The Astral Triad
I'm fine. As far as I know, I'm fine. I haven't had any weird flare-ups since the week after we returned. I thank the sweet people who have expressed concern. I've heard nothing of the Holter monitor's results. In typical western medicine fashion, I'm following the adage No news is good news. When I told Ack, the ex-husband/best friend about it, he didn't seem worried in the least. In fact he didn't see me kicking any buckets, pails or paint cans for a very long time. I feel confident in his prediction as Ack is a bit of a seer, even though he turned that part of himself off some time ago.
The Comrade: Do you see dead people?
Ack: Hm... yeah.
In the former servant's quarters we shared, a beautiful treetop turret in the home formerly bequeathed to the Postmaster General, Ack saw things that most were happy not to see.
Having fallen asleep on the sofa one night, face pressed into the backrest, a little drying drool having trickled, Ack awoke, stretched and flipped over. He cracked his eyes open 1 mm and saw an unfamiliar shape in the armchair facing him. A woman in her 40's with long, greying auburn hair sat staring at him.
The Comrade: Have you ever seen her before?
Ack: Nope.
The Comrade: What did you do?
Ack: I quietly rolled over and didn't face her anymore. When I looked back later, she was gone.
The Comrade: Do you think you were dreaming her?
Ack: Nope.
The Comrade: How do you know for sure.
Ack: [sigh] I just know.
Ack discovered years ago, aided with my incessant questioning, that he's a bit of a channeler. A conduit. On my 30th birthday, the two of us talked in the kitchen until dawn. Well, it wasn't really me talking to Ack. I was talking to several different people through Ack.
That night I learned some things. Things that are too personal to write here. They are written somewhere else. Somewhere where only my eyes can fall upon them when most needed. Or can be recalled when most needed. Like now.
Don't worry.
I'm always so worried.
I learned through Ack that I have three entities that watch over me. I believe one of them is my grandfather, my father's father. I can't tell for sure, but it's a feeling I have. I never met him in life, but I think he's just beyond in a scenario much like what happens in life.
A boy has a father who is not there. The father either works away from home for excessive amounts of time, coming home only to eat and sleep. Or he is compelled to go away to distant lands, pursuing his chosen career path. Children are viewed as a hinderance to personal development. The father justifies this behaviour because he is the bread winner, the one who puts food on the table. Yer mother can do the other stuff. I'm tired. But what if there was no mother? What if the mother died after childbirth with the boy? Ah, yer sisters can take care of it. But what if your sisters provided nothing but ill intent? Were abusive? Denied the boy everything? Starved the boy to the point where he had to strain the corn kernels from cow dung just to survive?
He let him down. In the afterlife, maybe he's seen my father in all of his hurt. But because of a childhood filled with misery, perhaps a boy is unable to forgive. Unable to forget. Only able to repeat the pain and anguish he felt as a child, passing it on to his brood. Ignoring his anti-establishment, consistently fired for insubordination, fiery yet loving daughter. Perhaps the boy's father sees a chance of making good with his granddaughter. Maybe he sees that she's not too far gone. She can see light at the end of the tunnel. The only time she can't happens when the tunnel has been created by her alone.
I asked Ack if one of the other three was a woman.
He said no.
Born on the day before my mother's birthday, dying on the day before my sister's birthday, the other whom I wanted to be protecting me was my mother's mother.
This is what I know of her, what has been shared to me. She was married to a man she loved. She had 13 pregnancies which resulted in one child living past the first year of life. My mother.
A proud pig farmer, my grandmother raised these creatures like her own children. The ones she lost. When the time came for the trucks to collect her children for slaughter, she wailed on the nearest steps that would collect her broken soul. My mother never understood her mother's love for the piggies that went off to market, that never returned. My mother never understood my father's love for plants either.
Sometimes "never understood" can be replaced with "resented".
Smarter than dogs, I've always understood my grandmother's love for the pink beasts.
As they don't talk back, I've always understood my father's need for plants.
My grandmother smoked cigarettes with abandon. She apparently had a spooky way of speaking. And she cursed my father's every action. She loved my mother. She passed her love onto her. Onto me. She held me until I was 2.
I hate that I don't remember her.
At least once a month I wish I had grandparents.
Every year my mother and I make a date to visit Granny's grave. It's located in Toronto's prestigious Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. Location, location. The alive are dying to be buried there, but the plots are full and they'll have to start piling bodies on top of each other to accommodate remaining family members.
Mom: [in Chinese] Hello, mother. Look who's come to visit.
The Comrade: Hi, Granny.
Mom: You have to say it in Chinese, otherwise she won't understand you.
The Comrade: You know what I think sometimes, Mom? What if, once you're dead, you can understand all languages? Or you can go inside minds to hear people's internal dialogue. I bet she understands everything I'm saying. I want to think so, anyway. Visiting her always leaves me with a great peace inside.
My grandmother's plot is positioned in the most ghettoized area of this gated necropolis. Her bones permanently rest under an unmanicured coniferous most suited for an independent, underground Christmas film.
Ack had never visited my Granny's grave before. I'd told him about her. My limited knowledge of her, anyway. He wanted to meet her. At least to see the heavy stone that marked her final stop. I explained the protocol.
The Comrade: You put your hands in prayer position in front of your chest and bow three times. Like this.
On the first bow, I bonked my head on a wild, bony branch of said coniferous, creating a swollen contusion above the left eye.
Crap.
I had a callback the next day.
They weren't looking for bruised, lumpy-headed girls.
The thing I hated most about acting was auditioning for commercial auditions.
Casting Director('s Assistant): Do a slate and profiles, please.
A slate is stating your name and your agent for the camera. Profiles are facial profiles, left and right, held long enough to capture a photo still, just to see what you look like holding the product sideways, I guess.
Casting Director('s Assistant): Tell me a little (pick one) about yourself, your day, your interests. Keep it under a minute.
I told them about bonking my head on the tree and the steps I needed to take to hide this fact that I'd disclosed. I went to Drag Queen Central: the MAC cosmetics counter.
The Comrade: Do you think you can fix it?
Cosmetician: [after one full minute of intense scrutiny] No problem.
She (he?) was an artist.
And I got the job.
I'm sure my Granny pulled some strings.
When Ack was channelling for me, he saw 3 entities. All he assumed were male. But what if there is a transgendering in the Afterlife? Who's to say what we look like after we're dead is the same as how we presented ourselves while alive? If I'm wrong, I have no idea who is watching over me. I'd just like it if it were my grandfather on my father's side and my grandmother on my mother's side. The rest is gravy. I hate leaving the third one out, but I have no idea who that might be. Some poor soul assigned to me from an exclusive gated necropolis not of this Earth. Lucky me, regardless.
Sometimes I beckon them. I beckon with a clause. I don't want to see. Of course this sounds rather shitty because I'm asking for their help, but I don't want to see an astral body in the process. I hope they're not offended. They're probably not because most of Chinese culture want to send the dead away for good. Any reinvigoration of a dearly departed beloved is usually viewed in a horrific way. I welcome their wisdom, but not their physical manifestation.
Do you think you might help me with my anxiety?
I'm half scared shitless these days because something really great could happen. Fatty and I have a tremendous business idea that is good for people, incredibly creative and unique. It could also turn into a massive shit pile. It's all very much in the incubation phase right now. We have thousands of ideas, but right now I feel mere wheels are spinning. We're not getting any closer. We're caught in a gritty vortex. The anxiety is harnessing me.
During research, Fatty, the love of my life, found a Black Ops hypnosis package available for online purchase, for a limited time only. It promised the effective removal of self-doubt.
The Comrade: Okay, that's great. That's exactly what I need. I need to get rid of the stuff that holds me back.
It also promised the effective control of anyone you pleased. All for $100 USD.
The Comrade: We can't get this, honey. It's fundamentally evil.
After a day and a wonderful full body kneading from my beloved, I realise now what I have to do.
I'm going to go write in a space that no one else reads. When I write, I speak aloud. Just barely audibly. It may sound like a conversation with myself, but I know there are listeners. Dispensers of sound advice. And just because I don't physically have grandparents anymore, it doesn't mean they aren't around.
The Comrade: Do you see dead people?
Ack: Hm... yeah.
In the former servant's quarters we shared, a beautiful treetop turret in the home formerly bequeathed to the Postmaster General, Ack saw things that most were happy not to see.
Having fallen asleep on the sofa one night, face pressed into the backrest, a little drying drool having trickled, Ack awoke, stretched and flipped over. He cracked his eyes open 1 mm and saw an unfamiliar shape in the armchair facing him. A woman in her 40's with long, greying auburn hair sat staring at him.
The Comrade: Have you ever seen her before?
Ack: Nope.
The Comrade: What did you do?
Ack: I quietly rolled over and didn't face her anymore. When I looked back later, she was gone.
The Comrade: Do you think you were dreaming her?
Ack: Nope.
The Comrade: How do you know for sure.
Ack: [sigh] I just know.
Ack discovered years ago, aided with my incessant questioning, that he's a bit of a channeler. A conduit. On my 30th birthday, the two of us talked in the kitchen until dawn. Well, it wasn't really me talking to Ack. I was talking to several different people through Ack.
That night I learned some things. Things that are too personal to write here. They are written somewhere else. Somewhere where only my eyes can fall upon them when most needed. Or can be recalled when most needed. Like now.
Don't worry.
I'm always so worried.
I learned through Ack that I have three entities that watch over me. I believe one of them is my grandfather, my father's father. I can't tell for sure, but it's a feeling I have. I never met him in life, but I think he's just beyond in a scenario much like what happens in life.
A boy has a father who is not there. The father either works away from home for excessive amounts of time, coming home only to eat and sleep. Or he is compelled to go away to distant lands, pursuing his chosen career path. Children are viewed as a hinderance to personal development. The father justifies this behaviour because he is the bread winner, the one who puts food on the table. Yer mother can do the other stuff. I'm tired. But what if there was no mother? What if the mother died after childbirth with the boy? Ah, yer sisters can take care of it. But what if your sisters provided nothing but ill intent? Were abusive? Denied the boy everything? Starved the boy to the point where he had to strain the corn kernels from cow dung just to survive?
He let him down. In the afterlife, maybe he's seen my father in all of his hurt. But because of a childhood filled with misery, perhaps a boy is unable to forgive. Unable to forget. Only able to repeat the pain and anguish he felt as a child, passing it on to his brood. Ignoring his anti-establishment, consistently fired for insubordination, fiery yet loving daughter. Perhaps the boy's father sees a chance of making good with his granddaughter. Maybe he sees that she's not too far gone. She can see light at the end of the tunnel. The only time she can't happens when the tunnel has been created by her alone.
I asked Ack if one of the other three was a woman.
He said no.
Born on the day before my mother's birthday, dying on the day before my sister's birthday, the other whom I wanted to be protecting me was my mother's mother.
This is what I know of her, what has been shared to me. She was married to a man she loved. She had 13 pregnancies which resulted in one child living past the first year of life. My mother.
A proud pig farmer, my grandmother raised these creatures like her own children. The ones she lost. When the time came for the trucks to collect her children for slaughter, she wailed on the nearest steps that would collect her broken soul. My mother never understood her mother's love for the piggies that went off to market, that never returned. My mother never understood my father's love for plants either.
Sometimes "never understood" can be replaced with "resented".
Smarter than dogs, I've always understood my grandmother's love for the pink beasts.
As they don't talk back, I've always understood my father's need for plants.
My grandmother smoked cigarettes with abandon. She apparently had a spooky way of speaking. And she cursed my father's every action. She loved my mother. She passed her love onto her. Onto me. She held me until I was 2.
I hate that I don't remember her.
At least once a month I wish I had grandparents.
Every year my mother and I make a date to visit Granny's grave. It's located in Toronto's prestigious Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. Location, location. The alive are dying to be buried there, but the plots are full and they'll have to start piling bodies on top of each other to accommodate remaining family members.
Mom: [in Chinese] Hello, mother. Look who's come to visit.
The Comrade: Hi, Granny.
Mom: You have to say it in Chinese, otherwise she won't understand you.
The Comrade: You know what I think sometimes, Mom? What if, once you're dead, you can understand all languages? Or you can go inside minds to hear people's internal dialogue. I bet she understands everything I'm saying. I want to think so, anyway. Visiting her always leaves me with a great peace inside.
My grandmother's plot is positioned in the most ghettoized area of this gated necropolis. Her bones permanently rest under an unmanicured coniferous most suited for an independent, underground Christmas film.
Ack had never visited my Granny's grave before. I'd told him about her. My limited knowledge of her, anyway. He wanted to meet her. At least to see the heavy stone that marked her final stop. I explained the protocol.
The Comrade: You put your hands in prayer position in front of your chest and bow three times. Like this.
On the first bow, I bonked my head on a wild, bony branch of said coniferous, creating a swollen contusion above the left eye.
Crap.
I had a callback the next day.
They weren't looking for bruised, lumpy-headed girls.
The thing I hated most about acting was auditioning for commercial auditions.
Casting Director('s Assistant): Do a slate and profiles, please.
A slate is stating your name and your agent for the camera. Profiles are facial profiles, left and right, held long enough to capture a photo still, just to see what you look like holding the product sideways, I guess.
Casting Director('s Assistant): Tell me a little (pick one) about yourself, your day, your interests. Keep it under a minute.
I told them about bonking my head on the tree and the steps I needed to take to hide this fact that I'd disclosed. I went to Drag Queen Central: the MAC cosmetics counter.
The Comrade: Do you think you can fix it?
Cosmetician: [after one full minute of intense scrutiny] No problem.
She (he?) was an artist.
And I got the job.
I'm sure my Granny pulled some strings.
When Ack was channelling for me, he saw 3 entities. All he assumed were male. But what if there is a transgendering in the Afterlife? Who's to say what we look like after we're dead is the same as how we presented ourselves while alive? If I'm wrong, I have no idea who is watching over me. I'd just like it if it were my grandfather on my father's side and my grandmother on my mother's side. The rest is gravy. I hate leaving the third one out, but I have no idea who that might be. Some poor soul assigned to me from an exclusive gated necropolis not of this Earth. Lucky me, regardless.
Sometimes I beckon them. I beckon with a clause. I don't want to see. Of course this sounds rather shitty because I'm asking for their help, but I don't want to see an astral body in the process. I hope they're not offended. They're probably not because most of Chinese culture want to send the dead away for good. Any reinvigoration of a dearly departed beloved is usually viewed in a horrific way. I welcome their wisdom, but not their physical manifestation.
Do you think you might help me with my anxiety?
I'm half scared shitless these days because something really great could happen. Fatty and I have a tremendous business idea that is good for people, incredibly creative and unique. It could also turn into a massive shit pile. It's all very much in the incubation phase right now. We have thousands of ideas, but right now I feel mere wheels are spinning. We're not getting any closer. We're caught in a gritty vortex. The anxiety is harnessing me.
During research, Fatty, the love of my life, found a Black Ops hypnosis package available for online purchase, for a limited time only. It promised the effective removal of self-doubt.
The Comrade: Okay, that's great. That's exactly what I need. I need to get rid of the stuff that holds me back.
It also promised the effective control of anyone you pleased. All for $100 USD.
The Comrade: We can't get this, honey. It's fundamentally evil.
After a day and a wonderful full body kneading from my beloved, I realise now what I have to do.
I'm going to go write in a space that no one else reads. When I write, I speak aloud. Just barely audibly. It may sound like a conversation with myself, but I know there are listeners. Dispensers of sound advice. And just because I don't physically have grandparents anymore, it doesn't mean they aren't around.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
6:22 p.m.
1 Comments:
i don't how sound the advice would be! kidding, but not really. but hey, the third entity can be a long lost pet-i like to think that my old beagel, Lady-watches over me from a far..along with grandparetns and an old friend...
best wishes on all your ventures!
By
Anonymous, at 9:10 p.m.
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