Some people call my name,
and I refuse to acknowledge them.
They message me, under a pretence of friendship,
Yet I ignore.
I beg they not use my name.
Life is not a hangmans’ game.
It’s a question that speaks to the heart of who I am.
I’m mindful to whom I expose my soul, lest it slip.
Lest my enemy breaches my door.
I beg, they not say my name.
The Devil doesn’t take your soul.
But people will gladly tear your skin, gouge your eyes, hiding behind guile, false wit, smiles.
I command them not to use my name,
His Dark Sutra: Diary
Sunday 27 July 2014
I’m spending the night in a haunted Victorian gothic mansion tonight.
Here is a 1973 Press clipping:
"Mrs Penelope Gallerneault, 26, lived in a flat in the Victorian-Gothic country house of Oakley Court, on the banks of the river Thames at Bray, Berkshire. The family were warned by friends before they moved in that the place was spooky, and frequently used by Hammer Films as a location for ‘Dracula’ or ‘Frankenstein’. And in the three years they were there, she and her husband and children suffered many tragedies.
Her marriage broke up and two of her four children are dead.
The horror began in the summer of 1972. ‘I started to see people walking in the grounds wearing hoods,’ she says. Then one morning she found a box on their doorstep - and, inside, the body of one of her cats, with its neck broken. And in December her two-year-old son, William, died. Mrs Gallerneault was running him a bath when the phone went.
When she returned he was floating in the water. ‘I realize that many people might try to blame me for being careless, but that is just not the case. In a rambling old house like that, there are so many precautions you have to take.’ Then early last month, her son Edward, who was just two, was left in his playpen in the grounds. Somehow he got out, toddled down to the river, fell in and drowned.
The other residents of Oakley Court remember two more deaths. A man fell from a pleasure steamer in 1971 and drowned in the same stretch of river as young Edward. And an old lady, whose body lay in her flat in the Court, was found dead in November 1972 after at least a week.
Mrs Gallerneault said, ‘The house has an aura of evil and I could never go back there. Horror films being made there seem like a joke. I’m sure evil has rubbed off on the place.’ The Rev. Sebastian Jones, curate of St Michael’s Church, Bray, added: ‘Oakley Court is definitely “spooky” and I would not want to stay there myself. Evil can generate evil, and the grounds would be an ideal place to practise black magic’ The police, called in at every stage, are mystified too.
A senior policeman said: ‘There have been some strange happenings at the house, which have never been explained. We made regular patrols after complaints about witches, and things seem to have quietened down now. We never discovered how Mrs Galler-neault’s cats died or who killed them…”
"You teach me now how cruel you’ve been - cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight you - they’ll damn you. You loved me - what right had you to leave me? What right - answer me…
Because misery, and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will did it.
I have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you - Oh, God! would you like to lie with your soul in the grave?”
Soon the person you believe you are will die—so now, wake up and be content with this knowledge: There is no need to search, achievement leads nowhere, it makes no difference at all just be happy now. Love is the only reality of this world because it is all one you see and the only laws are paradox, humor and change. There is no problem there never was and never will be, release your struggle let go of your mind, throw away your concerns and relax into the world.
No need to resist life just do your best, open your eyes and see that you are far more then you imagine, you are the world, you are the universe, you are yourself and everyone else too. It’s all the marvelous play of God, wake up regain your humor you are already free.
2.23am and the heat in this dark room is stifling.
Humidity constricts my body with the coiling warmth of a serpent. I know not how long I slept. It was a delirium with eyes closed that seemed vast, yet momentary.
So instead I sit upright on a strangers bed.
I moved away from London a decade ago.
It was my escape from the acerbic people and a life which was monotonous and dreary, filling me with paranoia. Yet I am home again.
A fan whirs with conviction but lacks all effort. The searing heat holds the pungent air making it both thick and heavy. The temperature builds on my nape with an oily sheen. Beads of sweat collide with one another, vying for dominance on my brow.
This morning I visited a bookshop historically frequented by the occultists Aleister Crowley and Austin Osman Spare. They, like me, would have noticed the daemons in this malodorous city growing in strength and numbers.
No one cares.
We are all plummeting towards Hell.
Press play. Listen. Absorb. Love.
The autoimmune system, collaborates with the autonomic nervous system to create suppressions,
often misconstrued as depression.
I read something, somewhere that simple things like opening eyes,
standing straight, regular exercise,
can all assist to exorcise the demons caused by melancholy.
Perhaps the formula to beat depression is to move ones body.
Because when I reflect on nature and the ebb and flow of trees, plants, flowers
who are unconcerned with the Gregorian calendar and humdrum passing of the hours.
Instead, they sit content
within forests and flower beds, being free.
And the flow helps to keep them growing.
Somewhere I learnt that lifting the zygotic muscles of the cheeks can help elicit a biochemical cascade of feelings that increase happiness.
Maybe it’s the actions of standing upright and smiling that help lower cortisol to fight sensations of stress.
In any event, life is a beautiful, wondrous thing
Don’t ask about how the world has wronged you, instead focus on the joy you bring.
(A silly poem dedicated to Meadow36)
23 July 2014
Seated on the edge of my bed, as if balanced on a precipice. Teetering on a knife edge.
My feet are relaxed, toes combing through strands of carpet to feel gentle velveteen warmth.
My mouth is tinged with the remnants of coffee, yet I crave more. The cup is on my bedside table. It stands lonely, waiting for the caress of my fingers to lift it toward lips.
Behind me, clothes are laid out on my bed, stacked in neat piles. I stretch my neck taut to turn and look. Grey and black cotton. Underwear and shirts.
A watch sits atop one of the garment structures. How much time do I have? It fails to answer.
The room is mercilessly quiet. Silence sleets down walls, careening towards my ears.
Outside my window, clouds sit heavily atop forests and mountains.
I’d rather sit in silence than watch the world crumbling around me.
There is purity in silence.
21 July 2014
Lights trail across the valley as my head plants deeply, cushioning into my pillow.
The room is Dark, the gentle glow from my phone shimmering onto my face.
The door is shut (to my bedroom), the warmth of the night being dispensed with via a solitary open window.
There is absolute silence where I live. No vehicles, no voices. No murmurs of civilization rushing past like insectoids desperately attempting to create a legacy for themselves.
No, just silence.
So I listen to my breath.
My neck knife is beside me on a white table. I have removed both talismans which I’ve placed under my pillow. Protection must always be close at hand. Demons are never far.
I sip water throughout the night. Alas, I am a light sleeper, prone to aimless wandering under the moonlight.
I’ll rest. And I’ll lay here quietly until sleep claims me.