A Call To Arms For The Soul Refugees

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Let me tell you something you probably already know:

It's time to wipe the God-forsaken muggle dick jizz outta your eyes...

And let the raw, wild, honeyed nectar of your erotic remembrance drip freely to the earth...

As you throw back your head...

Howl your lamentation to the moon...

And give yourself over to the uninhibited rebirth of God, Art, Pussy, & Soul that have been commanding you to {once and for fucking all} bare witness to your everything.

{Phew, chile!}

Because you were never meant for that Muggle Dick Energy and mediocre status quo of merely EXISTING in life.

You were born of fucking stars and magic and the mayhem of worlds being created, destroyed, and reborn to the Oracle That Lies Between Your Thighs.

But you’ve forgotten who the fuck you are.

Well, you haven’t truly forgotten, not really.

It’s still there, when you catch a glimpse of the starving beasts of instinctual hunger gazing out at you from behind your eyes.

When you even dare to LOOK in the mirror, that is.

Because you know they’re laying in wait.

You can feel the heaviness of their demands pressing down upon you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You can feel their longing and wailing and sorrow at who you’ve allowed yourself to become.

Or not really become, so much as NOT become.

Because here’s the thing, Wild One:

You came here to be a world-builder.

You have been called to shape WORLDS and lead your people home.


You’ve been trying to fit these untamable, erotic, soul-bled worlds into a box of someone else's making.

I mean…

What in the ever-loving FUCK, right?!

And why? Why have you been doing this?

Well, it’s actually pretty simple, when you get down with the get down:

You’ve been fucking with that Muggle Dick Matrix.


Believing it’s your reality, when IN REALITY, it is the exact opposite.

And that Matrix in which you’ve allowed yourself to inhabit, for who the hell knows how long?

It’s where dreams and missions and art and orgasms go to die.

Ah… And that fear that’s been riding your bones since before you can remember?

The one where you die with your music still inside of you…





That fear?

That fucking NIGHTMARE that has sucked the marrow from your woe-begotten SOUL?

It’s born OF the Muggle Dick Matrix.

It thrives there.

Leeching away your life, your pleasure, and your belief in your own capacity to actually be who you came here to be, and do what you came here to do.

And that Matrix?

It’s a tricksy little fuck.

It makes you think that up is down and down is out and that you have to become something you are not… and have NO DESIRE to be… in order to become who you were MEANT to be.


I know you.

I’ve been there, time and again.

The feeling of having been stranded “down here”.

On a planet, and in a society, and maybe even in a family or culture or relationship, where you are The Lost.

The One Who Sees and Knows…

But has almost never FELT seen and known.

Not fully, anyways.

Not in the way your soul {and your pussy} craves.

Not in a way that allows you to feel safe to bare your fucking everything.

Because you’ve been hanging around, and FUCKING WITH, people who actually ENJOY being in the Muggle Dick Matrix.

{Awwwww sheeeeiiiitttttt.}

And you, at some point or another, began to pretend that you yourself ALSO liked sucking at the head of ye ole King Muggle Dick.

And all of that pretending… that falsifying of the Wilds clawing their way under your rib cage each night…

Has led you into a seemingly never ending battleground between your own body and soul.

One where you began to doubt.

And gasp.

And tremble.

In the face of your own power and pleasure and mission and Beingness.

Where you began to shrink down to fit into the Matrix with everyone else.

Where you began to hide from yourself the way THEY hid from you.

Because they could sense the Wilds within you, on your skin, licking and stroking her tongue across your pussy and soul.

And they were afraid.

Because they could no longer feel the Wilds within themselves.

And so they feared and vilified the Wilds they sensed in you.

Which led to you, with much ado about nothing, almost… ALMOST… fearing and vilifying the Wilds within yourself.

And to you almost… ALMOST… believing that you were too much.

That your power and magic were too much for this little Muggle-fied world.

And so you shrunk and you shrunk {and you shrunk}.

To fit down into the Matrix that was too small for your Wilds.

But the Wilds will always out.

They cannot be contained, not even by you.

And so the Wilds leaked out all over your life.

Often in the most inconvenient of ways.

But leak, they did.

And ashamed, you were.

For who can’t “control” themselves?

Who can’t get their life and business “together”, in the way soul has been demanding and commanding for so long?

Who can’t “get themselves” to hold the bloody LINE IN THE SAND on who they are?

Not anyone who was a descendant of the Wilds, certainly.

And you believed this tale of woe and shame.

And so you hid and you hid and you hid some more.

From them?

Sure, maybe.

But, more aptly?

From yourself.

And from life ITSELF.

From the way that life was desiring to move in, through, and as you.

And with all that hiding, it became easier to pretend that you really DID forget.

Who you were…

Why you are here…

What you came here to do.

It became easier to pretend that it was about the tactics and making shit pretty and fancy.

About having it all flow together oh-so-perfectly BEFORE you could ascend {and, really, DESCEND} into your next evolution of soul.

But now you’re tired.

And that SHIT is tired {the rabbit’s getting old, baby}.

Because soul is done playing Muggle Dick Games.

And now, so are you.

On all layers and levels.

But now you’ve come to The Crossroads Of The Refugee Soul.

A place and space between.

One where you have been shown, in the murky mystery of waking dreams, the hidden nooks and crannies where you are being called to remember yourself into…

But the lock on your cage seems to have rusted shut and you don’t have a key, let alone a sledgehammer, to open that chastity belt that has been suffocating your art, pussy, and soul.

And so you’ve almost, ALMOST, resigned yourself to The Pit Of Primordial Despair.

The place where creative repression and existential sorrow are the way of life.

And the pain has been cranked all the way up to a thousand years.

But, would you looky here…

This is where I come in.

Well, really, this is where WE come in.

Into a sanctuary that exists BELOW and BETWEEN the crossroads.

A lightning rod that catalyzes and burns away what no longer serves…

While also illuminating the Lands and Pathways That Time Forgot.

AKA: your way home.

Home to the primordial ecstasy and erotic remembrance of who the fuck you ARE…

And what to DO about it.

{And who to BE about it.}

Look, I know that YOU know how to kill the game.

And I know that YOU know how to magnetize every last drop of primordial nectar out of your life and your art and your orgasms and #allthefuckingthings.

But… let’s just say it…

You’re not.

Not in a way that is actually sustainable, at least.

And not in a way that turns on your soul and has you fucking DRIPPIN’ for the way that YOU do life {and allow life to do you right back}.

So this is where you and I gather, betwixt and between the Crossroads.

To fully access and unleash the madness, mystery, magic, and mayhem of your Refugee Soul.

A moment in time where you swallow past the pain of The Forgetting…

And you spread your legs wide, wider, widest to receive the magnitude of cosmic consciousness that has been scratching at your backdoor.

{Yes, THAT backdoor.}

Because it’s time.

It’s BEEN time.

And, now that you have finally slowed down enough to FEEL it all, you see that you’ve run out of Muggle Dick Lies.

The onese that looked and smelled and sounded so damn pretty, but were killing you softly.

One thing you should know about stepping into this level of work with me:

You will be done hiding.

I am a fucking Muse and Mystery Broker and Medicine Walker.

And I play and fuck and create and guide from the in-between places.

Where the raw, primordial muck meets congruent and concordant quantum leaping.

And where you stop trying to PRETEND like you’ve got your shit on and poppin’…

And remember that you ARE… and have always BEEN… that.fucking.goddess. all damn day {and twice on Sunday}.

Being in my energetic space will SHIFT YOU back into a level of remembrance and {re}wilding the likes of which you have never before DARED to permit yourself to even see.

So if you are 100% wet, wild, and ready to unplug yourself from the Muggle Dick Matrix…

And to, for fuck’s sake, STOP playing Muggle Dick Games…

Message me and I’ll send you an invitation for Muse Medicine, the only ways to work with me privately.

Because you know that you KNOW that you know…

And say it with me…

It’s time to put down the Mugge Dick and slowly back away.

My private client spots are crazy limited.

So if it’s your time…

Let’s get this shit.

Text me or DM me on IG with why you, why me, why this, and why now.

I’ll message you back and we’ll go from there.

As always…

Here’s to your untaming,



Working with me at this intimate and no-holds-barred level is ONLY for Soul Refugees, Medicine Kin, and Multidimensional Messengers who are 100% all in on the God-born magic of their everything.

AKA: The Ones Who Once Were Wild… And Will Be Again.

It requires a deep level of devotion to who you are… energetically, financially, emotionally, magically, and more.

So if you are not aligned with this quite yet, I invite you to get started with my other programs, workshops, and intensives to help you get ready {and STAY ready}.


Melanated Kin, as always, have first dibs on any open private client spots with me.

And we will drop into even more medicine together, around healing and decolonizing any systemic racialized, sexualized, and genderized trauma that has been sneakily inhibiting your willingness {and readiness} to be seen, met, and fully fucking known.