The Diamond Island

You aren’t supposed to look in the scary room. Even if nothing is supposed to be there, what might happen if there was something there the one time someone looks? Well, flashlight in hand, kicking boxes aside, I had to look. Even with a doll two feet from me that might develop satanic glowing red eyes right out of Baba Yaga’s skull fence.

I’m scared out of my wits, but I also know what the crucifix of my darkness is – getting a date. I’m scared and annoyed that this has to be me. There’s danger and a good laugh at the same time. The suspense is driving me crazy.

I shine my flashlight into the room, and I spot a rectangular cardboard box. The coffin analogy is not lost on me. I use a broom to pull it towards me, afraid of what may or may not be in the cardboard box with dangly packing tape ends. If it’s empty, does that mean the doll-sized dweller is about to jump on my neck and suck my blood from behind? The doll is behind me, mind you, and I am most vulnerable.

I pry open the box, and I find a rolled length of blue-gray, cut carpet remnant inside. I struggle to figure out the meaning. After some nervous sweating in a cold room, I pull the carpet out and unroll it onto the floor. I’m thinking I need a magic carpet ride.

I stand on the carpet and wait for something to happen. It’s nice to stand on a soft carpet instead of a cold concrete floor. I experience spooky feelings of trouble, and a sense of conflict. I’ve got to worry and not worry. There’s work to be done, but I’m clueless.

I turn out the lights and close my eyes.

Every ghost has a secret wish they need fulfilled in order to be laid to rest. And I think every one of us is followed by ghosts that need laying to rest. The quest is always to uncover the secret and satisfy the need in a meaningful way.

Oh yeah, did I mention I’m living in a haunted house? I know ghosts got to have their own living quarters while they poke and moulder about. But sheesh, I never get used to the chill blasts of air while I’m looking through my still-packed boxes for that wildebeast map I thought I knew the location of.

I notice the apparitions grow calm and content as I come across my “naughty bits” coloring book. Lands sakes, the things I collected when I was living on the west coast. But since I’m listening to the dialogue of this spooky, terrifying haunted house experience, I’m not putting it up to coincidence. Zoinks, Scoob, we have a clue.

I start to imagine that what the UFOs, Bigfoot, and the Amityville Horror really want are hot babes. Mars needs women. Bigfoot needs a heroine to carry off like in Donkey Kong. The Amityville Horror needs some love backstory to make the drama more urgent. Crumbs, is this really what it all comes down to, the unknown forces of doom want me to be their dating service?

Oh, for crying out loud.

I have to remind myself of both the seriousness and the humor in this situation. What would Gomez Addams be without Morticia? What would the monster be without their victim? The monster has always been a symbol of lustful desire embodied in a form and a story we can relate to. Love is both a blessing and a torment, a uniting force and a destructive one – what is Romeo and Juliet but the story of two enemies falling for one another? The divine force of love overrides all human requirements and tosses aside whatever towers of Babel we have built for ourselves.

Being the living being in this arrangement, of course it falls to me for the physical accommodation of this dialogue. I have to hire the musicians who will play the Monster Mash, and I have to set up the monsters with their willing victims or lost love compatriots. While I might be the living facilitator, I’m going to need a host for this haunted house party.

That’s where I have to own up to my terror and explore what lies beyond that. The source of the psychic disturbance which apparently needs me to lay something to rest, by getting it a date.

Out of nowhere, I remember my first crush. A native American dancer who stunned me with her looks and her moves. I’ve never forgotten her, and it appears that neither has the unknown. For some reason, I think of a Count Dracula like figure, watching events unfold from his musty castle. While I may have seen this dancer from my perspective, so too might have the vampire. I put this thought away for now.  It’s time to change the cat box.

I firmly believe that even a creature of unrepentant evil is fair game for Cupid’s bow, at least in principle. In reality, what do I know? I don’t make monkeys, I just train them. Who knows the depths of darkness in the breast of a heart of stone that has been overridden by providence?

Time to go into the basement, and find out what’s really there in the seemingly empty “mysterious room”.

I’m in a haunted house that I can’t stand living in. The problem is, the more I meditate on the matter the more I see that this misfortune struck me because it was necessary. I have to spend a night and a day in the haunted house to know the secret.

When I was a little monster, there was a record I used to listen to all the time. “Night in a haunted house.” The first side of the record is taken up by a spooky talking dude who guides you into and out of a haunted house with commentary. All sorts of scary sounds and occurrences happen in the background until your adventure is over.

I had several such records. There’s one I remember quite vividly, which I no longer have because it was melted.  I left it too close to a heating unit. The story was a more mature and scary night in a haunted house, which I would listen to over and over.

I scare up the In Search Of episode on the Amityville Horror and study it intensely. Something the priest says about exorcisms strikes me as meaningful. You don’t exorcise objects (or houses) because they can’t become possessed (according to the Catholic church, or so he says). Well, I’m not sure if I buy that.

However, I do buy the clue-in that follows my brain stem process. I’ve read my Carl Jung, and very often a psychic disturbance has at its root some imbalance in the unconscious that needs to be brought to light. The possession starts in a person and flows outward. In my more modern form of reasoning, I couldn’t help but question whether the family in the Amityville Horror carried baggage with them that culminated in their psychic experience (hoax or not).

Hey, if something’s going on, you have to own up to your part in the affair, no matter how slight. Jung says nothing can plague you that which can find no space to secure its hooks in. I’m thinking I have to face facts that the haunted house is in some measure my fault. Or, even if it is somebody else’s bad coffee brewing, I have to pay my small tab in participating in it.

Active imagination time. I’m scared out of my skin, but I’m quite committed to this Scooby Doo mystery, wherever it leads. I know there are times when someone should just bogue out and call it even. Not every monster can, or should be confronted. As the protagonist says in Night of the Demon, “Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

If you pass through the Daathian doorway, you might encounter something that turns to dust in the light of day, or a hostile force that can cause you physical harm. Life is one of those funny things where you always have to make decisions as to what situation you find yourself in. You can’t hide all the time, any more than you can always go out chasing dragons.

I’ve been in situations where you had to run away many times. Goodness knows I’m a cringer at heart! Unfortunately, my intuition keeps telling me this is one of those unpleasant things you just have to cowboy up on. I never thought I’d have to really spend a night in a haunted house for real. It was something that always had a nice green “Exit” sign in view every hundred feet.

I contemplate my situation over a ceramic cup of my newly discovered draft cider (something I’ll mention in another post). Outer reality is reflecting a process going on inside my head. Considering the change in my life given my commitment to writing, a lot of unconscious contents are being stirred up at the deepest levels.

My dream journal confirms that sea creatures are being driven to the surface. The other night I dreamt I was on the edge of a cliff looking down at a sandy beach and a lagoon. A gigantic eye looked up from the surface of the water, and then a colossal (as opposed to a giant) squid swam around the lagoon.

I was scared to see such big creatures, but I also felt grateful to know there were still creatures of mystery in the unknown.

I believe now that my fears are my own, and the spooky stuff is my own fault. If I’m being scared out of my wits, it’s because it’s time for me to see it and to feel it. I know there are transcendent functions out there. The time has come for me to captain up and confront my fears and my feelings. It has to be a conscious decision.

So, you wish to spend a night in a haunted house? Well then. Follow me.

K and I were living in a great townhouse a year ago, in a perfect neighborhood for our purposes. The cats were happy, and the parental units were just down the street. If either of us needed a cup of sugar, an onion, or a spare bottle of pinot cheep-io, it was a hat trick.

For various reasons beyond our control, the landlord was forced to move into their townhouse again and we were forced out. It was a month of total panic and stress as we needed to find an affordable new home, and move all our well-settled things.

It was traumatic. Michael, one of our kitties, developed bladder stones and had to have surgery. The window on my pa’s car got broken in the moving about. K nearly suffered a nervous breakdown at having to leave her well-tended front and back yard gardens behind.

We got along well with our landlord. It was in many respects a prefect arrangement for the both of us. He was not pleased at having to move and force us out. There was naught any of us could do but accept this blow as that sort of occurrence that life throws at you. You make the best of it.

Here we are, a year later, and we still haven’t recovered from the torture of the move. And we aren’t exactly ready to make the jump to another abode yet. It would be hard to find a better living arrangement than the one we had.

The house blows. Even though, logically, it’s as convenient as the old one, and had more space. There are a number of things wrong with it, such as doors that don’t lock or close properly, and we are stuck with neighbors who are for the most part inferior to the wonderful people who lived next to us before.

Our relationship with the new landlords leaves something to be desired.

Now mind you, not all is woe. There are many other avenues of our life that are getting on quite nicely. Thank goodness! Rather than call our situation a disaster, I would say it’s a trying time of the soul, where every day you make one more yard. The waiting is the hardest part.

So, back to the present. Sometimes the faucet turns itself on a little during the night. K and I hear little noises that make us nervous at times. The cats, save for Blink (who is neurotic and doesn’t stand for any nonsense when she’s resting in her current choice of pad), are unsettled by the apparitions.

My appearance for a while had indicated dementia. Thank goodness for my brand new electric razor blades. K was keeping my back on that one. Our front door has a slight dent in it, with boot scuff marks. And our door handle is barely staying in place (the screws pop out at inopportune times). I feel like someone tried to break in the place by kicking the door down in the past.

We have a flapping side board near the roof, that we finally got the landlords to have repaired. The handyman will be by on the afternoon of the full moon. The tap-tap-tapping when it gets windy has been keeping us awake at night.

The upstairs toilet makes a loud slamming noise when used, so we just haven’t used it. I’d forgotten about it because we put it on the back burner last year and added it to our list of problems. But I’m starting to think its one more indication that this haunted house is a reality.

Oh yes, last week, probably because of the warm weather, we had to set free several insects. A stinkbug, several mosquito eaters, and some earwigs. Even with the heat on, the cold seems to seep into the house. Yeah, you know where I’m going with this.

It’s only just now that K and I put all these pieces together. My problems with sleep, and the stirred up feelings I dealt with earlier were just the wave of the thing under the water swimming over to the boat, so to speak. I knew I’d have to deal with things again, and that my good night’s sleep was just a rest period between rounds.

Here we are, renewing our lease for an untenable situation, and all we haven’t gotten is the scary voice telling us to “get out”. I recall Eddie Murphy using the Amityville Horror as part of his comedy routine, saying if he ever got that voice, he’d be out the door immediately. Yeah, easy to say buddy.

I’m doing laundry in the basement. There’s a shelf that was here when we moved in. There’s a bunch of junk there that I took no notice of until now. I see that there is a doll on a stand on one of the shelves, and I feel my spine start to tingle. Clenching my teeth, I turn the doll’s face towards me to make sure there are no red eyes staring back at me. I turn to the right, and I realize the space between the wall and the downstairs bathroom almost qualifies as a “mysterious room”.

It’s game time.

Don’t think the current imbroglio involving the depths of scary unconscious contents stirred up by the In Search Of Doom affair have settled in for their long winter’s nap! I say thee nay. Rather, it’s been a truce of sorts, while each side figures out the other and comes to its conclusions, with the understanding that there would be further dialog.

Evil dolls, bigfoots and UFOs that scare people out of their skins are my friends now. We’ve been packing our bags to go see what the next thing to do is. See, all that stuff was inside of me, and I was frightened by it like nobody’s business. There are depths in me that give me the heebie jeebies. I’d much rather avoid all that and eat a doughnut, watch some TV.

But it ain’t my fate, nor my crime, to turn away from what’s going on in inner space. I had to take a break. Too many other chakras to attend to, on the mundane side of things if you know what I mean. There’s a history between me and the moon that goes way back, and some of the work I’ve been doing artistically, specifically research, has been in that area and percolating like a fine wine for oh, say ten or twelve years. It’s time to crack open the casks and see what sort of psychological brew I’ve come up with.

What’s the flavor? I’ll be lettin’ you know as soon as the expedition gets underway, whatever it is. Which should be soon, judging by the memories and recollections bubbling forth for my reflection. Just stay tuned, and you’ll be in the loop, I guarantee it.

Ugh, the cola wars never end! The war to make you drink carbonated sugar water and get fat, that is. It tastes so good, but it’s so bad for you. A world of addicts to a beverage that is nowhere near the original fountain drink experience of eras long past. There must be a way to fight against the unstoppable tanks armed with shells of cola cans shooting liquid health problems into your gullet.

Well, on the starship Snipe, I was a chattin’ with one of my imaginary friends. Doctor Madman, in charge of my general health and well-being. He clues me into some plot points I’ve missed over the years and the hints I haven’t taken up. So I agree, yeah I need to follow up those transmissions and see what we find. Next time, I got a tag on relevant info and it’ll happen.

K and I walk into a tea shoppe, and we realize this is what we’ve been looking for. The bonus has landed. We plop down some bucks for a nice Chinese ceramic teapot, teapot coaster, some cups, and some cupholders. Plus a supply of rooibus (pronounced roy-boss) tea in two flavors for long lasting refuels. We head to an appliance store and get a hold of a nice water kettle and bang, we’re in business.

The upgrade goes like this. Fill up the kettle with some water, heat it up. Meanwhile, spoon some measures of tea into the teapot’s metal filter. When the water is hot, pour into the teapot, and let simmer. Then, pour yourself some tea and consume together for relax time.

Yeah, yeah, drinking tea is something only those fruity “other countries” do. Real people drink real soft drinks, right? Hey, I ain’t giving up my right to drink a bottle of RC cola now and then, but I’m switching sides, man. I need to keep my water tanks filled, I need the hook up with plant particles in my system fightin’ the nasty infestoids tryin’ to carjack my body. The right tea set-up does all that, and relaxes me.  And it’s all about me!

So from now on, K and I do our tea filler-up when we get home, and dial down the damage. It’s part of the secure to general quarters, and the beginning of reprogram and recharge procedures. The new gas station of the future, baby. I’m pumpin my body full of fuel and puttin’ the smack down on the imbalance. All things in moderation, and that goes for vice as well as civilized behavior. I’m not going for the best, just going for what’s mine.

From now on, it’s going to be tea, not just no-tea. Watch me work now!

One of the greatest movies ever made is a humble little gem called Captain Ron. It’s a comedy, about a stressed out office chump who inherits a large sailboat from his “weird” uncle. The chump, played by Martin Short, decides to bring the ship to a port where an agent will buy the boat from him and he can pay off his looming bills. He also decides to bring his dysfunctional family of working mom, doofus sun and bratty daughter down with him. The idea is that he will be able to bond with them during what he imagines will be a vacation for the family.

They hire a local captain to operate the boat for them (they are the typical clueless white middle class dual-income family), and that is where Captain Ron, played by Kurt Russel, comes in. Captain Ron is a trickster archetype who throws everyone’s expectations and views upside down. He has a laid back demeanor and appears simple-minded. Yet he’s handsome, self-assured, and skilled.

Through subtle interactions, he gets the family members to confront their problems and learn how to be skilled boaters. He frightens them while at the same time expanding their consciousness to include things beyond their narrow experience.

The Captain becomes a headache for the chump, who sees Ron as a personal threat to his self-image. His family’s adoration of the man, and his own repeated bumbling brings out all his insecurities. He begins to work at getting the Captain fired; yet despite his many mistakes the Captain always comes out on top and smelling of roses.

The conflict comes to a head when during an island carnival the chump loses his temper and fires the Captain in front of a large crowd. Unfortunately, he angers a pirate leader in the process, and in the next scene the boat is stolen from the family. They are left adrift in a raft, where they realize how much the Captain has been a force for good in their lives, and how much he has been keeping them safe from harm.

By a twist of fate, they run into Captain Ron who gives them a chance to steal their boat back. This time, the family works together and use the skills they’ve learned to get the boat away from the pirates and out into the sea again. During this affair, Captain Ron feigns a broken leg and forces the chump to do the work.

All of a sudden, the chump realizes Captain Ron has been teaching him to be the Captain. Ron hasn’t just been a decent human being to them, he’s something more. They’ve all learned how to be their own Captains and break out of the lifelessness of their problems. The Captain, seeing that his work is done, leaves them in a tearful farewell. It’s up to them now, and they are ready.

At the end, they decide to live on their sailboat and leave their lives behind. The boat has been transformed from a ruined near-wreck to a lively, operating entity with all the quirks of a family you’d expect. Watching from the wings is Captain Ron, who smiles as he takes on a new group of people in need of help. Their boat expedition is just beginning.

It is at this point I realized Captain Ron is an archetype of the Transcendent Function. He resonates with a powerful energy that brings people together and solves problems that defy solution. How do you really get your head back together, once you’ve bought into the labor workforce drama of marriage – kids – house – old age – death? The secret is a profound mystery. But its fun to watch Captain Ron show us how to be complete human beings. He always knows how to approach somebody’s hang-up and get them to back out of it under their own power.

Someday, you might go on a journey and meet your own personal Captain Ron. Are you ready to be Captain?

In my everyday life, it always seems that I pass by hidden passages to secret, psychological areas. If you take the time to look for them, and take advantage of the opportunity they present, you may find yourself traveling through the side passages of existence.

K and I decided to take a walk. Nothing spectacular, it’s a densely populated urban setting with a decent amount of greenery framing the sidewalks and spaces between complexes. For whatever random reason, we decide to hang a left, rather than straight ahead, and the next thing we know the side street heads into a wooded area.

Less traffic, birds are tweeting, squirrels are munching on nuts during a break in the freeze courtesy of Global Warming Terraform, Inc. We come across a picnic area with a large wooden pavilion and some grass with a playground. I’m feeling like the human equation is rapidly losing hold of our brainstem.

Now, on any other day, we’d just enjoy the discovery of the cul-de-sac we’ve uncovered and let sleeping dogs butter their own bread, so to speak. But we decide to take things in, and examine the details more closely. There’s a paved path leading off into the trees, so we decide to follow it. That’s when we leave the noise behind us and everything becomes rather quiet.

The path takes us deeper into the woods, and we can catch glimpses of a house here and there through the trees, but we’re definitely on a secret trail now. We catch a glimpse of the ani-mani-mals galore. Large hunting spiders out for a tasty snack, hawks looking for munchy mouse guts, and winged flyer bugs buzzing about just because you would be excused for thinking it’s spring.

We catch sight of a white stag with some deer friends (I’m not joking here), and I get to thinking we’ve had one of those experiences. K and I found a secret door and discovered one of the places that humans forget about, and it takes on a life of its own. An oasis of wilderness in the middle of sub-human anti-civilization development efforts.

K and I didn’t follow the white stag, though I spotted a trail in the trees past where he had been standing. We stayed the course and followed the path all the way to a dead end in the middle of a large swampy field filled with the marks of past floods and fishy existence. It’s as if the path stopped right where the unconscious and the conscious met, and a large hillside surrounded the place.

A side path goes up further, over and along the hill, so we take that, and find it hooks up with another network of paved pathways that skirt back into civilization. We search for secret doors again, and find a trail leading off into the brush, and a large tall forest of trees. We head off into the wilderness again, and find ourselves moving through a trail-tunnel along a stream, with makeshift bridges, copious amounts of growth in hibernation, and the rustle of critters mixed with the trickle of water.

The trail ends, and we find ourselves in a large swampy field of skeletal trees surrounded by a huge forest. All around are pools of water interspersed with islands of overgrown detritus. Fallen logs are everywhere, and the rotting trees all bear the mark of woodpeckers. The only sign of life is a ruined tree house falling into disrepair and now barely accessible due to the water starting to surround the trees it was built upon.

The trail ends in a tiny field of wildflowers. Perfect for a picnic. K and I resolve to return to this place and enjoy the wilderness of the secret door within a secret door. It isn’t everyday you find a main access way to the hidden and wonderful beauty still alive on this planet. We retrace our steps and return to the main street of human misery on a wave of good feeling. Everything feels better after you’ve gotten back to the source.

Look, and listen. There are many secret doors out there. You will find one if you aren’t careful.

When I was growing up, one of the news items that appeared was the invasion by killer bees. “Killer bees from Africa” had escaped from a lab in South America and were making their way up towards the American border. Apparently these bees were really aggressive and would attack at the slightest provocation. For a while, the headlines followed the progress of the migrating bees. The threat grabbed a hold of the popular culture and showed up in Saturday Night Live skits and as movies like The Swarm.

I remember being a little scared by the thought of murderous, deadly bees crossing the border and invading to spread havoc. When I think about it now, I laugh a little. What about all those countries in South America they were passing through in the meantime? Clouds of evil bees weren’t exactly clouding the sky from view and massacring entire towns in a riot of explosion and flame. Perhaps what struck me was that imaginative possibility of the unknown, that out of nowhere a fantastic threat could emerge and attack.

What would you do when the killer bees got here? Hopefully a way would be found to contain the threat and save us from machine-gun stings and nasty bees biting pieces of our flesh out to make poison honey. Why, the entire flower population of the country was at stake, because everyone knows killer bees destroy flowers after they’re done, doing whatever evil bees do.

Hey, this is sounding a little like anti-immigrant propaganda, isn’t it? Watch out for those “invaders” from another country. Foreigners are coming here to cause trouble, and because they are “killer”, you can’t reason with them. Since they swarm in large numbers, our army is helpless against them. The only solution is to nuke them (in The Swarm, the bees are wiped out when they attack a nuclear power plant and cause it to blow up). That’s right, preemptive nuclear strike against the killer bee foreigners before they cross the border and get you.

I’m not buying it. The killer bees escaped the lab because they wanted to rock and roll. And they’re coming to get you because they heard you know how to party. And they know how to make the killer honey that will knock your socks off. I was worried before, but now that I got past all the hype and rumor, I’m ready to receive those bees. When they show up, it’s going to be all buzz.

I’ve been out of sorts the last few days. The shock to my nervous system from finishing the revisions “shocked the monkey”, and I found myself entering near dementia with all the psychic ripples in my “Motorhead” pond. My personal hygiene took a nosedive, and while I managed to maintain the outward operations of business-as-usual, inside I felt as if my efforts had stirred up a lot of detritus from the depths of my own personal Mud Lake.

These kinds of stunned doldrum episodes can last for days, with all manner of images, memories and ideas coming to the surface. This time, I was ready with my glass-bottomed boat to catch a glimpse of whatever mudgulpers might wade past. Oh, wow, the things that I caught a glimpse of, I’m going to need an additional vacation to meditate on. The Icky Girl Power really made an impact on me. Which is okay, because I was voluntarily leading with my jaw this time. But crumbs, I really got it handed to me this time, and the tussle ain’t over yet! Thank goodness I got more skills and tools this time around.

One of this things that came to the surface was my old childhood fascination with the old television series In Search Of…, and some of the subject matter from that show. In case you never saw it, Leonard Nimoy (yes, Mr. Spock) hosted a half hour show program in which an attempt was made to explain some “mystery” from a list of “extraterrestrials”, “magic and witchcraft”, “missing persons”, “myths and monsters”, “lost civilizations” and “strange phenomena”. Leonard Nimoy would narrate as evidence was put forward, scenes were re-enacted, and highly dubious explanations were put forward. All of this was accompanied by a synthesizer soundtrack that can only be called “eerie”, “otherworldly”, and “scary as all hell”.

My memories from that time are a little dim, but I couldn’t get the soundtrack out of my mind, nor could I get over the episode about Bigfoot, which frightened the poop out of me as a youngster. Fears that Bigfoot would break into my house and attack stem from various sources during the seventies, but this program did nothing to help with that, and I would be very afraid at night, staying up late with the light on and wondering what I could do to protect myself.

So I hit the old Youtube pool and found a host of episodes from the show, including the Bigfoot episode. Many of the episodes I remember seeing. Crumbs, I’d forgotten how much I used to be a regular watcher. The music was even creepier than I remember, and even in the safety of my own home, I felt the clutch of fear from childhood return. Every unknown noise freaked my scene out! The music from the UFO episode caught a hold of my brainstem and started to replay in my head even after I’d stopped watching.

Then I found the scariest episode of all for me. The one about the Amityville Horror. That episode scared me so bad I had to sleep with the covers on and with a flashlight in my hand back then. There’s this scene where a doll’s eyes open and turn red with a satanic glow, and that scene gave me many sleepless nights. Actually watching the episode, with the spooky red room, the story behind the doll (an evil monster imaginary friend that would mess a kid up for life), and the scene with the girl singing “silent night” on and off as she went in and out of a room, well all that stuff brought back so many memories in a flood that I had trouble sleeping for several days.

At night, I tossed and turned so much K sent me to the couch downstairs. And even with three dedicated cat protectors, they all fled upstairs and left me alone to freak out about Bigfoot, UFOs, the voices of plants, Dracula, and of course the scary doll creature from the Amityville Horror. It didn’t help that I had to go into the basement to use the Jakes at night, to avoid waking up K (her own work situation has taken a rather weird turn, so she needed the sleep). I heard phantom cats using the catbox in the basement, I felt cold chills from sixth sense spooks, and images of horror flashed before my eyes before I could flip light switches on.

And meanwhile, my old fears of Icky Girl Power came back to me as well. Blob capable of coming through the sink as I wash my hands sends thrills down my spine. Green slime from the UFOs with Leonard Nimoy narration as spooky music plays in my head over and over. This goes on for two nights. I’m scared out of my wits with childhood memories and present day fright seizing a hold of me so bad I’m afraid to close my eyes and get off the couch. So I go back and watch the episodes again, and I wonder why on earth these things aren’t on DVD, because its a fabulous show.

I mentioned skills and tools. Well, I’m not a kid anymore, at the complete and total mercy of the unknown, although I’m not immune to it. Maybe the only difference is that I know how much I stink, both in terms of hygiene and ability to cope. I refuse to let the spectres of fear dancing on my head completely have their way. I engage them in dialogue, I demand they explain themselves. I interact with Bigfoot, I chase off the UFOs, yelling at them “HEY! YOU FORGOT YOUR BUTT PROBE!” like a stupid fool. I confront the scary red eyed doll as big as I am trying to choke the life out of me and I say “That all you got?” I can’t explain the impossible conflict between my pathetic little life and the vast unknown, because it makes no sense and there’s no solution.

Except that things start to happen. You can’t reach into the deep slime and not be affected, but neither can the unknown. The night terrors don’t fade when the sun comes up, nor does the immediacy of their demands, but then the music I’ve been listening to lately starts playing in my head. All the CDs I got for Xmas, The Verve, The Ocean Blue, and my new obsession, Neko Case, who has been a phenomenal find for me. It’s as if something else wells up inside of me and gives me a break. I step back and I get my head back on straight. My fears take on different shapes and forms, and I realize things are trying to talk to me and tell me important information. I’m not safe, but I’m not completely vulnerable either, and I write down stuff.

The psychic wave passes, and I start getting a hold of things again. I know I’m going to have to dive again into the waves, but its okay, there’s all sorts of scary, interesting, and lively material for me to tackle when I’m ready. I clean up my act, shave and shower, brush my teeth, all that good stuff, and I feel a little human again. I don’t smell so bad, nor does my breath make me want to gag anymore. Important stuff is happening. There are ghosts in my house, and I’m doing my best to relate to them. I didn’t even know how scared I was of Icky Girl Power until I went in search of it. I don’t know if I can come up with some of the outrageous explanations Leonard Nimoy posits in the show (some of them are really WTF moments of logical deduction), but when it comes to the irrational and the subjective, perhaps the way out really is in.

Some things are better left unknown. If you swim in the dark lake at night, you have to be ready to scrape your feet on the slimy skin of the creatures that might be resting on the lakebed. Maybe our explanations for the unknown are no better than the ridiculous assertions of the show. And sometimes you catch a glimpse of something wonderful, or you feel something slither under your feet as you tread water, and you get to tell a tale gathered around the warmth of a fire in the dead of winter.

Last night, the mysterious unknown did its thing, while I had a good night’s sleep.