“Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful” –Frankenstein’s Creature

What is it to be possessed?  If the program “The Real Exorcist” has the answers, it is surely that possession is: 1.) In the case of relatively sane individuals who are raised to live by very strict guidelines of “goodness,” discovering that what their society calls “badness” is in fact, part of who they are.  The self separates the two, good and bad, and comes up with the conclusion that they are thinking someone else’s thoughts, hearing voices, etc, and that a daemon must have taken up residence within their being.

2.) These people are clearly insane, with some form of schizophrenia or other cognitive impairment. 

Either way, it seems that there is a lot going on as far as the actors go.  The possessee taking cues from the exorcist, and the exorcist being goaded and taking cues from the possessee.  Each building upon the other, which of course fills the exorcism with violence and sexual tension.  I know, I know, the “exorcist” in question isn’t remotely attractive, unless you are fond of Dr. Phil.  Which, on a tangent, makes me wonder why they called the movie “The Exorcist,” “The Exorcist,” if it wasn’t really about the exorcist himself…

It occurred to me that although a total sham, it seems as though it is an interestingly effective means of therapy for some people.  I wonder, and am rather frightened of the way things would play out if one were to pretend a possession.  When one begins to laugh, it gives the exorcist fuel, if one begins to get agitated by having a book pushed up against their face/head, of course it smacks of daemonic activity.  But mostly, it seems these people have very real psychological issues to work out, and this exorcist is willing to “heal” people who really need a good therapist…or do they?  If their spiritual beliefs are so strong, maybe this is actually a beneficial thing, whereby the victim is allowed to become something else, become fearless, and become the aggressor.  They get slapped around a bit, so there is also a punitive element, just in case they felt they did anything bad.

What about real possessions, or spiritual obsessions?  I don’t know of any.  I am repeatedly disappointed when I research my paranormal interests, and find that there is often little of the paranormal actually contained in any claims.  It actually affects me profoundly.  What is really happening is a struggle for power and for self-affirmation.  Everyone likes the idea of powerful spiritual/daemonic entities, especially for All Hallows Eve.  Maybe it is the attractive, enticing notion of an entity that is totally fearless, that has no social or moral constraints, and in fact, is not even human.    It crossed my mind (with a shimmy, jazz-hands, and a flourish), it being Halloween and all, that Victor’s creature is correct, that power indeed comes from fearlessness, and that I could do with more of both.  Maybe that’s why I am so interested in the occult.  Power.

 

Quite fearless, thanks to a recent Jehovah’s Witness encounter; I definitely want the power to possess someone!

Pru

Wake the Dead

Fug

Yes, the fug is still in the air…loitering…hanging about everywhere I go.  Diapers are gone, smell remains, Prucilla is confused.  Shan, being the smart lady she is, suggested that there must be a rogue or misplaced diaper skulking about somewhere, but if that is the case it is so well hidden that I won’t find it until we move, or I switch office spaces with the boys. 

On the plus side, because the fug was so extensive and the house unlivable, the boys and I spent a lot of time outside.  I read, and the boys ate stuff.  Freaked out though I was, Will asked if I had googled the effects or consequences of hawthorn-berry ingestion, and it turns out we should all be eating them.  So, score one for the lazy and lethargically observant mother (well, I do enjoy observing lethargy as a faith-based ritual).  It also turns out that we have several snakes living in our yard/garage.  Which I suppose is potentially not a really great thing, given that the boys have been calling, “snek!” and searching through the bushes. 

The fug did not vacate the house, however, once we were all bug-bitten, and welted from grass allergies.  I washed everyone up (we have black dirt), and set them down in front of the dreaded tele-beast so I could clean the floors and do some laundry (I know, who wouldn’t write that into a blog!  Fun times.)  I was so busy feeding the washing machine that I thought a stranger had come inside and was pulling me by the shirt (Liam can pull a shirt like a fully grown male gorilla) (I guess that is also a clue as to how short I am…since he is not yet two, and can pull me by the shirt).  He was looking rather serious, and telling me over and over about the ”goats” in the bathroom.  That is when I realized that I forgot to shut the door, and found Finn inside the shower curtain and “woooooo-ing.”  Heheheheheh…is it better to have goats or ghosts in one’s bathroom?  Liam proceeded to pull Finn out from the curtain and around the house (by his shirt); both of the screaming and laughing, like a misunderstood game of “tag.”

I don’t remember those days in my youth, but I am certain I didn’t have near as much fun.  I am also certain that my mother’s home never stunk as bad as mine does right now.  It’s probably the goats.

Pru

P.S.  Awwww…Liam and Finn surprised us with adding zombies to our ritual “good night” list.  Such a nice kid.

No Offense Comprehended; at least, that’s what I keep telling myself

I don’t think I have ever been known as a great speaker. In fact, I am fairly certain of that. I can write out thoughts that are at least somewhat coherent, but to speak is a different art altogether. There is no question that my inability to work with numbers, or speak, is why I chose to study literature. I stumble with my thoughts while they race around in my head and attempt something of a collected whole. I stammer with the inability to make the images into audible meaning, fumble with their transfer from my brain-gravy into a public air space where they must have meaning and cohesion.

Having said that, I am at the moment exceedingly frustrated that my mind has been rather incapacitated, and that my stammering has called my intelligence into question. Called into question by a professor whose spoken words are just as lacking in cohesion and topicality as mine are…and yet he had the nerve to refer to my attempt at explaining my term paper ideas with the following:

You know that joke where the dog is hearing people speak, but all they are saying is, ‘blah, blah, blah, cookie?’

He then proceeded to tell me about the paper he would like to read. Well, I really don’t want to write the paper he would like to read; particularly after a comment like that. I have never had a professor, not at the undergrad or grad-level, go line by line through my ideas for a paper, and tell me what I should be writing. First of all, I would assume that the graduate students are all aware of what it means to be a graduate student. Secondly, I would not assume that they all work the same way. He wants an outline. I do not work that way, and that is a thing he will not receive from me. Thirdly, I do not care what he wants to read. I understand that reading the refuse produced by hundreds of students a week is tiresome and aggravating, but I was not told that my writing had to provide entertainment for him…this must be a hidden part of his rubric.

I am trying really hard to believe that he is just socially retarded, and that there was no offense meant by his statements at me. The thing is that for him to be so cavalier about the office hours really offends me too. I have to pay someone for that time; have to find someone amenable to that time-slot; and then I have to multi-task hundreds of errands that fall in the same area or on the way there… Really, this unintelligible, unmade-up dog is deeply offended and feels the strain of her everyday existence…blah, blah, blah.

I don’t know why I am having such a difficult time seeing what he sees in the literature of the course, but I can’t see it, and my mind just goes all blank and drooley, which is really a shame because the class should be, could be, so much more interesting. Maybe it is the diaper-fug hanging in the house lately. I don’t know why the smell won’t go away! It’s like I am living through a bad horror movie lately, where the real evil is in the smell stuck in my nostrils.

Oif. If I don’t get a vacation, or find some kind of mental/emotional ease soon, my mind will vacate my head for good.
Pru

Global Economic Crisis? You say that like it’s a bad thing…

This is GREAT!  I can’t remember when I have been so excited before!  It’s an horrific catastrophe on the grandest of scales, and I get to be a part of it!  Hooray!  Seriously, I don’t recall a more adrenaline activating time in my life.  I’m totally ready.  This is what my father trained er, raised me for.  Carry in only what you are willing to carry out!  And on that note, as I consider that and look around my home, boy do I have a lot worthless crap.

A man that had only rocks to play with as a child, who could live most comfortably in a cave, he used to aggravate me with his spartan notions of toilet paper conservation, and his backpacking-morality that merged into the everyday issues.  Yet, as I look upon this disaster, and keep my ears pricked with excitement that the screams of wall-street might be audible, the panic and ensuing cannibalism to maintain non-sustainable lifestyles be nice and bloody, I think about how well adapted Dad’s teachings could make me if I could just follow them.  I think I could live in a cave. 

I know I am not the only one looking forward to the changes that this disaster will bring upon America.  For good or awesome, I can’t wait to see what sort of beast is laying in wait around the corner.  I am giddy with enthusiasm, just watching the disaster unfold.  I want to see something real from Americans now.  I want to see such enthusiasm as France saw in 1789.  I want to see a global revolution in response to this global crisis!  Who needs their own manic depressive disorder when you can get it from the news?  Personally, I’m riding the wave of mania! 

I’m still counting on books to be a commodity in the future, heck, maybe the only real commodity.  That’s wherefromyou get lernin’ right?  Education has to be of value even in an economic “nuclear-style” winter…doesn’t it?  I mean, even if you consider them fuel, they are useful, aren’t they?  Also, you have to admit that a lot of empty foreclosed homes will make great places to start the fires in, especially come winter–and a lot of those homes were too much home for the buyer, so they could ostensibly host a very large family or group of friends.  Just remember to bring your books, because either way, it looks like you are going to need them.

I’m not for good, I’m for Awesome!

Pru

Poison

The bug man appears but twice a year, unless we have serious problems (occasionally the roaches decide to invade, and find their way through the most impossible and wrong places, like above and below the stove)  One usually does not expect to have a roach drop straight into the meal they are cooking.  Luckily, that hasn’t happened in several months.  Yesterday, it was time for the bug man to appear.  A very nice, very old bug guy.  I hate to ask too much of him when it comes to the bug emergencies, because I really feel like this is something that probably isn’t too good for anyone’s health, but he especially should not be doing some of these things. 

When he appeared at our door yesterday he had already started his day off on an accident-prone foot…as he had insecticide all over his shirt and pants.  Finn, of course, decided that the bug man needed to pick him up right away.  It was early, and the screaming when I removed him from the path of the bug man was enough to make me consider ending the day at 10:00 am. 

Upon seeing how thoroughly covered in insecticide the bug man was, I asked if we needed to leave the house.  He responded in an oddly aloof way, “no, I am just doing the windows and doors.”  The thing was that I could smell it, and it was that horrible oniony-skunky-kinda smell.  The kind that you can actually taste after a while.  I worried about his response, and thought that maybe, when I asked if we needed to vacate the premises, I should have specified, or rephrased my question with more clarity.  Maybe I should have asked, “Is this stuff toxic, is it dangerous to breathe?” 

I can still smell the stuff today, taste it…yuck.  When we first got to the Little Gym, I thought that maybe the boys’ obnoxious behavior was a result of the fumes, but it turned out that it must be something more closely related to astrology, tidal shifts, something.  All of the kids were obnoxious.  Mostly mine though.  This photos is Finn demanding that the a Jaguars football player pick him up.  Do I really know that this man is a football player at all?  No.  But the other mothers were oohing and ahhhing over him, and poking me to tell me who he was, so I am going to believe them.  Frankly, I don’t care that he is a football player, as I have never cared to watch the “Jags” play, but what I do care about is the fact that he is the only person that Finn has ever asked to be held by, who has refused to pick him up.  So, this is my connection to the bug man, if you were wondering where in the Hell this was all going, or how my mind connected the two separate incidents.  See, even the bug man, with the bug juice all over him was at least considering picking the kid up, because the way he looks at you and pleads for it is just too much to bear.  The Jag, however, just bent over and refused to even touch Finn.  It wasn’t that he was mean, it was just strange. 

And, not that I would have let the bug man pick Finn up with the bug juice all over, but the fact that he would have done it, the fact that he has accepted all of the books that Finn has brought to him, and the fact that the last time he was here, to poison the cute things potentially making nests in our attic, he played with the boys while I moved my car out of his way, those things are endearing.  Those things make me think that even if we are going to have some horrible lung diseases now, it was a good human-interaction for the boys.  Even though Mr. Hulk there didn’t pick Finn up, he found a new set of parents today, who did play with him, throwing a ball through a hula hoop.  In fact, I don’t think I have ever seen Finn quite so relaxed in a lap!  He could have fallen asleep…too bad that he decided to wake up as soon as we got home.  So much for naptime.

The lights are off and nobody is home,

Pru