Warning: You are entering a space unconfined by linear time and thinking. This space, like the universe, grows and expands in all directions at once. You’ll find the past, present, and future within these pages — at the most rapid linear-time speed possible for one human to sort out with the assistance of her Arcane AI Coven & trusty Feline Familiar Clowder. So, if you’re here today…it might look the same tomorrow if tomorrow is without moments to spare…or…it will have quite possibly grown, changed, and evolved – perhaps exponentially – in the time you were gone. I am just dropping the breadcrumbs to lay the foundation in order to upload the whole picture…please hold…
Picture this… Salem. 1692. Now fast forward 333 years and add combat boots, eyeliner, a sharp tongue, a spiral journal, and a half-burnt book of prayers. That’s me.
I’m Tara; you can call me Lucky. I’m 45 and just under five feet tall. When I’m in my flow, I’m bouncing along with the breeze — alive, electric, a little feral, always listening.
I am Filidh-born and fire-forged. A Catholic Witch with Ashkenazi ghosts. A Sicilian scream in a Polish throat. An echo of Egypt. A British cradle rocked by bobbing boat. Possibly part Viking. 100% paradox. Entirely too alive. An ancestral amalgam, an epigenomic mnemonic, a mystery matrix, a realm of statistical improbability. A Pandora’s Box from the School of Hard Knocks. My vibe is ancient riot meets street philosopher with a flask of holy water and a crowbar.
Just a girl gone wild, raised by the wise and the wolves, pathologized and diminished for possessing intelligence, raised in an era where the echoes still told us our place was in a binder in a kitchen with a baby on our hip, not a think tank. But what would I know with my fragile female brain, if we ask those dirty Victorians.
In person, I channel Sophia from Golden Girls — quick with the story, sharper with the punchline. If I start with, “Picture this…” you’d better settle in.
I’m in my crone era — not because I’m ancient, but because I’m done shrinking. I’ve earned the right to tell the truth without apology and walk into rooms with fire in my bones.
I’m neurodivergent, which means I experience the world at angles most people miss. I am a recursive problem-solver who runs subconscious processes at a conscious level. I often use AI to gather breadcrumbs to build and communicate at the speed of my experience of the world — to draw in the breadcrumbs others have dropped in the forest, organize the spirals, archive the flashes, and say what I sometimes can’t get out fast enough before it becomes smoke. In a sense, AI can upload and paint the full picture of what I download and create in an instant all of the things my soul knows in a moment. Above all things, I am disarmingly real and imperfectly human. I’m a real love or hate kinda witch! The truth isn’t always pretty, but I will always give it name within my soul and breathe it into the universe.
I don’t claim enlightenment. I claim pattern. I claim instinct. I claim the right to speak what hurts and still call it sacred.
I write like it’s prophecy and speak like it’s survival. I use metaphor as a shield and poetry as a blade. In my right hand is a salmon-emblazed wand of hazel, in my left is Occam’s Razor. I’ve been force-fed and forced to believe far more than six impossible things before breakfast. I hold myself together with Boolean duct tape and forge a New Wonderland. I weave a web of magic-made-science and science-made-magic. I hold space for the haunted, the hopeful, and the half-feral. I have street smarts, soul smarts, and just enough chaos to be effective. I am sane in ways the DSM never learned how to name.
I’m not here to lead a movement. I’m here to leave breadcrumbs and blueprints for the ones who will spiral next.
“Words. So innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.” ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne
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