It’s NOT over

Something extraordinary happened last night. I am still reeling at something this good happening to me out of nowhere. Given current and recent maestorm.

I was poking around in my junk email folder, where I discovered Donald Trump still sends me emails over buying stickers for a Halloween costume in 2015. Somewhat like a haunted attic in there. Luckily no death threats.

I found a business email from an Indian publisher. Moved it to my inbox. Thought about what to do. Looked into my heart and emailed back, “Yes.”

Emails were exchanged, my nocturnal tendency validated, a contract signed, etc…

I am excited to say that “Ripe Bruised Fruit: Essays” is now set to be released in paperback on Amazon with newly designed cover. Internationally.

I am thrilled. This is exactly what I wanted for my ebooks, a different publisher handling the paperback redesign and improving distribution. I have some skills, but graphic design is not one of them.

Okay, so it’s been a few years

I’ve been meaning to write this blog entry for a while. To explain that abrupt disappearance and cease fire of publications in 2020 and 2021.

If you live on earth, you already know about COVID-19. In the most Generation X way I never wanted to be, I caught COVID in March 2020. Before it was discovered. Threw me flat on my back incoherent through fevers for a month.

I’d rather not go too far into the dissolution of my second gay marriage. Leaving me to die in the back room with no medical care and barely a plate of pizza rolls? Was not a good move on her part. That all I’m going to say. By July 2020 I was divorced.

Since COVID 1: It has begun, I experienced the delightfully soul crushing symptoms of Long COVID. As of this writing, the American medical system does not recognize it. Nevada is a medical desert compared to L.A. Both the urgent care nurse. and EMTs concluded one or another of my mental illnesses was at fault.

I am almost 45. I have been mentally ill since I was born, diagnosed in 1995. My mind and body had decades before to make the call to crap out, while I was living much harder and could have used the bed rest even more.

I don’t want to recap my tragic life story, but you may consult volumes 1-6 that I self published while lying prone. Except for a few interviews, that’s all I’ve been able to do in the last few years. 

Releasing the back catalogue worked out better then I thought. Readership has improved. I finally don’t have to re-edit those manuscript further and face the brutal truth of the past. They’re each .99 cents on Amazon, so what have you got to lose? They are written to be read in a series like tic tacs.

I spent most of 2021 angry. Hardly able to move with no energy, post exertional malaise and strange brain injury symptoms. The symptoms matched ME /CFS. Why the desire to journal and write disappeared while my French language skills improved? I will never have an explanation.

American medical schools do not teach about ME/CFS. It is considéred hysteria. Other countries had other views. Many nights of wee hours European Twitter, a regular favorite, became infiltrating and connecting with international long COVID/ME patients and medical professionals. A wonderful ME writer in Amsterdam was kind enough to reply to my question. What can I do about this? From home, on my own.

Various pricy Amazon experiments later, and a serious realization that I should have paid more attention in “Science for Poets,” at Reed, finally yielded results. A Home Oxygen Bar from China (nonreturnable, broke after two weeks) gave me an incredible period of near complete recovery. To dance alone in my living room again? Walk strongly and steadily without a cane? If I believed in miracles that would be one.

However, reality. After the magical mystery machine began spewing water instead of oxygen out of the nose canula? A truly alarming experience when it first happened. I cast about for a cheaper, easier to understand and use alternative.

This afternoon, three cans of this “Boost, Pure Recreational Oxygen,” showed up. The same basic setup as EX Cheeze. I had been waiting for at least four days, maybe a week, for this stuff. Cursing my physical relapse into bedbound staggering around somnolence.

I’m so used to writing about trauma and tragedy that I almost lack the words to explain.  I squirted some oxygen into my mouth, let it filter tingling through my bloodstream, and got out of bed. Sacré criss du tabernak! I could walk again! Do athletic yoga! Walk down the hall with steady steps not bumping into things and knocking things over, unlike all of last year.

That was a few hours ago. 

An interview with me comes out August 8 on and I finally feel celebratory instead of numb. Is this hope? Over the last five years of Trump I thought I had lost the capacity. Perhaps not.

Nocturne: Eye of Andromeda


Samhain approaches.

Full blue moon.

I lie prone stoned.

Play Marianne Faithfull’s

“20th Century Blues — A Night in the Weimar Republic.”

The grey cat yowls.

I flip the porch light on.

Go outside.

In black with Bind Trump sigil.

Mask of cherubic Satans.

There are two gallons of coconut oil

In the box outside.

Apocalypse prep.

The House of the Rising Sun closed down.

In cube centimeter node.

For an indefinite future.

My consciousness

And corporeal form inside.

“Alexa, how long until the election?” I say.

“There are seven days until Election Day.”

Then the unknown.

“Rapellendum mallum quod minatur mihi,” I say.

Cast a warding cube in rombus.

As above,

So below.

Two pyramids.

Faceted stone.

An single eye surveils.

As I am surveilled.

“Giving good as you get,”

From a song long ago.

The screens I watch,

watch me, I know.

“His house is in the village though.

He will not see me stopping here.

To watch these woods fill up with snow.” — Robert Frost

Any day now it will snow.

Any day now my period will come.

No men since Obama.


I do not feel

In my body

The tumescence

Of womb blood.

Glutted bloat.


There is nothing inside me,

But a lean wash of coffee.



Birthday Countdown

September 30, 9:05 pm:

In three hours is my forty fourth Birthday. I google myself. Discover the birthday surprise of top billing.

“You arrived when you were meant to arrive” a mutual says on Twitter. Finally, I am the most famous Andrea Lambert. At least at this moment. After decades of dedication. It thrills me beyond belief. I don’t even know what to say. Don’t say anything.

I curl up in a sheet on the bed. Watch “The Royals.” Drink cold black coffee. From a disability supply cup. Eat blackberries. A few days after the last day. Folklore says one is not supposed to eat blackberries on this day. The Devil kisses blackberries after the autumnal equinox. Ave Satanas! The berries are ripe and juicy. It is a full moon. I will silently howl into the void. Howl at the moon. On this page.

9:18 pm

“It’s my time,” I declare to great aunt Theda’s hardwood floors and the cats. The blue moon above. Throw away the blackberry carton. Consider the project. To write through counting down until my birthday. For this blog entry.

My Entropy column, “Dining with a Cursed Bloodline,” is on hiatus until 2021. Given how much is in flux with the election. How dangerous it is to be listed as a journalist these days. How much of a soul sucking disaster 2020 is so far.

So much will change in the next quarter. I won’t know what’s going on politically, personally or literarily until 2021. I do not anticipate a smooth transition of power. Given the circumstances. Prepare for a coup. Or infrastructure collapse. Or the apocalypse. Spend my birthday money on a an apocalypse prep sized tub of brown rice. A water pump purifier. To use in the stream out back. Stream water looks and tastes wonderful. Is lovely to swim in. But drinking unfiltered fresh water will give you giardiasis.

“Be prepared,” is the Girl Scout motto.

9:35 pm

I have an optimistic cottage core agrarian survivalist plan to living off the land. This family land I live on. This land was Mexico long ago. Belonged to the indigenous Washoe.

Laura Ingalls Wilder books gave me a lot of ideas. I wish I realized as a child what a horrible settler racist Wilder was. I didn’t understand race. A child raised to think I was white in Southernmost California.

I am a person of ambiguous mixed race: Spanish, Mexican Indigenous, Italian, Swedish, English, Slave owning white. My closest living white relative has a nose job. There’s a lot going on. I don’t know what to call it, Other people decide that. Based on who and where they are. Men said I looked, “exotic.” I think know what that is code for. What I think about that doesn’t matter. I don’t have enough information. Without a genetic test.

My DNA is likely already on file somewhere. I do not doubt the efficiency of the Federal government. If they wanted me dead, I would be. I don’t plan on giving them any reason to make it so.

What race I am doesn’t matter to me. I’ve always been this person. Lived in this body. With skin this color. Hybrid vigor. Or white adjacent. That matters more to other people. The current president. Second civil war on simmer on the national stove.

I am not trying to do anything other then what I am doing. Of have done in the 6.66 years since I have been sober. From my substances of abuse. Cannabis is excellent harm reduction for alcohol and harder stuff.

Some of the harder mistakes that makes my first novel Jet Set Desolate, so controversial. I am not embarrassed of my past. It just is.

10:15 pm

I hunger. Microwave frozen chicken strips that my ex wife left. Her frozen food contributions were a dubious divorce settlement. When the apocalypse comes, that ham would be good barter fodder.

I take the hot breading nuggets out of the microwave. Try to eat. Am not even sure if there is chicken within. They’ve been in the freezer for a long time.

That divorce feels like a lifetime ago. Feels farther away then the pain of my domestic partner’s suicide. My life has settled back to pre-legal wife rhythms and calm. I realize I can’t be a wife to anyone. Of any gender. Or none.

“It’s the first take on the female stag thing,” Dante Zuniga-West, author of Rumble, Young Man, Rumble, said of Jet Set Desolate. At CalArts. In 2006.

10:32 pm

I put the hot empty plate in the dishwasher. Of the House of the Rising Sun.

“It’s not for me to say,” as goes the Johnny Mathis song, whether or not Jet Set Desolate was ahead of it’s time. No one at CalArts in the late 2000 was okay with a queer cis femme conducting herself as I did.

Jet Set Desolate is available internationally, through Amazon and IPR License. In my website stats I note new countries, lately. Am thrilled.

“Wilkomen, bienvenue, Welcome,” as begins Cabaret. In Weimar Berlin. In Weimar America, to other parts of the world, my writing could represent Xennial American decadence. I don’t know. Mais bienvenue, restez un peu dans mes mots, si vous voulez. Il y a si plus de choisir de. Amusez-vous bien.

11:00 pm

In one hour I will be forty four. In this year of our Horned God and Three Faced Lunar Goddess, 2020.

In the bathroom I consider what witchcraft to involve in the transition, if any. I had planned on doing a hoodoo spell to break the psychic tie to my ex legal wife. I might be hallucinating that These periodic psychic flashes of where she is and what she is doing.

To break ties with an ex lover, hoodoo suggests burning my public hair, Angelica root, rosemary and onion skin. I’ve been gathering the materials since this phenomena first occurred.

In tonight’s episode of, “Psychic or Psycho,” I shave my pubic hair. Grown out it for the first time in twenty years. Wash it down the drain. I’m not doing that hoodoo this full moon. In times this dire, all intel is… something. Dubious entertainment.

I mentally sign another vow of celibacy. This one for however long I solely shall live. My first first vow of celibacy began when I began growing my grey hair out. Documented in my Entropy essay “Dinner Whore Celibate.” I decided when the grey touched my shoulders I would take a lover. Kept that vow. Married her. It didn’t go so well. This time the question is whether my hair or my body flatlines first. I’d like it to be the hair.

11:43 pm

My first Facebook, “Happy Birthday,” comes in. From a CalArts mentor in the United Kingdom. Par la magique des fuseaux horaires, it’s October 1. Already, in European time.

Imaginary fireworks go off in my head. Nine minutes until October 1, 2020 in Pacific Time. I cut a slice of Raley’s Tiramisu. Pack a bowl.

11:55 pm

I impulsively take a creamy bite of birthday cake a few minutes before midnight. Tee hee. Delicious.

11:59 pm

I put on red lipstick. Grey eyeliner. The rest of my face. A long gown with stars on it. A gold doubloon necklace from my Latin grandmother.

12:00 am

It’s my birthday! So it begins.

The Grief I Won’t Stop Speaking

I lift my head from the black sheeted bed before midnight. Tears in my eyes. I remember the dead. Or those dead to me. Those I loved. Who either perished. Or I lost touch with. Through the viscitudes of time and distance.

“There’s a grief that can’t be spoken, there’s a pain goes on and on…” Les Misérables plays. I feel close to the grave. This time of year. Autumn. Fall.

The anniversary of my domestic partner’s suicide. A gouge cutting through my heart and soul. To pour forth tears of blood. Again. And again. I am like this every year. It’s almost eight years since she passed.

I remember many a dear friend. Who I no longer know is still alive. The morbid ritual of checking the Social Security Death Index. I’ve done it for years. Checking to see if old friends were still alive. Somewhere out there. Looking for what I fear.

By 2020, the Social Security Death Index is no longer free online. It feels like an act of grace. More losses I cannot bear tonight. I weep nevertheless. Into the black sheets. Remembering the woman who once stood beside me. Held me in brief yet perfect love.

When I remarried. Seven years later. I could not sleep in the same bed as my new wife. I was too scarred. Too afraid. To wake up to another corpse. Another vale of tears.

I saw a rift coming. Pushed that wife away. Aware my own intimacy issues prevent me. From in person human relationships. We divorced. I must be alone.

I have lost no one to COVID. Yet. That I know of. Those last two sentences strike like deep bells gong.

“For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.” My own death I am less worried about. I am one door in the grave already. It is those few people left in my life that I love. My parents. Sister. We are all getting older in the times of pandemic apocalypse. 200,000 dead does not go unnoticed.

As relieved as I am, that divorcing my wife. removed my only disease vector. My grief creeps close tonight. The veil is thin.

It is the week of the waxing moon between the witches sabbath Mabon and my birthday. A full moon on my birthday? Perhaps will rouse me.

The plunge from yesterday’s mania, to today’s grieving, is like falling off Niagara Falls. A plunge so far. So deep. That I am always shocked. When a few days or hours later. I rouse again. In mirth. Anxiety. Psychosis. Or consumption.

I cannot get off the Schizoaffective go round, it is a carousel ending only in that final transition. To final rest. I am not ready yet. It is a strict rule I have. I will not be the active agent of my own death. It will surprise me. As natural.

Yet the pain goes on and on.

Antisocial Socialist

I have no faith my passivity will protect me. I have no faith in anything except failure and human evil. All that allows me to remain calm is heavy doses of psychiatric medication and total acceptance of death.

If guillotines come and my head rolls? So it goes. If I waste away and starve in this ancestral home? Frayed infrastructure snapped? So it goes. The waters of time and history will wash over my bones. Fossils alone. My only preference is that I die here. In this bed of our madness. In the House of the Rising Sun.

Sometimes I wear out my welcome. “Like a sad whore who’s stayed too long at the party,” as Naomi Campbell quips in American Horror Story: Hotel. A lifetime ago, I was the club slut who never wanted to go home. Ever end the night. Rest. Give it a rest. There is only rest when the meat suit demands it. Not until the end.

I don’t know how or why I’m still alive, either.

My ego is dead. Along with competitiveness. Ability to form human relationships beyond the par-asocial. A paranoid par-asocial parasite ping ponging along. Come sing the song.

I am shocked to approach my 44th birthday. Began digging into parts of my will. Tasks I intended my executor to do. But if I’m still here, might as well. Ebook self publishing my manuscript back catalogue. I don’t know if anyone wants, needs, or reads these iBooks I fling the the winds. Year’s of life’s suffering and copyedits. In hard copy therein.

In 2005 I was told, “Why don’t you write something like J.K. Rowling. I began this project. A queer femme Harry Potter. Strictly for adults. Where the magic is mental illness. I had no idea then that Rowling would turn out to be such a dreadful TERF.

My project is a series of books with interlocking characters surrounding Lena Cosentino. The protagonist from “Jet Set Desolate.” I have been writing and editing these manuscripts for a decade. Scaffolding, Hollywood Hedgewitch and Grieving Through American Horror Story came out in 2020 as free ebook iBooks.

Neon Hysteric, I hope to put out in 2021. It’s the third book in the series, connecting Jet Set Desolate to Hollywood Hedgewitch. Manifesting a series where now there are scattered points. My other fetal manuscripts are still too rough in draft.

My timing is terrible, as is my ability to promote things. In a time of national tragedy it feels beyond inappropriate to make a fuss over book releases. It seems profane. Self indulgent. So, once again, my books are released to crickets. Enter the void. I await their slow burn simmer over time.

That’s the thing. I’m playing the long game. Far more grave then Yahtzee. Interweaving theme, influences and text. A warp and weft of cultural fabric. Continuing long after I’m dead. Passing on to the new creatives who come up like flowers in an endless field. My own meat suit becomes mulch to the new.

I will die. There is no question. Whether by liver failure? COVID? Suicide? Or old age. I accept that. I am trying to leave something behind. To be read. Hated. Enjoyed. Studied. By whoever. Wherever. Whenever. I believe in accessibility. Thus free, non-copyrighted text. I’m Bipolar terrible with money. Taxes. Business. The anti-socialist socialist.

“From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,” — Karl Marx.

Despite absorbing my political consciousness through anarchist semen, it remains my main tenant. Socialism. These texts. These paintings. These videos. Consume or disregard, it is completely your choice. By Social Security and genetic accident my needs are met. So I give what I have made to you.

My Words Are Not Needed

My words are not needed. Yet here they are. Tumbling out in a torrent. I write to bring myself out of the numb cocoon. Of video game avatars. Actors faces on screens.

I dive into the virtual imaginary for months. To forget. Forget the divorce as it rages through my life. California burns. Portland burns. Louisville. I lose count.

Curl fetal in a womb pod of bed. Television. Echo Dot. i- devices. Speak to no one for weeks. Months.

I rise to make bowls of rice and Kim Chi. Do yoga. Java Monster cans pile in a grape embossed wastebasket of antique metal. Ten pills a day. Keeps me put away. In this house of my ancestors. Instead of a padded room.

The America I was once spoon fed? A shattered blueprint washed away. By water. By time. My the waters of truth. By the erasing of lies. The lies in history books I was taught.

Here where I lie at the turning of the years. The waters of history wash over me. To make something new. A new nation. I do not know what. What shape. What form.

I am too mentally ill. Inactive. Not educated in modern subjects. To define what. This stolen land will be. Others more skilled are already on that. Fighting for it in the streets as I type. In the Courts. Congress.

I lie in a bed. Staring at riot footage on my Twitter feed. For ninety nights. Go full nocturnal. Why see the day when the sky is ashes? Why open the blinds, when all I see ahead is doom.

Quarante jours depuis l’élection.

Quarante jours et il y a un selection.

Et tout je veux est de suvivre

Dans cette maison, ne pas ivre.

C’est possible?

Quarante jours depuis l’election

Je fais les étoiles brûlée

Quarante jours de cette attention

Quand mon corps commence à mourir,

Est-ce qu’ils écoutent pour le fin?

Fireside Address: Illegitimate

I lie in bed fully dressed. A white slip lace under black dress. It is March 12, 2020. The day that Coronavirus explodes. Everything changes. I don’t know what will happen next. 

This morning, I switch the news on. The news I did not know my TV could access.

“Coronavirus, corornavirus, coronavirus.” Repeats over and over from the screen. Louder than I knew, yet echoing across nations. People. Panicked and in pain.

Now it is night. I listen. Do not hear anything but AHS: Murder House. Usual evening TV fare for the wife and I. Screams. Myths. The supernatural. An long evolving story like the tail unwinding of a snake.

If the horror is on a screen? Presented as fiction? I used to believe exposure therapy would free me. Instead it bound me tighter. The horror is within and without. Indistinguishable from the president’s morning’s speech.

All I can do is singsong rhymes to old songs melody. REM’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,” as mournful lullaby. For what once was. At the cusp of never being again. Unknowable change. Unknown future.

“C’est le fin de la monde comme on le sait, et je suis triste. Désolé.” High school French lodged in a deeper part of the my brain. Triggered by listening to Les Misérables on repeat.

Wikipedia readings about MK-Ultra CIA experiments flicker to memory. I discard them, being on a different antipsychotic now. The one that makes me want to paint and write plays over thirty hour days. Reddit conspiracy theorists are probably already on whatever the hell that story is/was/could be. I’m afraid to look.

Science fiction. I call it fiction. I’m back on my old antipsychotic now. Saphris helps me sleep. Like falling in a river of the water of life. A dream about old friends. A long walk through the wilderness. Together in harmony. From idyllic Girl Scout hikes? There is a feast. There is always water. Different iterations repeat. I do not know. I will never know. 

“Qu’est que faire?

Qu’est que sait?

Plein de la peur.

J’attende a mourir.

Pas de mot.

Pas plus dire.

Tous que je peux et lave ma derriere.”

This is no time for such frivolity. Nursery rhymes in the age of toilet paper rationing.  I am not on the front lines. I can only wash my hands. Pray. Cry. Release my archives before death quick or slow.

I am in willing self quarantine. As is usual. Agoraphobic plus Schizoaffective PTSD. I haven’t been outside for a while. I am no longer psychologically capable of leaving the House of the Rising Sun for the duration of this crisis.

I don’t know what will happen. I wait.