by j/j hastain


My thought-forms don’t appear to me as grammar. For so long in my life I felt taxed by this—a kind of soul stressor. Would I have to translate these thought-forms pure from mystery into normative grammar for my entire life?

Now—with em dash-assistance—I let my thoughts just be as much as is possible. Though it comes out as two separate dashes—once you hit enter to connect them they go from two separate dashes to a drip or smear somatically.

Bringing thought form into the material world—I have found there is an ethics to this for me. Are my thought-forms more beholden to the mystery from which they came—mystery to which I will return upon my death from this world? Or are they beholden to the human community to which they might be of service? A dance of spiritual additives and spiritual sacrifice has ended up creating for me a kind of absolute zero in relation to this—thought-forms from mystery—em dash the ceremonial bridger.

Em dash a spirit sister, spatial elixir.

It frees flow.



I am talking with someone I know about the possible destruction of the world by pestilence or food shortage. He says,

“That won’t happen as long as we can collaborate with other galactic forces.”

I ponder their alien ships and alien ethics. I think to myself—these people are so beautiful and their ships so elegant I want us to live near them. Why is there not cross-world communions more overt? Such community events will help us help Earth ascend. This want of cross-world beings in my nervous system.

Several human beings from Earth were planning something terrible. I knew about it, was supposed to participate but did not really agree with their upending diamond roofs to steal answers (resource) from “Walk-ins.” (Alien forms who walk into human bodies during times of trauma). They aren’t sure about me. I am sure I don’t agree with their plan.

Would much rather inhabit the inverted brown boat hanging by my toes—suspend in the colors, textures, tones of galactic mood as I dangle by a vertical ship. From there I could sense them: diamond chandeliers, diamond fruit. Even diamond minds.

When I got back to Earth after drip and droop in eases of cosmic color it bothered me to see people’s sacred goblets strewn with dust and holding random objects with no meaning.

Human beings needed a lesson in altar-making.



She has grown a beautiful will, like someone might grow Rapunzel’s enabling hair. Though I have demanded it of her it is no less beautiful to me that it is there now. We climb it together—touch the top-most aspects of the trellises. This will of hers originated in abiogenesis but is now naturalized. It can happen that way—cyborg effort becoming real light.

With pomegranate seeds in hand—then passing seeds her mouth to mine—she tells me of the Druid who had gone into the woods earlier to forage aphrodisiacs to help the woman fall in love.

I chime into the story,

“She did not need these to fall in love but upon finding what he had done for her (helped her fall in love) she loved him all the more.”

“I feel fierce for you. Do you blame me?”

Masculine desire.

“No baby. I don’t blame you. I believe in you. Make me feel good. Druid refined—no rush.”

I watch her shapeshift demeanor as a way of honoring me.

“I won’t rush you. I could go for hours. I want to feel you naturally unfold and bloom in your own time.”

Sacred timing. Loving me at the right pace brings me into pleasure as peace. My orgasm—a hard burst. She laughs handsomely. Later, she tells me of her love of old books in her hands. It is a kind of eros. Grimoires give her a boner. Yep—my Druid.



We walk by a tree that has bloomed in the middle of winter. It is not its nature to do this. The tree has been courted by unseasonably warm attributes several weeks in a row. The smell of the blossoms nearly knocks us out. We love it.

“It smells exactly like vagina,” I say immediately.

Yes. Priest/ess.

She says,

“I smell decadent mushrooms.”

Yes. Druid.

Scent fills swale.

Sacred contour-arts associated with celestial queer.



Writing Beloved sex is airing out the Mythic bedchamber. Composing what the sacred narrative is comprised of is the only way I have found (besides sex itself) to air out the chamber. Yes—you heard that right: Beloved sex airs out Beloved sex and writing Beloved sex airs out Beloved sex.

Based on a segment from hastain’s work-in-progress, Priest/ess.

About the Author:

j/j hastain is a collaborator, writer and maker of things. j/j performs ceremonial gore. Chasing and courting the animate and potentially enlivening decay that exists between seer and singer, j/j, simply, hopes to make the god/dess of stone moan and nod deeply through the waxing and waning seasons of the moon.