There is a running joke among my
friends that I am too Capricorn to sleep. The fact is I have always resented
needing to sleep, but then again, this ritual ingredient would not exist unless
I was interested in making those many unconscious hours productive in some way.
When I was a teenager in Philadelphia, there was a queer elder we called our
New Age Queen named Peppy, the first transwoman that I ever knew, and she was a
one-transwoman healing force. Peppy taught me to read tarot, but also shared
with me the uses of crystals in industry and science, and how we can push that
ancient technology for healing our lives. She told me once, "Crystals breathe
one breath a century, fifty years inhaling, fifty years exhaling. If we are
patient, we can hear whether they are on the inhale stage or the exhale."
The day I began taking Peppy's advice about forging connections with crystals,
was the day I truly started my conscious relationship with the living planet
Earth.


Clean the crystals by laying them on a small bed of dry sea salt
overnight. Flush the salt down the toilet when waking and wash the crystals.
Then place them in a clear glass pitcher. Use filtered water when filling the
pitcher. Let it sit all day near your bed while you go about your day, allowing
the water to cook in the vibratory pulses of the crystals thoroughly.


NOTE: Astral projection was
something I was very skeptical of for years until a good friend proved it to me
by visiting me three times one month. After a workshop and reading a book and a
half about it, I was still unable to do it, and gave it up, thinking it was
just not for me. After more than a year of saturating myself with the
crystal-infused water while working with the Crystal Dream Therapy, I found
myself on the ceiling looking down on my sleeping body in the middle of the
night. It was terrifying. I had not anticipated terror, but it was real,
especially when I would see myself reenter myself. The next morning I would
wake aching and spend the day exhausted. Eventually, I started traveling
outside the apartment and would find ways of proving to myself that I was not
dreaming. One evening I saw a drunken man walking on the sidewalk after buying
a hoagie from the all-night sandwich shop and was yelling, "I told him I
didn't want any tomatoes!" He threw the tomatoes onto the
sidewalk. The next morning I ran down the stairs and outside to find those
tomato slices just where I saw them land the night before while floating above
the angry drunk.
The Kelly Writers House at the University of Pennsylvania
commissioned half a dozen other poets and me to write about our neighborhoods
in Philadelphia. The project was titled "Poetry, Politics, and
Proximity." My poems were composed through these astral saunters, floating
above the trees and building tops. I decided to plainly and clearly explain the
process at the microphone during the project's event, regardless of who was in the
audience. And of course, some older male poets scoffed, but I have been used to
such poet behavior for decades, never to worry myself about it. I told them how
every morning after waking from an astral trip, I would hammer out a solid
block of text, like plasma thrown against the wall. It was never coherent,
ever, at least not at first. I would carry these blocks with me and chip away
at the words to reveal the poems hidden inside, and those were what I read at
the event. I am very proud to say that my first astral projection poems were
commissioned by the University of Pennsylvania, despite the fact it is where
President Trump, Ivanka Trump, and Donald Trump Jr. all went to college. Is
there any amount of poetry or poetry-making that can be the antidote to that
level of psychic filth? We poets are constantly amending the constitution, and
one day we will be heard! Poets should also be given money for talking to
ghosts or flying around town at night, acting as the ghosts.