Thursday, October 6, 2016

The Ghost and Miss Cat, Part 2

It has been a couple of weeks since we booted the spectral squatter from Erin’s basement.
In the meantime, the house has returned to a state of quiet serenity (at least as far as spiritual entities are concerned) and I can walk into the mudroom and stand on the stairs to the basement without wanting to retch.

I’ve been attempting to recollect the exact chain of events that occurred when we fire-and-pitchforked into the Murder Room, and it is still kind of hazy. If Erin and Nate hadn’t been there, I might not be able to remember enough to type this post. Whatever was down there must have had an effect on me. While I was exorcising it, I was perfectly calm and collected. For a couple of weeks before cleansing the basement, I had been having awful dizzy spells, thanks to a combination of prescription medication that did weird things to my blood pressure. But in the Murder Room, faced with the entity, I was chill. No vertigo (I have a theory about that, which I mention near the end of this post).

A lot went down in the Murder Room, enough that it daunts me a bit to string together the episodes into story form. So here are the main bullet points, as accurate as we can piece together:

- Enter basement.

- Immediately, the area feels heavy, hot, wet, dark, gross.

- Nate finds a central spot where the energy feels really rough, I sage the shit out of it.

- Erin sees troughs of dirt along the upper foundation, and I sage the shit out of that, too.

- The back corner is the worst, where the only original part of the house remains – a brick chimney base.

- SAGE THE SHIT OUT OF IT.

- I set up my cauldron full of Morrigan incense (mixture courtesy of Silver Ravenwolf) and my statue of Santisima Muerte.

- Nate confined the entity to the corner by the chimney.

- We noticed that there were some odd markings in paint on the base stair, Nate and I realized they looked like the alchemical/shamanic signs for “earth” and what looked to be a cross between “sun” and “salt.” We decide to salt it, then throw salt in every corner.

- Nate drew the shamanic symbol for “fire” on the concrete floor and outlined it with matches, setting a candle in the middle of the symbol, and communicated with the ghost. Apparently it was really, REALLY pissed, especially at me.

- I had given Erin a bell, and she waved it enthusiastically in the direction of the spirit. Every time I invoked a deity or commanded the spirit to leave, Erin would dangle the bell, saying, “And I have a BELL!” She did a great job, for being an agnostic atheist.

- I thought that confronting the spirit with its own mortality would scare it into leaving. I set my statue of La Santa Muerte in front of it and tried talking to it. At one point I saw, in my mind’s eye, the face of a man, shorter than me, about 5’6”, who was glaring at me with a particular sense of loathing. I glared right back and it scoffed, turning and sitting down by the chimney. Apparently this guy was all bluster, ego, and mansplaining while alive. I toss salt in its face. Dean Winchester would be proud of me.


La Santa Muerte Blanca
Durga Maa
The Morrigan by ByTheOak via deviantART

- Nothing seemed to be working. I invoked Morrigan, La Santa, Durga, pick your badass feminine death deity; it just made the spirit angry.

And then I tried something different, on a whim. Not even thinking about it, I calmly began chanting the mantra to the bodhisattva Arya Tara, who has been my go-to girl since I met her at the local Kadampa Buddhist Center in 2011. It goes:

“Öm tare tuttare ture söha.” (“I prostrate to the Liberator, Mother of all the Victorious Ones.”)

((I have included links to a couple of websites that has a great explanation of the mantra, and how it serves to liberate beings from samsara.))

Here’s a description from the Kadampa tradition:

“‘Tara’ means ‘Rescuer’. She is so called because she rescues us from the eight outer fears (the fears of lions, elephants, fire, snakes, thieves, water, bondage, and evil spirits), and from the eight corresponding inner fears (the fears of pride, ignorance, anger, jealousy, wrong views, attachment, miserliness, and deluded doubts).

Temporarily Tara saves us from the dangers of rebirth in the three lower realms, and ultimately she saves us from the dangers of samsara and solitary peace.”

Dayum.

After reciting the mantra, I had calmed down enough to actually talk to the spirit instead of commanding it. I told it, resignedly, that it needed to leave because it would not find any happiness by staying in the house and harassing the occupants. Speaking gently but firmly, I advised it to try and pass on. I was exhausted, and I could feel the entity in the corner, no longer posturing or puffing itself up in defense, but pouting, as if it had been given an earful to digest and was deciding what to do.

“I don’t think I can do any more here,” I sighed, gathering my tools and walking upstairs with Erin. 

“I’ve exhausted my arsenal and there is only so much I can do as an officiant. It’s up to the spirit to make a decision. And dammit, I’m tired.”

Tea followed. Lots of tea. Followed by a booze or two. I went home and saged myself and my tools, took a spiritual bath, and conked out in my bed, Trixy attendant. I went back to the usual dizziness, which caused me to think that perhaps my deities or spirit guides were grounding me during the exorcism so I could focus and stay safe. I probably couldn’t have remained calm during the procedure if I was feeling all sorts of negative juju, and fear probably would have made it stronger.

I spoke to my therapist about the encounter the next day, and she mentioned that it made sense that the spirit responded to loving kindness and not threats or aggression. Tara is the Buddha that people go to for help. Her aspect of Green Tara is known as the Rescuer, or Liberator, and it shows in her posture: She sits upon a lotus, with one knee bent in contemplation and the other leg outstretched so that she can jump off of her throne at any time and hurry to our rescue (she is also a wind element, hence the speed!). In her puja, which is kind of like a Catholic liturgy, she is described as being the one whom “evil spirits, demons, smell-eaters, and givers of harm all offer praise.” Basically, girl is the OG and even nasty entities respect her, because she cares about every sentient being and wants to help them break free from the bondage of suffering.

According to the housemates, the spirit has not done anything since the exorcism. In fact, it has buggered off. Murder Room has gone back to being a basement. I recall, only now, that Nate had been communicating with the entity some time before the cleansing, and he said that it was the father of a family that had lived there in the past. There was also a mother and a child, but the only one causing problems was the dad. It made sense that he was harassing Erin, who is basically the house mother; perhaps she reminded him of his wife. He seemed some sort of misogynist jerk, so it’s interesting that a woman kicked his spectral ass.

Tara, you fucking rock, girl.

Arya Tara courtesy of Tharpa Publications

“Actually, we are also asking to be liberated from the misery of the mental delusions and negative emotions that blind us to true freedom, and to achieve the same enlightened body, speech and mind that Tara represents, not only for our own benefit, but for the benefit of all sentient beings.”

Blessed be, cats and kits.

Helpful links:

http://kadampa.org/buddhism/tara-puja

https://www.yowangdu.com/tibetan-buddhism/green-tara-mantra.html

Sunday, October 2, 2016

The Ghost and Miss Cat, Part 1

Only an asshole would squat in an occupied house, harass the occupants, and not pay a dime of the rent.

Sometimes you just need to bust out the sage and bells and evict a bitch.

My girl Erin recently moved into a cute lil’ 1920s bungalow with her fiancée and a couple of friends. I was offered a room, but as much as I love my friends, I hate people and need my own space to be an antisocial hermit crab.

So, my nerd squad had a few busy weeks of getting settled in, and as I was dealing with my own shit we had a three-week span of limited communication. I eventually got to check out the nest, and with Erin leading the way we toured the space. Hard wood floors, pocket doors, high windows—I got punched in the face with nostalgia for the house I had lived in until I was laid off from my job last December.

Erin broke through my reverie by opening the door between the kitchen and mudroom and exclaiming, “Now you get to see the Murder Room!”

Uh, what?

Apparently the basement has been lovingly nicknamed “Murder Room,” since it is totally the kind of place where a serial killer would dismember bodies in a horror movie. Concrete, a layer of grime over the foundation walls, a few dirt troughs near the water heater, and enough gossamer to make even Arachne want to break out a Swiffer duster.

I had barely planted one foot beyond the stair landing when the nastiest shudder passed through me. Not only was the basement butt-ugly, but I got hardcore heebie jeebies just being down there.

Beating a hasty retreat upstairs, I only calmed down after gulping a scorching mug of rooibos. Erin related to me the weird shit that had been occurring since shortly after the group had moved in. Most of the instances involved a shadow that creeped on Erin and tried to grab her a few times, though it took a particular dislike to her roommate, whom I will call Nate, an ordained African shaman who pissed off the entity by telling it to leave. Since Nate is a full-time college student, zie hadn’t had the time to do a proper exorcism and mentioned to Erin that I could help. It was obvious what was and what had to happen.

Some ghost motherfucker was in the house.

We had to get that motherfucker out.

I came back a few days later with my trusty Gladstone bag, stuffed full of supplies I would need to do the house cleansing. I decided to go all out, not knowing to what the thing in the basement would respond. I brought my statue of La Santa Muerte; sage and sweetgrass; a cauldron, black feather, and Morrigan incense; and a bell. Asshole ghosts hate bells. Though I had planned to promenade through every room of the house with sage later, I knew that, as with any mess, the source has to be mopped up before the detritus can be dealt with, otherwise you are just continually cleaning the secondary sludge.

I wasn’t comfortable having too many people in the room while doing my work, especially if they didn’t know what was going on, so we asked the other roomies, Mickie and Austin, to hang out and play video games upstairs. Nate joined us, having a knack for communicating with the entity and an entire arsenal of lore that complemented mine pretty well. I figured that since Erin was both the primary female target and the mother hen of the house, she should tag along, letting the spirit know that the matriarch didn’t approve of its presence. I gave her a china bell shaped like a tama cat, a gift from an air force brat buddy who had lived in Japan.

So, down to the Murder Room we go!
(William Blake, The Ghost of a Flea, 1819, Tate)