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Here’s what we have learned thus far:

Avatars of Babalon will mark men; that’s just how that works. Sex: a binding ritual, a shared condition or the attachment to the Goddess. Love: a contractual agreement, forever that elusive fantasy or a broken heart. Chaos and Transformation: the turning of worlds, battle wounds or a change of assets. If one is not marked by any of these, then he shall be with Fire.

She is not one to be forgotten or cast off. The Scarlet Woman’s sensory hooks are tenacious.

 

Marked

My average days are becoming thick with the Wyrd.

While cooking, he showed me his hand. A line of paler, still tender flesh ran vertically across the palm, not so unlike the Fate Line in palmistry. This is the mark he received several nights prior after wrapping his hand around a handle of a hot cast-iron skillet. One that I had unintentionally heated while preparing for baking. I heard him talk about the pans, and I saw him approach the counter. My mind shouted “Don’t touch!” while my mouth lagged behind the message. He burned himself due to my lack of intervention. He forgives graciously, but forgetting is not an option.

“That mark will probably be permanent,” he says.

I furrow my brow in disappointment in myself and in beseechment of forgiveness from him once again.

He shrugged and smiled. “Now I get to say that this mark is from the Witch I live with that scarred me for life.”

Silent laughter erupted as we both nodded and exchanged knowing looks. “It’s true,” we both agreed.

And then I said: “Witches tend to do that, y’know…”

*****

We ascended the majestic staircase side-by-side; it was important for our ascendance to be just that way. Neither could attempt to lead or follow. When one rushed forward or fell back, the staircase flattened and stretched, becoming a conveyor belt that sent us backward.

So we walked together, talking and enjoying each other’s company. The air grew thin and the visuals danced like stop-motion oil paintings. Agape we pressed onward: Up, Up and Away.

*.*.*.*.*

The apartment is empty, and I continue to gut it. Ink stains on my fingers: What of this teenage angst is worth transcribing? My time bled out on endless pages of savory and bitter reflections. My mind sees flames around the edges. Toss each away this time around; give myself over to a past that disappears as easily as footprints in the sand.

The Silence folds in around me. What shape will this origami reality take? I manipulate materials to create forms I consider beautiful. The paper is only crisp on the first attempt; it remembers the alternate creases. I do not remember some of the phases I lived and recorded. Who is the stranger holding the pen? Who is the character in the tales I hear from friends?

…

I feel near… and, oh, so far.

Parasites, auto theft, and forced restraint

The events I am about to recount all took place on his territory; I did not come Home the entire time. Many of my material possessions mentioned are not actually mine. People without names are fillers or symbols of some sort. The negativity is dense and unpleasant to trudge through, but these messages need a place.

A disjointed snippet manifests: I awake in Radar’s apartment next to him. Two of our friends had stayed the night: J&K. Upon waking, we all rise and begin to scratch ourselves. Each one comments on the small bites we see on our bodies. J is the first to remove his shirt, saying he thinks there are parasites in the bedding. Indeed, we see a handful of small black and red arachnids spill out of his shirt. We freak at the sight and all begin to remove our clothes. Before too long, the bugs become overwhelming underfoot. Heading to the front door, we stomp them into insect pancakes. Outside and mostly naked, we try to formulate a plan to get rid of as many inside as possible as they are multiplying.

Cut

I was at Radar’s apartment. What we were doing- I can’t remember. I was in my lounging clothes while he was fully dressed, obviously expecting company besides myself. Almost in unison, Lomax and Renee turn up at the door. Lomax quickly addresses Rada, and they start immediately going over plans. Renee is distraught. She comes to me with her typically neatly packed emotional totes, and I can see what a mess the contents have made. I tend to her needs as the men continue planning. Through her tear-streaked lament, I vaguely hear Radar in the background asking me about particular food at a particular place. He stands close, his eyes boring into me as I try to focus on Renee and deliver her the TLC she so sorely needs. Lomax becomes more impatient as the seconds tick away. Nudging his friend, again the inappropriately timed questions interrupt. Renee doesn’t pay attention to them, but my ears get twitchy and hot at their insensitivity. I give the universal “one minute” signal to Radar as we girls move to the kitchen. The conversation comes to a close with hugs and tissues  in a few minutes. Renee thanks me sincerely and then takes her leave.

The door closes on a quiet apartment. Radar and Lomax have vacated. I send a text asking why they refused to wait less than 10 minutes for the situation to be resolved. The response I get reads that they were hungry, and it seemed like I had no interest in that particular food at that particular place. Through the symbols on the glowing background I can feel Radar’s spite and acerbity. I do not respond. Instead, the anger and resentment welling up in me drives me to collect my things in preparation to GTFO. In my storm of packing, I come across several pieces of paper strewn on Radar’s bed. They obviously came from the ajar nightstand drawer. A good person may have piled them neatly together and placed them back in the drawer, ignoring the temptation to read the unguarded information. …but a smart person would never do such a thing. I studied the text carefully. Radar’s handwriting was less familiar to me than I would have wished. The first few stanzas of the poem spoke of affection for me, and my heart softened as my grip on my bags loosened. Tears were beginning to form as I almost scolded myself for being so rash as to run off in a huff. The next stanza revealed his insecurity and uncertainty. The third stanza chipped away at my character and exalted his own. In the final stanza, an accusation broke through as my image was cast as nothing more than a whore. I left the papers where I found them and exited the apartment, bags in hand, numb and crestfallen.

Dusty winds railed me outside in the heat of the evening summer sun. The parking lot resembled a desert, and the gas station may as well have been a halfway house. Approaching my car, I saw two women (one blonde biker and one black drag queen) hovering over my car and one (white and obese) already inside the driver’s seat. I caught that this was an attempted auto theft. My patience had long since checked out, only leaving disdain, attitude and a foolish absence of fear. I nonchalantly waved them off as if they were mere flies. “C’mon, ladies, piss off. This is my car, and, though you may be attempting to steal it, I’m here now. If you all clear out, we’ll forget this ever happened. If not, I will not hesitate to stab you in the eyes with this eyeliner.”

The two hovering ladies cleared out while donning matching looks of contrived contempt. Missing scenes. I am in the passenger seat of my car now. The obese woman is driving. It is now getting dark, and, apparently, we had been talking some. The general message of her story is that she has problems, mostly financial. Sob story blah blah blah. She needs to get somewhere to meet two of her friends- that’s why she needed a car. I decide that the easiest solution is for me to drop her off and have her “owe me one.” First we stop by Radar’s for some reason. He’s still out with Lomax, thankfully. The obese woman lights a cigarette indoors as she starts texting her friends. I tell her to take it outside as I wave the smoke out the door. In a few minutes, she has coordinates of their meeting place. I drive her to her destination, which is no more than 10 minutes away. On my ride home, a “good” feeling starts to settle in. I was a nice person.

Arriving back at Radar’s apartment, I see he has returned home alone. I entertain the thought of telling him how lucky he is that my mood has changed, but instead, we greet each other as if there was no unspoken tiff. Within seconds, our hands and mouths are all over each other. Missing scenes (unfortunately).

Cut.

I am in Radar’s bedroom, tied and bound in duct tape, in a nonsexual and potentially violent way. My face is wet, so I know I had been crying. Lomax (maybe? or someone that resembles him) is in view of the door frame. His face displays aggression as he pushes two people in the room with me. My brother and Launch, two very important people to me, fall into the room, also bound. Launch is cursing and fighting against his restraints. My brother is quietly plotting escape routes. We are all saddened by seeing each other in such a state. The scene ends here with no resolution.

 

View from the Ocean

Delivered to one of my more natural psychological states (buoyantly floating under the indigo expanse), I found myself again in the graces of the Goddesses. My vision of the world around me rolled with the gentle waves that cradled the nondescript vessel that held my body. Countless sparkling guides wove myths into my hair as I witnessed their life paths as stardust strewn across Nuit’s naked canvas. I was far from alone in my reflective solitude.

My diamond-rope hair jingled as I sat erect. Salty floral notes stuck to my face from Nuit’s warm sighs. The bubble in which I traveled was clear though still enchanted. The distant shore, on the other hand, was dressed in a tenacious haze. I heard the music faintly on the breeze, more of a distortion to my ears than pleasant vibes. Two circular objects overlapped in the Western sky: a ghostly Ferris Wheel and the “Nightly Sun.” Free-swinging carts moved mechanically, stopping and starting independently of the riders’ Wills. The bottom half of the Wheel seemed to disappear into the haze around it. In front of this apparition hung “the Sun” of the Night. Rarely seen, it is a circular image, an optical illusion, comprised of two disjointed, curved lines of precise, searing blue that cut through the sky like unapologetic lasers. There is no center or substance between these lines; it is an image created solely from the outline. These two images, of the Ferris Wheel spectre and the blue-beamed illusory Night Sun, co-localized within the haze of which I was no part, close to the shore to which I was not venturing. I watched the machine Wheel move slowly through the Sun’s absent core for several moments before turning back to my preferred view of the sky: a beautiful wash of indigo and violet dusted with shimmering Dakinis.