Victoria Maria Moyer

Facilitating Creative Journeys

I would give all metaphors

in return for one word

drawn out of my breast like a rib

for one word
contained within the boundaries

of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say—I love

I run around like mad
picking up handfuls of birds
and my tenderness
which after all is not made of water
asks the water for a face

-(Zbigniew Herbert, trans. Czeslaw Milosz)

I’m Victoria.

For now, this page is where I house various bits and pieces of things I do or have done.

Some of my playwriting projects may be found here.

I have frequently worked as a theatre educator, providing a space for young people as well as adults to explore their artistic perspectives.

I am also a certified Hypnotherapist through the International Association of Counselors and Therapists. I offer individual and group sessions. Most recently, I facilitated free Saturday workshops at the Ahimsa House in Philadelphia.

In the past year I’ve also started playing harp; I sometimes post improvisational songs here.


Mother Morphosis No Psychosis

Hi there. I've gotten (momentarily?) tired of writing blog posts that position me as someone who has some knowledge about something, attempting to inform you. So instead of a blog post, I'm offering a short excerpt from a current novel(la)-in-progress, entitled Mother Morphosis No Psychosis. It feels good to feel so vulnerable, sharing something that isn't "done" (how will I know?)




The Silent Om. 

     (You say: I surrender! Let the flames eat us all. Let the oceans drown us all.) 


No more talking. No more praying. 

     (You say: But please, please, please, let it not have been in vain.) 


No more doing. 

     (A bird sings: 


                     wee wee wee wee

                                     SEE ooo SEE oo SEE oo - 

clack. clack. 

                   hee OH OH. aa

                                                          Chck. Chck. Chck. ChkOO. ChkOO. 

                  wee wee wee wee

  SEE ooo SEE oo SEE oo ) 

(Timbres, rhythms, melodies, letter-less conversations, this bird, showing you the unending possibility of resonance and all that has been and will continue to be utterly un-transcribable, for your perception embodied.) 


Can’t you exist without—that? 




“Makyo is the combination of Ma which means Devil and Kyo which means the objective world. It refers to hallucinations that arise during the course of meditation.” Gaze long enough at nothingness and you’ll imagine somethingness. The brain copes—writes a story. We do not run towards Makyo nor try to get rid of Makyo. Repeat after me: The content of your mind is not important.

A spectrum of distance: 

You are: in the dream and you believe it. 

You are: being dreamed. 

You are: in the dream and you despise it. 

You are: in the dream but you see it is a dream: you love the dream.

You have: one leg in the dream and you question it. You have: one leg in the dream although you don’t believe it. 

You have: one toe in the dream: maybe there is nothing else besides the dream. 

You are: distrust: disillusionment.

You believe: you have woken up. Try to wake up. Again. 

You see: other dreams and others’ dreams but suspect: you might still be in a dream. 

You might: not: found out: since you: trust: haven’t yet: who you are: not


You are (not) a leaf. You are (not) a beetle. You are (not) a mother. You are (not) a child. You are: who witnesses, who timeless, who traveler: but maybe not. 

This voidness is not dark. 




What strange logic is this, which now denies its own reliance on metaphor? Which yearns to have been born into another lifetime, or not at all, or to become a single point in the center of a vast spiral? Your name, the same as all names, Almitra an echo, Almitra a ghost, Almitra a seeress, Almitra no more, al-Mitra al-Qamar, انا اللي حكيت ؟ (was it I who spoke?)



(A very deep silence and a very long blackout.)

Come you lost Atoms to your Centre draw;

And be the Eternal Mirror that you saw.

     -Farid Ud-Din Attar, The Conference of the Birds