Four Months into The Fuckery

The Fuckery is what I’ve named this unfolding that began last September.  It’s the most apt description and, at this point, I no longer refrain from using it with those who might be offended. Because that’s what this is. There is no way to pretty it up; not only is that like putting lipstick on a mud-covered pig but, in my view, there is no other way to adequately express the institutionalized system that exists solely to pad the pockets through selling sex with children and young people. From medicine men to the medical community, Mexican cartel and Indian gaming, tribal law enforcement and those who turn not a blind eye, but fully seeing eyes, so many people get a slice of the pie. So. Many.

January 14 marked the four-month anniversary of arriving in the Phoenix metro area. This past Monday was the four-month anniversary of finding where young people are held for sex trafficking in Phoenix and the beginning of much frustration–with law enforcement, competing bureaucracies and ideas of ‘proof’, and the intricate dance between past and present. It also happened to mark the two month anniversary of realizing that I was actively followed and targeted by those involved in the network. Safeguards were put into place once I realized the how close they were (enough to take photographs of me at night!) and how they found me (nothing is as secure electronically as you think it is!). I’m now more careful about how I poke the proverbial bear in the eye or otherwise stir the pot!

Almost one month ago, I had a vision. I mean, I have them all the time but this one was just of flowers or the same flower multiple times. I saw it, I wrote it down (and tried to draw it) gave it the eyebrow and thought nothing more until the next morning when I opened Airbnb to find another place to stay. I’d known for a few days that I was heading south but I made sure that my passport was handy because I didn’t know how far south I might be going. Turns out I wasn’t led to south of the border but merely a brief jaunt down a highway that’d shown up in another vision a few weeks prior. Because those freaking flowers?  A bedspread pattern. Uh huh.  A bedspread attached to an Airbnb homeowner who, when I walked in the door, said “So, how’d you find me?”  And, when I told her the truth, she didn’t flinch but gave her own eyebrow. And, the next morning, when I didn’t know where I’d go or how I’d get there, because getting to the vision-place left me three dollars, she said, “You just need to pull your car into the garage and not worry about that.”

I was led right to the heart of help! Just in the nick of time, too, because within a few days of arrival, the flu hit me like a freight train and knocked me out for just over a week!  Since then, we’ve struggled with balancing patience (right?!) and safety and the need to engage with things connected to The Fuckery. Because half a mile from from here is the specific truck that’s been seen in dreams of others since August.  Five miles away is a transfer point and fifteen…? Not only was I sent directly to help, I was brought to the outer edges of the network.

However, this past Monday was also the day I decided to pull the plug on my involvement in this unfolding. The toll on mind, body and spirit has been enormous, depression a close friend,  and there was a request from Helena, MT, to for a month-long dog sit.  While blessings do come, often in spectacular fashion like landing where and when I did a few weeks ago, there hasn’t been more than $100 income for weeks and a few hundred dollars seemed like a good idea. The phone has been off for nearly three weeks, Tater has been uninsured for two months, and thyroid medication ran out ten days ago. The shame and guilt associated with even thinking of abandoning those I’ve been sent for kept me tears moving during the day and brought sleepless nights. Visions of youngsters asking for help and their voices singing the refrain from Pink’s “What about Us?” gnawed at my heart and until two experiences yesterday, I’d swung back and forth from ‘leaving’ to ‘not leaving’.
Yesterday, I followed a ten day vision-string to another Indian reservation. In those three hours of driving through desolation, the tainted ground talked and a young girl trying to thrive in the shadow of human cruelty reminded me that to leave would violate my own oaths and go against every fiber of my being.  They didn’t actually say those things. The judgement never comes from outside my own heart. What they did was ask for help and help me understand (again) the why and what I am.
When I crawled into the vision-flower covered bed last night, I was too tired for more tears and too tired for immediate sleep. While I waited for the eyelids to facilitate sleep I had a visitation from not-quite-a-virgin Mother Mary. I’ve met her before. In fact, I met her while standing in the kitchen of the woman in Helena who asked me to come dog sit. However, last night’s appearance was more than an introduction. She didn’t drop in for a cuppa or conversation. She came to bless and to beseech me to not give up or give in. Who am I to deny the Mother or any mother?
So, I will carry on. But I need help. I need to be able to call 911 when necessary, I need an oil change and gasoline, as well as some acupuncture or other medical care to help the body manage the constant energetic overload. I would also like to give some to the woman who, by giving me her Airbnb room for a month (at $50/night), will struggle after making her mortgage payment.
I know not everyone can give financially and not everyone is going to hear Spirit say, “Give Ingrid ten percent of the windfall that is coming your way” (which did happen last October and came to fruition in December!) but if you would consider sharing this story with others who may be able to help sustain me if you cannot give, I would greatly appreciate it.
I do not know how much longer this will take but, I made a promise to the Old Ones in October 2015 and repeated it to The Mother last night:  “I will never deny you.”  To her, I added this: “I will bring them home.”
If you can help financially, please send via PayPal to
The photo above is of the most recent painting Jayme Hopkins did for me last night.When I can’t pick up what Ancestors and others are trying to say to me, they go to her to paint the messages or the beings who are trying to engage. In this one, The Mother and more appear.  I’ve overlaid one of my favorite poems.

Because I Believe

Because I believe the

Heart of a sister

The touch of the Ancestors

The presence of the beloveds

and elephant trunks kissing

my face.

Because a giraffe isn’t just a giraffe. She’s called April and speaks herself into my existence.

Because the heart knows what it knows.

Because I trust the faith of those that guide and those who step in to face the threat with me

And remind me between each breath to become that which has been prayed for;

I am the called and the response.

Speak Now or Forever…

The weight of this sad time we must obey

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

The oldest hath borne most, we that are young

Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

~ King Lear Scene 5, Act 3


Oh, my love. In the midst of despair I only heard “Don’t say anything to anyone. I cannot tell anyone who you are or why you are here. You must keep you mouth shut, not even share your prayers with anyone. When you give your prints in a sweat, hold your tongue. Do not say what you are praying for or who you are to be working with. Say nothing. Hold everything inside.”

Behind those words were deeply held fears passed down to you by those who ‘taught these things’. There was a time, not as long ago as many may think, that holding everything inside is what kept individuals alive and communities intact; when the threat of the ‘savage’ accessing the powers that be and to Be as they were meant to meant death for those who spoke allowed, sang and danced with the rhythm of the heart of all that is.

Those who taught you these things were taught by others who tried desperately to erase your families from their own identities, histories, stories and, for some, existence.

However, we face something very similar now and to not speak truths of things; truths of things of spirit, the spirit of nature and nature of spirit, and our relationship with all those things. To hold our tongue still and heart closed will continue the process of losing identity, history, story, and, yes, for some, existence.

For two years, I’ve not known what to say when the Ancestors and Others who walk with me have shouted, “SPEAK!” with an occasional, more gentle, “Speak, child. Speak.”  I’ve asked again and again, “What would you have me say?” not in such a gentle way. Now I know.

Now I will hold neither my tongue nor my heart. There is no turning back. When They ask me to go find those disappeared at the hands of others and being disappeared because their sight and their voices, too, are being blinded and shuttered, I will. I will find them to bring them home; some to their families and some to their own hearts, their own nature. I will speak so their truths may be heard.

I will be quiet no more and ask you, my kind sir, do the same for we must do this together. No one of us can do this alone. We were never meant to.

In Telling the Holiness, I wrote :

In the Apache tradition, storytelling is to ‘tell the holiness’.  The myths that speak to the holy are “performed only by medicine men and women for the purposes of enlightenment and instruction.”

We may have finally come to the time where many  realize that storytelling isn’t only for medicine-people to tell; the truths of all things holy come from each of us, as much as we draw breath our own stories give us life.

In the time before we were not separate from ourselves and the places we stood upon and looked up into, we were a people so connected to the earth that the earth took our pain in the same manner it gave us life.  Absorbed it like a rare rain in the desert and held onto it like it was holding onto their dear lives. At one point, back in our time, we were each those people.  And, now they are mere remnants of our fabric; tossed and hidden away when not murdered from existence, removed from the collective conscious except when it appears to serve our romantic nature or reliance on greed.

I listen to those struggling to maintain communities in a good way fight to keep parking lots from plowing over medicines. My heart breaks when I’ve brought a 40 year old man back to his tribe but the 15 year old sitting next to him is desperate to escape “because I can’t be me here. I’m not safe. I’m not ready to kill myself, though. Yet.”

And in the places where we have shoved those people who represent the past that we have collectively deemed unworthy of our attention, we die along with them. As they bleed the interest in life, the earth withholds it–for them and for us. There’s no need to feed & give life if life is no longer lived in the manner it was made to support.  And this is repeated around the globe, again and again, even as we struggle to manipulate natural and created systems to feed our futures.  This cycle will be repeated as if a contagion until we vanish.

Like those before us who were starved of connection to their sacred places & spaces, we disconnect even further from each other.  Some run in any number of ways to escape, some escape to feel free yet yearn to come home.  Those who have walked before and those now.

I have felt the lost.   I have held their hearts in my hand and I have stood in the spaces where the ancients realized all that is was no longer; that relationship with the ground, that relationship with each other, the ties that bind us as a people, that relationship between spaces below and above; the very representations of all that is home.

To walk onto home and feel the defeat between the highs and to hear the kindness of strangers turn to meanness to kin who aren’t enough of any measure to be accepted by family or community, reveals that same lostness, but not of the Ancestors but in the hearts of those beating now. “How can I be me if I can’t be seen?” “All this talk about spirits, why am I called crazy for seeing these things?” “I can’t tell anyone the trees speak to me.” “I could just die.”

Oh, love. Please stay. I hear you. I’m coming. I feel you. I’m coming.



May Mercy Rise

May the grief-stricken be touched with the tenderest kiss.

May the hunger for hubris be starved as love is heard.

May mercy rise.


May the light of beauty shine in the darkest corners.

May hate give way to forgiving Grace.

May mercy rise.


May pain and fear be supplanted by communion.

May pride and prejudice succumb to peace.

May mercy rise.


May the voiceless sing and open the way.

May the hardened crack under their flood of love.

May mercy rise.


May beauty speak the heart of all, in all.

May mercy rise.


Stop Fucking Children

I posted this today on FB:

“What’s the one disease you wish you could get rid of? Cancer? AIDS?”

“The desire to fuck children.”

after this hit my stream: 

The question about disease curing wasn’t prompted by the article. I’m asked about it every now and again and usually decline to answer it because, well, it just annoys me.

After sharing this, I was asked “Couldn’t you say it differently?”

My response:  “How much more comfortable would you like me to make this for you?”

No. I will not say it differently because the physical, mental and emotional ripping apart of children for the sake of one’s orgasm or control or jollies isn’t ‘having sex’. We are so inured and numbed to the word rape that to  ‘raping kids’, in my opinion, has made no impact.

There are established, not-under-the-radar pipelines that feed young boys and girls to Buddhist monks, preachers, police, teachers, the Taliban, and tourists that work as smoothly as those moving water and oil. That movement requires conscious collusion with those mentioned above and the refusal of other citizenry to be consciously aware.

I wrote this two years ago on these pages and am putting them out there again:

Please don’t.

Please don’t fuck your children.

Please don’t fuck your friend’s children.

Please don’t fuck the friends of your children.

Please don’t procure children to fuck.

Please don’t put on the priestly, monkish, motherly, doctorly, lawyerly or powerlike vestments as a way to fuck children.

Please don’t procure children to be fucked by those in the uniforms of seeming safety.

Please don’t purchase travel from companies that promote those children’s procurement.

Please don’t support those governments that actively encourage the procurement of those childern to bolster their tourist trade. As if the intimate touching of children is a trade.

Please don’t use your leverage as terrorist to steal children to fuck or as teacher to fuck children.

Please don’t rent your children out to be fucked. Please don’t trade your children for rent.

Please don’t finger or fondle your children.

Please don’t finger or fondle your friend’s children.

Please don’t finger or fondle the friends of your children.

Please don’t procure children to finger or fondle for yourself, your friends or those who create a false sense of safety for the rest of the world. Please do not support agencies and governments that do so.

Please do not use your finger to entice them into being fucked.

As if the parting of the softest parts are separate from the heart.

Please don’t use your finger to threaten & silence them after you’ve fucked them.

Please don’t ignore that knowing that says, “I know that child is getting fucked.”

Please don’t ignore the child that tells you he is being fucked or she has been fucked. Whether child or grown.

The pain you cause lives on–whether you do the fucking, procuring of fucking or ignoring of fucking–long past your pleasure or the lack thereof. It lives on in psyches and cells; in muscles and memory. It creates chasms for those withouth strength to fall into and fight out of if they can. It lingers in language and fear. It doesn’t diminish with time but diminishes the glorious being they were gifted at birth and can only reclaim by working much harder than you did to create the fuck-fact and facade behind it.

The sorrow, grief, despair, disappearances and disassociations, rage, sadness, stoney spine, armoured and broken-hearted, guarded natures grow up and into selves that cannot see their original & lasting sanctity because your sin has obscured them.

How simple is it to not. fuck. children.

For those of you who have sought relief from the secrets, the invasion of your sacred space, and need sanctuary: I see you. I feel you. I am you. I believe you. I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Beyond measure. Beyond all boundaries.

For those who rescue and resuscitate those whose pain is enfolded in the fabric of their being: I see you. I feel you. I am you. I honor you. I love you.

Beyond measure. Beyond all boundaries.

Please, please. Whoever you are, in all of those places you are. Please don’t fuck any more children. Please don’t begin fucking children. Please ask for help. Please, by all measures and definitions of what we all consider holy. Please stop. Please don’t.

Because fucking children is fucking them up; some for life, some into an early death; some into the despair and disease of withholding weight of the secrets that their bodies can’t handle. Because fucking children fucks up families and communities and safety zones and security blankets and sexualities and futures for healthy, yummy, exploratory, orgasm into the universe sex.

Stop. Fucking. Children. You’re uncomfortable? I won’t stop saying it because it’s devastating in ways you can’t imagine unless you’ve been fucked as a child, it can’t be cleaned up, it’s not meant to be meme-ified or prettified.


Deadly Devotion

To  cry “Save our Mother”

while prying

open the thighs of her daughters,

slashing and burning through souls…


To dance for Durga and honor the cow

while murdering

their  brothers in skin and sinew

incensing  streets with iron-clad odor….


To dutifully bow to the East

with desire

to bend little boys over at the waist…


To lay flowers at the feet of the Virgin

while planting Los Desaparecidos

and mulching them with lies….


To pray in my name for  bounty

and well-being

while blaspheming the same

 in bloodlust…

Devotion was never meant to be deadly. Those who let the blood of others in any holy name, in any name of any god or God, are beyond hypocrisy. Those who would diverge from their devotion to cause harm to the least of these are apostasy in action. Those who praise and bully from the pulpit are neither prayerful or praiseworthy.

Belittling or betraying the connection between humanity and the holy, to serve as fear-monger, lyncher, and liar and money-changers at the temple of greed does not offer hope, share love, or imply sacrifice worthy of divine notice.

Supporting and replicating those processes and their perpetrators in the here-world, does not give one special access to any after-world. Nor  is it an loving reflection of spiritual communion or any kind of community.

These are not acts of any devil other than ourselves and we have reached a point where we need to decide if our ‘devotion’ is of that replicating the fierce love of those we claim fidelity to or if we’re going to continue false offerings for favors while acting in opposition to those loving aspects they represent. Do we choose to help and heal or harm?