Loading ...Certain strains of Christian fundamentalism would have us believe that it’s awfully easy to get possessed. All it takes is a sip of liquor, an afternoon of jazzercise, a ninja movie or a night of trick-or-treating and whammo, you got the demon in ya. Well lemme tell’ya…
…it ain’t that easy. And frankly, if I have to do aerobics or jazzercise to get there, just count me outta the whole thing.
But really, all things considered, I should’ve been possessed a long time ago. Like when I was 15 and attended an evangelical school and refused to burn my Led Zeppelin albums. That should’a dunnit right there. Who knows, maybe it did. That’d explain a lot about my subsequent years.
And I practically cut my teeth on horror movies. My dad loved horror movies - we’d stay up every Friday night, all night, watching the ‘friday night frights’ with Vincent Price, Christopher Lee, Boris Karloff. Surely dad’s proclivity for the dark side started me down the wrong path very early, and has condemned me to an eternity of hell-fire. Or at the very least, a small contingent of demons battling for possession of my soul.
Then there’s the whole marriage to Satan thing. Which is illegal in every state except Massachusetts. And I gotta ask, does anyone ever spell Massachusetts right the first time? You’ll find it spelled wrong many times on this listing of Massachussetts (sic) architects.
That was my tasty tangent for the day. Mmmmm… Massachusetts.
Anyway, you’re all invited to an alchemical wedding (just as soon as they’re legal in Georgia). And if you’re a paranoid fundie worried that that non-holy-ghost-inspired dance you did last night will open you up to the minions of Satan, I wouldn’t worry too much. It takes more than a Boot Scootin’ Boogie to catch an entity.
Buy me a beer!
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This entry was posted on Monday, September 10th, 2007 at 4:36 pm and is filed under mystical. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
as long as there’s no broom-jumping, i’m there. are we expected to bring pie?
Because I was once a Star Trek Geek (now I’m like, meh, I can leave it or leave it), when you said symbiant, I thought of that worm thing that was in Dax.
Kinda gross. And what about all those unjoined people?
And then I thought “I am deeply ashamed to have thought of that.”
There was a guy who was once in love with me who expressed everything in relation to Star Trek. Every thing. There was no situation that you could find yourself in with him that couldn’t elicit a Star Trek metaphor or analogy or story. For Halloween in the Village, I dressed up like Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction, and he dressed up like Data.
My boyfriend at the time dressed up like Mama from Mama’s Family. Our relationship was not destined to last.
Bringing pie isn’t necessary. You could bring cake instead.
Thats what Richard and I used to say to people who dropped by unexpectedly, “If we knew you were comin’, we’d've asked you to bring a cake.”
I think I know who the mama’s family cross-dresser was. And the scary thing is, I CAN see him dressed as “mama”. Disturbing.
“cake or death?”
chocolate lava? tiramisu? wedding??
ahhhhhh, iiiiii know - angel food!
Devil’s food, mebbe?
i wondered if that would be too obvious.
He hee. Of all the things we could get people to do, tattoo themselves, leave parties to drive us to bars they could not get in, abandon plans to move to Reno to follow us to Seattle when we weren’t going to stay there ourselves . . . the only thing we couldn’t convince them to do was bake a cake for us before they came over.
We could make them change their lives, but we couldn’t make them do the mundane.
Tis true. People did pretty much do everything we told them to.
Everything but bake a fucking cake.
If they had only known we sought so little, would they have given us so much?
Probably not.
But at least we’d've gotten cake.
Then again it goes to show just how overblown people’s perceptions of us were.
We were simple folk. We just wanted some cake. Maybe a soda and the occasional hallucinogen.
Which, at this point in my life, would be just as good.
And speaking of spiritual, I just got finished watching a show about Rothko. I always hated his paintings before (Green Stripe indeed!), thinking they were just blocks of shape that any child could do. But Rothko felt that you had to stand 18 inches away from the painting to feel the emotions and spirituality wrap itself around you.
Well, I still think that is pretentious and stupid as shit, but I was amazed at the merging of the edges of the color swaths. All that huge display of color, and the most fascinating thing to me turns out to be the little edges. I swear, they look like the cloud lines on Jupiter, swirling into each other like that.
Had to say, I was impressed. Spiritually? No. Did emotion pour over me? No. What I did think was, “Well looka there. Looks like Jupiter, that does.”
Maybe one day I’ll find the spiritual in me.
Until then, looks like Jupiter.
I meant blocks of color.
I like blocks of shape better, however.
And I apologize for mentioning Rothko. I should have been talking about cake!
Well I reckon there are worse things than looking like Jupiter.
Looking like Richie, perhaps.
Van Gogh’s Sunflowers is probably my most emotional art experience. You see that fucking print all over the place and think, “meh… vase of yellow flowers.” Then you see it up close and person and its just… indescribable. The one at the National Gallery in London… it dominates the room its in. The texture and the brilliance. You can’t take your eyes off it.
I can’t remember for the life of me what else was in that room. But them was some amazing fucking sunflowers.
*holds up right palm* i hereby swear that i will, someday, bake a fucking cake for che and dr. previous.
…andpossiblytattoomyself*cough*.
See Richard…
somebody gets us.
I once was in the Met in NYC and there was this massive swirl of color completely covering one wall. It was black and green swirling around it other like some sort of putrid hurricane. I don’t know who produced the painting, but I thought it was beautiful.
Then I noticed a little pink thing in a part of the painting, and I went up closer to look at it and the whole experience was ruined.
There was a little penis in the painting. Just a dick, hanging out in a whirlpool.
Only time in my life I was ever unhappy about finding a penis in an unexpected place.
Stefficus, I will gladly eat the cake!
You may tattoo wherever you like.
As long as there is cake involved.
What a surprising story. You unhappy about finding a penis.
Ah well, there’s a first time for everything.
I once met a beautiful manz over Max Ernst’s Bird of Paradise in the Atlanta Museum of Art.
it’s weird how something in person really truly is a different experience. stuff has presence… it’s like psychometric or something. the most interesting one i ever had (i’ve never been to the lourve, after all) was at the rock-n-roll hall of fame (shut up, stay with me) looking at a letter charles manson had written to rolling stone magazine.
it was palpable.
I once made a guy kiss me at the Art Center Station outside the Atlanta Museum of Art.
It was Chicken. I said, “Damn it, chicken, everyone knows we’re gay, now kiss me and get off this train.”
I have to say the MARTA riders were surprised at the insistence of our kiss.
But they didn’t care that we were having a kiss in. They were just pissed off that they were riding the MARTA.
(*siiiiiiiiigh* my shitty intranets, let me show you them.)
Yeah, I get the psychometric thing. (I also understand being pissed off at having to ride MARTA. I’ve been there).
There were so many things at the British museum that were overwhelmingly palpable. It made me really glad those white guys went around the world stealing stuff, just so I could see it all.
But some of the most intensely tangible was the aztec stuff. I swear you could almost smell the blood.
When I worked for my last company, the best part of it was that my assistant was an art history major who worked in museums (Musea?) before taking a job as a research assistant at this Manhattan company.
I loved going on trips with her. We would have to drive over two and a half hours once we landed in New Orleans and we would talk about art — all kinds, even the place of comic book art as a particularly American expression.
One of the things we talked about several times was the “falseness” of the museum experience. Everything is seen outside of its original context, usually surrounded by white as if to say the museum itself was simply an empty space filled with the art.
But we also acknowledged that if a bunch of white guys hadn’t gone around stealing stuff from its original context we wouldn’t see much of it.
The Brooklyn museum has a huge collection of ancient Egyptian artifacts (I know, surprising, right?) and it was very interesting to stand among the relics and ruins of such an ancient civilization — while in Brooklyn.
I miss those car trips. After seeing the show about Rothko, I immediately thought of my old assistant. I’ll probably call her up tomorrow, to talk about Rothko!
I’ll be Dr. Hawass of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities has been to Brooklyn several times trying to get that stuff back into Egypt.
He loves his work.
Well, payback is hell. Mummy’s curse an’all.
But I’d rather see it in a ‘false’ museum than, say, on the internet. And false or not, the British Museum is a remarkable context to see anything in. The scope of the place, the vastness. Its amazing.
And sure, I’d rather go to Egypt than to the museum, but fat chance of that happening.
Our point exactly. Sorry Dr. Hawass, I won’t be in Egypt anytime soon.
But the Brooklyn Museum’s just across the river.
Well, two rivers actually. The East and Hudson.
Three if you count the Raritan.
But I’m digressing.
The only museum in NYC I don’t think I’ve been to is the MOMA. Speaking of Rothko.
Mojo wants to go the transit museum.
I bet that would be interesting, actually.
Leave it to Mojo to want to go to a Museum of something practical!
The museum of practicality. Could be interesting!
I remember one day Pi made a schedule (complete with graphs and charts) that included seeing the National Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery, and the British Museum all in one afternoon. I guess he worked time travel into his schedule somehow.
There’d be a cool addition to the transit museum!
I’d go then for sure!
And speaking of time, it’s about time for me to get to bed. I taught tonight as well as my other job.
And it was hot and humid as hell.
Nothing is quite so hot as a suit on an NYC subway station.
All that heat wiped me out!
I need access to that time travel transit museum.
Yes I’m thinking of lounging and reading for a while. I had a nice enough evening, but its gone rapidly downhill since then.
I just wanna chill.
G’night!
aw. i get back online, and i have nobody to play with. jut have to play with myself, i guess.
maybe i’ll have some cake.
hee! i am vaguely disappointed that dr. p did NOT, in fact, say, “there’s nothing quite so hot as a slut on an NYC subway station.”
however, making me think of henry petrosky AND the international spy museum in the same post makes up for it.