Star Magic Glitter Lights the Desert of My Heart
Seeking the moon in a sea of stars
Star Magic Glitter Lights
I am searching for the moon among the stars.
It’s a waxing crescent, and I can’t find it. And there are so many stars.
The desert sky in Joshua Tree at 2 am is all stars and stars and stars, shooting stars, and I can’t find the moon, which is why the star magic glitter lights up the sky.
It’s so quiet, I can hear my self think. I see a shooting star, and I think of love.
I come to the desert to cleanse my soul and to seek the sun and the moon and the stars.
I didn’t expect the sunset to be so beautiful, but it was. I thought it would be lost in the clouds, but instead the clouds send another gift.
I was given the gift of another bird cloud — this one an owl.
Beneath it was a bad fish and a snow spider crab — the sky glowing a fiery gold and coral.
I’m told by a local that the sky birds only show up for those who are paying attention, and here I am, undivided.
Athenas
I now have friends in the desert, Christina who makes my rings — raven skulls and talons, snakes, hearts, and stars — urban alchemistry — soulful objects of art sculpted from silver recycled from cellphones and computers.
The one I wear on my right thumb she calls London Calling, because she pounded it while listening The Clash. She uses words so beautifully to only say beautiful things.
There’s Oriana, who makes oddities for the dead and alive. She forages for bones in nature and turns them into art — I fall under the spell of her coyote tail earrings. She tells me, “Coyote remains have the ability to bring more adaptability, resourcefulness, and cleverness to you and your life,” and I believe her. I want to wear them in my sleep, like talismans.
I write about sick boys, and wear my Native American pieces like armor against their disease. I now pray these precious bones protect me, too. Like the Saguaro, the coyote is my spirit animal.
The women I know are warrior goddesses — Athenas walk among us.
Too many women I know who do this work of exposing fascists now sleep with shotguns — they whisper to me that they’re prepared for the worst. It doesn’t stop them from doing what’s right.
Punk Rock Saved My Life
I see the geologist who makes his own paint out of beeswax, and I promise him now a second time that I will get over my fear of painting. He tells me to start with a line, and I promise him again I will. I make a mental note that I have now made three promises that I must keep.
As I order my favorite minestrone soup at my favorite pizza place before the main course — another desert sunset — I see a green-haired woman in an Iggy Pop shirt, and I don’t want to stare, but I know her face.
As I’m getting ready to leave, she says, “I’m Tequila.”
I say, “Mockingbird?!”
And she says yes.
I tell her my name and she knows me from years as a nightclub columnist for the LA Times. I know her because she’s a punk legend, a performer and now curator of Hollywood’s Punk Rock Museum.
She tells me, “Rolo’s got the punk museum nextdoor — Joshua Tree chapter. I played there last night. There’s a mixer if you want to join us.”
I swirl his name around in the faded rolodex in my mind, and I find him.
It’s 1994, Red 5 is opening for the Bouncing Souls at Rolo’s nightclub, 50 Bucks in DTLA. He’s another legend, an artist, who created silkscreen posters for everyone from Lollapalooza to Slayer.
So off I go to see magical people from my past. I tell Rolo I still have his black velvet Jackie Chan painting — a family heirloom.
I found out from a woman named Dorothy whose mother was a burlesque dancer who worked with Jimmy Durante and Phyllis Diller in the 1950s, that my old friend DJ Lee Joseph lives around the corner and now plays bass in Jesika Von Rabbit.
Oh, that old desert magic.
Safe Passage
For no reason at all, I wore a vintage rosary made of turquoise and jade that I hadn’t worn in more than a decade. Something about its dainty cross and image of a guardian angel ensuring children safe passage over a bridge just seemed appropriate. I soon learned that thanks to Madonna, rosaries are chic again — Lee Joseph had seen her perform the night before.
As I write this, I realize that safe crossing over bridges is a theme at the moment, as our Founder’s Day guest Stephen Douglas spent years ensuring safe passage for Ukrainians as they dealt with Russian bridge trolls.
His work on ‘war magic’ and disinfolklore has profoundly informed my work. I now see what we fight more clearly, and I’ve never been less afraid. I grew up with books of dark fairytales, Der Struwwelpeter — nothing is scarier than Der Struwwelpeter. We have been given the key to uncast these spells. It is only the passing of greed trafficked inside mythical lies.
The Desert In My Heart
It’s 4:19, and I must go look at the stars again. The 4 am stars are insanely exquisite — the abundance is joyful — and still, I can’t find the moon.
But I know it’s there, just playing hide and seek in all those star magic glitter lights. I love how small I am under these magnificent stars.
In just two hours the sun will come up, and I will bear witness. I will give thanks to the wonder and the beauty. The cactus wren will likely join me.
I’ll think about the owl cloud and the flaming sky bird, and the magical creatures of the desert — both real and perhaps imagined.
5:28 am — words fail me. The star glitter is indescribably beautiful. I see planets but no moon.
I promised Anne Nelson I would sleep. It’s good for the warrior to rest, she says.
I will sleep in on November 6, after we defeat all the bridge trolls and their masters. They have eaten too much disinfolklore, and when the meteor of truth leaves only a crater where they once gathered, a trail of artifacts will litter the land — MAGA hats, smashed laptops, Trump coins, 86-inch tvs frozen on Tucker Carlson’s frown, Putin nesting dolls, and thousands of tattered lies.
From these artifacts, artists will create mosaics — mixed media memories of what once was, and what will never be again, the spell of disinfolklore will be broken, the people wise to the ‘war magic.’
It’s because of you, and me, and the brilliant people we meet along the way — willing to do the work to make the world better and to share their work with others.
I learned from Mussolini to keep my heart a desert — he told a reporter that was the secret to his success — it didn’t end so well for him.
I keep the desert in my heart.
And then I give it away.
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More from my desert series:
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More info about Bette Dangerous - This magazine is written by Heidi Siegmund Cuda, an Emmy-award winning investigative reporter/producer, author, and veteran music and nightlife columnist. She is the cohost of RADICALIZED Truth Survives, an investigative show about disinformation and is part of the Byline Media team. Thank you for your support of independent investigative journalism.
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Begin each day with a grateful heart.
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