Nothing and no one ever leaves. Not really. We just change form. I’m dying and being reborn all of the time. I swear I’ve already died, like, several times tonight. Like, the baby version of me has died, and the toddler version of me has died, and the little child version of me has died, and the adolescent version of me has died, and the person I was earlier tonight has died. Not because she wasn’t “good enough” or because she “sinned” or because she needed to be “improved” or “punished.” More because it was her inherent nature to die and to be reborn over and over and over again.
Oh, wow. Look at this fucking epic house! There’s a neon nativity scene out front! And there are fairy lights hanging from the roof like a waterfall! It’s raining fucking Christmas lights. Oh my goddess. I’ve never seen anything like it. Holy shit, there’s even a Magen David! On the top of the roof, there’s like, an attic, and they’ve put this massive, hot-pink, neon Magen David on the top. Like a cherry. Or maybe it’s a pentagram? Whatever. The fence around the property is low, and made of brick, and it’s lit up with little lights. I might sit down. Yes, I feel propelled to sit down. This could be one of the stupidest and most unsafe decisions that I’ve ever made, and yet, I’m going to make it. If there was ever a place to die, it would be right here, in front of neon Jesus, and neon Mary, and neon Joseph, and all of the neon Wise Men, and the cute little neon animals.
24.
That guy has gone and I’m not sure whether I feel relieved or considerably more freaked out. Could he be hiding somewhere? Like, behind a hedge or fence, or down a driveway? That’d be a pretty extreme length to go to. Whatever, universe. I refuse to believe that the lesson of this experience is “don’t walk alone at night” or “don’t walk alone at night without telling anyone” because having to report my whereabouts to I-don’t-know-who around the clock kind of minimizes the multidimensional nature of my existence, and positions life in a slightly more dystopian reality than the one I’d ideally like to live in. I mean, that woman’s boyfriend knew exactly where she was and that didn’t stop what happened from happening to her.
25.
Walking through the front gate of the party feels so satisfying now. It’s like I’ve finally reached safety after a long, perilous journey. I really want to tell somebody about the semi-traumatizing and totally revelatory experience that I’ve just had, and yet there’s no one to tell. I mean, there are heaps of people to tell, and yet there’s no one to tell. I’m weaving between them all and avoiding eye contact, because if I happened to lock eyes with somebody, they’d see that I had something to say, and that’d be embarrassing, because I wouldn’t say it.
It’s just that so much good came from my going for a walk. Some of my fears were turned into joy, and love, and miracles, and neon lights. When people ask me what I “do,” I often say that I’m an alchemist, because it seems to be the most honest label to put on all the things I don’t want to be labeled as. It makes sense to me. Although, it wouldn’t to my dad. I’m always conscious of what would or wouldn’t make sense to my dad. He’s like an inbuilt judicial system, governing my every move, and thought, and feeling, and choice.
And when I use the word alchemist to describe myself, I’m fully aware that Dad would think this was a bit “smart,” and a bit “cute,” and maybe a bit of an indication that I was leaning on the philosophies of my therapist a tad too much. Dad preferred that I lean on him, and his philosophies, rather than on those of other people. So while he encouraged me to have an open mind, and to become my own person, and to think for myself, he was very wary about the person I was becoming, and the people I was listening to.
He believed that the purpose of words and labels was to make things clearer, not more complex and diverse. To him, words and labels were there to organize, and to categorize, and to serve an objective reality that we could all trust and accept. Yet it always seemed to me that if there’s an objective reality that we all share, it has to be wordless.
Because everyone has such an individualized relationship with words, and with labels. No matter how “conventional” or “traditional” or “widely accepted” we might perceive our choice of words or labels to be, our interpretations are subjective. Like, when I tell someone that I’m a stripper, or a painter, or a stockbroker, or even an alchemist, it unlocks a whole kaleidoscope of experiences and impressions inside of them that aren’t mine, and that have nothing to do with me, and that I have absolutely no control over. They might love strippers, or they might judge them harshly. They might be besties with a stockbroker, or they might have lost all of their earnings to one.
I tried to address this with Dad, and he said that I should go and study linguistics before putting my case to him. He hadn’t studied linguistics. He just thought that I should. I doubt that he would have then wanted me to teach him about linguistics. He just thought that I should learn about linguistics before raising the subject with him.
26.
I’m moving toward the living room and saying a prayer for my past self—the one that was frightened—and saying one for the guy I believed to be following me. I forgive you and I release you. I forgive you and I release you. I forgive you and I release you.
Prayers aren’t reserved for those who regularly go to church, or to a synagogue, or to a mosque, or wherever. Prayers are for everyone. Even spells and curses aren’t just for those who own cauldrons, or broomsticks, or crystal balls. We’re all saying prayers and casting spells with our words, and our thoughts, and where we point our fingers.
I know, because I worked in a magic shop once, and I learned about it. The woman who owned the place was in insurance for forty years before she became a witch and started getting into some seriously freaky shit. Whenever things would go badly for her, she’d assume that somebody, somewhere, had cast a spell. Paranoia and suspicion came very naturally, which was probably the perfect disposition for working in insurance, yet it wasn’t ideal for a self-professed healer and “empath.”
She had immaculately groomed long white hair, and blood-red nails, and she was highly cryptic about everything, from her thoughts and feelings to her intentions. The ingredients that went into all of the potions that she sold, in all of these little brown glass vials, were swathed in secrecy. I remember saying to her that people might enjoy learning about what went into her “Love Potions” and “Abundance Oils” and she laughed, and grinned, and declared that, yes, people would probably enjoy “stealing her magic.” She didn’t trust anyone, and she frequently created experiences affirming the ways in which she must never trust anyone.
Another esoteric shop opened up down the street and she firmly believed that they were out to get her. Despite all of the evidence to suggest that she was out to get her. She was cursing and spelling herself constantly. She mustn’t have read the section in those Witchy books that deals with that. Because when I did, while working on the desk, I noticed that all of the books said whatever you send out comes back to you multiplied. Like, Witchy-Ness-101: Don’t put curses or nasty spells on other people, or assume the worst about them, because you’re really spelling, and cursing, and creating the worst for yourself.
One day she asked me to polish every last rune and piece of jewelry filling the glass cabinets that were located across the premises, and it involved me literally having to squat down on the floor, and scrub. As I was halfway through doing this, she walked through the room and mused, “Oh! There’s no need to kneel before me as I pass,” and I got up, walked out, and never went back.
Apparently, she was furious. Parting ways with someone or something doesn’t always make sense, so people often create reasons to be angry and resentful, because it weaves a stronger narrative around the process of letting go. That way, they don’t have to take responsibility for their part in it, because, you know. So-and-so was just a bitch and shit.
All of the fairies and crystal healers and shamans and palm readers that worked out of the shop instructed me to do c
ord-cutting rituals, and to visualize white light coming from the earth, and through my body, and up into the cosmos, in order to protect myself from her spells, and voodoo vibes. The only problem was that through them telling me to do this they manifested a way for me, and for them, to continue feeling frightened of her.
And I refused to give that druid-pagan-witch-lady-empath—or whatever she wants to call herself now that she’s living off her super—the satisfaction of my fear. I’d seen Star Wars and I knew that I was the force, and that the force was with me, and that my words and thoughts were mine, and that they couldn’t be hijacked or influenced by a bitter woman and her ridiculous “magicks.”
No matter how scary or intimidating a person may appear to be, we don’t need to “protect” ourselves from them. As long as we can turn our experiences into love, there’s no need to waste time and energy being frightened, or trying to stop things and people from coming in or going out.
27.
This living room is more like a dying room. There’s a small window looking out at a wooden fence, and an ice-blue plastic Christmas tree, lit up and sitting on the floor in one of the corners. There’s an enormous TV that’s turned off, and a turntable that isn’t playing, and a massive pair of speakers presiding over the entire space like obelisks. There are heaps of people dancing, and the music that they’ve put on is electro. A few guys are sprawled across the couches, stoned, staring blankly at the dancing people, whom I might join.
The members of the group that are closest to the door are tanned to perfection, evenly, all over, like the roast chickens Dad used to cook with Vegemite. They’re wearing variations on the same theme: denim cut-offs, tiny vests, different combinations of swimwear, body glitter, feathers, piercings, headbands, floral wreaths, and headscarves. I can’t wear headbands or headscarves, because if I don’t have air around my head I feel like I’ve died.
I’ve kept moving because I want to find a spot in the room that allows me to let loose without having to interact with anyone too directly. I like dancing for dancing’s sake. It’s a break from having to participate in verbal communication, which always seems to be about explaining shit, and proving shit, and clarifying shit, and arguing about shit, and criticizing shit, and showing off about shit, and avoiding shit, and dramatizing shit, and cracking jokes about shit, and brushing shit off, and defending shit, and attacking shit, and lying about shit, and insisting that shit will be “ok,” when truly empathizing and connecting with people involves feeling everything, and saying nothing.
I find that I have a much deeper appreciation for my fellow human beings when their mouths are shut. So dancing at a party provides an opportunity to connect with a room full of people, without having to say a word to them.
It’s hot in here, though, so I might move closer to the window. It’s closed. I’ll try to open it. Oh, no. It’s painted shut. Let’s pretend that my attempt to open it didn’t happen. If anyone noticed they’d probably be like, “What’s that chick doing in here if she just wants to get out?” And I’d reply, “Yes, well, I’m often asking myself the same thing.”
The people in this part of the room have adopted more of a bondage vibe. They’re wearing over-the-knee platform boots, and leather straps with buckles across their bodies, and chokers, and wigs, and black lipstick. They’re dancing with each other in very fleshy ways. Two of them have toy guns that are shooting bubbles.
I can also see a handful of sweaty guys sifting around in oversized band T-shirts with tracksuit pants, and floppy hair, and thin gold chains around their necks. One of them is wearing a dangly earring in one ear, and a pre-rolled cigarette behind the other. I think that they’re trying to be stealth as they blatantly check everyone else out. We have something in common. Although, they seriously look like they could be trying to steal some shit. Woe the person with the ever-so-slightly open backpack or bumbag. A handful of girls swaddled in tie-dye T-shirt dresses and puka shell necklaces also seem suspicious. Or maybe they just want to interact with them. It’s hard to tell.
There are a couple of dudes wearing enormous wings making out really intensely in the middle of the room, and a whole bunch of women lined up along one of the walls wearing chunky sneakers, sports socks, silky run shorts, crop tops, and midriff-exposing hoodies—which I didn’t know existed—and long, fluorescent acrylic nails. They aren’t dancing. For some reason they’re in here trying to talk with one another, and every time they go to say something, they raise their hands to their mouths and the diamantes on the tips of their nails shimmer in the darkness.
Everyone looks as if they’ve just gotten back from a trip to a beach, or to a lake, or to a music festival, where they’re supposed to dress and act like they’ve connected with tribal values, and with each other, and with their bodies, and with nature, even though they haven’t. Not really.
They were too busy trying to find the people that they went with, and trying to get phone reception, and trying to catch a glimpse of the person with the drugs, and trying to spot famous people, and trying to find a food stall with less expensive nachos, and trying to sneak into sectioned-off VIP areas, and trying to move their campsite closer to the main stage, and trying to spew, and trying to sleep, and trying to have an experience other than the one that they were actually having.
Or maybe the people in here have merely perfected the art of looking like they’ve been to a beach, or to a lake, or to a music festival, when they’ve really just spent the week checking their inboxes, and attending meetings, because their job description has “marketing” at the start and “communications” in the middle and something to do with “consulting” at the end.
The only problem is that to be “courageous” and “original,” you actually have to be “courageous” and “original,” and if you spend too much time and energy trying to appear as though you’re “courageous” and “original” you become so invested in the appearance of being it, that you can never actually be it.
28.
I found a good spot near the Christmas tree, which most people seem to be avoiding. Although, there’s a girl to my left wearing a lacy pastel-pink negligee, and pigtails, and she’s started swaying her hips in the exact same way that I am swaying my hips, and she keeps looking over here at my swaying hips like she’s studying them. She’s with a friend who seems to be very distracted, and who is also in a silky negligee, just with less lace. And it’s an olive-green color.
She and I haven’t even made eye contact. She’s just quietly going about observing my movement, and learning it, and minding her own business, which is to make my business her business. Copying others must make her feel more at ease, and I get that. I just couldn’t do what she’s doing without being fully aware of the fact that I was doing it, and then I’d have to share with the person I was copying that I was copying them. Like, “Yeah, I know, I’m mimicking you in order to feel safe! Hope that’s chill!”
I feel out of place in here. Everyone has multiples of themselves and it’s making me nervous. My presence messes with the established hierarchy. Before I came along, their mirror neurons were firing away happily, and now, people are awkwardly looking and not looking at me, and other people are starting to notice. Oh, well. I’m just going to close my eyes and witness shit.
So there’s the music, and the room, and the space beyond the room, and the mind, and the body, and the breath, and the spirit, and then my relationship to the music, and to the room, and to the space beyond the r
oom, and to the mind, and to the body, and to the breath, and to the spirit, and now everything beyond the room, and the mind, and the body, and the breath, and the spirit. And the moon, I can feel the moon.
The other night I had this dream about a really authoritative woman who was making her way around a large crowd of people, and I could sense that she was important, because everyone was responding to her in a way that made themselves seem small. They were widening their eyes, and doing fluttery things with their breath, and making frantic, tight, gossipy little gestures, and carefully watching her every move, before consorting with each other, and smirking.
She requested that those who were trained dancers make themselves known, and do a demonstration for her. I wasn’t trained, so I didn’t draw attention to myself. Yet she stood next to me and demanded that I dance for her, and, to my surprise, rather than feeling humiliated, it felt humbling to have been asked to do so. I didn’t know the correct movements, or timing, or anything. I just rolled my wrists around my body, and up over my head, as I swished my hips from side to side, and oxygen started going to places inside of me that it hadn’t been to before. There was nothing to stop me, and I had nothing to lose, because I wasn’t trained, anyway. I wasn’t schooled in anything. There were no rules. It was just me, and whatever came out.
I’m about to cry, so I’ll keep my eyes closed. Dancing with strangers is one thing. Crying and dancing with them is quite another. Most people aren’t cognizant of the fact that, in order to feel comfortable, they require others not to cry or do anything outside of the established code of conduct, which is an unspoken code of conduct, of course. Nevertheless, it must be adhered to, and implemented, through harnessing certain movements and non-invasive forms of eye contact, and it doesn’t come naturally to me, nor does it tend to involve crying unexpectedly.