Much last night.
Sitting with John T in Aunt J’s house, looking at a painting of barren, stark trees on a desolate landscape. What seems to be blood or even pink fluid is dripping from the branches of the trees.
Above, a weird display of diamonds is set into the wall, looking like a pentagram, almost.Flashing stobe-effect of blinking red and white lights. The thing radiates evil.
[I went to sleep last night reading “Undying Love” by Ben Harrison.]
John says, “Wait, watch, something is going to happen soon.”
Something does. We make the weird collection of precious stones is somehow sentient. One pops from the wall, rolls away. maybe it will begin to float in the air or something, I don’t know.This all seems vaguely threatening to me.
[Like this house, which is empty and cavernous and dull, but pregnant with shadows of grief hiding in every corner. Round a corner, and Hell yawns wide open lie a great desolate pit threatening to swallow you.]
The night before:
We were at a book party in an upstairs room. It was like a drunken book fair, with Auntie J and Uncle B, and lots, and lots of books on the occult. I was stumbling around psuedo-drunk, telling people,
“You don’t see with your eyes. YOU SEE WITH YOUR MIND.”
You know, the “you create your own reality jazz.”
The lights were strobing off and on. After the party, I have to go back up there and reclaim my stash of books. Some of them are hardcovers with gold leaf designs and scroll work on the front that looks mystical, faintly Egyptian. Auntie is wrapped in a strange costume that looks like bandages, seems to be in another world singing to herself. No wonder.
I spent the party goose-stepping around the room, being drunkenly entertaining and obnoxious. A fellow the next day informs me of my straight-legged walk. The fellow is tall, looks like a scruffy street person.
[Everyone was tired. The party had been dragged out to the point where, continuing with it was an absurdity. Time became a slipshod thing. We were like those actors in “American Graffiti” who were kept busily filming through a marathon session of takes until they were deliriously on the point of exhaustion, My ex-wife once had a dream in which, in Hell, there is no sleep.]
I remember I saw a pack of Buddhist fortune-telling cards sitting on a shelf. Buddhist tarot cards?