think so. But one thing is for certain:

My world is much grayer without my little gray cat. And the color will never fully return.

Oct. 18th, 2012


Big-Ass Astrology Predictions About the Election and Beyond

Past Spooky-licious Predictions

Every election, I sift through a lot of astro crap and make predictions based on what I see. I've been doing this for almost as long as I've been studying astrology, which has been about 16 years now. And every election, I freak everyone the fuck out. About a week before the Gore/Bush election day, I asked a co-worker if he knew of any reason the results would be delayed. He shrugged me off. But the day AFTER the election, he stomped into the office, slammed down his backpack on his desk, pointed at me and yelled, "SPOOKY!" smile And then just before the election after that, I was at the World Fantasy Convention book signing on Halloween when I told John Lawson of Raw Dog Screaming Press and his partner that I not only didn't see Kerry winning, but I definitely foresaw John Edwards having a major family crisis three days before the Kerry/Bush election.

Of course, a few days later Edwards made an announcement on November 2nd about his wife Elizabeth's cancer. Lawson's partner later remarked in my LJ that she remembered what I'd said at WFC, calling it "freaky accuracy."

Veep Charts are Louder

It's been tough finding time to scour the charts this year, but I'm doing it. Part of the problem was that we didn't have good birth data for Romney for a while and we certainly didn't know who his running mate would be until fairly recently. (And if I don't have accurate birth data, the reading is garbage.) Anyway, what I've found in the past is that the charts of the Vice President candidates speak louder than the Presidential candidate charts. Weird, huh? I never even had a birth time for Sarah Palin, but it was obvious astrologically, if not in every other way -- that they were going to lose because she had a very slow and dramatic martyr transit at that time.


POTUS is pretty inscrutable in general, but he's especially cloudy on the day of the election. He has no transits either way. Nothing to say, "Fuck yeah, I won!" or even to say, "Make it a triple, bartender." (There's one sort of "Lemme attum!" transit -- fairly minor -- and the vestiges of a major "romance" transit.) Even his progressions -- what astrologers think of as the personal evolution -- don't reveal much except that, like it or not, Obama is probably going to continue to try to go after things as a peacemaker (progressed Mars at 25Libra) and the oligarchy (squaring natal Saturn 25Capricorn) is going to take a dump on him, but this time in some ways he's going to get a lot more "action" (sextiling natal Uranus 25Leo). On the other hand, his transits on January 21, 2013 are definitely indicative of a pleasant inauguration day. Lots of heartfelt communication, expansion in power (although not an easy one), and a sense of new self. This comes  after a seriously brutal transit of guilt and self-doubt around the middle of December. He might even have heavy religious doubts. On inauguration day, he'll still be reeling from the burst bubble.

For what it's worth, I don't think the third debate is going to go well for him. Transiting Saturn will be directly square his natal Mercury, making him feel more hindered around speech than ever before.


Like the Veep himself, Biden's chart is chatty. The day of the election, he is Mr. Talkin' About It. He's got major communication happening. And Neptune is opening him up in a big, compassionate way. In his progressions (that inner evolution I mentioned), he's becoming more ambassadorial (THANK GOD). He has a progression of powerlessness and self-sacrifice that's been active for a while. It hit its zenith this summer and is just starting to pass a tiny bit. He has a very interesting fortunate influence around any fights he picks. If he wants something, he'll probably get it.


So, let's look at Romney. If we have good birth data for him, then things are already looking astrologically dim. And, while we're at it, we can throw in Ryan because these two share the same ascendant but within a degree apart (as well as Venus at 10Aquarius -- get a room, you two!). Romney's ascendant is at 1Gemini and Ryan's is at 0Gemini. Not just on election day but for some time, transiting Neptune is squaring both of their ascendants (and, for that matter, their descendants, which represent their relationship with the public). This means loss of contacts, questioning of identity and career, cloudy communication -- in short, not at all what I'd expect from two dudes who are about to lead the free world.

And if they are, we are in huge trouble.

Although the lucky lightning strike to his reputation (transiting Uranus) that he had during the first debate will have moved a bit out of range, he's going to feel quite confident the night before and even the morning of. It's a very minor transit he shares with Ryan that will pass. The Neptune transit is a mutherfucker that will hang around for some time. (FYI: Sarah Palin's martyr transit involved Neptune.)


The real talker in these charts is Ryan's. In addition to the Neptune business I mentioned in Romney's reading, dude is currently going through the classic midlife crisis with transiting Neptune square his natal Neptune. He's going to look at his life as it is on election day and find it doesn't add up to his ideals. Actually, my heart goes out to him because I hated this transit. It stripped me down to my soul and made me question everything. To have it during and after something as brutal as a national election is going to be hell. He's also got The Saturn Square just passing -- another classic midlife crisis transit. Is he a grownup? Or not? That's what he'll find out. Not as dramatic as John Edward's transits in 2004, but Ryan's got a talkative transit that day due to strife at home. Later in the month, he's going to feel crushed, even trapped in his life goals and social groups. The opposite of expansive and confident. But he'll undergo a temperance that will make him more formidable in the future...

And on Inauguration Day? While Romney has one gentle expansion transit to his career, Romney and Ryan both will be Unhappiness Personified -- transiting Saturn at 10Scorpio is squaring their shared natal Venus at 10Aquarius.


I support Obama and Biden for reelection, but in the past I've called it for people I wasn't supporting. I voted for both Gore and Kerry, and I really wanted them to win, but they didn't have it in the stars and I said so.

One Last Spooky Word

Before I go, I want to say something that I hope won't worry too many people. At the beginning of this post, I mentioned how I predicted that there'd be a delay in the 2000 election results. That was for two reasons 1) neither Bush nor Gore had definitive transits either way for at least a month after the election date and 2) Mercury was retrograde.

This year, Mercury goes retrograde the day after the election. It's practically retrograde as people are voting -- what astrologers call "station retrograde," which means Mercury appears to be standing still. No action. Stuck information. While I'm not sure there will be a delay per se (and there well could be), the media and everyone else is going to go haywire. I mean, everyone's head is going to be on fucking fire. My gut says people will be thunderously demanding a recount. It might not be granted, but Mercury tends to slip a stick of C-4 in everything. And since Romney and Ryan both have Gemini ascendants, I say this is going to be MUCH more about them, although Obama will feel it, too, with his Gemini moon.

Which is why looking to Inauguration Day is key.

I Must Want an iPad. Or Something.

I dreamed last night that The Frenchman came to me and wanted to serve me -- not as a boyfriend or lover, just as a submissive, although he certainly acted like the former. He proudly presented to me this really obnoxious gift: a "bondage" outfit that was just a gigantic buckskin skirt with a very long, bushy fox tail tacked to the back. I couldn't believe how tacky it was. (And the furry fetish wasn't lost on me.) He'd forgotten to take off the price tag. It was $800!

I held it up to myself and said, "Oh, gee, it's much too big for me. You'll have to return it."

He looked a bit crestfallen, his great gift rejected. But then I smiled with mischief and said, "You know what I really want?" His eyes widened and he shook his head. "An iPad," I said.

Hey. Dipshit bought me an $800 buckskin thing with a furry fetish attachment. (EW!) He could totally take that back and get his mistress something useful.

Just sayin'.

(For those who don't know, The Frenchman is an old boyfriend with whom I moved to France for a year and enjoyed great adventures. I don't miss him. But I do miss France.)

And for those who are into fox cosplay, this tail was made by Kilcodo Costumes. You can buy it on Etsy, mais bien sur!

Previous 10