ABOUT

My first loss came before my first breath. In the womb I lost a fraternal twin — a sister. This is not a metaphor, nor an ornament for a biography; it is a record in cellular memory I did not choose. Before I knew life, I knew the threshold through which a soul departs. Since then I carry space for two worlds — masculine structure and a lost feminine mysticism — and I know what release looks like when it is not theory but a condition of survival. That is why nothing you carry surprises me. I lived the process of detachment in my own body at the very beginning. I stood at the threshold before I was given a name. That is why I know how to guard it.

The Sun in Scorpio pulls me beneath the surface — into the underworld, toward taboo, toward the traumas others give a wide berth. The Ascendant in Aquarius will not let me drown in that depth: I detach, I analyse, I build a system. And the Moon in Virgo anchors it all in the body — in precision, in matter, in fascia. It is no accident that the Ascendant stands on the very cusp of Capricorn and the Moon on the last degree of Virgo: I was born on the thresholds of signs, and thresholds have been my territory ever since. From this triad comes somatic alchemy as I practise it: no floating, no phrases. Emotions are data. Trauma is a process with architecture. And every process can be read, dismantled and rebuilt — in muscle just as in code.

Human Design records me as a Manifesting Generator with a 2/4 profile — a hermit whom the world finds through people. A generator's power joined with a manifestor's speed: several projects at once, skipped steps, sudden changes of course. It is not chaos — it is construction. Emotional authority taught me the one rule I keep without exception: no big yes at the crest of the wave. I let decisions sleep. Truth is what remains when the emotion has left.

Life path nine. I did not come to open new cycles — I came to close old ones. To clean up karma, to complete, to release without conditions. In the tarot, two cards belong to me that people fear needlessly: Death, which is not an end but the Scorpio's transformation, and the Hermit, who carries light into the dark not because he denies the dark, but because he knows it. Quiet introspection is not an escape. It is a working method.

The year 1989 records me, in the Chinese tradition, as an Earth Serpent — the most mystical of signs, a symbol of healing and hidden wisdom. The serpent periodically sheds its own skin, and that is precisely my work with the body: not a cosmetic repair of the old layer, but its complete shedding. The earth element keeps all my mysticism close to matter. I trust nothing that cannot be anchored into muscle, breath and bone. If it does not work in the body, it does not work at all.

In Vedic cosmology my energy resonates with Bhairava — the radical form of Shiva who severs attachments and guards the gates of time. It is a destructive force, yet it does not serve evil; it serves liberation. When I meet the frozen roots of an ancestral line, or a voice imprisoned in the throat for decades, I do not negotiate with the chain. I sever it. Some things cannot be dissolved gently — they can only be ended.

Egypt gave me two hands. Osiris — lord of the underworld, torn apart and reassembled — is the hand that knows how a shattered soul is put back together, because it went through that process itself. Thoth — architect of magic, writing and sacred geometry — is the other: the hand that can build a working system out of deep transformation. Aequanus is the work of both. An underworld without architecture is chaos. Architecture without an underworld is an empty façade.

In the Mayan Dreamspell I am Kin 76 — the Yellow Spectral Warrior. The Warrior is the intelligence of the fearless question: it walks through fear toward truth and does not stop until the answer holds. The Spectral tone — the eleventh — dissolves and liberates. That is exactly how I work: I neither worship locks nor walk around them, I dissolve them. And the traditional Mayan count adds the other shore — the Blue Night, intuition ripening in the dark, and dreams as a working tool. A question that is not afraid; a dissolution that sets free; a darkness that is a source. Three things that would describe my days even without calendars.

In the medicine wheel of the Native American nations, the cusp of October and November belongs to the Serpent. These nations knew that serpent venom is an instrument of transmutation: whoever survives the bite carries the antidote in their blood — and becomes a healer. My bites took the form of a prenatal loss and dark nights of the soul I will not romanticise. I survived them and turned them into a precise, repeatable method. Today I pass that antidote on. Not as a saviour. As an architect who knows the statics of shadows.