This project is conceived as a portal: a space for rituals, gatherings, and initiations. A recipe book and a grimoire, a means to honor the memory of my great-great-grandmother, a spiritualist who was exiled from my family for being a medium.
And so, the puddle beneath the bed appeared, and perhaps because of it, her bed became a raft, and she dreamt she was drowning. She was drowning, and with her, the life she carried in her womb. The virtue of drowning is that it is a dignified, silent death. What else could you aspire to, child-woman? Only in your deep, silent slumber, according to scripture, according to all of history, may you find the divine grace.
But your sea was indeed stained red. And thus, the flesh of your flesh was born and reborn every single time, with guilt.
I wish it were otherwise, but to access the spiritual realm, a first great breakdown must occur—as when what you thought was home fragments into pieces, or when a grief becomes a black hole. Or when a humiliation strips you of face and name. The cracks are the soul's portals; the soul unfurls when this reality turns unsustainable. To step into that light, one must be shattered, just as light is fragmented to enter our eyes.
Good spirits ask your permission by touching the sole of your foot. The unworthy ones enter your house without warning and store themselves like air beneath your skin. They smell strange, they feast on your fears, staining everything with coffee.
Make no mistake, magic is casting a spell simply and solely to fall back in love with the world. Listen only to the deities that dwell within your chest.
