Dandy Darkly

Spring Cleaning

With my new desk job around the corner, and only a few days of sloth remaining, I decided it was high time to peel my ass off the sofa and start cleaning out my closets. Ugh. How I hate cleaning...

My apartment isn't disgusting by any stretch of the imagination. I once drove to investigate a Missouri trailer park where other-worldly howls were heard nightly from an abandoned lot. The owner had died nearly a year earlier -- a total white trash fatty who lived in garbage and whose skin had grafted to his sofa bed. Hah!

I do try to have sympathy, but come on... when you're so fat that your body grows into your sofa - an eternity of misery is likely to follow. Yet another reason to use those gym memberships you're paying for, fat America.

A young woman in stirrup pants and an ill-fitting blouse identified  herself as the surviving daughter-in-law. She showed me to the lot in question, and I began feeling out who (or what) was causing the disturbance. Eventually, I felt several sets of emerald eyes peering out at me from deep within a patch of bamboo grass adjacent to the property. My watchers were predatory, hungry and feral. They were ghost cats.

I absolutely despise dealings with ghost animals.

I asked the daughter-in-law if there had been cats. She was wow'd - like being amazed by a nickname from beyond the grave during a séance, "The spirit says he misses you... Princess." Only failing to realize she's wearing a gold necklace that reads "Princess". That's a classic trick fakers use to reel them in.

In the heaviest Southern drawl possible the daughter-in-law oh-sooo-slowly related the story of PawPaw's love for cats and how he took in twenty of the parasites to keep him company while he merged with his cushions, smelling of cat shit and human feces, littered with pizza boxes, fast food wrappers and roaches. Every single inch of the trailer had been covered in filth. In light of such a mess, my single bag of laundry is almost an accomplishment, something to be celebrated - not carried off to the wash.

Being a Southern boy I respectfully (as much as possible) listened to the yarn - she cried three times about how she tried to bring him McDonald's Premium Choice Salads, but PawPaw would throw a hissy fit on his sofa, kickin his little fat legs if there were no fries. I had to bite my lip. Eventually PawPaw suffocated from his own massive weight. The wall of the mobile home was dismantled to pull his bloated corpse and sofa out. The twenty feral cats were killed right there by animal control.

PawPaw's slovenly existence wasn't one of anger. With the exception of the lettuce, I got the sense he quite enjoyed being catered to by his ignorant daughter-in-law. It was those fucking ghost cats lurking in the bamboo patch that were causing the ruckus.

The dead cats were now gremlins - hardly a threat, more of a nuisance to the living. Luckily I had experience dealing with such pests before. I took from my satchel a small animal skull. Squirrel, I think. I held it in my open palm and walked the perimeter of the empty lot, keeping eye contact with the bamboo patch. I saw visions of the cats ravenously eating the corpse's fingers and face.

A quiet chorus of cat screams trickled forward in response to my probing. The daughter-in-law sucked Yoo-Hoo through a straw with wide eyes. I lit a red candle and drizzled the hot wax onto the skull. Some of wax scalded my hand, and the cats howled as though they'd been burned.

I stood before the towering bamboo. Tiny pinpoints of green light surged forward. They floated in pairs. The hissing and howling was now so loud that neighbors turned on their lights and peeked out from windows. I placed the tiny skull on the ground and smashed it with the heel of my boot. Instantly the noise ceased and the miniscule, green orbs floated upwards like fireflys before fading away.

The daughter-in-law was a sickly shade of cement - no longer wow'd. Her vibe was totally 'please go the fuck away', which is the typical response after someone witnesses a cleansing. I buried the skull fragments and dripped a little more wax onto the soil as a consecration.

Sometimes cleaning the spirit world is easier than a one bedroom apartment. Back to my sofa. Now if only someone in stirrup pants would feed me McDonald's. 

Interview

Greater than The Void -- more ominous, far reaching and capable of reducing a grown man into little more than a blubbering mess of past regret and failure-- is the temporary staffing specialist.

How I hate these bitches.

I jest. To be certain, The Void would devour such prissy pollops... and their faux leather day planners and office photos of doofus husbands or elderly relatives. Yet these harpies have undeniable power, keeping me chained like Prometheus while they dissect my resume -- the vulture devouring the liver.

Over and over and over.

A fitting punishment for my sins will be a carpeted cubicle with a perky staffing specialist and never ending questions. "Where did you go to college?" "What was your typical day like?" "Do you have experience with Outlook?"

I grind my teeth behind my smile. Unfortunately ghost busting doesn't pay the bills. Today's spirits don't lead you to buried treasure. We live like cannibals where the young symbolically eat the deceased in the way of wills and inheritances.

Tammy the staffing specialist asks, "Is my grandmother's cancer going away, doctor?"

What The Void hears is, "Die bitch. The family wants to go to Disney World with your savings."

By the way, granny knew what you were up to, Tammy. The very elderly (death) and toddlers (life) are strangely attuned to The Void's broadcasts. (Pets too, but that's a whole seperate post.)

Ghosts are the poorest cats on the block, poorer than me even. Hurt feelings and a loathing of the living are all ghosts got, but it's enough to get an interview when The Void is hiring. So there boring Tammy sat. Seriously asking me to describe my most rewarding experience answering a manager's phone, and utterly ignorant that her deceased grandmother's soul sat perched in the form of a greasy turd atop her pigtailed head.

"I just enjoy being a help around the office..."

I trailed off as the angry turd-soul let out a teensy fart and resettled, gunking up Tammy's hair with a caramel chutney of regrets and accusations.

"You never visited me in the hospital!" "You dress like a whore!" "It was your fault you were raped!" "I hate you!" "I HATE ALL OF YOU!"

And then I had a seizure.

People with epilepsy tend to speak to the dead easier too. It's a chicken or the egg kinda thing: do epileptics see ghosts or does seeing ghosts give you seizures?

Anyways, I woke up and the paramedics had been called. Tammy was being consoled because of course it was such a big, fucking drama FOR HER! Stupid bitch. I tried spinning it into a sympathy thing like I totally need money for my medication, but no luck. Tammy was too freaked out, and I didn't get the job.

The turd mocked me. Her grandmother knew she caused my seizure. The realization gave it more control over her fragile Tammy's psyche. Whatever. Back to Craigslist...

Update: Turns out maybe The Void doesn't have as strong a grasp on my life as I previously believed. One of Tammy's co-workers actually arranged for me to begin work on April 1st with a small public relations firm as an event marketing associate. I love bullshit titles.

Ever cynical, I'm prepared to be greeted with an overture of "April Fool's!" upon my arrival, but the promise of a paycheck is one tiny glimmer of hope in a darker than usual universe.

Hope Tammy (and granny) enjoys the trip to Orlando.

Daily Commute

In the Night's Time, when The Void was young and glutted with delicious fear, the simple contentment of feeling safe was often enough to stave away malfortune and mischief.

As humanity's tribes became towns, it was our cooking hearths and blacksmith's fires which pushed The Void away from the fortified ramparts of our prosperous hamlets. Life within those guarded walls, while savage and dirty by contemporary standards, was a collective experience in which townspeople looked out for one another and strangers helped their countrymen. Those who trafficked with The Void were found out and hanged at crossroads - so their dark souls would remain lost, unable to find the way home.

But The Void learned to adapt.

Eventually Mankind's avarice tore down the city walls. A desolate urban sprawl resulted -- a seemingly benign cancer devouring the wild, becoming the wild. As modern day cities began to bloat, a fractured web of airport concourses, concrete highways and subway stations followed. These were the avenues by which The Void infiltrated the cities of Man. These are our modern day crossroads. Today's lost souls who exist in perpetual commute are truly pathetic creatures.

I felt the woman's presence nearly immediately after passing through the subway's gate. She was standing on the platform, looking anxiously in the direction of the oncoming track. Jumper was my first thought.

Jumpers populate subway platforms, bridges, cliffs, ledges of tall buildings. They pace back and forth until, for example, a train pulls up and they repeat their suicide for eternity. More than a few sleepy conductors have been startled awake at the sight of such a figure falling beneath their train, only to find no carnage -- just an empty track. Jumpers tend to look pretty nasty. All severed limbs and blood splatter ...or just flat.

There wasn't any gore. Also suicides tend to have a different flavor, for lack of a better word. This ghost wasn't a jumper.

I decided to go speak with her. She was a pretty fabulous presence to say the least. She wore a fierce lady's power suit, totally 80s, a sensible haircut and shoulder pads which said she knew how to sit with the boys at the board table. But a chain of anxiety kept her bound to that platform. I named her Miranda. Yes after that Miranda.

So how can jumpers see a train coming and jump into it, but Miranda had been standing there for twenty years? Well -- it's all about purpose. Entities interact with our world to fit the needs of The Void. The more ghosts waiting for the G train, the more freaked out we feel -- which feeds the fear. Ever been in a subway station late at night? The footsteps you hear? The feeling you're being watched? Depending on how juiced by The Void they are, spirits learn any number of tricks to give us clean living types the heebie-jeebies. The rules are pretty simple actually.

As we waited for the train, I learned Miranda was running late for a crucially important meeting. Late, indeed. I'd say girlfriend lost the promotion. She had also forgotten an important document which she needed for the meeting. And there we have it.

The majority of spirits are searching -- its like that dream where you know there's something you've got to find, but you can't put your finger on where it is, or even what it is. Discovering the object, recovering the object or sometimes destroying it usually helps to release a bound or lost soul. Even in death we are so fixated on material belongings. Particularly malevolent encounters take some heavier firepower before you can kick their teeth in. For a passive entity like Miranda, all it typically takes is a little affirmation and distraction. Souls (and people) are fairly easy to manipulate.

Down the tunnel I saw train lights approaching. I grabbed a discarded newspaper from a nearby bench, opened it to the business section, returned to Miranda and told her I found her papers. Affirmation. As she began to look it over, I reminded her the train was here. Distraction.

And it was. Her smile was genuine. The train doors opened. We stepped in. She was able to say "Thank..." And then I was alone.

Miranda had made it to her meeting.

Shells

When I first die - which may not be the end but possibly a new beginning - I hope it is a quick death. Such lamentable tales of destruction I've heard. Woeful spirits who believed a suicide would be an escape from the pain - only to discover there exists a world of torment worse than the crippling arthritis, a scorned heart, the emotional pain of our seemingly broken shells.

I remember happier moments in my earlier life. Not to imply I'm old, when one is faced with the potential of immortality, age becomes a non-issue, but those sunny mental snapshots - often spent at the beach - nevertheless had a shadow cast across them. However nothing like the darkness I face on a day-to-day basis. The spooks and chills of my youth were quaint by comparison.

I was obsessed with shells - worn down by the ceaseless waves - of our world but strangely alien. I would throw the unbroken ones back into the water hoping (with the optimism of a chubby thirteen year old) that a cartoon critter would find a home, maybe even sing a song in celebration. But once a shell is empty (our shells included) it's simply fuel for cars - dinosaur bones and diamonds - dog shit on the sidewalk - discarded bubble gum that will outlast humanity's presumptive notions that we're the beginning, the middle and the end. There's much more than you'd guess hiding in the shadow's of our Starbucks and Wal-Marts.

I learned to accept the shadows cast across my childhood. Even when I figured out that no one else could perceive the things I could see, still I carried on - and tried to be like everyone else. I knew the naked man standing waste deep in the waves wasn't supposed to be there. White and pale, so thin, covered in seaweed and jagged bite marks. The phantom tried to speak to me, desperate to find his shell. Poor thing.

To be utterly cliche: I see dead people.

That was my first encounter with a fully realized spirit manifestation. First time I'd seen a naked man too. (I wasn't particularly put off by either.) I write these words from a place of shameful, exhilarating narcissism, but also I've been searching for some means of solace for these sad souls who speak to me. Because when we voluntarily separate from our shells, all we have to greet us is The Void.

The Void is better defined by what it is not. The Void is not Hell. The Void is not the Devil. It happily accepts such labels, because Man's perceptions of wicked things only make it stronger. The Void is not Evil, but angry souls are courted by it. The Void is a middle ground between the physical and spirit worlds, but it's not Limbo either. It's not a place. It's not a person. But as humans we feel the need to personify everything we can't explain. So The Void becomes a person by way of our own narcissism. As tales of horror were spoken, The Void made them real. Now The Void writes it's own stories. The Void is the darkest dreams of a collective humanity, brought to life by us. We control The Void as much as it controls us - and most importantly our deceased souls.

Some souls aren't strong enough to manifest themselves. The Void's hold is too powerful. There are time honored means in which to coax them out. Such ritual I’m happy to share because The Void is knocking at my door. The only option I have is to educate while I’m able. I don’t know. Can The Void affect its grasp upon the Internet? An entity similar to The Void in that it is a created space of thoughts, feelings and fears. I’m conflicted in using such a relatively young (by comparison to The Void which grew from the shadows of Mankind's first cave fire) tool to share these secrets.

The Void abhors progress. If there’s one constant regarding my enemy and friend is that simple fact. Purveyors of the art can get very stuck on tradition, it is the not-so-subtle influence of The Void that limits us to tossing bones or holding hands during a séance when more sophisticated means are begging to be discovered. I digress, however.

Suffice to say, the closer The Void stalks, the more at peace I am with my fate. For the first time in a long while, I am content in this aching, farting cage of tendon and bone, and though my shell be well worn, still I wear it well.