Dandy Darkly

Wicked Little Town (part four)

Peer into the astral plane, and still today you'll see two teetering infernos of spinning fire. The columns stretch from the blistered pavement up to the mocking cosmos. Shrieking harpies with bat wings and barbed whips ride the updrafts of scorching air, seeking helpless souls to pluck from the chaos and drop to the ground below. From beneath the fallen beams crawl demons the color of carnage, and a gentle, southwestern breeze supports a rotten-candy cloud of ash, burning jet fuel, and soot covered, contorted faces lost in the dark and gasping for air.

No trip to New York is complete without an obligatory visit. There's the construction pit, offerings of flowers and cards. Annual ceremonies remembering those we lost. Elaborate murals illustrating what's to be. Though it never shall be. The site is cursed. We all know it, but can't accept it.

Look into the past and remember that day. The bravest among us, fire fighters, police, ordinary men and women who dropped everything to help the injured or the fleeing. The wall of dust held razor sharp teeth and goring horns. They found monsters in the narrow canyons of Wall Street. That morning the Veil between worlds fell with the towers. Cowering behind that car. Clutching his briefcase. Everything covered in ash. Alarms and police sirens and explosions, but all he heard was the breathing. And the growling.

Reading a comic book under the covers. Mom and dad are arguing again, but just keep reading. The flashlight's translucent glow pours through the thin paper page and casts a prismatic spray of distorted images on to the insides of the blanket. The safe blanket. Rotate the flashlight, the image shifts. The monsters and heroes melt together beneath the blanket. Count backwards and study the image. 3. Mom screams. 2. Dad screams. 1. Pull back the blanket. There's a monster in the room. Scream.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! DIE MOTHER FUCKER!" - "The fucking thing had two legs and four fucking arms and a fucking spikes here and and and a fucking mouth of giant fucking teeth!" - "fuck where did it fucking come from man!?!?!!?" - "FUCK ANOTHER ONE! THERE!" - "Keep smashing it with rock! SMASH IT'S FUCKING FACE IN!!!" - "FUCK WHAT IS GOING ON?!" - IT'S THE END OF THE FUCKING WORLD!!!!"

The matron has arrived, and she has the artifact. The older witches are exhausted. Many of the younger are dead or flying wounded out of the blast zone. The matron steps quickly, her focus absolute. Demons three times her size roar and sprint in her direction. They leap and instantly vaporize into sand. Her thin lips move silently. She manipulates something small swiftly and delicately within her withered, ancient hands. The women rise as she glides past. They follow in her wake. They know her sacrifice is imminent. Their most loved; their eldest. The Green Witches' tears hit the charred cement near where the drops of the matron's blood has fallen. She who was here when Manhattan was born. The matron bids them stop. There's so much more they must accomplish this dreadful day. She opens her tiny palm. To her hand she's painstakingly sewn a wooden button. The witches turn and flee from their loving mother, sister and friend. 

The conspiracy theorists say it's a government cover up for a secret radiation or nuclear testing facility beneath the World Trade Center Site. Think about it, the infected mutants in the Chelsea biohazard zone got loose and somehow busted a reactor core or something. Whatever. If you study the tapes you'll clearly see a green explosion happen at the base of the second tower a full hour and twenty minutes after the collapse. Pause it. Right there. See it? What is that green light? 

It's a sunny morning in the month of September before the September we know was. A gentle breeze blows to the southwest. Three regal women stand on the banks of a wild, untamed island. The natives claim the forests are cursed and want no ownership of it, but are willing to sell it in exchange for a few mystical trinkets. The witches confer and return with a handful of thirteen buttons. Supposedly these buttons have the power to close any door, seal any break and mend any tear. The natives refuse the thirteenth, as their shaman is highly suspicious of the number, and instead accept twelve of the magical fasteners as payment for the blighted land they call Manhattan. The matron puts the lucky thirteenth button in her pocket for safe keeping, and begins helping the sisters of the Green Witch Coven unload their tiny boat.

Grave Cliche

Mrs. Bond looked down at little fourth grade me, all dark eyes, pale skin and serious demeanor and cautiously asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

My reply, "Dead."

The class had done water color and crayon drawings of our future ambitions, all of them worthy of inclusion on any family refrigerator. There were brave astronauts, United States presidents, happy mommies... and mine. I'd drawn a house with smoke swirleys coming from the chimney. My dog, Possum, woofed in the front yard, and beneath the meticulously drawn blades of green grass was a little coffin. And there I slept. My arms folded across my chest.  

The principal called my mother, of course. It hadn't been the first time. Wouldn't be the last.

Having met the dead version of myself almost two weeks ago, I wonder if ten year old Dandy Darkly would find some bit of comfort knowing his revelatory artistry eventually comes to fruition. But then again, it doesn't take a psychic to know we all end up dead. It's the coming back from the grave that's the tricky part.

And about that...  

I am a bit concerned that I'm all icky and Voldemort-ified when I, presumably, have my First Death and come back. Really? Tattered robes? Skeletal frame? Black coffee with no milk? As an out and proud gay necromancer, I'd hope to be more of a fashion icon for aspiring young, gay exorcists... 

I've been processing what I saw that night on the floor of my former waitressing job. And also considering what to do with the Metrocard given to me by the alternate-me, the rotting self who finally responded when I conjured a witch's brew in search of an identity. The brew was a nasty one, really old recipe. ... I can't help but smile because... as vain as it sounds, the rotting me seemed pleased that I'd decided to use such a dark means to communicate with it. 

I remember rotting me squatting above waitressing me. It was bitchy. Very me. Everything was freezing cold. I do remember flashes of something else though, a blue business suit. I really want to believe it was me. A future me who eventually regains his power and comes all the way back in time to save me!

That's awfully sentimental, ain't it? There's really no room for sentiment around these parts. More than likely future me ends up pledging my eternal soul to some lower power, who in turn gives future me enough influence to put the dominoes in  motion to my ultimate demise... And let's consider those flashes of the the blue suit, and the cliche nature of the robes, the swarm of flies, the skeleton... this entity, whether it truly was me or an illusion, was deliciously malevolent, enticingly so...

Sure bells and whistles are sounding off, but when gauzy sentiment meets power hungry madness, the resulting combination is wonderfully distracting.

I haven't discussed any of this Ms. Margerie. She had been helping me down a less wicked path as of late, but now... I honestly can't live like this. Powerless. Useless. So fuck it. If this is the path back to even some sliver of the abilities I once had, I'll be skipping down that aisle wearing toddler skin slippers. I mean it! Line the toddlers up!

... Alas, who am I kidding? Of course I have reservations. I'm not the soulless demon in booth twelve. Yet. I can't help but think some (all?) of my past misdeeds are the reason this shitstorm was brought down on my goat's blood drinking ass. But I can't start playing mind games. Thinking about past lives or future selves. I have "Lost" for that. All I can focus on is the present. And presently I have this worn out, expired Metrocard given to me by an undead future version of myself.

I need to do research before I swipe this thing at a train station. I've written before how such places are powerful areas of spiritual influence. I also need to read up on accounts of meeting oneself, dead or otherwise. 

At least research is painless.

Well Wishes

So... I've felt rather burdened by the bloody Baptism received by the "hand" of The Purification. Today's beautifully rejuvenating respite served as ample reminder that even among the most frightening and challenging aspects of my unique existence there always exists the sunshine to offset the darkness... Its too easy for me to become enraptured of the quiet death of Autumn. Sometimes it takes a breathtaking Spring day to really flush my cheeks. I considered meeting my boyfriend and some of his friends out for a drink, but eh... I've cleaned my bedroom, put my trinkets away. I think a night alone is best. Interactions are difficult for me. Social interactions that is. Maybe its due to the solitude I experienced in my formative years.

For me early life was one sequestered, but not skulking about in mausoleums and graveyards as you might expect, such gloomy pursuits were spent much later in life. Quite the opposite - I came into my current self immersed in splendid nature, And I'm talking natural nature, too - not the urban green spaces city-folk flock too before 9 a.m. so they may unleash their bandana'd, canine companions - bourgeois satisfaction plastered across chemically whitened smiles as though they're one with nature and one with humanity. Such hipster sentiment is bullshit.

I do envy them - even if it's ignorance I'm jealous of.

I truly grew up in the wild, lost among the ancient trees of the Appalachian foothills. The earliest spirits who spoke to me were ones of Gaea, the Earth Mother; creaking trees that if you listened close enough seemed to whisper as the wind rustled their lush, green leaves. They were playful and innocent - full of imagination, not tainted with the burdened perceptions of Mankind. My bare feet found first root in unsoiled soil; Earth not trodden with Man's heavy heels and heavier hearts. My first glimpses into a world apart from yours was framed by the gentile exploration of a wild child. The voices whistling among the song birds and splashing in the rivers of my native Georgia weren't something to be feared, but rather understood.

And there I romped and roamed and discovered a mysterious old farm site which I've simply named The Well.

The Well was a flattened patch hidden among natural coverage about two hours (on kid's legs) northeast of my family's land. A rotting oak which hid a family of bats, a fallen tree across a shallow gully upon which I dared to challenge my balance, a rocky outcrop covered with blue moss, which time and time again I pretended were the sapphires of an ancient dragon's treasure hoard - all map markers in a child's mind, who as an adult finds today's blaring horns and red/green/yellow lights more confusing and frightening - but still I'm there to face those things which everyone else would find much more horrific by comparison...

Not that I mind.

So following my trail, one would come across a most modest of areas - in the Winter rather nondescript save for a section of mossy logs laying across a gaping well.

But come springtime in the South - when Mama Nature is all gussied up in her fanciest emerald gown and colored jewels spill forth from her ample cleavage, and her perfume sends mortal men swooning and poets reaching for their quills (and pens) - you truly realize how the forest becomes a mystical place, a place where the mundane and mystical mingle.

And so I found The Well on one of my many stomps through the acres. My ever faithful companion, Possum, by my side. Oh, Possum. What a good dog. Golden mutt - one of my earliest memories is my dad asking what I wanted to name the dog that just showed up (as dogs do in the country) and I said Possum. They also simply disappear in the country, as Possum did. He was a good dog.

Did he lead me to The Well? Maybe... I still see him in my dreams from time to time. The golden guardian who perhaps knew more about my Fate than any dog should have - not even Lassie! But this boy never fell down The Well.

I simply sat beside it, in the glory of flowers which weren't wild - tulips, daisies, morning glories and daffodils. They were a colorful audience who eavesdropped on my discussions with (very likely) my first spiritual communication - the old lady, long dead, at the bottom of her well.

I never got her name. There are a few different rumors regarding who she was. Depending on when you wish to place the classic Southern misogyny and racism, she was either a kind, old medicine woman who was raped, beaten and tossed into the well by filthy heathen Cherokee Indians or a kind, old medicine woman who was raped, beaten and tossed into the well by filthy runaway slaves.

Go figure.

I never had the opportunity to ask her which miscreant minority it was who raped, beat and tossed her into her well. Quite the contary, we spoke of gentler things. Bear in mind that I spoke to her a decade before I ever heard such colorful rumors. It wasn't until I was at the University of Georgia, that I realized the fabled old medicine woman was very likely the same old lady I'd been discoursing with for so many Springs as a curious young'un.

Talking to her felt so serene, so free of the anger and the fear that pours off the living. Her tinny little voice echoing from deep below. I remember practically whispering back, for fear of someone (my nosy little brother especially) hearing and ruining my secret talks. Those breezy Spring days, when I'd pack a pimento cheese sandwich and inform my mother that I was off to stomp around the woods, hatchet in hand - they remain some of the fondest memories from a childhood often plagued by a variety of worrisome topics.

But Mankind doesn't slow down for childhood memories and secret spaces. About twelve years ago most the land north of my family's property was purchased by a pulp wood company. They unceremoniously shaved the entire area, replanted saplings and moved on. Nothing familiar remained,

I've tried to retrace the path. When home (rarely) for holidays, I've called out into the wild for the old woman's answer... nothing. Part of me wonders if the darker deeds I've witnessed (and pursued) have pushed my kind, childhood friend away. Or maybe she, like some spirits, exist in a particular space and time. Or maybe she just needed an innocent child's ear. And luckily enough a child was there to listen; someone like that ghostly old lady - part of his world, but part of the darkness too.

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.