Dandy Darkly

Home Hung Overhead

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.

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.