Cold Crabs and Old goats


Crab pincer found at the local park


 The Cold Crabs Moon

Some moons are harder than others. Some moons I can barely climb out of bed, so tired, scared and depressed, that my body aches and my head pounds. No amount of breathing exercises, valerian and codeine can take away the pain or the stress. There will be no ritual. I must repay but not tonight. 

I am not the same person anymore. I am living half a life, my depression, my trauma are effecting every aspect of my life. I have found myself trapped inside my own head, my own thoughts trapping me like a fly in a spiders web. Even when good things happen I cannot accept them. I fight them. I feel undeserving. 

“You cannot let them take away your life. You did not die, you survived.”

But a part of me did die. And my head is not in a good space right now. Maybe the move was what pushed me over the edge- and soon I will be moving again to a more permanent place. A place which will be my home. 

Out with the old. 


This crab just wants to crawl into its shell and not come out. This crab just wants to hide away, and cry, and die alone.                                    

                  The Phouka’s moon

This moon is not as dark as the last, not so thick with depression. In spite of my exhaustion, I will offer some small bit of myself. And I pound on the desk. And it is the Phouka, that old Devil, that I hear thumping through my hands. 

My heart is beating faster. 

I can feel him in the room.

I can see the air is thicker than normal, filled with the blackness of his fur and his breath. 

And this is where I stop. Catching myself about to fall into ecstasy, and I leave it there. 

I can’t. Not tonight.


The August winds are starting up- large gusts of cold air on warm, winter days. Things are changing. My Brugmansia is getting new baby leaves. I pluck a marigold from the side of the road, sweetness drips from her as I hold her gently in my hands until I am home. There is rain in the air and it begins to fall- A winter rain to bring back the cold- the final cry from the mildest winter I have known.

I dream of bones, skulls with broken teeth. Hyena’s are dancing, with deadly grins. It is time to repay. 

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