As much as I had wanted, at a younger age, for hippy dippy alternative "sciences" to have any bearing on my life, redefining ideas that I thought were set in stone against my will, I think it's just bullshit. I bristle every time a certain friend sends me a link to a horoscope, which is often, but I haven't had the heart to say anything. I think people only turn to this shit when they're unhappy, so snootily informing her that her five minute distraction is stupid is more than I'm willing to do.
Years ago, when I was feeling a revitalized wish to become engaged with intangibles of meaning, I considered trying to force myself to believe in some kind of candle-burning secret-living lifestyle that allows one to assume that raising the aesthetic values of your home and surrounding yourself with the right stones will somehow change your fortunes. I have never really been able to believe in anything after childhood (and I only believed in scary stuff then, like things following me up dark stairs or hiding under my bed or hanging outside of my windows at night). There were a few years in which I basically only read ghost story anthologies to the point that I'm surprised I don't believe in more nonsense now.
In high school, I went through a time where I would burn all the candles and incense, accidentally melting scented wax into hard mounds in the carpet. I would read all the Llewellyn books and wonder about all the intangible things, and still my life was the same as it would have been otherwise, except it was infused with a temporary quasi-belief that made it all seem more meaningful and malleable. Maybe that is the great benefit of mysticism - the sense of potential that it lends, because maybe.
I guess that was fine for a while. I didn't waste too much time on it because it all happened during that brief interval that occurred upon first feeling grownish, but before having a job or a car or dating. Those things do much to banish the spirit world.
Except.
One high school Halloween night during that in-between age, this fantasy realm was expanded to include Ouija boards.
Our friend had brought the board on a teenaged walkabout, one of those nights when we all left our homes during sanctioned hours that crossed over into darkness, and played with the board in a local neighborhood park. Nothing happened, but when the group dispersed, the board was shoved into my backpack instead of going home with the friend who owned it.
The next weekend, my friend, the ringleader of our limited boundary-pushing, found the board relegated to a lonely corner of my bedroom, and asked for a game. We played, nothing happened. We played another time, something happened. I, faithful to the game, laid my fingers lightly (you might say as a feather) on the planchette. It began to surge around the board, telling stories and calling each of us out, saying I was the quiet one, ringleader Megan was the sexy one, friend Becky was the slutty one. We laughed and put it aside. I was sure Megan had controlled the dialogue because she controlled everything in our micro society.
Eventually, as our friendship solidified, Megan came to my house more and more after school, and we would play with the board to kill time before she had to go home. It always turned into two-sided exchanges between the spirit and Megan, and I would keep my fingers on the planchette only out of eye-rolling hospitality. One could never play with the board alone. I began to feel sure that Megan was either intentionally creating the conversations by consciously or subconsciously moving the planchette. All of the conversations were slanted to suit her ego, I noticed, as were most of her interactions in life.
One day, Megan crawled out of my second-floor bedroom window to sit on the roof and smoke. We had been playing with the board and it had gotten tedious with lots of Q&A by the time she decided to take a break. I stared at the wall for a few minutes, bored, and once I noticed she was lighting a second cigarette, I pulled the board closer and jokingly put my fingers on the planchette, saying, "We're going to talk about you, Megan..." The planchette moved lazily and slowly and didn't respond to my questions. Suddenly, it jerked around a little. It was 4 pm, a bright and sunshiney after-school afternoon, so I didn't feel scared, until the planchette suddenly started spelling words. "C-A-R-I-S-C-O-M-I-N-G" Cariscoming? What the hell did that mean? I was repeating the letters aloud when a knock on my bedroom door made me jump a foot. I dashed the board under my bed, slammed the window shut on Megan and opened the door. It was my mom, home early.
Need I say it? My mom's name is Kari. CARISCOMING, Kari's coming. Using the board was strictly banned in our house, and I had already been firmly instructed to get rid of it. Not only that, she wouldn't exactly have been pleased by 15 year-old bad girl Megan smoking on our roof. She didn't want her on the roof, in the house, or in my life. Megan, what a biography that could be. The point being that warning me of my mother's ascent up the stairs was quite relevant to my situation at the time. I could have been grounded, for god's sake.
I had felt no "presence," no hairs sticking up, no tingling, no fear, and yet this thing had apparently actually happened. How did it know my mom's name, but not the correct spelling? Why wouldn't it say "mom's coming" if it was my own unintended doing? I don't call her Kari, never have, even at the height of my mutinous disrespectful teens. I call her "Ma!" like a civilized daughter, like Dorothy Zbornak.
So all I'm saying is it's complicated. I don't believe, but that actually happened.
One high school Halloween night during that in-between age, this fantasy realm was expanded to include Ouija boards.
Our friend had brought the board on a teenaged walkabout, one of those nights when we all left our homes during sanctioned hours that crossed over into darkness, and played with the board in a local neighborhood park. Nothing happened, but when the group dispersed, the board was shoved into my backpack instead of going home with the friend who owned it.
The next weekend, my friend, the ringleader of our limited boundary-pushing, found the board relegated to a lonely corner of my bedroom, and asked for a game. We played, nothing happened. We played another time, something happened. I, faithful to the game, laid my fingers lightly (you might say as a feather) on the planchette. It began to surge around the board, telling stories and calling each of us out, saying I was the quiet one, ringleader Megan was the sexy one, friend Becky was the slutty one. We laughed and put it aside. I was sure Megan had controlled the dialogue because she controlled everything in our micro society.
Eventually, as our friendship solidified, Megan came to my house more and more after school, and we would play with the board to kill time before she had to go home. It always turned into two-sided exchanges between the spirit and Megan, and I would keep my fingers on the planchette only out of eye-rolling hospitality. One could never play with the board alone. I began to feel sure that Megan was either intentionally creating the conversations by consciously or subconsciously moving the planchette. All of the conversations were slanted to suit her ego, I noticed, as were most of her interactions in life.
One day, Megan crawled out of my second-floor bedroom window to sit on the roof and smoke. We had been playing with the board and it had gotten tedious with lots of Q&A by the time she decided to take a break. I stared at the wall for a few minutes, bored, and once I noticed she was lighting a second cigarette, I pulled the board closer and jokingly put my fingers on the planchette, saying, "We're going to talk about you, Megan..." The planchette moved lazily and slowly and didn't respond to my questions. Suddenly, it jerked around a little. It was 4 pm, a bright and sunshiney after-school afternoon, so I didn't feel scared, until the planchette suddenly started spelling words. "C-A-R-I-S-C-O-M-I-N-G" Cariscoming? What the hell did that mean? I was repeating the letters aloud when a knock on my bedroom door made me jump a foot. I dashed the board under my bed, slammed the window shut on Megan and opened the door. It was my mom, home early.
Need I say it? My mom's name is Kari. CARISCOMING, Kari's coming. Using the board was strictly banned in our house, and I had already been firmly instructed to get rid of it. Not only that, she wouldn't exactly have been pleased by 15 year-old bad girl Megan smoking on our roof. She didn't want her on the roof, in the house, or in my life. Megan, what a biography that could be. The point being that warning me of my mother's ascent up the stairs was quite relevant to my situation at the time. I could have been grounded, for god's sake.
I had felt no "presence," no hairs sticking up, no tingling, no fear, and yet this thing had apparently actually happened. How did it know my mom's name, but not the correct spelling? Why wouldn't it say "mom's coming" if it was my own unintended doing? I don't call her Kari, never have, even at the height of my mutinous disrespectful teens. I call her "Ma!" like a civilized daughter, like Dorothy Zbornak.
So all I'm saying is it's complicated. I don't believe, but that actually happened.
Much as I'm sure I'd sleep better if otherwise, I don't believe in anything. Obviously not organized religion, but tales of the supernatural just annoy me. The people who trade in this interest are too eager, they just look for evidence, and of course find it everywhere. I only like to hear creep stories from people who hate telling them. Obviously, then, I can't get enough. I am a human being.
I never understood religion right. It was never fully installed, just as a simple oversight by my parents. Had they stopped to think about it, had they not felt so busy, I'm sure they would have indoctrinated me as is intended in America. My mom has always passively believed, because she did get the full installation in childhood. She wore a little lace thing on her head at church and got confirmed. Saints and symbols were all over my grandma's houses, but they didn't mean anything to me. I never felt watched by "the lord". I only thought about god when I was pissed off, when I didn't get my way, when I was like, "And where were you!" It was a failed transactional relationship while it lasted.
One of the shocking "tastes of life" that my dad told me about his parents was that when my grandma would take the kids and travel back home to see her family, her husband would play. He would take all of the saint statues that were ubiquitous around the house and put them in drawers when he entertained girls in the family home. Why? Why bother moving them? Was he worried the girls were Catholic? Surely he wasn't trying to fool them into thinking that staid family home with the playhouse out back was a bachelor pad. Finding one of her Catholic figurines in a bedroom drawer was a terrible tell to my poor g-ma that her man had been up to shit while she was away. How gross for her. How unmatched they were. What a world in which someone wasn't nice to my grandma.
I was taken to church by old women on occasion, but it was early enough in life that the visit was a success if I just kept quiet. My grandma brought paper and an 8-box of Crayolas on those occasions and set them down on the pew. My cousins and I would kneel on the tile floor at St. Francis and use the pew seats as desks. After that, donuts outside. I remember bonding with an ex once when I told him the only thing I liked about church was the donuts. He's dead now. Nice guy.
Years later, while visiting the same grandma's house, my best cousin and I would wander over to the yard at St. Francis and remember. It was just a couple of neighborhood streets away. A couple of times, we went inside (remember when I was talking about those "before times" when you're big enough and have no occupations, but all the opinions?). One afternoon, I noticed the pen sitting on the guest book in the anteroom of the church. It was a cheap Bic, but taped to it was a tiny printout of the words, in Old English font, "Thou Shalt Not Steal". I put it in my pocket immediately and my cousin and I cackled wickedly about it as though we had performed a heist. After that, we went and lay down in the pews, staring up at the blue and rainbow stained glass ceiling of the church, inlaid like stars. We were innocent and just kids, and we still enjoyed the beauty of the sight even though we were technically there as trolls. It is a nice place to hang out, a baroque yet vaguely Spanish 1950s Catholic dream palace. We were run off the premises soon after.
I was taken to church by old women on occasion, but it was early enough in life that the visit was a success if I just kept quiet. My grandma brought paper and an 8-box of Crayolas on those occasions and set them down on the pew. My cousins and I would kneel on the tile floor at St. Francis and use the pew seats as desks. After that, donuts outside. I remember bonding with an ex once when I told him the only thing I liked about church was the donuts. He's dead now. Nice guy.
Years later, while visiting the same grandma's house, my best cousin and I would wander over to the yard at St. Francis and remember. It was just a couple of neighborhood streets away. A couple of times, we went inside (remember when I was talking about those "before times" when you're big enough and have no occupations, but all the opinions?). One afternoon, I noticed the pen sitting on the guest book in the anteroom of the church. It was a cheap Bic, but taped to it was a tiny printout of the words, in Old English font, "Thou Shalt Not Steal". I put it in my pocket immediately and my cousin and I cackled wickedly about it as though we had performed a heist. After that, we went and lay down in the pews, staring up at the blue and rainbow stained glass ceiling of the church, inlaid like stars. We were innocent and just kids, and we still enjoyed the beauty of the sight even though we were technically there as trolls. It is a nice place to hang out, a baroque yet vaguely Spanish 1950s Catholic dream palace. We were run off the premises soon after.
I kept the pen for years, guarded it carefully, and I still lost it. St. Francis must have returned personally with his staff and his lamb and taken it back.
The only other shit I'll cop to, supernaturally, is this crazy house. Now that I'm so far removed, I don't believe as much as I used to. But I remember how that felt, and, as my dad pointed out to me once, that I've never been afraid like that in any other place. I know this is blowing holes in my claim as a skeptic, but you can walk and chew gum at the same time.
The only other shit I'll cop to, supernaturally, is this crazy house. Now that I'm so far removed, I don't believe as much as I used to. But I remember how that felt, and, as my dad pointed out to me once, that I've never been afraid like that in any other place. I know this is blowing holes in my claim as a skeptic, but you can walk and chew gum at the same time.
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