My fucking hand refuses to heal. After the rat trap snapped my knuckles, I've had a perpetually bloody bandage decorating the most important God-given finger of them all - my middle one.
Week two of the new day job - and taking into account a fading black eye, my bloodied left hand and yesterday's two hour nose bleed (not to mention my ever present pink criss-crosses: four on the left wrist, two on the right), I'm certain my new bosses suspect FightClubesque extracurricular goings-on as their new hire's after-work-fancy. I told them I'm on a gay rugby team. Let's hope I don't catch a pox while banishing something; only so many lip sores can be explained away by a team of homos in short-shorts.
Oh, vino. I should be in the corner kitchen of my cozily appointed Clinton Hill apartment making turkey meatballs with angel hair pasta, instead I'm drinking Malbec and considering the tougher-than-expected exorcism of Sunday's mafia ghost. Ouch. Typing is difficult (and painful) with three swollen fingers.
So... still trying to feel out how I want to arrange this journal of the occult. I've considered relating a weekly encounter, and then detailing the methods used. Although that seems awfully clinical.
Clinical is the primary reason why, as a wine lover, I never fell into the aesthetic of wine-tasting. Why contribute so much "sissy-science" to a pursuit that really trickles down to simple taste and a knack for "knowing" what is good and what is bad? For what it's worth I'm drinking a Familia Mayol Malbec 2008 from Luyan de Cuyo, Mendoza Argentina. $12. But whatever. I can stalk the moors of Scotland in pursuit (as I have) of a dread banshee, but would the layman know such a vaunted specter from a common house spook? Probably not.
I totally need to tell my trip to Scotland someday. I was such a newbie. I still can't hear parts of the upper register because of that damned red head's screaming.
I digress, Names. Names have power in the world of the dead -and the living for that matter.
I have a name that's on my driver's license and Social Security card, but the name that the minions of The Void know me as is: Dandy Darkly. It's my "industry" nom de gloom, if you will.
There's much power in a name. I'm loathe to call into being our current leader in chief, but much of his own failure attributes to sharing the same name as his presidential daddy. Truth be told, even though I hate the man - (hah like I even know the real guy? Likely we'd smoke out, drink some whiskey and I'd say something really profound which in response he'd say "that's really deep.") But even though I HATE George Bush - if I ended up in Iraq banishing suicide ghost bombers (not that I would ever! yikes) I'd definitely call up the name of George Bush as a Get the "dubya" outta here! solution.
For reference: imagine two columns side by side. Column A you have Names that the Ghostie would react poorly to (considering the mortal age of the ghost and it's education level) and Column B you have Names that Mankind would consider an appropriate "opposite" to the "type" of ghostie you're trying to vanquish. Again, typing this makes it sound like I'm playing Dungeons & Dragons. (Not sure if Gary Gygax was a servant of The Void.)
Likely the soul of that nasty ghost-rat didn't know who the hell Ganga is (Indian goddess of cleanliness and namesake of the Ganges River.) But when you're me, simply screaming her out feeds on the fifty-trillion Indians who do know - and that lends credence and power to her name.
Hippocrates may not be a "god" per se. Ugh, what is a "god". We'll get into that later, trust me, but it's good enough to trigger a reaction in a pestilence spreading vermin like rat-ghost, and voila - it's scared and scurrying away.
Many a darkness spook I've run away by yelling out Edison's name. After all, what are early industrial scientists other than America's "magicians"? Could you invent a light bulb? No.
How do I do it? I read a lot of ancient mythology -- and I travel abroad when I can. And attend religious ceremonies. And most important: I was born this way. Duh. Lately I've been stuck stateside, but in my twenties I had traveled abroad quite extensively. Funny thing about New York City: it's full of ghosts.
Oh - number one misconception about ghosts is that calling out their true name will banish them outright. Hah. No way. Ghosts don't give a fuck if you know their name. By the time they become ghosts they're so juiced by The Void that such beginner's crap is below their notice.
Certainly there'll be more regarding names to come. Names of the ancient Magi have power: Vainamoimen, Ilmarinen, Circe, Merlin and Baba Yaga to name a few hold tremendous power -- my head spins from simply typing them -- or it's the Malbec. Oh? Did you know serial killers become ghosts simply because of their notoriety? Its true.
Will Dandy Darkly live up to the esteem of his peers? With a bar set so high, My journey has extended three decades prior to this trivial exercise. Those gifted I've named - their journeys - some of them centuries or eons prior to my own.
I have no shame in expressing absolute candor and pride in regards to my present endeavors, but when regarding the literally earth-shaking power of my elders - I demur to utter humility on every count.
Because, for better or for worse, such powers are still among us. Now I'm off to cook dinner... for my boyfriend. No name given, nosy bitches.
