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Here’s Why I’m Going to New York City

(freeverse, 37 words, nine lines, one stanza)

painting by Peyton

"Here's Why I'm Going to New York City"

fresh time sounds into the heart
of grand rising toward the subway
into the sunshine city
buildings & mirrors
shaving fennel into
celery brought on trucks
ready to ride into
the sunrise and
around the world again.

apl, December 18th of 2023, completed at 1:42am EST

Welcome to New York

at sunset, on a Tuesday

(photos of NYC, above and below poem, by apl 2023)

Welcome to New York

oh that blue yellow

pastel home work

ready for pizza and

a comedy mic

joints inside the body,

not to smoke

take the A train

with a subway pass

location is everything,

her smile is

so happy in wintertime;

pacing is my

secret key to this

dark maze of life

a beautiful dusk with

dinner ideas

and music. She stands up,

vested and pink

sweater that

says San Francisco

but oh baby those amber eyes

speak pure New York City,

where dad was


by apl

apl, 12.12.23, completed at 4:42pm EST


A Message About Insanity

non-image by author.

I stopped

caring if they knew

I was bipolar

right around the time I stopped
successfully maintaining a job

around the time I’d failed
at dating more

than any shadow
of success

I stopped wondering if they knew

in the years when it wasn’t a question
when the noise and

rage and
mess and melting





dust, dry and soft, caked onto thin air

rotted rust took over. My brain left me
so I left society

had nothing but the

hospital blue clicking

of silenced suffering buried in brain matter
ricochets of

death because I don’t even
think about offing myself.

I’ve never been suicidal. Ever. Not really.

the anti-psychotics make

my body


I whisper into the angel mirror

the diagnosis was schizoaffective at first
even my glimmering
psychiatrist can’t remember why
they changed

I don’t

remember if she
actually said that when I asked
sheltered in the office with free waterbottles.

I know that most people don’t seem
to need

to ask
to know


I’m bipolar. Type I, to be exact.

they can just tell. and they do tell. and then I confess my diagnosis
they’ve extracted it like the worst dentists of all time
my peers, holding the scissors for a social lobotomy

so, I ask myself, am I rude and uncomfortable for others?
they talk shit, they gossip, they pretend they know anything. that they’re better for being boring they are boring boring boring and gossiping because they’re bored.

why? you already know that.
get over it. everyone else
in the universe has gotten
over the bipolars.
I mean, we are,

by name, a casual derogatory descriptor on the permanent file.

the weather is acting _____
your mom is being ______
my ex was probably ______

and don’t get me started on the rough handed and violent misuse of the word crazy.

Oh, trump and the shooters were crazy? really? then what does that make us? maybe we should give trump and the shooters respidal then. or abilify, or thorozine, or lamictol, or lithium, or zypreza or seroquel in large doses, or latuda, or geodon, or clonazine, or maybe just sedate them with injections and zero consent?

kanye is crazy, but he’s also an asshole. the second part is temperament, not insanity.

insanity just lets you say the shit that you wouldn’t normally say. for instance, I told all the nurses that I loved them. I mean, I screamed it repeatedly for more than 30 minutes straight, in french, sobbing, while standing on a desk once every four days like clockwork.… but still.

can you 52/50 a president? he doesn’t need it. he wouldn’t last a day in the psych ward, let alone in actual psychosis. they’d kick him out, discharged early for being too sane and functional. the limit of crazy isn’t your judgmental gaze, society. you are just UNINFORMED about real insanity. I hate you. I’ll say it directly. agaisnt medical advice about how to be liked.

I stopped caring about success the moment

that this poem became

a chaotic soup of confessions of a rage

unbeknownst to any non [type I bipolar] or

earth-based pallbearer of SMI diagnoses.

I don’t care if you understand anymore

I expect the worst while hoping for the best

the best of what?



wait, what?

be patient. Maybe one day,
if you take enough plant medicine,
scroll for long enough
grieve too hard
or have traumatic brain injury

you will then accidentally lose your mind too.




(If you’ve had psychosis due to mental illness, please continue reading below, to the end. I love you.)

I know that we are few. We are 2% of any population, across the world. We are everywhere, disproportionately represented in the homeless population. We are victims of violent crimes more than we cause them. Many of us are not on drugs nor addicted, though some of us are. Much of this was not caused by drugs, but by a genetic propensity in the mind. Maybe we have a reason for being here; maybe we were called into being as much as anyone else.

Maybe if they can talk about how autism and ADHD have changed the world for the better, how neurodiversity has helped with innovation, then bipolar or schizophrenics or schizoaffectives or any being with a psychotic experience from our own brain can then be seers, be needed, be helpful, be seen as human.

So let’s Gogh, but in a healthy way!

Maybe, dear friend, I don’t need to write for them any more but I can write for us. Maybe I don’t care about the people who don’t care. Maybe my mind is not on display, maybe my rage can be assuaged by our invisible but growing camaraderie.

Maybe they think they’re crazy, but we know they’re not. They think the world is crazy — but we know it’s not.

They label evil crazy, but we know it’s not the same.

So maybe, treasured oracle friend, I write for us and not the rest. Maybe we are so human that we became oracles. Maybe we were so crazy that we became sane.

The psychotics might rule the world one day; all of the other people (98% of people everywhere, in all populations) seem like they’re missing and needing the truth tellers, seers, and medicine of our true insanity. We become well because society doesn’t let us learn how to be sick. But maybe that’s okay.

The pathway of a contemporary oracle is ours, and no one else’s. We know that, even if they don’t yet.

I love you. I will always love you like I love myself. We are us, dear crazy friend, and that is totally and entirely alright. Everything is gonna be alright. I promise.

The Commodification of Crystals is Stupid

Don’t buy gemstones. It’s bad for the earth, bad for your spirituality, and totally contradictory to the lessons that stones or crystal healing can offer.

small watercolor portraits by author

When you take plant medicine in ceremony, you first ask the plant, thank the plant, and prepare yourself in a variety of ways for the sacrament. The medicine works on you, mind, body, spirit and beyond, and passes through your system, leaving you transformed.

But then why are sacred crystals from within the earth of Planet Earth itself starting to be treated like plastic jewelry?

If you have ever used crystals in your healing practice (anything from rose quartz, to jasper, to moldavite, to malachite, to even mineral healing such as copper) then you might be aware of their power. If you are trained in Reiki healing, or otherwise practiced and mature in your energy sensitivity, then you know the gravity and seriousness with which crystal or gemstone healing can occur.

The hierarchy of power in any setting is damaging and usually inaccurate. From species hierarchy (which animals we do or don’t eat,) to calling some plants weeds (dandelions are more healing than dahlias, overall,) we are increasingly eager to find lines in the sand. Gems are no different. 

Most people are willing to jump on trends or common belief to just feel safer — mostly so that they don’t have to worry about making additional choices themselves. To give away your choice is to avoid making a wrong choice. This is understandably appealing. Trust the online store selling the crystals to tell you their uses. Follow their accounts to know which crystals to buy more of or to buy next…

Larger crystals are not more powerful. Chairs or large decorations made out of amethyst are wasteful and greedy. If you don’t actively work with your crystals and treat them like family or pets, then you should never, ever buy any more. Until you know and understand each crystal, do not increase the demand and then, as such, increasing the mining of crystals.

If you are going to buy a crystal, you are going to be buying it after it was taken from its home and birthplace, of the dirt or cave or environment in which is was grown, by Planet Earth, over thousands of years. 

Buying extracted crystals (all crystals that you didn’t find on the ground yourself, essentially) is like buying the teeth of mother Earth that have been pulled from her for your consumption. This is an exact and insidious contradiction to the meaning and purpose of crystal healing.

If you want to heal yourself, don’t use the damage of other to do so. Don’t take or steal or buy or commodify any piece of this planet to heal yourself. If you can find a beautiful stone, then pick it up and ask it’s name. Introduce yourself. Feel the stone in your palm, notice its texture. Put the rock or earthly mineral that you found into your pocket. (This also works with pieces of bark, or fallen leaves. Anything that was already available for your reciprocal healing and care.)

Carry it around for a few hours, maybe a few days. Bring it home with you, wherever that may be. Get to know it over the course of months and years. Pay reverence to the pieces of earth that you are asking to help you be a healthful human being upon our earth.

Only ever take a stone from a place where you are allowed to gather stones. Don’t pick up anything from a natural place where you’re not meant to, for the sake of the nature there. Your healing doesn’t mean the harming of another, not even another who doesn’t speak in human words.

If you believe in the powers of crystal healing, then you must believe in your responsibility to care for the crystals you already have. This is as serious as anything else. As we allow it to be true, it becomes true. 

So be the guardian and steward of your already-bought gemstone pets. Be the mother to the stones that you took from your mother earth. It is your responsibility, as a human being. Care for second hand gems, if they happen to find you. Never buy any more new crystals.

No one can heal you if you are harming them.

Further Notes:
1 (for the crystal healer)
2 (for the influencer)
3 (for the skeptic)


To be clear, love and cherish the crystals you might already have. Treat them like wonderful pets or plants; care for their energy like you care for the hair, fur, roots, or leaves of other beings in your home. Tend to them, so they may tend to you. And, just to note, raw crystals and small crystals are sometimes more powerful. Not over-commodified objects, like polished pendants or massive bowls.

But stop buying them. Please, find ways to make your current life sacred.

Find other shiny things. Make non-shiny things shiny. Become shiny yourself and stop looking for more objects or extractions to feel that brilliance. If you want to work with minerals, use a sprinkle of salt. Be creative. 

Or even channel the energy of a crystal you’ve learned about without having to buy it! Write poetry to the idea of the crystal, if you feel called. You can even draw a tiny rendition of a new crystal that you feel could be helpful and imbue it with the healing properties — without extracting it from it’s original home within our only earth. If you want to self-heal, then set your awareness compass to become wise about what health and healing truly means.

Also, (article foreshadowing) test your home for mold. Notice ways that you might be increasing your own daily fog, disorder, and chaos. Quit substances. Meditate. There are so many millions of actions we can take to improve the quality of ourselves and our lives. 

Lucidity, health, and happiness go in waves, particularity within this horrific reality of trading time for survival (capitalism). Acceptance and silent meditation can help. If that feels daunting, find tiny little safe ways to feel a tiny bit better once in while.


For creators or spiritual influencers, please stop suggesting new crystals for people to buy. 

Give us more non-consumption based rituals, healing techniques, or tools. 

Give us ways to do better, be better, and become healthier that don’t involve more taking, buying, spending, purchase-hunting, shipping, seeking, owning, and otherwise objectifying this planet. 

Or guide us to talk to trees instead. Or to find living plants in our neighborhood. Seek ways to teach us to preserve, conserve, allow, and breath into the world that we already inhabit, instead of finding more ways to have or add. 

Enlightenment, in a crude summary, includes a clearing away of illusion, or excess, of that of our non-self. So, as healers and leaders, guide us toward that. Base your guidance in compassion and love — not a self-insular need, need, need, and telling us there’s more to purchase and use.

We all already have many, many objects at our disposal. Let us learn how to use our own hands, hearts, creativity, and the world around us instead. 


Note: Although this might seem like a trivial or niche topic, the way that we interact with all aspects of our lives is interconnected with our treatment of ourselves, other humans, and our world overall. 

I ask that we consider the macroscopic impact of our more nuanced or seemingly minute behaviors; that is one core reason that I’ve taken the time to write and then decided to publish this article, beyond the topic itself. 

Throw-away culture and objectification (of tools that are also seen as energetically alive!) is just another facet of our disconnection to life and lack of awareness for self and others. 

Deep thinking, lovingness, creative and open minded awareness, and self-wisdom are some primary antidotes to an isolated-topic mentality, in my experience. 

Always be willing and ready to notice missing logical links, and to shift into something more healthy for all beings. 

Find ways to create harmony, health, and congruence, with whatever that might require or inspire.

You’ll do great! No regret, fear, or worry. Only a determined and gentle self love to move forward with knowledge, awareness, kindness, and grace. I believe in your capacity and strength to find creative ways to survive and thrive with the tides of life, even in such a context as this. Let yourself rise to the challenge and create a life that feels wholesome and, ideally, safe.

Further readings:

“Are crystals the new blood diamonds?”
by Eva Wiseman, for The Guardian, published June 16th, 2019

My Existential Fear of Public Writing

I stop short when I try to document the content that courses through my mind and body. (Three Part Prose Poem / Exploratory Lit.)

watercolor by author, for this story.

I sit down to write. My fingers freeze.

The currents of analysis is bursting from my brain, like a stopped faucet in need of release.

I can’t wait, leaning forward, hips tilted in my chair toward the screen. I am eager, enthralled and amazed, running hot to get these concepts into the world. Into the world…

Where is the world? Aren’t I just as much of a world as the world itself?

The internet is a non-place used almost entirely to describe the physical realities within which our human existence is located. We join together, from vastly different lives, with disparate data about the meaning of humanness, with increasing consciousness and fear of death, creating and absorbing into a virtual space.

A space with less than two dimensions, technically speaking.

Money. I can’t provide my ideas to the ether for fear of losing them.

I want money. I want money to survive more easily, better, and for a longer amount of time. I expect, with not much evidence, that this money shall be born from these ideas. That my creations are my future wallet.

That my brain is the source of my survival.

It is so much easier to write when comfortable. It is so much easier to do anything when we feel safe. My psychiatrist said that I need to adapt myself to challenges more effectively; that emotional and psychological resilience are healthy and protective factors in psychological outcomes. Or, that’s how I heard it anyway.

My eyes and head remember the feeling of grief. Loss after loss but almost none of them were death. I feel the experience of past elation in my body. I observe the fast undulations of emotional and physical sensation of being human. The rising pressure of having to pee, or not, or hydrate, or not, or get out of the sun, or get into the sun, or stretch, or sit still. These electrical machines of atoms, of cells, attuned to the minutia of being.

We inhabit delicate vessel, from which to create.

And yet we must trust the world to receive the projects and gifts that are born so gently of these vessels; the genius that is sometimes birthed so ferociously from the kingdom of our flesh.

Our minds and thinking and writing seem too often limited by our time and strength.

I write around the concepts.

As usual, I notice the tension of a gnawing desire to express and a deep fear of expressing into nothingness.

Of losing the expression into the abyss. Of sacrificial infant ideas, ready for consumption, afraid of being gone forever. Gone forever like hundreds of Docs forgotten. Like the ghosts of posts past. Like the memories of the money I could’ve made or the lives I could’ve changed.

I sense the internal wave of shivering that I indeed have some time left. I have life left within which to create. That I will probably continue, at least for a while, to survive. Praying to the internet for the spacious permission to create and create and create.

That the void is just a void and that we humans are nothing more than ourselves.

We weave the tiniest of moments into a fragile tapestry of mutual hope.

We seek the memory of our ancient bodies, decomposed. We tie down the sky to keep ourselves from floating away. We are the people of Planet Earth, of Earth’s internet, of the ideas and writing that bring us home to our own consciousness, over and over and over again.

I’m here to create, just like anyone and everyone else. I’ve suffered enough.

Now I want to use that suffering for something. For anything.

I am concerned to the point of stillness of losing my precious, beloved ideas. But it would be worse to lose them by never having offered them at all.

I sit. I write in circles around my greatest ideas. I cage in my fear, like a small rabbit. I let it hop, and sing, and chatter. I feed it carrots. I notice the rabbit pray, small paws like a mouse. A mouse that shimmies into the warm and protective palm of myself.

Last night, I dreamed of a nestling mouse.

The cutest, most puppy-like mouse I had ever seen. Then, something terrible happened. But I pray for her, dipping the idea of the tiny creature into the ether, alongside my writing. Loss is a myth. The mythology of death. We are just big stars crunched up into smaller bodies.

The mouse is just a symbol for the rabbit of my fears.

The sad fate of the mouse, which I shall not write here, is just homage to my deep caring, my small heart of compassion for the writing. For all of our writing. For the humans that, so small in this galaxy, continue to pull from the fabric of the cosmos, into consciousness, as we create, create, and create.

We are nothing against the backdrop of possible bravery.

So, as always, I will not forget to create. I will not stop myself. I will ride the tides of fear or sorrow, and dive into the black water of the deepest oceans. I will pull up fishes and pray over them; water into water, with a shimmer into the sky.

I will soothe lost beach mice along the shore. I will write my ideas privately, and consider their lifetimes. Where will these ideas live, if not in the possible awareness of other human beings through the portal of our virtual realms? Where can I place them?

Ideas so delicate, like living beings, ready to scamper toward the bright shores of existence beyond just me.

Photosynthetic ideas, like underwater algae, breathing into the symbols of lifetimes beyond me. Giving energy into the ocean, available nutrients, awakening over the course of time.

I want to offer my mind to the future. I want the future to offer abundance to me.

Into the Broken Snow Globe

A flash autofiction description of physical pain, medical experiences, and past eating-disordered-behavior. →[content warning]←

photos of author (left to right, taken in 2011 & then 2023)

When I first felt the searing of shin splints, I was hobble-sprinting toward a dance class in below zero weather. I was about 95 pounds of ballerina, cold, and in pain. Tears were dusting the icicle of my sharp little face. I felt very, very frustrated to be so very incapacitated by who knows what.

It began when I was born. Obviously. Or, maybe it began in utero. 

Or maybe before that in the cosmos, as some sort of angelic being that decided to suffer for the sake of learning. But that’s pretty much how every single story in the history of humans begins, which you also already know.

So I was hobble-sprinting (TM) like a lonely leprechaun, at only five feet tall and with almost no physical health left in my body. I was searing, burning, and angry, but also urgently sad. My heart ached for a change — any change — to something easier. Anything, really, where I wouldn’t have to suffer every moment of every day.

At this point in time, I was more comfortable with a toothbrush down my throat for no reason at all than I was with my boyfriend, or with a nighttime spliff of weed, or with my delicate and strained shin bones and lifted tibias. I was sick of everyone, but especially sick of myself. Sickness seemed easier.

I got to ballet class 7 minutes late, which was four minutes too late to get credit for that day. I wasn’t really much of a ballerina. I was, more so, an 18 year old biology major who needed a physical education credit. It was part of the general education units that I did not want. And also a near-cliché aspect of my childhood extracurricular history.

Did the toothbrush comment feel abrupt? Part of the conundrum of being a limping dancer with medical problems galore is that I lost a great deal of my human compassion. My selfishness increased with my pain levels. So, basically, I don’t have enough energy to consider your personal history of eating disorders or not. I should. But at least I’m aware (and telling you directly) that I don’t.

I danced while crying. Small, small tears until later, after class, at which point I began to silently sob. I hid into the crevice of a wall within a behemoth chrome arts building. The facility felt much more elegant than my emotions. 

That large metal architecture held all of our emotions. The other dancers were not unlike me. Different injuries, different salt levels in their tears, different mothers on the phone with varying levels of narcissism or kindness (rarely both). 

The dancers all had different boyfriends or fuck buddies, or girlfriends, or lovers, or friends. Or crushes on professors. Or obsessions with essays. We all had different levels and details of social prowess. I was an extra-social-ballet-focused-student with a boyfriend on the basketball team and a burning brain. A girl with a need for eyeglasses that I hadn’t let myself wear since 4th grade. 

Who was, up until the hospital, actively acing her core genetics lab. A paradoxical yet surefire sign of a soon-to-be inflamed brain, born of an increasingly unstable mind.

As the Vivaldi played, we tripped, fell, and quietly compared our bodies. Or, mostly it was me who tripped and fell. I have weak ankles and flat feet, which should normally dissuade any continuation of classical dance. Apparently not. I had dance in me and it wouldn’t let go. It held onto my heart like the tension in the skin of a drum.

The leotard squeezed onto my nothingness. The tights made my skin itch. Clean tights are best, but my body still doesn’t like those much. And the feet. The angry, aching, amber-red feet. Plus the shins, plus the mind.

I held them inside of me. Hugged them into my soothing soul, pulsing with empathy for the plight of my insides. 

I sensed that I wasn’t the only human existing in this gritty and gutty world of silent suffering. My pointed toes pushed downward into the glassy wooden floor of the studio by the tragedy of not knowing who else. How many of us were there? I wondered how to find them; how to help us all.

As an active anorexic [ED-NOS, according to Kaiser Permanente California Medical Center,] one glance downward from another dancer meant the world to me. My heart would flutter at the smallest moment of jealous eyes touching the non-curves of my disintegrating frame. Weakness, however fraught, was beautiful to me. That is to say, only true frailty could express the level of rage I held inside my collarbones. 

I twisted the rage around my bonesome fists like a rope. I felt it inside my sore eyes. The fury lived inside of the viscera of salted memories, housed near wounded flesh, an existential gnawing toward my terrorized child within. (An inner child who is now safe and loved. She’s here, with us, writing this story, as an adorable aspect of retrospect.)

The girl danced, a hypermobile ballerina from Petaluma, California. A girl who sure knew how to win.

The ligaments didn’t make sense, technically speaking. Neither did the joints or tendons. But, luckily, I avoided the doctor. My body could pretend to be normal for as long as I needed; this cost me the price of my mind.

 Without getting into it, the psychiatric expense was just about the size of my destiny.

I walk out of Kaiser, now 31, like a spy. The man in the physical therapy department has helped my poor, poor feet more than any doctor ever could. I praise him and feel like I’m going to cry. 

He calls me to follow up. I thank him five more times. When we get off of the phone, I actually do cry, overwhelmed by gratitude and the humanness of it all. Technically, he didn’t actually help yet, but the suggestions felt distinctly helpful.

I sit on the bench under the sun that they only provide at the offices in my hometown. Back home, still or again, at 31 years old. That’s what that glamorous eating disorder stuff will get you, kids, so don’t do it. It was one thousand times over not worth the subsequent suffering. 

Really, it wasn’t even worth the suffering of the times of fasting themselves. Living through self-induced torture felt like a disgusting and strange way to be. The anguish of repetitive fasting wasn’t physical; it was a high and an addiction. I was getting a fix of weightlessness. 

But the superficial and enraged obsession with smallness created a type of existential shame that I hadn't otherwise encountered.

I open my Chromebook as I wait for the pharmacy. The pharmacy closes as I write this, dramatically, so I’ll wait for the bus instead. I gently complain to the guy behind the pharmacy door. The hot younger security guy offers to open it for me. I decline, partially because I’m nicer now, but also partially for the theater of it. Both motives feel just fine.

The older man who closed the sliding glass doors comes over a while later, after everything’s locked up and the coffee cart is inside, and softly apologizes to me, too. He commiserates. He even adds in how much he dislikes Kaiser. 

I thank him for being generous and reassure him that I found out later that they ran out of my mood stabilizer anyway, so he doesn’t need to feel bad and it was entirely alright all in all, and that I hope they can still change the pharmacy for pickup and he suggests the app and then he does prayer hands and gives many smiles in a row and I put my computer away and walk toward the bus stop.

I experienced the thrill of non-ceremony degree conferral earlier this summer. It was a balmy July while staying with my Aunt in Rhode Island. That day, I could practically feel the paper passing through the hands of the dean to be signed on the other side of the country. Dominican University of California, Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing with a Narrative Medicine Emphasis. 

I sit quietly with my past child self at the bus stop that day. We are in the September sunshine. I am illuminated by the California air, correcting my posture for a recent crook in my neck. 

I get to listen to the worries of this little girl, of seven-year-old me, a figment of self-therapeutic practices and maybe spirituality. I comfort her, I comfort me. She asks questions, gives me encouragement. I sit and breath and meditate. We become myself, merging into a nice timeline of a non-ballerina. We sit, and hold the crazy 19 year old young woman in our arms, on each side with her between, melting the icicles of the insides of her mind. We give her the sun. The bus arrives. I smile at the driver.

He says, “I’ve never seen someone so happy for the bus to arrive!”

I’m the only one on the whole bus. I laugh, smile, and thank him.

“Well, I mean… I’ve been waiting a really long time and I’m just glad you’re here!”

The little girl of my past self doesn’t leave. We sit in the middle of the seats, alone and together on the bus, child and adult. In the golden hour, I take a photo of myself, smiling. I am a little less than 200 pounds. I feel happy. I feel safe. I feel healthy. I am beautiful.

I am here. I am human. I’m me and I am alive.

Growing Up Lana

A story of 2011 Lana fandom, losing my mind, regaining my sanity, and then going crazy once again — all to the syrupy, near-operatic soundtrack of Lana Del Rey. 

original photo by will anderson, blurred by author (on the right)

This is a chaotic personal essay. 

[Content Warning: mild descriptions of psychosis imagery / SMI symptoms]


When I first heard Lana Del Rey, I was about 19 years old. The year was 2011. Her first full-length album was released in June of that year. By June of 2011, I was either on the precipice of psychosis or just recovering. The timeline of Lana’s music is factually more clear and better recorded than my history of psychiatric hospitalization.

The first time Lana influenced my life was a few months later. I had become entirely obsessed with Born to Die (the album) and was in the middle of delusions and hallucinations — 

(REAL delusions, not the TikTok appropriation-plus-entitlement, ablest meaning of delusions). 

I was sobbing in my mom’s bed, with her trying to understand what was going on, frantically placing damp cloths on my face, while I slid further and further down toward the floor (literally). It was 2:00 AM and I was wincing, yelling, snotty, and choking. And, most importantly, to the core of my being, I thought I was being physiologically and interdimensionally transformed into the newest pop-icon that was 2010s-style Lana Del Rey. 

I could feel my eyelashes growing into false lashes. I could feel my skin, blood, and muscles changing into hers. The physiological transformation felt like a gooey caterpillar in a broken, yet somehow moldy cocoon. I started thinking about the stress of tour dates. 

I wondered why they had to replace her at all; why they had chosen me, specifically. I wondered what kind of cosmic overlords were giving themselves access to my physical body, just to replace the dreampop sensation of Lana. And, about how I would actually miss the real Lana, as her fan. But, I was also secretly enthralled and energized to become her AI robot-human covert sleeper-replacement (… the AI thing was a side delusion). I mean, I was supposed to be crying — that’s how the false lashes would sprout! Obviously!!!

Could I tell anyone once I’d lost my own body? Did my mom know I was disintegrating? Did I also look moldy??? (For context, this was between hospitals, during a relative lull in the symptoms.)

The next time Lana Del Rey impacted my life was when I was first began having time travel dreams. 

In my experience, you can’t be delusional or hallucinate in your dreams. In fact, at least for me, the physical brain injury that can happen in prolonged, florid, and initially treatment-resistant psychosis, meant that I did not dream at all. I didn’t dream in the hospital, nor in recovery, nor when I was first starting to read again. 

But, I most definitely dreamt between it all, and afterward. And those dreams involved timetravel. A lot of timetravel. Romantic, terrifying, important, dramatic, and also very esoteric psychedelic-rock timetravel. But also, like, truly world-saving timetravel. Don’t ask.

Until then, though, I slept in a shade of dark grey. The lumpy nothingness of sleep in the psych ward in psychosis was somehow heavier than anything else. So, in the time of my dreams returning, I began to over-associate with the lyrics of her album. Specifically, the titular song, Born to Die.

I knew that my future husband, my partner, the man with whom I could reconcile the ills of the world, was perhaps already dead. Or that he had never lived yet, or that, “Every time I close my eyes, it’s like a dark paradise. Nothing compares to you. I’m scared that you, won’t be waiting on the other side.”

I screamed, cried, went wild-eyed thinking about him, about this made up man. I knew that Lana knew. Sometimes I thought she was me, I was her, or that we were both telepathic. 

Sometimes I thought that she merely was the messenger, delivering crucial truths from god, the gods, or perhaps the devil himself.

When Lana next spoke to my malady-minded yet societally-privileged soul was upon the release of Blue Jeans, in 2012. I was recovering from the first 9 weeks of locked unit hospitalization and closer to 6 months in and out of symptoms, with another year spent in residential psych treatment. 

But please, please understand — my background of relative financial privilege, which allowed me to receive so much treatment, plus my dogged and unquenchable desire to survive and thrive, comprise a set of blessings that now allow me to live and write, currently-able-minded, over a decade later. And to hear music. To still hear music. To even so far as remember hearing music, and it’s meaning, at that time in my earlier life.

I was slowly and dully recovering, staying with my dad at an apartment after their divorce. The divorce was completely unrelated, but began a few months prior to my first psychotic break, arrest, and then 52/50 involuntary hospital holds. 

It was, all in all, a probably almost-unbearable-situation for my precious little brother, who was 17 years old when the various crises started. He was set to live alone with my parents (as they fell away, in starts and fits, with me, insane or recovering) throughout his senior year of high school.

Lana couldn’t solve my younger brother’s trauma, but she definitely could sing me into a whole fervor while I sat, waiting to become more and more sane. Shoutout Zyprexa, Abilify, Lithium, Latuda, Geodon, Risperidone, Seroquel, et al.

At that point, the best guess of the doctors was schizoaffective disorder, but that was only after the could get me back from catatonia. (In my case, psychotic catatonia showed up as a coma-like state, for about 48 hours, much of which I was totally alert but couldn’t speak, move, or open my eyes. They felt glued shut.)

This isn’t a complaint. I’m absolutely and totally glad to be alive. I’m obsessed with the idea of redemption, of becoming helpful in society instead of having simply taken up a bed at the ward.

Luckily [was it luck? or the other side of injustice? oppression that benefited me indirectly as the categorical oppressor? was it randomly assigned? was it a template for what every human being should have the structural ability to access, unequivocally and irrevocably, as needed?] I had the ability to get help paying my medical bills. 

I was — in some twist of contemporary, problematic, but also life-saving fate — able to leave the hospitals debt free, and with the further possibility of more medical treatment.

I would put in my headphones, still corded, and chant her music like hymns — like invocations. Like whispers from Aphrodite as I learned how to be understood. I would cry with her, laugh with her, sing her to the moon, new and full. I would puke with her, starve with her, eat with her, get sick with her. I would smoke weed with her. Quite weed with her. Go back on my meds with her. Yell in the streets for, with, and from her. Lana, for better or worse, carried me on the back of her melodies and lyrics, for the years between the hospitals. 

Just over one year later, I turned 21 in the psych ward. Back again. Again, more meds, again, raving lunatic. Again, afraid to die, born to live, and re-learning how to survive.

There was no music in the psych ward at that time, which is fine. When we watched The Hunger Games, I thought we were being prepared by the Alta Bates medical staff to be sacrificial humans, for fights to the death against other hospitals’ patients, in the wide streets of Berkeley, California. The apocalypse was nigh. 

Lana did not need to be connected to that part of the journey, for anyone’s sake. 

One movie was already too much input, let alone the idea of accessing albums worth of melodramatic lyricism and mild camp aesthetics from the United States 2012 Sad Girl delegate.

I am sane now. I still sometimes listen to her. She became problematic (or, already was, but we found out,) then received societal redemption, released more albums, collaborated with The Weeknd on Stargirl, rewrote her family backstory, had a totally resurgence with the youth, happened on TikTok, got thick (which is the healthiest possible thing to happen for little girl’s body image in the history of Americana Pop). 

She became an obvious adult, turned 36 during the pandemic, released weirder and more fun albums, embraced an updated 2020s sound and samples, added a Tommy Genesis collab, and, most recently, got engaged to a somewhat normal-seeming music producer — and played at San Francisco’s Outside Lands 2023, with iconic girls putting iconic flowers in her hair, while sitting in an antique makeup chair in front of a massive vanity mirror on the Lands End stage. 

Full circle, full quirky, and full-figured. Lana was redeemed as I was. Lana is a grown adult like I am. Lana is fun, successful, and appreciated by the youth demographic of consumers, as I shall be too one day (loll). A template of theatrical womanhood. And possibly performative adulthood. For now.

So, ultimately, I’m not so sad-girl that I followed Lana this far. I am glad to be human, glad to be alive, glad to have survived, and now, extremely happy to be an adult in my early 30s, that can think. 

Growing up Lana has felt complicated, but so has life. 

Growing up in itself, overall, is one of the greatest blessings beyond my wildest imaginations, traumas, or fears. Getting older is the all-time greatest gift that I never knew I would receive. And, quite frankly, I am glad that Lana could join me along the way.

So yeah. Now, my brain works just fine. That is the most magical blessing of all — no matter the soundtrack behind it.


follow me on medium: Abby Laporte
or my website (....here....)  at www.abbypeytonlaporte.com

Offering You Solace From a Moonfull Mind
The glow of tentative writing, while seeking connection in a wide open digital space. (a short-form prose exploration)

In honor of the Full Blue Moon in Pisces, I want to practice radical honesty.

In the fast economy of today, if writers don’t cut out anything overwhelming, people stop reading. If we don’t add in enough that’s relatable, people stop reading. If we say too much or too little, that’s it. They click away.

Yet there is a great painlessness of this contemporary conundrum. We aren’t confronted by their absence. Rather, we notice only the ghostly non-presence of the humans that click.

Our numbers are driven by internet phantoms that are all human beings living (and clicking) somewhere else in space. Yet, like most platforms, the results aren’t exactly real-time. You won’t know until later — moments or maybe days — how many visited or for how long.

Good results are when people stay. When they engage. When they wait, watch, or read, before they click away. The goal of humans creating online is to delay the click away.

And most humans that click also create something of their own online, too. It’s usually not as voyeuristic as we might want to believe. We are all simultaneously asking one another not to click away.

Or, at very least, to spare a moment or two before doing so. We are begging, as click-people, for other people to not click so quickly.

Maybe it was one episode of a now long-gone podcast, or a few posts on a quote page that you hoped to maintain. The discouragement of our own internet specters feels all-too-real, even with so little to hold onto. It flits and fleets, like the cosmic cycles. Like a small asteroid, rushing quickly away from orbit.

I type and I edit, hoping that I’ll write well enough to have a chance at some kind of life (read: more sustained housing). I break the fourth wall, admitting this. I stand up, hands aching. I walk a few paces in the room where I stay today, and look out of the window at the August blue moon. The moon glows right back.

I sit down. Reread. Think about the pain of the early clicks goodbye. But why, right? Why do we need the eyes to stay before they leave?

Often for money. Or self-esteem. Or, for the ephemeral promise of money down the road. Maybe we’re just supposed to want the views.

As for the youth, I’m not really sure. Probably some combination of building their sense of parasocial identity or feeling uncertain to question the status quo. Or, very possibly, because young people have only even known this. Nothing more nothing less.

I want to spend time with the moon. But I can’t until I know where I’ll live. I want to explain myself without giving too much detail, but my parasocial insecurity about psychiatric diagnoses pushes me to say more. I don’t want to say more.

The secondary irony is that there is no promise of success. Yet as someone who can’t work most jobs without direct medical failure, promises of success are rare either way. So, I bargain with the universe for usefulness. I offer up this request — out toward the moon, the ice sky, and the sharpness of the stars.

I ask that my writing finds the humans that need it most.

Even in its rawest, most ragged, and tangential forms, my writing has helped me. My thinking has also helped me. My resilience, what’s more, has kept me alive.

And yet, the discrepancy between my internal fire and my external creations is stunning. I am sent into utter inaction by all that I have left to say (so, so much).

I have hundreds of books to write. I don’t know if I have the physical or medical stamina to do so. I will find the stamina, though, despite the burning in my fingers and wrists and back and my eyes, and despite the rest of the problems, too. I mean, we all have problems.

Don’t worry, though, because the pain is not contagious. My obsessive compulsive disorder wants me to remind you, dear reader, that you are healthy, in some way or another! Your body and mind, like mine, have places of wholesome and sustainable good health. I promise!

In many ways, I am also healthy. Like the sky, dotted with both beauty and discrepancies. We all have places of healthfulness.

There is always, much like in the dips and divots of the moon, some beautiful silver area to be found. I seek the nuances, nestled into the grey of shadows beside the brightness of speckles of light. Cool, soothing dark silver nuances, to balance everything.

Luckily, my enthusiasm, optimism, and gratitude are quite catching. Thus, I hope that my words might catch you from ever falling into the internet abyss. We don’t need to fall. None of us do. We can weave the threads together — rather than sit, alone and tangled, within the web of empty thoughts unseen.

The rare full blue moon in Pisces reminds me that some occurrences are healthy, special, random, and only known by their announcement. Maybe breaking the form of relatable writing is similar.

Maybe I can hold the reader such that they want to stay. Maybe I can create a safe and gentle set of moments. Maybe I can benefit people, even as phantoms, floating around the internet, such that they will feel safe to lean in, to learn, to listen, to share, and to ask.

Sit down, my love. You are welcome here. Stay for a while, in the light of the full blue moon.

Full Moon, Being Human, Prose, Digital Philosophy, Mental Health

The Human Impulse to Throw My Phone Out the Window

… And a couple of questions that might make you want to do the same.

I noticed the title of my last writing was negative, which doesn’t reflect my own mental state. I have been grappling with the act of self-representation for a few weeks. This is, in large part, due to my increasing discomfort with social media. Over the past few years, I have realized that a reductive portrait of my identity isn’t helpful for me but — perhaps more importantly — isn’t helpful for anyone else either.

I don’t benefit from witnessing other people quickly summarize their sense of self, so maybe I shouldn’t either. I want to be less internet-present in order to be more real-present. So, I’ll ask, how do you feel when you look at your own social media?

When I look at one platform at a time, the first problem I notice is the incongruence. To emotionally witness my own misalignment with myself, as mentioned, is uncomfortable. This is further magnified by cross-platform irregularities.

I want to find my way into a healthier sense of 1) minimalist self-representation and 2) congruent self-representation. So, I’ll ask you now — what do you feel when you notice any contradictions in your own internet presence? What do you feel in your body? What do you feel emotionally?

For me, personally, it seems like too much work to reconcile the various pieces of internet content. I often end up in the same place of full-on inaction. I want to forget about my online presence more than I want to fix my online presence. I’ll add here that my digital footprint is not bad… It’s just doesn’t feel accurate.

So, next question: what does accurate self-representation mean to you? How do you feel about the idea of self-accuracy? How do you feel about the act of direct self-reflection? (Direct self-reflection, in this case, refers to the experience of observing yourself enough to then represent yourself, however that may be, online or otherwise.)

Alright. With that, I’ll now take the time to publish this brief and imperfect remediation. Maybe it’s a matter of living with OCD that makes my self-reflection feel uneasy. Or maybe it’s the fact that I am tired of self-reflection. Maybe I want to be doing more useful or interesting things than thinking about literally anything virtual.

Maybe I want to go outside. Or maybe, more likely, I want to stay outside. I’m sick of having to come back inside. Maybe I don’t like the feeling of looking at a computer screen. Or, even more so, the feeling of knowing that others are doing the same.

The act of self-perception is perhaps one of the least interesting, but seemingly most important aspects of contemporary life. So, I’ll ask, can I just go offline??

Or, more importantly, can you go offline? Or, most importantly of all… Can we eventually all just go offline!?

In the meantime, however, I implore us all to notice one another with a grain of salt. With, specifically, the salt of our earthly reality, rather than a digital world in the cloud(s) [pun intended]. I’ve heard so many times that “those who judge harshly judge themselves even worse,” (nonspecific quote).

When I allow myself to relax my perception of individual identities, I exhale. I bring better energy; I feel happier to those around me. When I care less about reading into the details of people I’ve never met, I feel an almost physical relief. As I relax this perceptive impulse, I also allow myself to jump online and then offline even faster.

When I calm my internet-amygdala, I then don’t have to overthink, over engage, nor over comment. I just pass by, like a flowing energy current — rather than a direct shock of targeted (…judgmental) electricity. And, of course, this includes relaxing my own internet self-analysis!

So, I’ll ask, what small step can you take in this very moment to re-frame your relationship to digital representation? How can you start to release and calm your judgement muscles, specifically toward individual people online? How might this benefit you? Can you start to allow more spaciousness in your own digital self-representation? And, what can you do to calm your impulse for digital self-judgement? (If applicable!)

I’ll now request, if you so choose, for you to take a three second inhale, deeply and slowly. Then, exhale through your lungs and airway and out of your mouth for a full four or five seconds. Let yourself move slowly. Let yourself, just for this moment, relax.

Alright. I hope that felt nice and provided some internet respite. Finding, stating (internally or otherwise,) and then following our own preferences and feelings of comfort, in any direction, is a good start.

How might it feel to let go of the fear of your own digital self-representation? What might you use that time for, in your life, instead?

Sense Of Self, Digital Footprint, Social Media, Human Psychology, Mental Health

Extraterrestrials Are Real (Friendly)

And I’m sure of it, having met and drawn many over the last 7 years.

(Or, help my numbers for Medium by reading this article though the friends link)

Extraterrestrial Design Collage

Images from art and t-shirts by the author, plus three images generated by Canva AI with the author’s prompt of “loving and kind extraterrestrial beings.” Artwork from t-shirts available at www.etlovebyapl.com

(Article also published to www.medium.com/@abbypeytonlaporte)

Extraterrestrials Are Real! (And Really Kind.)

I’ve had dreams where I’ve met aliens, specific and non-specific. I’ve drawn thousands of aliens and I’ve channeled just as many. All of these experiences happened while sober, sane, and on my medications. That is to say, aliens only wanted to say hi when I was in a lucid (and usually happy) state of being.

My handful of favorite experiences with extraterrestrials (a more precise way of saying aliens) are times that I won’t share. As precious as it is to communicate with a loved one who has passed or has yet to be born is how precious my experiences of these ET friends have been to me.

I will add, however, my greatest theories about alien, non-terrestrial (not from Planet Earth) life forms, for your reading pleasure and also for the sake of providing information when most other seem to be totally guessing, quite frankly:

1. Why is the Fermi Paradox confusing to us, and to scientists? 

The Fermi Paradox was an idea created in the 1950s that essentially wondered how there could be life elsewhere, upon the premise that there probably was, and yet they hadn’t yet made contact. This is simply rudimentary, flawed, and a vast misunderstanding of alien intelligence. 

The good news, however, is that a few intelligent people were able to stymie the various reasons to explain the paradox by giving one good reason: the form of extraterrestrial life is beyond human sensory comprehension. That aliens might not be “cavemen,” nor self-destroyed, nor non-cosmic seeking, nor even technologically advance but not interested — that instead (this is what I know to be true) they might be at a third level, beyond all of this. 

Paul Davies, a physicist who is interested in the topic, stated, “This ‘third level’ would never be manifest through observations made at the informational level, still less the matter level,” when describing the possibility that aliens would exist outside of humans comprehensible range of observations.

2. That aliens, as such, are energetic and non-matter beings. 

They can choose to take various matter forms, although usually as visual projections into the minds of humans or out onto the landscape beyond, but they are intrinsically energetic beings. This is also why our perceptions of aliens have dramatically shifted their presentation — their forms are responding to our minds and societal assumptions about the forms they will, should, or are presumed to take.

I want to point out that this includes drug-induced experiences or sightings of extraterrestrial beings. DMT is known to let others see various beings, often aliens (non-terrestrial cosmic beings). This can happen on any range of psychedelics. Aliens, as such, are appearing however makes the most sense to you within your historical framework, in order to help you notice and then ideally understand their existence — and beyond that, their message(s).

This is also an important concept for understand the legends around people being conducted by alien consciousness. Not abducted, but we’ll get to the true meaning of “abductions” later. Regardless, humans can essentially inhabit our minds. 

But, and I’ll explain this next, cosmic beings are mostly all GOOD.

Your mind creates what it wants to see; that is a neurological observation about human beings, including that our brains fill in gaps of information based on assumptions, and that the Reticular Activating System filters out anything that our conscious mind has deemed not relevant to us or our beliefs. But that’s tangential, to an extent.

I have much more evidence about the types of bodies that aliens have, but I don’t necessarily feel compelled to include it all in this one article. Nonetheless, I am always happy to write more about this topic, if needed. In essence, non-terrestrial life forms inhabit a different type of existence entirely. We could call it energetic, but it also, as such, can cross the boundaries of both space time and also into and out of the human mind.

3. Aliens (extraterrestrial cosmic beings) are 99.9% of the time GOOD OR NEUTRAL in both their impact and their intent.

Okay, lets break this concept down as easily as possible. Of alllll of the species of bacteria, only an estimated 1% (or even less than 1%, according to some science resources) are actually pathogenic. ONLY ONE PERCENT of bacteria are pathogenic. 

That one percent of bacterial species that is unhealthy for other organisms, however, causes a large percent of human illnesses, ranging from estimates of about an eighth of all human illnesses with lower and higher estimates (feel welcome to research this further, but this amount of wide sweeping estimates are more than sufficient for the description I want to provide).

Now, nature mimics itself, right? We’ve all see the pictures of neurons in the human brain looking exactly like cosmic matter, or tree roots looking like human veins, or the amount of water needed across organisms proportionate to body size (more details needed on this, but for these purposes) and so on and so forth. We can see these patterns of existence, of mathematics, and of natural trends. 

Human beings (which are very literally human animals, of the taxonomic class mammalia) have the same behavioral patterns, in many ways, as other more “advanced” animal species. We also have a predictably rageful response, in capitalist America, to the enclosure we experience in cities, cubicals, onto our computers, and air-conditioned rooms. We are, in a sense, creating our own captivity. As such, we react like very, very unhealthy animals much of the time. War, for instance, is a great example of this. That’s not exactly supposed to happen, so to speak.

All of this is merely to say that, much like the pattern of percentage we see in microbes, specifically bacteria is our example here today, numerically mirrors the percentage of kind aliens. This is actually far more linear conceptually than it sounds. Also, more importantly, I literally know this as fact because I have made contact with thousands of aliens (of varying forms and species, as such) over the past 7 ish years.

So, to recap, the vast majority of extraterrestrial beings, in the forms of energies, consciousnesses, idea-beings, dream visits, visual projections, visions, or psychedelic sightings are actually actively beneficial for human beings. Or, they are neutral and calm, in that sense. Only a tiny fraction have ill-will toward humans. 

But, much like bacterial pathogens, the “bad” aliens are pretty over-active. So like, bad extraterrestrials (which is a crude way of saying, alien beings without the good of humans as a goal or metric of their behavior) are just more noticeable. 

And, perhaps most importantly, the human brain, and human mind unless actively reprogrammed by ourselves, naturally seeks out negativity. We are biologically programmed to noticed the bad before the good. It is a safety mechanism run awry. 

That is why cortisol from stress from things like commuting is making our lives extremely difficult. Human beings were never meant to live this way. And, in that sense, we are far more prone to seek out experiences with negative alien beings. 

We are just more interested in the bad non-terrestrial stories. 

It’s easier to plug into our existing news cycles and structures overall. Which leads me to our next point (and perhaps final point for today)…

4. The kind extraterrestrial being stories are more subtle, more internal, less believable, and more magic, in a way.

Real positive encounters with extraterrestrial beings are not actually as rare as we would like to believe. Yet, because the people encountering good aliens (again, shorthand for good for human aliens, but this is more of a philosophical point than anything else) are usually more chill people, quite frankly, they are also intrinsically less pushy about getting their stories heard and understood.

I ask you to consider this:

Who is more likely to take their story to multiple news outlets?

The human who saw a light orb and communicated telepathically during meditation about their past wounds or the future of humanity and their specific human role, while this warm floating presence held their mind in the moments of trance at the peak of a 20 minutes meditation.


The human who was angry while driving and saw a flash and then skidded off the road to see a strange light being flash past their face and then felt cold and was sure they got abducted.

Obviously, please admit, that second one would tell everyone. They would care more. They would WANT people to know. Now, I must admit, even writing that last story gave me the chills. It was hard to write and uncomfortable to put out there. But that is because I have encountered both genre of ET life, so to speak. Yet, once again, I have encountered hundreds of times more kind alien beings. 

I also think that the loving aliens, although a bit scary in their own intense and immense power, are more wholesomely capable than any negative being could ever be. But that last part is only opinion because I am a persistent optimist who, despite all that I’ve lived through, profoundly believes that one day love will win. 

And that, although much of life is absolutely miserable, a lot of it is good too and — in many ways, even unseen, love is winning. Not necessarily by much, but by enough. And that our human minds are programmed to notice fear or danger more than love or celebratory and evolved joy. 

As such, it is out job as human beings to stay open to love. 

Relatedly, it the job of us, as human beings to stay aware of loving, kind, and compassionate extraterrestrial beings here on Planet Earth.


Also, I invite you to check out my t-shirt website. Please do not feel obliged to purchase any of the clothes, but I would love for you to read the stories I’ve added next to them!! Each one speaks to a specific drawing I’ve done (and made into a tee graphic).

Although the clothing line (ET Love by APL) is both an endeavor of love and a way for me to create more income from my visual artwork, (line drawings with pen on paper, until made ready for the t-shirt graphic) obviously— the project and apparel is also and even more so a way to promote the idea of loving ETs. 

This might sound unimportant, because Earth is so extremely painful right now for so many human beings, but I deeply believe that increasing our love and respect for alien beings, even just conceptually, will contribute to our abilities, as humans, to experience empathy, nuance of character assessment, and wisdom. 

I think, as the creator of this line, but also as a channel for loving aliens, that this work goes far beyond any extraterrestrial being and into the hearts of how humans can be kinder and more loving to one another, too.

[Non-Cosmic, Capitalist Side Note: If the pricing is frustrating or unrealistic to you, I can also happily provide a lower price for any individual who needs that! Feel welcome to email me about this. I want the artwork to be as accessible as possible. I priced the shirts higher than they were before to increase the gravity and value of the art (pen and paper line drawing) and the seriousness of the concepts (loving aliens!). 

I am finding ways to support my work as an artist, writer, and speaker for mental health, but again, I can definitely reduced them if needed, as much as I can to cover the cost of print-on-demand. Lastly, there is free shipping for everyone, in general, so I hope that helps a bit too (it’s calculated into the current price).]

All in all, thank you for reading this article! The topic is near and dear to my heart. I started the alien artwork about 5 years ago, after first (noticeable) contact about 7 years ago. 

Since then, I have grown very fond of these beings and creatures and, in many ways, guides. As such, I am always happy to write more, answer questions, and continue channeling them for awareness through artwork. 

This is, ironically, far beyond the aliens. In fact, the most loving extraterrestrials care about humans even more than themselves. 

Loving ETs are already happy, but they see than most of us humans are not… So they want to help! 

Also, if you go to the website, you do not need to buy anything BUT please read the stories that I have included!! For each image, I have written an alien message (some are longer or shorter) that expresses the specific meaning or purpose of the image. That’s free, but also very important to me and I think a lovely way to read more about these beings, one by one :) 

The shirts AND stories (most importantly!) are online at www.etlovebyapl.com and the stories are written within each individual shirt description. A good one to start is the extraterrestrial ritual under “Oracle Energy,” which you can most definitely apply in your life without the actual physical shirt itself.

And, as mentioned, you’re welcome to reach out more directly with questions, comments, debates, etc. Always happy to discuss!!!

Lastly, I want to thank and give credit to my loving extraterrestrial & cosmic guides, particularly the dear one that I’ve included in the header image. 

She is pictured in the lower left corner and second to lower right. This image is my first ever acrylic painting, which turned out to be an alien guide with two more mini-alien guides within her eyes. This alien guide gave her abundantly thanks and permission in my writing this article.

I thank all of the loving aliens that allow me to be a channel of their joy for human beings and hopes for our planet and human species, overall. I am thankful for myself and the humans around me that I am well enough to be here, in this way, yet also stay sane. I am happy to be me and happy for the role that these divine beings have played within my life and within this work, overall.

Sending so much love and a warm hug to all humans and aliens who are so inclined toward that! Much health and happiness on your continued journey and that we may all work together with kindness, compassion, and heartfelt care for all beings, in all of existence, in perfect harmony, intergalactic, terrestrial, and far, far beyond.


Prompts for commenting or pondering:

Microbial Society link that includes the percent of bacterial species are symbiotic, commensal, or mutualistic, (good or neutral) versus the very small percent that are actually pathogenic

Thanks :) From me and from us all!