The Diary of a Metaphysical Bookworm by Suzanne Valtsioti © Installment Three The Death of the Bohemian

The Diary of a Metaphysical Bookworm

by Suzanne Valtsioti

©All Rights Reserved

Installment Three

The Death of the Bohemian

So, Raz, I was writing in my last installment about my grandmother’s youth, explaining how she was left alone to make her own choices at a very young age. My dear Coco left to her devices, chose to remain in London. And she settled in Soho, attracted to the wanton behavior, the artist colony, the debauchery and the reckless freedom.

That being said, I am feeling much better about writing out my thoughts and secrets to you Raz. Because I made a good start. Yes, writing about my grandmother.

I need to write everything I know about Coco.

Why am I writing this Raz, do you know? Do you know why I need to also write out Coco’s story when in truth it’s my story that I need to explore? Why focus on others when I need to finally dig inside, deep, deep within my soul, to allow myself to grab my own story and let it all out?

Because there is a saga unfolding before our very eyes.

Well, Coco left this world just last week. Nearly one hundred years from her birth. She left. She is gone from here and as I am writing in this ‘here and now’, she is definitely creating her noise someplace far, far away. And I am certain that she is happy there.

Coco, Coral, call her what you will, has died. This version of her had aged and withered like a leaf on the ancient oak. And I am left with a tremendous task.

Her dying words to me where to ‘find myself’, ‘to release Skye from all confines of the mind’ and ‘to fulfill my legacy’.

She said that I am one of the ‘wise women’, a ‘wise one’ and my emergence is to happen now. The only obstacle she said is that I am being blocked, and she told me to search deep inside and to open my eyes wide to the truth.

We spoke for days on end towards her final curtain call of this life, and it is all starting to fit in place. Everything that I knew to be true, all of my ‘weirdness’ and all of the strange facts, occurrences and coincidences marking our lives all seem to be making more sense to me now. So many unexplainable things making us so different from the rest all seem normal to me…as if they were naturally meant to be. I can finally see it this way.

I think that last night was the point in time when things sunk in. Things that I was afraid to face all these years now seem natural and they make sense to me in a way that I had never experienced before. But then again, last night I had a ‘seeing’…another vision.

You see, Raz, growing up the way I did made me afraid of what I really am. I like to call myself weird, just to excuse my being different. Now I finally feel like I don’t need to excuse it. I don’t need to be like the others and fit in.

Damn right I am different. We all were. And I suppose it is our legacy.

Look…how many people can claim to be raised only by free-thinking, spiritual, ‘different’ women,…and not by the mother but by the grandmother. I was raised by my grandmother, just like my grandmother was raised by hers. But that is not where the ‘different’ comes into play. Here is the ‘different’.

My grandmother found her freedom as a young woman in London in World War 2. Who finds freedom during a time of war?

Anyway, she was a wild intellectual and an extremely spiritual person – frighteningly intuitive and very strong. She was like a thunderstorm. And extremely in tune with things that others would never be able to see or understand. Searching for her world and for soul mates, she found her niche at first with a very freethinking crowd in a London neighborhood.

But that is just a mere description of her that hardly does justice to the truth about Coco. I barely skimmed the surface of her story.

From the moment that she stepped foot on British soil, she woke up to a new reality. Coco stepped into a dream world. That is how she used to explain it to me. She heard a calling. At first, she didn’t ‘respond’ to it. She just used to let it ‘happen’…she used to receive visions.

‘Seeing’ is how Coco referred to it.

She collected all of the information, what she would see, how she saw it, what was said. She wrote them down in a little brown notebook back then when they started to occur. She didn’t act on them at first, Coco just recorded the details in her notebook and collected them.

And she became fascinated with this dream world. Studying the details of her visions, she realized that they pointed her to Avalon, to Glastonbury. Coco was getting bits and pieces of a life there, of a calling to either ‘remember’ or to actually do something. She wasn’t sure what it all meant, so Coco would just allow for the visions to come, and she would study them.

One thing was for certain. She beckoned and wished for them to come to her more and more. Coco felt this strong need to communicate with whatever it was that she was seeing. And this began to dictate her life. That is why she felt so comfortable with a group of ‘crazy’ artists- painters and writers. That is what others outside their lifestyle called them. But she knew that they were far from crazy, they just saw more to life than the average person did. And that liberated them from the norms. This made them do certain things that the establishment wasn’t able to accept or understand. Their liberated lifestyle seemed almost corrupt and destructive to those who couldn’t understand that these people were seeing and hearing things from elsewhere, that they were being fueled and driven by inspiration from muses outside the realms of the five senses.

Coco became one of a select few of privileged wild and free souls that also frequented a very clandestine opium den in an underground space of a shop in Chinatown. And it was the opium that allowed for her to suspend herself for what seemed an eternity, hovering between worlds. While some of her friends were literally languishing in this netherstate, Coco seemed to thrive. Opium released her and allowed for her to embrace her link to Avalon.

It was in this state that she had the hallmark of her visions, the one that literally changed her life.

It was in this state, in that underground languid opium den that she saw and spoke with the great Merlin. He came to her and told her things that changed her whole life.

Coral Brackford became Coco who now shed her cocoon and emerged as a mystic woman of old, a wise one, a priestess, a visionary, that has suddenly found herself in this particular world. All of her past seem to peel away, and as she emerged back into the daylight from that opium den burrowed into the earth, that day, having spoken with Merlin, it was as if she suddenly assumed the identity of her true being.

Without ‘training’ or experience or influence, a whole new woman emerged from within her soul and showed its face to the outside world. And it was very real. And it was that woman that she now was, a Druid, a priestess of the Celts, a wise ancient archetype of a mystical band of beings, that sought to bring me into this world and to raise me. She did what she had to do to ensure that I would be born.

Because she knew that I had a mission to fulfill.

The Diary of a Metaphysical Bookworm

The Diary of A Metaphysical Bookworm

 by Suzanne Valtsioti 

©All Rights Reserved

Installment 1

No one is going to call me crazy again. This time, I am certain, that NO ONE but NO ONE can understand me. Except for you. Diary. My dearest Diary. But now, you are no longer my diary, you are RAZ.

Raz means ‘secret’. God’s secret. For as long as you were an empty book waiting to be filled, you were a diary. Now that I have opened you and have begun to fill your lines with my words and your pores with my ink…your essence is now intertwined with mine. You are an extension of my thoughts…the ones that I choose to write. How can I call you ‘diary’ when our connection is now so intimate?

You are Raz. And I am Skye. And I know that no matter what I tell you, Raz, you will never betray me. We are victims in a sense. Together. As a person who has been betrayed, I am about to flood you with gushes of thoughts and feelings. Victims tend to do that. They let it build up inside and then gush everything out when they can no longer hold it in.

As for you Raz, like it or not, you are there,the recipient, accepting it all, no matter how heavy it will be. You are prepared to open up and take in all that I have to write onto your pages. Bearing my weight. I guess that is being a victim too. After all, you can’t just stop me from writing what I want, when I want. 

From existing all along as a blank set of pages, like it or not, you are now becoming a part of me, a part of Skye. I suppose that I have already written enough to say officially that you are now an extension of me. Of Skye. You are now bearing my thoughts in words.

So, Raz, from where do I begin? From my feverish craving to write out a million things that have bothered me over the years? From my burning desire to memorialize passion? From my secret wish to leave certain things behind when I leave this planet, things recorded by me, just a few personal stories and experiences?

NO. I am not sure if I want to write a memoir or to keep you, Raz, as a ‘diary’. I think that I am actually doing both. I feel the need. Ha!…It may end up sounding like a confessional if I keep this up.

There are too many things going on in my head that need to find a physical place of existence. What better place than to be transformed into written words, and etched onto your pages, my dearest Raz? The keeper of my secrets, right? And there are too many things from my life that need to be recorded. Recording them will give them the physical form of immortality. They will always exist, once written. If I record them and then re-read them, I will be able to re-process them, perhaps see them more objectively, and I probably will be able to finally make some sense of it all. Sometimes it is easier to understand what is going on when you read your own thoughts and memories that have been written out. It is easier than listening to your mind replay the never-ending reel of mind chatter, of brain babble. 

Raz, I feel tired. I need to let go of some of the baggage that I am carrying. Some of it is genetic, some of it is energetic, some of it is emotional and quite a bit of it is simply metaphysical.

That is the heavier load, I think. 

The metaphysical…having to do with the spirit…the intangible…the heaviest of the stuff you can’t see, heavier than the stuff dreams are made of…the metaphysical baggage I carry are the unexplainable things that have weighed me down because I know that they have always been real, they have a physical form, but one I can’t perceive with all of my senses. 

Real, but I don’t understand them. Well, I do understand them, but not fully. My metaphysical experiences sometimes are memories that are like iron ball and chains wrapped around my ankle, being dragged around with me everywhere.

Which is the real Skye? The different, offbeat Skye that lives a reality shockingly different from the rest? That is the Skye that accepts this metaphysical, otherworldly reality as being the life I am living. Or the Skye that is forced to behave like everyone else, floating about in this other reality filled with the people and the things that physically surround me most of the time, one that surrounds me most often than not, but one that I don’t feel a part of. Christ said that we should be in this world, yet not of this world. Is that what is happening to me? Am I part of other worlds, and if so, are they good ones? Or do I close my eyes, my ears, my mind’s eyes and ears that is, and rely on my physical senses only, to be like the rest of the humans that exist around me, blind to everything but my physical surroundings, to be like those that really don’t have a clue about what’s ‘out there’? Should I deny my ‘weirdness’ and be the Skye that is like the rest of this world? I suppose. That is the dominant Skye, I think. That is the Skye that most people see.

It should be the other way around. I should personify the metaphysical experiences that grace my reality, be the ball and chain I carry, heavy and solid, dragging around what I know to be true about me living in other ‘dimensions’ or in other ‘times’ as well…

Times and Dimensions, those are both shitty words that are overused, they come close to describing what I want to say, but these are words that fail to describe something that ‘I know’ but can’t define. Oh Raz, what I mean to say is that the ‘me’ that is sitting here writing this is so heavy and sluggish compared to the me living the life I see in these ‘moments’ of escape from this frequency belt…That is, the Skye sitting here writing this out is not like the Skye that also lives these other lives. This Skye, sitting here, writing, letting it out, is a very heavy and weighed down Skye. You know what I mean, Raz? I can’t figure out who I am, really. Am I here now, just here…or am I out there as well….or is this a dream, or is that other reality I often see myself in a dream…

Where the hell am I for real? In which worlds do I exist? The ones that I perceive around me most of the time, or the ones that superimpose themselves on my reality and hijack my perception….where I find myself living a completely different life…in another world, another time.

Anyway, I am going to start fresh tomorrow. I think that I need to get to know myself. That is what really comes to my mind right now…I have glided by too much of my life in this existence, riding the waves from everyone else’s splashes and dives. Now I need to really see who I really am.

The ancient Greeks wrote in Delphi ‘Γνωθι σ’αυτον” or in English “know thyself”. It’s deep. It is not just “know what you like”, or know who you are. It is about knowing your essence…not what you are pretending to be, or what others want you to be. It’s really the psychoanalysis version of finally getting to know who and what you are on some sort of level…and then getting a grip on all the other facets and loose ends as well.

It’s like seeing a photo of yourself for the first time, when you have never, ever, seen what you look like. That is the kind of knowing yourself I want to do. Because I truly feel that I don’t know myself. There are too many parts of me that are everywhere else but here. I don’t see too many people experiencing this sort of thing. I am fragmented in different existences. There was too much of me that was so different from the rest of the people around me, for as long as I can remember, that I just couldn’t be ‘me’. So I tried to bury that me and become a boring Skye that never discusses the scandalous and intriguing lives I live elsewhere. Obviously, something is to blame for this ‘split’.

I suppose that is where my surroundings, my background, my people, my situations all come in….well, we don’t choose our family, many people say. They certainly leave their mark on us, though, don’t they?

 Like dog piss on a tree. 

I think, though, that we do choose them, our family that is, somehow. In a karmic way. especially if they are terrible choices. They usually are. There must be a reason for this somewhere.

That was my problem for the longest time. Being only what others wanted or expected of me. Never, ever allowing myself to be just Skye, me. And I also buried my individuality under layers of self-doubt and fear of being different. 

Wasn’t it Gide who said that a caterpillar who seeks to know itself won’t turn into a butterfly? Ever? Yeah, keep on staring at yourself will get you nowhere. You freak out, become too scared to move.

Ha! Gide…now isn’t that weird that I would remember him, after all these years? But how could I forget? After all, if anyone influenced me the most, I think that it is my grandmother. The unforgettable Coral. My Coco. 

And Gide was one of my grandmother’s favorites…being gay and all…she supported their cause like religion…I suppose it would be natural to remember all that she drove home to me from such a tiny tot age…things that I never was ready to understand. Talk about indoctrinating. 

Yes. Raz…I need to know myself, to really get to know myself. I have been hiding from myself for as long as I can remember. And I don’t want to die before getting to know who I really am. Otherwise, I will not have lived. Here. In this present lifetime. In this point on the timeline. My timeline. And My timeline is going through some crazy phases, looping and joining and merging when I least expect it. That is the surreal weirdness I am trying to explain, Raz. Because it is that timeline slipperiness that makes me Skye. 

Yep. Slipping and sliding through my different lives, without intending to. That is me and that is my life. And I need to understand it and accept it. I want to get to know me, instead of sitting here for decades ignoring the unusual and either trying to be closed off to my ‘timeline gift’ for fear of ridicule, or I find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror with my mouth open in wonder…trying to figure out if I am real, if I am sane. 

After all, I know that I am ‘elsewhere’ as well…so is Skye the same as the lifetimes I see myself living in parallel worlds or lives? Are they dreams? They can’t be. Are they my imagination? No, impossible.

And that is how I am going to start writing. First I will explore Skye, taking a good look at my life….from my earliest memories. And I will try to put some order to my chaos. Once and for all. And you Raz, are going to help me do it. 

I will write it all out to you. Because you are my only friend that will believe me.

The Diary of a Metaphysical Bookworm now Live!


a snippet from the very private diary of a mobster’s wife….

“I will gather up a lifetime of things unsaid, write them down, and then offer them all to be lit up for security and burned. All at once.
And then I can watch the whole thing turn to ash. The whole damn thing.
Light the match, and watch it burn.
What a loaded bonfire that would be though, if this gets burned when I finish filling up the whole book.
What a cleansing experience that will be!
If flames could speak, what a story they would tell.
They say that the original bonfires were the burning up of bones. Bad bones. Bad people. Enemies. Turning bones to ash. And it was the burning up of curses and all things bad as well. God knows we have had and still have enemies, and even curses. Real ones.”

Mallias The Greek Gangster the story of a card cheat