it was true, I left a candle burning. I laugh out loud. I am wearing a mask so the three people walking towards me can’t hear me say, “I don’t really care. I set my altar on fire three times before and the house has yet to burn down.” both the smoke detectors are beeping in my house. I left a candle burning. it was a way to get me to go back. “I was really going to walk all the way to rittenhouse like this.” I was walking slower than before, kind of crawling while standing and crossing the street at the intersection to get around them. the people with their dog. I couldn’t pet the dog, make small talk, and couldn’t grab a real thought. I can’t believe I left a candle burning. I needed a reason to go back. the outside was indeed the antithesis of joy. in breezes, it was algid and everyone was boarded up. I was walking slower than before, kind of slithering across the intersection, leaning slightly to the right and heading back home to insure I had left the candle burning. to sit on the living room floor, weighted. to feel the tendril wrap my head and whisper: c’est la tien, but in her brevity and english again.
it taped me to the living room floor and was immediately intense and ineradicable. I had the thought once I was back inside that this was going to be extreme but due to superstition, thought I might want to rephrase it. shaking my head, I did say out loud, “no, this is intensity. you like intensity.” and I tried to remember the French phrase. not remember it, because it wasn’t forgotten but how to say it. I had practiced outside on my ten minute walk. vous saimez l’intensite. I repeated l’intensite to get the inflection down. it is best to get one at a time. j’aime lintensite. I was grateful for the candle, first, for the ritual that started this, then for making me sit and wait. it wanted weight. I wanted weight and I wanted to break through the leftover things.
I immediately had to sit. when I walked in I merely yelled at the cats that I was on drugs and threw my shoes and coat off. I made sure to place them in their respective places as disorder bothers me especially in such an escalated state. I sat down and couldn’t look at anything in the room. last time this happened, I laid down and let myself feel the pull of the earth. I imagined being toppled with dirt, someone shoveling dirt on me. I imagined the coolness of the rocks and my body nestled firmly as in a grave. I would guffaw and let the cat sit on me for grounding. I said things that had no meaning like I’m lying on top of a carcass or I feel less above the ground and more beneath it. a lot of things about a girl named Rebecca who I felt was tricking me. the realization there may be no Rebecca. the confusion and me this time thinking firmly no ghosts today. I don’t want ghosts here.
note book try tarot then lay down. I grabbed my notebook and I flipped the page to see the Virgo in the second house and in big all caps DO NOT PLAY MARTYR.
it’s too late for that isnt it I laugh out loud
last time I was fixated on dirt. I was fixated on the dirt in my apartment having decided to take the shrooms in the middle of cleaning and remember beginning to peak holding my steam mop on the kitchen floor. I respect drugs so much I take them liberally and see how they shape me. I could not speak coherently at times last time and I laughed so much. this was not feeling as jovial. it felt staid, devoid of laughter, real and grounded. I was stuck to the living floor. taped to it and watching the shadows begin crawl and spread their arms across the wall.
“I need to get upstairs.”
I was taped to the living room floor. I was swaying there in front of my altar and really contemplating the pressure in the townhouse. the bedroom already felt light from upstairs and I had the recurring thought that I should not invite ghosts in to this trip and revisiting last time without commitment to being stuck in that memory, but skimming the details. not only was I obsessed with dirt, but spent a lot of time thinking about a fantasy and then losing my thoughts as if I had dementia and blaming them on a ghost named Rebecca, the snake of the coven. I remember being in my bath and turning wildly to the right, as if someone was there, and saying “I’m the snake and I still want her out.” I had made the decision to remove this girl from my house and the coven, screaming at a mirror that she was unwelcome and wanted negative things for me. that I would no longer allow her trespass. I did not want this again. I did not want hallucination in such a dramatic form, or even just confusion. no ghosts. and the pressure began to build. the entire house began to press on me and two of my most used altars, both to channel, to conjure, to commune and both were downstairs and I was taped to the living room floor.
it’s also time. to still. I am sort of quivering on the floor like that and trying to remember. that it was a quivering I always felt. my stomach began to turn and eat itself. time. reverberating and really I could go back and forth if I just focused my mind. if I just felt the floor then I would be feeling the floor you see. I would be able to stay there and get through the uncomfortability. I didn’t want to pick anything up. I couldn’t really see. when it hits you it moves and takes over your eyes too. everything had a glow to it and it was bright even without any lights on or curtains open. it was a haze that began to form around anything. I needed everything to be dimmed. I needed everything to be less than it was as it was moving. I needed to get upstairs. I stood up like that.
“Cats, stay on guard.”