Convos
A beautifully raw reckoning.
A potent life recalibration.
A pivotal unleashing of one’s innate power.
This is what happens through a call with me.
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When a friend of mine found out what I charge for a call:
Him: “Now that’s charging what you’re worth.”
Me: “No. I charge what turns me on.”
Which can change at any time.
Higher.
Lower.
Free.
Irrelevant.
I don’t associate money to (perceived) worth or value (two illusory constructs).
I play with the tension of it.
I work my way up or down with the price and the details of a specific offer until I feel a tad nervous or even nauseous about it.
Like I’m about to jump off a cliff (because energetically I am), which is just how I like it.
If the number makes me feel like, “Holy fuck. I couldn’t possibly charge THAT for XYZ.”
…then THAT is the fucking number.
No question about it.
Because it requires me to cross the same energetic threshold that my client will need to cross in order to pay it.
A turn on for us both.
When I ride my own edge, a client will need to ride theirs as well if they want to play with me on said edge.
You see?
It’s never about the number.
And it’s not about charging the most (unless that’s the truth).
It’s about selecting the sharpest point of truth and turn on, which could change from one moment, one day, one offer or one client to the next.
So I’m not attached to the number.
The moment a number feels energetically limp, I’m playing with a new one.
The new true one.
Until the next true one.
So fun.
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A fellow from many years ago (who I never wrote about)…
Him: “The only thing worse than being written about publicly, is not being written about at all.”
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Overheard while someone was talking to a friend:
“Yeah, and she said that I’m the kind of person the universe will take care of.”
Implying that there is something outside of us that will take care of some, but not all, and that this care is contingent on the type of person one is.
Oh, and that we aren’t responsible for ourselves and our creations.
Something else is.
Nah.
We are god in the flesh.
We are the universe itself.
There is no separation, except in the mind.
We don’t need to hope or wait or pray to be taken care of by another, or by some external, invisible force.
We each have the power right now to choose.
And ‘Waiting on God’ is waiting on YOU.
Doing something, anything, with the intention, hope and belief that you’ll be seen, favoured, and blessed by the gods (or god itself) is denying the power of YOU.
Nothing is outside of YOU.
YOU are all there is.
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Today in the inbox of a hottie who’s clearly been feeling my posts and is ready to fucking POP:
Me: “I know YOU are ready. So what are you waiting for?”
Her: “I’m so fucking ready. All of a sudden as if overnight, everything has shifted and I am here.”
Bingo.
I called it.
Because I felt it.
So I made the move.
She then goes on to tell me about all the magic that transpired for her yesterday and last night — including a delicious chunk of money from someone who wanted to express appreciation for work she had done for him years ago.
Me: “HOT. Perfect. Of course. Are you ready to book our call?”
Her: “Yes. Let’s do this.”
Done.
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Someone on the sidewalk screaming to no one in particular and everyone all at once:
“I’m fucking angry and I’m ready! I’m going to kill you all!”
Looks at me:
“Not you. You look beautiful. Have a great day.”
#savedbythesparkles
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He and I don’t talk about the energetics.
We live them.
He doesn’t read a word I write.
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“And my closest friends experience it, too!”
I’m not surprised.
Of course they do.
You’ve found your people.
Your Trauma Tribe.
Always helping each other to keep it alive.
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With two friends:
I take a pic of friend #1 since she and the background look perfect together.
Friend #2 sees the pic, loves the pic, and tells me to do the same for her.
I tell friend #2 that’s not how art works.
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“Can I be frank with you?”
Asking for permission to be honest and straightforward.
Absurd.
Both the asking for permission and the fact that you’re not normally honest and straightforward.
Why else would you need a precursor to telling the truth?
Just tell it.
Or at least replace ‘frank’ with Mandy.
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