Dandy Darkly

Night Swimming

The Little Ghost Girl ran around the perimeter of McCarren Pool screaming for help.

"Help! Help! ... Help!" Her pale arms waved in the July night.

"HELP!"

I was in the center of the drained expanse, sitting in lotus with my eyes closed. A tiny white candle flickered - sending wobbly shadows across the empty pool's walls.

"HELP! ... HELP!!!"

"SHUT UUUUUUPPPP! No one cares! I'm not here for you, anyways."

The ghost retaliated and showed me her death mask. Suddenly I was underwater. The little girl hung limply above me. A bubble escaped from her lips. Her eyes matched the color of the water, and her blond curls were a halo framing a peaceful, angelic face. Two more small bubbles. A lifeguard launched himself from his observation chair, and a blond mother in a corset style swimsuit shrieked.

"Help! HELP!"

...and I was back sitting crosslegged in the empty pool. The Little Ghost Girl of McCarren Pool dashed in the opposite direction around the massive (originally built to hold close to seven thousand swimmers) concrete bed. Her cries for help eventually faded away.

But she's not the only ghost that haunts McCarren Pool - just the most famous. Behind the rotting walls angry anonymous eyes glared from broken windows. In some places the grafitti moved - slinking together to form vaguely humans yet vaguely feral faces. The Greenpoint music venue simmers with indifference on weekends as area Hipsters cram skinny jean leg to skinny jean leg - and it absolutely burns with malevolence once the sun sets.

Ghosts HATE Hipsters.

Tonight (especially) the haunts were in a ruckus due to the morning discovery of a badly decomposed body in a nearby shed. With local imaginations dreaming up all sorts of spooky shit, The Void was sucking up the fear. And all the OD'd junkies, murdered vagrants and one little drowned girl were out in full force as a result.

I was there to reach through all the uproar and track down the soul of the dead male discovered in that shed. Unfortunately - I'm pretty sure any trace of the poor guy's soul was dragged into the abandoned building hiding what now felt like a particularly nasty spectre we call a Soul Eater.

Soul Eaters are when two or three particularly corrupt souls perish (usually via a death pact) and merge into one and then have to eat souls to maintain and grow. The more souls gobbled up means the bigger it gets. NOT a pretty sight after a few decades. The more I thought on it, the more certain I was that the many spirits I had originally felt were actually just One. Big. Pissed-off. Soul Eater.

And the soul I was searching for was in there too... poor thing.

I'd need to come back with some firepower. Good timing too, the NYPD showed up. I blew out my candle and discreetly left. Apparently, someone heard a little girl screaming for help.

So I'm heading back to McCarren Pool this weekend... Fun. 

Alligator Tears

The bent form feebly leaned against the stained wall, totally ignored by the morning commuters. But I noticed him, of course.

Love handles (the result of a good life) and in his late fifties, he wore polished alligator skin shoes. Like some lost used car salesman who accidentally wandered off his Texas lot and into Gotham's labrynth, he also sported blue polyester slacks and loud tie. But curiously, "he" wasn't really there-- not in the same way that a departed soul manifests in a fixed spot. But wow - whatever he was, he was really bright.

Bright is a term we purveyors of the paranormal use to describe a spectral manifestation's visual accuity. Imagine an image ranging anywhere from a grainy, black and white screen to a high definition color monitor. (Some MIT parapsychology professor created a scientific scale and mathematical formula for defining brightness, but I leave the numbers to the amateurs who host those retarded ghost chaser shows on America's suckling teet, the television.)

Back to bright. Like I said - whatever he was, every detail was availabe, from a tiny teardrop rolling from under his giant reading glasses to a pale band around his ring finger where a wedding ring had recently been removed. Such vivid encounters are a rare treat.

It was 2001 - almost a year after 9/11 and I'd only been in New York for a month. I was considering  wandering further northeast to explore Boston, but this very encounter convinced me to stay in Manhattan.

I continued to examine the crying man, his face now cherry red and his back leg shaking violently. He cradled his limp left arm like a delicate new born. And then I felt it.

I felt a soul - but not his soul.

This soul belonged to a young man with wavy hair and kind eyes - but desperately not wishing to be seen, He had obfuscated himself quite admirably. But now he stood watching the collapsing man - a figment of his own manifestation.

He looked at the space around him. More people's images, but less detailed, appeared either brushing past the young man or standing with newspapers open but their eyes keenly focused upon the ailing gentleman in those slick alligator skin shoes.

But no one did anything to help.

Panic and anger flushed hot and salty around the young man's blurred form. He stormed down the subway platform. I chased after him, bumping through a crowd of Asian tourists as they disembarked a train in the real world and real time.

The young man's ghost stretched his neck peering over a mass of forms who materialized to block his view. He pushed through them and darted down the subway platform. I followed. His aura spoke of helplessness, but paired with an overwhelming anger toward the authority he was so desperate to find yet so desperate to avoid. The fabulous combination made me dizzy.

His frustration battled a desire for a typical nonchalance that was suddenly rebuked by the unexpected (and pathetic) sight of a total stranger in dire need of help. But no help was available.

The fluffy haired ghost blew back past me towards the brick wall. More figures, the young man's memories of that moment materialized - his memory of the many commuters who stood by and said nothing and did even less to help the dying man.

And yet, the young man, so desperate to remain an anonymous face in the crowd also said not a single word nor offered a hand as the dying man continued to sink towards the sticky floor of that subway platform.

Suddenly a rush of adrenaline flooded my senses. My own pulse quickened as he ran towards the stairs leading up to the ticket booth. Finally the apparition spoke, "Get help! There's a man--", but an approaching train drowned out his plea.

And another wave of blurred forms pushed him down the stairs as more commuters hurried to catch the express train which had just arrived. I caught my breath.

It was the young man's train too.

Indecision now - a huge inhale of it, that pivotal left or right, yes or no, Marvel or DC decision. That moment when we ask ourselves to step up and make the hard - before I could finish savoring the conflict, the young man's ghost made up his mind and stepped onto the train.

I suddenly saw the scene from his eyes. The doors slid shut and the train slowly began to move. The brick wall approached - and there he was in those alligator shoes. The man kneeled slumped against the wall and didn't move. He looked dead.

I thought the young man's thoughts, "Look at those shoes - he deserved it. Fuckin rich prick." And the young man's anger at the man's wealth and his anger at the absent police swallowed his guilt for not doing more.

"I said excuse me, please!"

I startled from my trance. I was standing on the platform where I had originally seen the older man slumped against the wall. His form was gone. The young man's specter/aura had vanished as well. His soul faded back into the crowd as it so desired. Had I even moved at all? Trippy. And that's when I decided to stay in New York.

***

And speaking of New York... the prolific posting prior to my auspicious absence was quite exhilarating. I admit that I hadn't realized the potential for education that this electronic journal represents.

And call me paranoid, but I've no doubt The Void did indeed work its influence to regain the dis-harmony it so prefers. A little blabber mouthing about ghosts and The Void freaks my shit out because of it. Luckily The Void doesn't hold grudges. It blusters, but I can tell it's curiosity is piqued as well.

The Void is weird.

So following my (fated it turns out - more later) encounter with the Pope's modern day witch hunting squad, I spent some time away. I'm pleased to acknowledge that all the portents originally malevolent have returned to a lovely shade of pale lavender, a most calm and spooky color. I use the word acknowledge because I've learned that to acknowledge something brings it into being. Thus it's true. Yay. I love the internet.

So - I'm back.

Also pleased to report that I pretty much quit my temp job - and as Libra's balance would have it, I floated peacefully into a dream job at (set your phasers on nerd) a gaming company.

I am single again, but such is for the best right now. That's just fewer movie dates to cancel at the last minute.

In closing--

There's a calmness that some of the more talkative ghosts refer to before they met their first death. Its like the world simply slows down and the soul which is about to leave that mortal shell can finally take the time to appreciate those last few seconds as it passes into a different reality.

For once in a long time, I feel a smiliar focus and clarity and calmness - and potential. Maybe it's wearing shorts and flip-flops to a job I love, perhaps it was my two months of meditation - I hope it's not that gross out blood baptism courtesy of the Catholic Church, but whatever the reason - things are good now.

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.

Out, Out Damn Spot

My bed frame and mattress are on their side leaning in the hallway. My dresser has been dragged into my study - my antique mirror too. My formerly pristine hardwood floors are coated in candle wax and arcane scribblings. And the carefully painted walls of my bedroom blackened from an evening of failed attempts to remove a cursed, bloody hand print, the calling card of, apparently, the Roman Catholic Church's modern day Inquisition squad: The Purification.

I held a long colorful feather as though it were a dart, I allowed it to brush against my face as I spoke, "Powerful falcon Varenjana, O Spitama Zarathustra, with your feather I bless my mind, my body and my home. Let your talons rend mine enemy who has cursed my mind, my body and my home. He who curses me, now he curses you. Let your magnificence smite him or turneth him to flight!"

I released the feather and it flew into the bloody mark. The feather and the syrupy blood liquefied and ran down the wall, leaving empty space behind it. Had it worked? After nearly three hours of unsuccessful attempts, I've begun to research older magics - spells which predated Christianity. This one was found in the Avesta, a set of sacred texts written by the Persian magus Zoroaster.

Well Zoro -- looks like we did it.

...

I spoke too soon. The wall began to bubble in a patch about a foot across. Five points pressed forward, then grew into what appeared to be a man's hand clawing through plastic wrap. The form strained inside the wall, shaking to escape and then snapped back like a rubber band. A vibrant bloody hand remained, and bled freely. The same thing each time. 

"Fuck. This sucks! This fucking sucks!" I kicked an owl totem (from a previous try) which tipped over a copper brazier (failed attempt number three) and scattered cicada casings (number two) across the filthy floor.

"Fuck!" I was careful to avoid disturbing the lines of sulfur, salt and the trough of rain water placed outside my bedroom. They were there to protect the rest of my house from the bloody palms potential influence, but who the fuck even knows if they are doing anything.

Generally speaking, I'm not the biggest fan of spell craft. My eyesight isn't that great. Squinting at dusty grimoires by candlelight (most ancient texts are actually enchanted only to show their secrets by candlelight - and then only by candles of particularly exotic waxes) causes some serious eye strain. With a spirit or a haunt it's bravado and pizazz - think drama class. But with spell crafting - its Latin club and chemistry rolled into one. It's just too much work.

...

Two hours have passed. I actually tried using a sponge and Clorox. No good, but... eh. I'm so tired. I want to go to bed. I have to process my manager's fucking expenses in a few hours! FUCK!

...

Neat-o. Turns out the Roman Emperor Germanicus (15 B.C. - 19 A.D.) was banished when a sorcerer planted a putrid collection of human bones, burned bits of flesh and lead plates with Germanicus' name carved into them under his bedroom floor. I'll drive today's "Roman Emperor" from my home by simply burying human bones in my bleeding wall.

Seriously, my life sucks. I haven't had my boyfriend over for three days. He thinks I'm mad at him, or doesn't understand why I'm always out - or don't own a cellphone. God, dating sucks too. God! Maybe God's the key to vanquishing one of His own army?

...

Ok this incantation is from a Germanic holy text called "Heilige Plage Des Gottes" or God's Holy Scourge. Medieval Christian spells tend to be overly wordy and full of supplication. This one was no different.

I stood before the bleeding hand print and began to chant,

"O Geist, weil Sie mit Sorgfalt answere meine Nachfragen haben, genehmige ich hiermit thee, um, ohne Verletzung zum Mann oder zum Tier abzureisen. Reisen Sie ab, sage ich, und bin bereit und bereit, zu kommen das ordnungsgemäß durch das heilige Rites von Magie exorziert wird und beschworen ist. Ich thee, um friedlich und ruhig zurückzutreten und kann der Frieden des Gottes für mich und Sie überhaupt zwischen fortfahren. Amen."

And then I felt the impulse to touch the bloody mark. The wall was soft and pliable. I pressed my hand against it. My arm folded into the wall. I pushed my shoulder, then torso. I held my breath and followed with my head and fell out of my wall onto the floor of my bedroom. I was covered in blood from head to toe, a vulgar Baptism to be sure. But my wall is no longer bleeding.

...

I've taken a shower and am too tired to clean up. Was that my "Purification?" So much more to think about, but now I need sleep.

Pope on a Rope

Much has happened in the past two days. Let's see if I can compose myself enough to relate what's going on. I don't exaggerate when I tell you that I feel lucky to be alive.

My tale begins Thursday night at 3:00 am. Well,
Wednesday if you take into account the visions, but anyways...

I was lurking behind Saint Brigid's Church at Tompkins Square Park. Hidden among a few tiny tombstones and graffiti painted dumpsters, I arranged six red candles in the form of a hexagon - about a foot in diameter. In the center, I placed a single white candle. After lighting the red ones (clockwise), I took from my pocket the 12th card of the Tarot, The Hanged Man. I put flame to the white candle and held the card above the fire. The Tarot card began to burn. The sound of a mob, first a faint whisper which grew into a roar sounded the phrase "let him swing!" over and over. I held the burning Hanged Man above my head and whispered, "let him swing." I heard the click of a gallows. The anger of the necktie party became celebration.

And then silence. From the clouds the silhouette of a man's body tumbled limply like a rag doll. He wore black robes and around his neck sat a noose, the end of which reached beyond vision. His arms were bound behind him. His fair Irish features marked with an emotionless expression. He slowly fell another forty or thirty feet until snapping tight just a few inches above the white candle. His body jerked and his legs kicked wildly. The pale ivory skin of his neck turned the shade of eggplant and burst blood vessels filled his blue eyes with crimson explosions. His swollen tongue jutted from his mouth, forcing out an unholy homily of inhuman grunts and choking noises.

After swinging for nearly a minute, he finally came to rest, the tips of his toes touching the flame of the white candle. They ignited and began to burn like kindling. I asked, "Father O'Riley, what can you tell me about the Pope's visit this weekend."

The spirit regarded me with utmost contempt, "I don't respond to that title anymore."

The fire had reached the wretched thing's knees, "Glenn O'Riley... what can you tell me about the Pope's--"

The ghost leered through the smoke of it's burning form, "You carry the same stain as my boys. That mark of love, that sacred blessing--"

The fire had reached his upper thighs, "Glenn O'Riley! I command you to speak!"

I turned the burning card so that it burned faster. The inferno consuming O'Riley's ghost seemed to match the card's intensity. The fire climbed as far as his midsection. The rope binding his wrists had burned away. He swung his arms wildly. They resembled slender matchsticks.

"Tell me about The Purification!"

The dead preacher howled his sermon, "The Holy Father brings with him a fire to cleanse the wickedness of this cruel city. Minions of The Void shall be purified. Sorcerers, seers and speakers of the dead will burn before His greatness! The Purification is here, my child."

He held his burning hand outstretched as though to grasp the card. The arm was a nothing more than a skeletal cinder, but the fleshy parts of his palm and fingers remained. They bled profusely as though slashed with a razor blade.

The card burned completely and with it O'Riley. His ashes dropped to the ground among discarded needles. The flame raced up the spectral rope. The screeching soul reminded me of a bottle rocket. I dropped the scorched Tarot card on the priest's grave. Pederast was chiseled across his headstone.

"Fuck you, weirdo."

***

The majority of my thoughts on Friday were primarily consumed with what the former priest had warned me. The Purification is coming. Here's the deal about ghosts and their portents. Ghosts are kind of like gossip tabloids. The bigger the rumor means the more readership and more money. But with The Void its all about dreadful omens and fear mongering, kind of like the Republican party - but not as ancient. But something about O'Riley's warning (and his bloody hand) sent a genuine shudder through me. And I do not shudder easy.

That night I was supposed to meet a friend out in the East Village for dinner. But an uneasy sensation paired with my off and on agoraphobia moved me to cancel. I stayed in Friday night with the curtains drawn and my lights off. It was 10:30 pm. I sat in the dark Indian style, exploring my tense feelings - when my doorbell rang. I froze. The doorbell rang again. On my knees, I peered down from my second floor window. A black sedan sat idling in front of my apartment. It's headlights were on. The doorbell rang again. A group of teenagers, maybe seven young men, strolled up the sidewalk talking. Two men in black robes briskly walked away from my apartment. They were carrying briefcases. After they got into the ominous vehicle, it quietly rolled out of view.

I laid awake in bed the entire night with a chair under my front door knob and a small hand gun beneath my pillow. I fled immediately for Larchmont the next morning to stay with Ms. Margerie. She told me I was being ridiculous and worrying about nothing. I returned this morning. She was wrong.

My door was unlocked. Had I left it unlocked in my hurry to leave? Had someone broken in? Was someone here? I tried sneaking, but my creaky floor ratted me out. I'm an exorcist, not a ninja. Luckily, no one was there. Even better, nothing seemed missing. Most of my magical, material mojo is stored in rental spaces around Manhattan. My disorganized closets could have been ransacked, but then again -- I'm a mess when it comes to laundry. No one had been in my apartment. I guess I had left the door unlocked. 

I called Ms. Margerie to tell her that my paranoia had indeed gotten the best of me. I laughed, "I totally expected His Holiness hiding inside with a Howitzer--"

And then I went dead silent. Margerie asked, "Are you there? Heeelloooooo? Ground control to Dandy Darkly..."

I stared above my bed at the single bloody hand print dominating my white wall. The ghost of Father Quinn had been right. The Purification was here.

Overhead Projector

It was 1998, I was on the last flight out from Albuquerque to Atlanta, heading home to visit the family for Thanksgiving. Originally my departure was scheduled for that morning, but bad weather in Washington DC grounded my connecting flight. Ten hours, almost as many martinis (1998 was my martini year) and two plates of chicken fingers later, I sat crammed in a tiny regional jet flying above the desert en route to Georgia.

With a screaming infant next to me, I put my Shania Twain CD (1998 was my country year) into my portable player. With my face against the scratched Plexiglas, I stared into the night sky quietly mouthing You're Still The One.

The ground below was a mosaic of orange street lights. They seemed to scatter in a pattern that suggested a higher power simply dropped a handful of glitter on the center of each town and allowed the shining points of light to rest wherever they may.

Above, the yellow stars matched the Earth's man made jewels in equal splendor. It was a cloudless night and the space outside that humid, oppressive cabin seemed to call to me. Shania's words lulled me to sleep, even as l'infant miserable tried his damnest to keep me awake...

...

...

The jet's engines throttled and shook the sky around me. I drifted lazily and slowly opened my eyes - and sure enough there was the plane, my plane, flying away from me... and I was simply hanging in the air. The distant city lights beneath me glowed with even greater intensity, as did the stars above. And there I was, a non-corporeal entity, swaying in the indigo night sky.

It was neat.

Then I began to panic. Was I dead? I had to be dead. The Void got me. THE VOID GOT ME! This was the Der erste Tod (First Death) which I'd read about in the rare mysticism books I'd uncovered in Berlin! Think. THINK! What were the causal factors that led to my demise. The baby caused me to put on my headphones. The headphones caused me to go to sleep ... and I must have suffocated against the window. The screaming baby was an agent of The Void? The Void is Shania Twain! I paused. Obviously there was a flaw in my logic. I took a deep breath -- although I wasn't breathing, and the flight attendent asked me if I cared for a beverage.

And I was looking at her. She was looking at me. I was back in my body, back in my seat and back on the plane. I shrieked. The baby started shrieking, people around me began to moan. His mother gave me the NASTIEST LOOK EVER. The puzzled stewardess apologized in that customer-servicey way for apparently somehow startling me. Turns out that I hadn't been asleep. I'd just been sitting there staring at her while she asked me repeatedly if I wanted a soft drink. On the floor Shania faintly sang from my discarded headphones.

I declined the offer of a Fresca, and waited while the beverage cart passed. I excused myself to the restroom and splashed cold water on my face. I wasn't dead. I had experienced my first astral projection.

From Wikipedia:

Astral projection (or astral travel) is a paranormal interpretation of an out-of-body experience achieved either awake or via lucid dreaming or deep meditation. The concept of astral projection assumes the existence of another body, separate from the physical body and capable of traveling to non-physical planes of existence.

And there you have it: my spirit drifted out of the cage and came to sit in what my paranormal psyche still considers it's safe place, a dark purple sky squashed by two glorious washes of twinkling stars. To this day when I (rarely) meditate into an astral state, that is always the starting point for my non-physical journey.

I'm not sure why exactly. My meditation instructor, Mr. Patel (he's a burly, mustached macho man who I naturally nicknamed Yogi Bear), is inclined to believe the contentment of the initial location: going home, the sensation of flight and the serene view outside the window, were all factors in why I begin my astral travels at that very spot.

Regardless, astral projection isn't something I particularly enjoy. Whereas Mr. Patel routinely passes his consciousness between the worlds of the Spirit and Man, I'm a little too attracted to my own body, not to mention Mr. Patel's. Woof. I'm more than content to keep my soul inside my body and my body securely on the ground.

Name Calling

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.

A Bitter Rat Trap

Twenty feet above me, the ceaseless traffic of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway thundered in the night - drowning out my commands of departure. I stood my ground on cracked pavement, littered with broken glass bottles and the discarded rubber from a blown tire. Also, three dozen black rats circled my feet - clawing my boots and seriously ruining my favorite pair of corduroys. A few of the more motivated pests managed to claw as far up as my belt. Two of them had gotten as far as my jacket sleeves,

I clutched the offenders in either hand. The beasts writhed and squealed and bit at my gloves, but they were the least of my worries.

A gargantuan rodent, nearly eight feet tall and almost as wide, pressed itself against a highway support pillar. While I commanded it to depart, the grotesquery responded by vomiting forth more and more writhing, goo-soaked vermin. 

"In the name of Apollo! In the name of Hippocrates! I command you to depart!"

The rats in my hands vaporized - leaving me soaked in foul smelling ectoplasm. Another rat climbed my shirt, snapping at my chin with yellow, jagged teeth. Unbalanced, I waded through the twisting mass of rats beneath my feet.

"Ganga, river mother, cleanse this pestilence from whence it came!"

The sky cracked open and a sudden torrent of rain fell across the highway. The rush of water flooded the ground around me. The rats began to squeal. The water stripped their bones bare as though acid had been poured across them.

The fat-rat climbed above the flash flood and let forth a noxious exhale of carrion-foul breath. I wretched a projectile of my own - a lovely shrimp risotto enjoyed earlier at a neighborhood Italian eatery, but continued to maintain focus on the abomination. It was almost done.

I removed my glove, pulled from my jacket a common household rat trap, positioned the holding bar beneath the hammer and triggered the device, letting it snap down onto my dainty fingers.

The pain triggered a sharp yelp from me and a sharper yelp from the grotesquery as it collapsed from it's perch beneath the highway. It remained there for nearly a minute... utterly still... except something was... still moving... I saw a faint ripple beneath the creature's fur... and then

...

It's stomach tore apart as a clot of shrieking, gore-crusted rats chewed through skin and matted hair. The smell was nauseating - puss and blood. Some of the rats ran for darkness, most launched into one another, biting with a frenzy unseen in nature.

My left hand ached and bled where the rat trap had snapped across three of my fingers. I think my nose was bleeding as well. Violent sobbing echoed from behind me - a powerfully sad sound. A man in his fifties cradled himself in a fetal position. He wore a dark suit covered in stinking grime. A bullet wound to his forehead told his final tale.

Now a slave to The Void's manipulation - the giant rat a physical manifestation of either his filth in life or maybe a mockery of his execution as a rat.

The Void is not without a sense of humor.

I placed the rat trap in his hand and it clattered to the pavement - the ghost and foul rat carcass now nothing more than early morning fog drifting in from the East River.

Laughing Stock

I left my former financial job with little more than a shinier resume and a few thousand dollars in a 401k - the value of which has plummeted in light of a recent portent of gloom by whatever prophets of industry who control the ebb and flow of our nation's wealth.

I hated the job - who wants to play fetch for a billionaire - begging at the table for any scrap to be tossed in your direction? Not me.

Not all of the job was without any interest. I was fascinated by the magic of these modern day wizards in pin striped power suits and colorful cravates. Their conjuring is no different from my own: a series of time and place calculations, a deeper understanding of how the world really works. Sometimes their mysticism goes awry - resulting in the loss of millions of dollars, but often (if skilled enough) they are richly rewarded for a lifetime of service to an entity more powerful, but not out of reach. The corporate ladder stretches far into the heavens - but the higher you climb, the further to fall. The bereaved souls poised to jump from Wall Street's windows make for a succint testament to this fact, as well for a lovely midnight stroll.

The new job pays considerably less, but the work is far more interesting. (My paranoia regarding the false sense of social judgement by my new peers was unfounded.) The video editing staff are laid back. Considering the stresses of my evening work, it's refreshing to be in a casual setting from nine to five. Still I can't seem to shake the sensation that somehow The Void had a hand in putting me where I am.

Finally, I feel I must acknowledge the hot-mess-ness of my prior post. The object which ignited a week of drunken self-loathing has been safely put away in one of my many storage spaces. Hopefully I will never need to call on it's potential.

Day JOb

My return to Brooklyn was less than impressive...

The conductor scoleded me for having a child's ticket... apparently I had a child's ticket and my new job is indeed promising, but certainlyt not the catalyst for anything mind blowing or soul expanding or any oft hose other superlatives that so usually populate the self help journals of esteemed authors so versed in the holier-than-thou (love that term - like it's so anachronistic, and so spiritual- there are far more modern sayings w hich can bind the dead to a plane or cause a person to rot where he stands, yet such a soundingly ancient and Shakespearian bon mot is still uttered to this day ... with no boils or pox attached. What a waste.)

Anyways, yeah i've been drinking since I got back from Margerie's. That fucking box. It's the fu xcking box. I don't care. I'm so over it... but even the teensiest taste of the darkness sets me up for failure. Utter failure. The kind of failure where you're ... I'm not ready. Not even in this forum. We'll get to that. Trust me. I got alot about my past (present?) to tell you dearest reader... ooooooooohb you're so fucking EVIL for running your red lights! Hah. Your Evil is hilarious when looking at MY shit.

Thank god she put that witchy shit on the box. Damn. Hah. Thanking GOD comes from Southern indoctrinization. Its one of my many nasty habits I can't seem to kick. "Thank god" thank the male diety of a monotheistic religion developed to oppress the... blah!~, I don't want to talk about that. I want to talk about my new DAY JOB.

Well thank God (ugh) that I got a job. That's all I got to say. I was getting poor. New York State was whipping my ass with owings it money for roads and subways and shit... YOu know a particular beanie wearing faith? Their ancient elders could CONJURE MONEY! I"m not kidding.

I'm durnk.

Wow. I made it thorugh two days, but still i'm know that those people there are judging me. He's weird. He's distant. He's weird. Like I was sitting in my bosse's office, using her computer to do some research when this LOUD drilling noise came in there. And sh e's all "don't worry. there's carpenters downstairs. It's not a ghost." and she laughed.

I wanted to say "I know it's no ghost!" but then I caught myself and acted weird. Like I can be the biggest flaming fagola I want to be - yay gay pride - but I srue as fuck can't talk about talking to the dead. No waaaay. But whatevetr.

I've put that box away. I put a box of wine away. Hah. I'm so witty. Will Ir egret this post? Will there be more? Usually I slur to a candle, not that I'm slurring often - well anymore.

I hate it when red whine makes you're back teeth clench.