pathos hous

Resurfacement

 

You let time pass, and that drag does something to the experiences you’ve had. Days ago, hours ago, becomes vague, half-remembered actions, thoughts and feelings that changes shape with your debilitating attention. You have some choices here. To let those moments empty out completely; let it decay and submerge again into your Jungian mindjunk. You can shift your focus onto other experiences from mystery, from shapes on the wall collecting other events that are emerging. Or you can start the chase again, follow the lost trail, snare it then feed the memory until it becomes real, until it begins to manifest again as connected reality no matter how ill fitting it is to your myth.

 

It’s been a week since I last visited the forums of transgression, to read what I had supposedly written under the stupor of the black orbs, about the daughter and the father, and their apparent contact with some brutal sex predator.

I’m not sure if she was killed. Burning Eyes is still down with no other signs of contact or revelation.  Even the wet dreams are losing touch.

 

I had been sick but I’m not afraid of the sickness anymore. What made me return to the arts café so many mornings later? To ask about that woman investigator? What undercurrent of intent moved my mind to make such unverified choices? It’s the morning of I don’t know when; I’m ordering the house coffee, no sugar or creame. There are no real sights for this depraved mind, only stomach seeking a kind of anxious vibration that puts you on edge, awaiting contact in whatever fake or form. The barrister who was interviewed by the woman was mopping the floor. Some kid had vomited after staring at a psychedelic painting done on a canvas purchased from the café. I found out before that the painting was done by an eight year old autistic boy who filled his bedroom walls with an unintelligible xeno language. The painting likes me, it had called out to me once when I was undergoing a post-possession episode some months ago. It’s strange geometrical phenomena, done with crayon, was turning and switching damaged aspects of my psyche off. The boy had painted a candle in the center of the composition, burning with a red flame that turned into red smoke. The smoke filled me and I was saved from the falling debris of the defeated starship.

“Would you like your usual coffee sir?” The barista broke my train of thoughts. The mess on the floor had been cleaned up. The painting was still there, but somewhat subdued as if guilty having altered the child’s mind too quick and too soon.  

“Yes.” I said to her then followed up. “There was a woman here interviewing you about a case some days back. Or weeks, I can’t remember.”

“Yes? The officer?”

I nodded and asked if she was police or military.

“Private contractor. Why are you asking?”

 “I need to speak with her.”

The barista thought for a moment then pulled out a mans wallet from her black denim back pocket. She dug out a card and handed it to me.

I looked at the name.

 

Nina Hall.