Dandy Darkly

T’Ain’t No Valley Low Enough

Snow on the first day of spring? The forces of darkness are afoot.

Those Black Party boys better double-stuff some seriously high pig bottoms this weekend, because I expect glistening rosebuds (of the floral kind) by Sunday, not the destroyed catcher’s mitt kind that will be on display following the annual leather-sex-party- celebration of spring’s glorious return.

Seriously.

I’ve never been to the Black Party myself. (But I do certainly have an opinion of it!) However my occult studies in London did take me to a sacred valley in Ireland where I witnessed the conjuration of satyrs and an embodiment of Ostara, a fertility goddess – the Celtic incarnation of Persephone, herself. Let me tell you bitches something, it was breezier than a Summer’s Eve commercial!

So there I was, a guest as a favor of a friend of a friend. Honestly, those lesbian priestesses did NOT want me there. Said I had too much “taint” on my soul – they didn’t like my reply that I’ve "barely had enough t’ain’t anywhere on me!" That didn’t win any smiles from the high Gaelic priestess who relegated me to a far away patch of grass and said if I interrupt the proceedings I’d be kicked out of the stone circle. So me, my t'aint' and my tainted soul sat there and watched (yes, very impressed) as these womyn of the wyld worked their charms, and brought spring back to the Emerald Isle.

They sang a chorus of songs. As each song progressed their singing was accompanied by the sound of flutes. And one by one an orchestra of small, hairy, hoofed and horned men gently pranced from the tall grasses. They walked first as though curious, but then quickly joined in the revelry. They spun and danced. Their wooden flutes trilled delightfully.

I’m not sure if it was the witches’ spells, the presence of the mythological creatures or the hallucinogenic seeds I was fed before the ritual, but something seized me. I suddenly found myself clasping hands with the womyn and skipping-to-my-loo among the circle of stones. The High Priestess smiled and allowed my entrance freely. My taint had dissolved!

And then the whitest, purest light flooded the ritual space. And the High Priestess suddenly appeared taller, even more regal. Her ears tapered into fine points and her blond hair cascaded down her narrow body and seemed to weave itself into the vibrant green grass. Her features were sharp and delicate, like a fairy queen of Celtic mythology. All around us flowers of every shape and hue grew and unfolded. Yet, something darker was happening in my periphery, was it the sacrifice of a pig? A frantic,  high pitched squeal became mixed within the chorus of singing voices. The satyrs wove the flowers their beards, and we laughed and sang. Everyone laughed. I laughed! I actually laughed!!!

And then I passed the fuck out. I ALWAYS pass out!

When I awoke, I was back where I’d been sitting. The witches were cleaning up from a picnic feast. The High Priestess came and sat with me. We discussed what I’d seen, the satyrs, her embodiment of Ostara. It was all very surreal, but very serene, very peaceful…

Perhaps I’ve been too judgmental of the Black Party. In many ways my transcendent experience matches the jubilant reports I’ve heard from my friends; horny, furry men with “flutes” in their mouths; women taller than life, glammed out of proportion beyond everyone else; a pig’s frantic squeals; music and decorations, men passing out.

I now regret deriding the annual party earlier in this discussion. In fact such a catharsis, Black Party or woodland valley witchy Celtic Goddess summoning, would likely leave anyone super-jazzed for springtime, regardless of wobbliness hobbling home or unexpected snow on the streets. I respect you, satyrs. I’m simply not ready to relinquish my t’ain’t to the beat of the Black Party.

Yet…

Quoth the Raven, “LOL.”

Associates of mine have berated me as of late for apparently losing my sense of humor. They say all the doom and gloom and portents of the spectral apocalypse have really been bumming them out.

Well, whatever!

Perhaps in another incarnation I had more of a jovial regard for what is comparably the fleeting fire of a match stick next to the eternal, frozen torment of undead existence. Being me isn’t exactly whoopee cushions and knock-knock jokes, but that doesn’t mean the world of spooks isn’t without a sense of humor.

Being from Georgia originally, I can attest that little of merit crawled its way over the state line from Alabama – unless you’re counting ghost stories. Alabama has a rich heritage of such tales – and one such legend is the many supernatural encounters of Alabama’s very own Arthur Dropsy.

Now Arthur Dropsy appears across several eras of Southern folk legend and across many states – pre and post War of Northern Aggression, colonial expansion, Trail of Tears, the 1996 Olympic Games. In some portrayals he’s African American. In most he’s white. In all of them he possesses a penchant for getting himself in trouble and being a bit of a scaredy cat. There are so many Arthur Dropsy tales, that I’m led to believe he was a dabbler in the occult himself. He was also what we’d consider today to be a homeless beggar and a pitiful drain on society.

But here I go taking the fun out of a simple story.

So one fine day our irascible tramp Arthur Dropsy was hanging out at the blacksmith’s begging for anything that could be spared, when the smithy offered a simple challenge:

“Arthur Dropsy, if you can spend the night up on Haunted Hill in that old witch woman’s abandoned house, I’ll give you the sweetest, biggest watermelon out of the patch behind my shop here.”

Well watermelon was Arthur Dropsy’s favorite food (again, Arthur Dropsy tales do retain a bit of that classic Southern charm) and when he peeked out back behind that shop, he just couldn’t help but let out a little squeak at the size and splendor of those green, ripe watermelons.

“I’ll do it! Ain’t nothing in this world that can scare Arthur Dropsy outta himself a delicious watermelon dinner!”

So that night Arthur Dropsy went a sneaking up Haunted Hill past crooked trees and hidden things in the dark until he found the battered shack from which he’d emerge victorious.

“They say this old witch’s shack is haunted. But I’m not afraid!”

You go, Arthur Dropsy!

And he did - right into that shack. At first he wasn’t afraid. Arthur sat boldly in that shack with broken windows and the wind whistling through the rafters. He even started a little fire in the oven. This was his mistake. Because that flickering flame cast shadows, and from those shadows Arthur Dropsy’s imagination began to work. And before he knew it, he’d done summoned the Devil himself.

Sitting right across from him, the Devil said, “Hello, Arthur Dropsy.”

This Devil was as red as the insides of the juiciest watermelon and his black eyes glittered like tiny seeds. His teeth were so long they cut through his rubbery lips, and his forked tail waved ever so lazily. A pair of long curved horns reached as high as the ceiling, and he patiently tapped the shack’s rotting floor with a pair of goat’s hooves as Arthur Dropsy stuttered out a weak reply.

“Hello, Mr. Devil.”

And then the Devil lunged at Arthur Dropsy to steal up the tramp’s soul and snatch him away to Hell. But old Arthur was too quick. He dashed out of that witch’s shack and hauled ass down Haunted Hill back towards the town. Wolves cried in the night. Bats screeched overhead. And the Devil himself came roaring down the path to catch the soul he’d chased now for years.

Arthur ran for what seemed like hours until he heard the tiny ringing of the blacksmith’s iron. He could feel the hot breath of the Devil right on his neck, but still he ran and ran and ran. As he ran, the clanging got louder and louder. And when the smithy came in view, Arthur Dropsy didn’t slow down one bit.

Instead he cried to the waving blacksmith, “You can forget them watermeloooooooooooooons!!!!”

And Arthur Dropsy kept on running right through the middle of town and out past the county line. And that was the last time they saw him (or the Devil) round those parts.

Hilarious, right?

Bricks and Blood

It was London, and I was twenty two or twenty three. I managed to crawl across the bedroom floor towards the prone form a guy around my age. I pried his mouth open with both my hands. He twisted his head and attempted to vomit blood upon my face. Hateful!

We were both exhausted from our prolonged wrestling match, but I’d managed to pin him with a few secret words – and a lot of rope. And now the ugly part… I hefted a b rick and slammed it into the open orifice. Teeth, blood and rubbery skin mashed in a disgusting crunch. And then four more crunches as I hammered the block of stone deep into his throat. He stopped convulsing and finally laid still.

No stake through the heart. No crosses. He didn’t turn to dust. He didn’t evaporate when I opened the window to let some early morning sun into the room. Instead I dragging the body to the lower floor of the Tottenham flat, retrieved a shovel from my equipment and buried the fiend facedown in his own backyard. And then set fire to the hovel in which he’d digested a baker’s dozen of tramps and almost yours truly. 

So that’s how you kill a vampire in the real world. I’ve only taken out two, but both were extremely arduous affairs. I much prefer exorcising non-corporeal entities. Whereas the “science” behind banishment has evolved over the centuries, the means of bludgeoning a bloodsucker really haven’t. I was reminded of my efforts by a recent article in NewScientist which detailed the uncovering of an ancient skeleton believed to be one of the first vampire killings:

(Italy) A SKELETON exhumed from a grave in Venice is being claimed as the first known example of the "vampires" widely referred to in contemporary documents.

Matteo Borrini of the University of Florence in Italy found the skeleton of
a woman with a small brick in her mouth while excavating mass graves of plague victims from the Middle Ages on Lazzaretto Nuovo Island in Venice.

Borrini says his study details the earliest grave to show archaeological "exorcism evidence against vampires".

You can find the article (and additional photos) in it's entirety here. Mr. Borrini, be extra wary you don't let the right one in should a mysterious stranger come knocking at your door.