9/8/2023 -
I'd been told years ago that traveling has the potential to massively influence my sorcerous abilities and honestly this has been sort of hit or miss over the years. I take a couple small vacations a year, all to places near Seattle. Sometimes this seems to supercharge my psychic life, sometimes it doesn't. This night would fall into the hit category on that front.
My wife and I are in Astoria, Oregon where I haven't been in roughly 15 years and the second I hit town, the second the psychogeography seeps into my soul structure. My head hits the pillow and I'm in the hotel parking lot where my wife decides to resurrect William S. Burroughs in this older bright red compact car for completely unexplained reasons. He starts emerging in the driver's seat and is sort of phasing into existence when I realize how disgusting this is. The guy's worse than a corpse. Jesus Christ he has these hideously dry enormous scales all over him. Absolutely repulsive and I'm almost vomiting at the grotesque dried out amphibious spectacle that's springing back to life in this boring car.
I know what to do though. I've instinctively warped us to a wood paneled bar and there's a voice in my head. He's griping a bit about how there's sports on the TV at this place and I'm all:
"I get it, not arty enough for you but look over there. Wouldn't you know? All the fucking booze in the world."
And I point him in the direction of the fully stocked shiny stained wood wet bar set up. I feel a presence and then he appears visibly, looking like the classic 90's version of him I remember. Then he's like, wait a minute and snaps his fingers. Now he's a roughly 30 year old version of himself and I must confess that I've rarely seen any pictures of him at this age. He's modernized it a bit with incredibly cool even boxier glasses and a casual black retro coat.
He then starts mildly complaining again and I'm like.
"Really motherfucker? Who got you the most deliciously decadent human grease food imaginable?"
And I throw these deep fried chicken finger buckets with fries on the table. It's as if he can't control himself as he crams batter and fried potatoes into his face. You don't get this bullshit in dried up reptilian corpseville.
Now I'm in an old Astoria style architecture hotel cottage. Our hotel has transformed into a series of older slightly run down individual rentals. I'm in the far east cottage and there's this long sequence where I'm having conversations with various members of the community and hotel staff. It's a bit too twisty and turn-y in terms of consciousness warping than I can keep up with but the conclusion involves the revelation that all these people are in a cult who's whole plan was to summon this ancient daemon force. I'm just the random dupe they needed to finalize their machinations I think merely by booking this particular room at the wrong time but when they reveal their devious intentions to me I'm like:
"Wait what? Oh my god, y'all don't even know who I am, do you? Holy shit! Seriously?"
And with that I start laughing goddamn manically. The whole thing was led by this sort of plain looking I'd say early 50's gaunt white woman with long curly brown hair and I can't fucking believe it. I'm laughing so hard at her. Jesus, you thought I just happened to be here at random? I'm a wizard who's roughly a 100 levels above your pay grade. I'm buckling over. This was no accident. The daemon you were working with was listening. I can't control my maniacal cackling and it gets louder and louder.
Oh your pathetic attempts to meddle in matters you don't understand. As I laugh harder and harder the woman gets buried deeper and deeper into the ground in a small cemetery in the hills of Astoria. I'm still laughing as her mouth and nose are cut off with grass and dirt.
Only her eyes are showing when I find myself back in my old school style hotel cottage again. The television is on and I mind meld with the vintage looking boxy silver plastic encased set. I'm merging with a vintage eerie horror film that takes place in this town by the sea. My wife eventually shows up and I ask her about it?
"What was the deal with my mind psychically tethering itself to the television?"
She obviously doesn't know what I'm getting at. Eventually I'm distanced from the vintage picture box and watching the grainy program from the outside. Holy shit. It's a Leslie Nielsen flick. Naked Gun-the-vintage-arthouse-horror-flick vibes all the way and when I looked it up I realized that Leslie Nielsen did in fact make like 5 comedic horror films. I did not remember this on a conscious level at all and I've seen none of them but the message is crystal. The whole thing is an absurd joke. The whole Typhonian current.
When I get up the next morning a man strikes up a conversation in the elevator. As I'm walking out I notice his Crowley work shirt. I didn't even know that was a brand but wow. I remember something else as well. Not only did they make a Cthulhu movie here years ago, but when I watched it I found it extra trippy that it featured the exact hotel my wife and I stayed in about 6 months prior. I was micro dosing on MDMA for that entire trip 15 years back, which I only mildly recommend. Christ, y'all are gonna make me watch a Tori Spelling movie again. Strange psychogeographical bleed through indeed. Far out doesn't even cut it.
9/9/2023 -
Definitive on the nostalgiamancy front captain. Extended bending boredom. I'm back in Ohio and it's a Saturday night. I'm crawling out of my skin. I want to party. I want to do something. I'm calling around. Someone other than me's gotta want to rage tonight. Someone's gotta want to get blitzed. There's gotta be a happening out there. Someone's gotta know where a happening's going down or at least someone else who knows about a happening going down. A shindig.
Honestly this is all very boring which is the point and it's a feeling I'd long forgotten. Oh those long gone days when not having anything to do on a weekend night felt like taking a fairly massive L. And on so many night's you took that L, which is what I'm currently re-experiencing.
After calling around and finagling for hours all I've managed to wrangle together are two friends. It's getting late and we still don't have an angle on any action.
"Fine."
I angrily declare.
"I guess we'll just go drive around!"
When we do the entire experience transforms into this bland gray distant automotive haze. Artfully done visually but it's the feeling of dissociated static gray that sells it. Is this really living? Then suddenly the revelation.
"Wait a minute. I'm 46. None of my old party friends are going to want to blow it out anymore. They've got families and shit."
I nearly go lucid in the car but instead I wake up and recount to the myself the lost of experience of "driving around". In my suburban Ohio hell this meant repeatedly traversing the main strip heading from one Taco Bell to the next. My town had two Taco Bells. So many young souls lost further into the sprawling cornfields wish they were that lucky. Our Taco Bells were open 24 hours a day. There was a vague hope in regards to a last minute potential to meet women. This rarely panned out and that's what was always at the heart of the crushing disappointment. I'd forgotten the profound feeling of youthful restlessness. "Driving around" was always a last result. A Hail Mary.
Later in the night the Typhonian bleed through continues. I'm trying to make these vicious 4 legged shadow creatures with angry tentacle faces into adorable companions but it's harder than I expected. They keep slipping out of my hands and hissing angrily like wild beasts as shadow images on the wall beneath me.
I gotta be honest, having a chihuahua be like that sometimes. I grok the metaphor. Consider the metaphor grokked.
While you're here, do you like psychedelic industrial noise rock? Of course you do.
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