My head hurts.
But worry not intrepid purveyors of blog mine. Unlike my previous bouts of painful brain syndrome, this is not some maleficent side effect of miscast magic but rather the ill effects of drinking an infamous elixir called the 'Dok Suni Saketini', four to be exact, at a popular Korean restaurant. It was all in celebration of a new friend's birthday, followed by two vodka sodas and several beers at a local bar. Happily, the ancient potion called coffee is helping to ease my brain's burden this blustery, New York morning... And 3 pm is still morning when you've just woken up. OK?
Ah, the wonderful life of a gay bachelor: social networking, binge drinking, making a home in the filthy remains of a coffee shop adjacent to Tompkins Square Park. The elderly Irish woman on the third floor, apparently her son is the slum lord, wrote me out a lease the day I said, "Sure. I guess."
I'm not convinced I'm not illegally squatting.
I'm also realizing more and more that I didn't map out this journey to (new) New York as well as I could have. There's a space heater in the storeroom where I sleep on a cot. I brought no winter clothes with me, and already the front area gets cold in the evenings. I packed more dried up specimens in jars than I did underwear. Good news is I did bring most of my books, but daily I'm reminded of something forgotten when I go rummaging in my suitcase. I've helped myself to anything in the store's boxes, mainly broken junk and paperwork. I found a small frame with a dollar in it. I pocketed the dollar and replaced it with the Metrocard that brought me here. It now hangs above where I sleep.
The storefront window is obscured with graffiti, so I painted over the interior of the glass in black. Over that I've taped charts, maps of Manhattan, a particularly weird Cathy comic I found in the trash. The front doors are permanently chained shut. I come and go via a small back door near the washroom. There's usually a junkie passed out, tripping the pavement fantastic, in what (according to my lease at least) should be my own private alley way. I've stacked most the dusty chairs and tables against the far wall. On the floor I've begun a rudimentary circle for casting and scrying. I'm detailing it's perimeter as my journey here unfolds: trinkets, candles, etchings. I find in the long run this process creates a richer tableau for the spells worked within.
And I have a roommate, too. A week after I moved in, dead mice began appearing on my door step. Soon after, the huntress introduced herself to me. She was a black and white tabby who readily took to an offering of tuna. I named her Artemis because the patterns of her coat shift based on the phases of the moon. Today while she makes kitten biscuits on a pile of parchment, her coat is primarily white. On Sunday (my birthday by the way), she'll be an even black and white. And on the 18th she'll be jet black like the moonless sky. The details of this magic kissed New York are making themselves more apparent as I look for them. But only if you want to see them.
My friend from last night's drunken soiree, for example, is a darling, 29 year old, slutty satyr named Kristakos. The average person on the street doesn't want to know he has goat's feet and little horns, so they don't see such. Unlike the contemporary mutants who demanded recognition, the mythological folk who've been here forever are quite content to glide under society's radar.
My coffee is cold now. I'm gradually getting back into the exorcism business. It's a tricky game, as the haunted sometimes hold less sway than the ones doing the haunting. So far I've met a few promising (paying) clients through Craigslist. Kris (Kristakos) says he knows the best connected individuals who can help me answer some questions. We're hitting the town this weekend to meet who he calls the real movers and shakers of New York nightlife. Yay... Until then, going to climb back into bed.
Head. Hurts.
