“Rockabye, rockabye…I’m gonna rock you
Rockabye, rockabye…somebody’s got you
Rockabye, rockabye…I’m gonna rock you
Rockabye, rockabye …(a bang bang bang)”
(Clean Bandit, “Rockabye”
It certainly is, a bang-bang-bang, this morning! I am a-bang-bang-banging, away on my keyboard, attempting to extract as much juice out of a productive bipolar phase, before the inevitable crash, again.
Today, we are going to talk about devil-worshipry, and the unseemly harm it can have upon the deeply sensitive and/ or highly suggestible. There is devilry everywhere in the World, and sadly, in Art and Music, and Writing, which are supposed to make us stronger, and more positive - and not wallow in negative stuff. However, if and when we come across this, as we inevitably will - what one has to do, is be strong enough not to let it get to us, and infiltrate our minds. And, if we can, avoid these sorts of people, and influences, altogether.
Over the past few years, I had the pleasure (if you can call it that) of going out with specifically one individual, who was definetely tainted with The Devil. Looking back, there was something perceptibly wrong with them; a lack of colour in their faces, a hatred for daylight, and walking briskly in the fresh, open air (conversely, these are two things I love). And there was another thing; after a while, it became clear, they were trying to get at my energy.
I am a Spring baby; a person who values colour, and light, and inventiveness, and freshness. Yes, blackness and depression are a part of life; but much like sex, they are only one of a thousand facets of this life. You don’t want to dwell on them too long; it creates polarity, and imbalance.
Anyway, I had been going out for a while with this individual, and had been living with them in their house, as I was going through one of my, unfortunately all too familiar, spells of homelessness which I have experienced, over the last few years.
Now, this person, themselves, were pretty strange fruit; they would make statues, out of discombobulated parts of toys, or other objects. Not so weird in itself, you might think, and quite creative; but these “new” creations of theirs would be quite grotesque.
They also had an obsession with the folkloric figure, Krampus. For those of you who don’t know who, or what that is, it’s a figure with a red devilish face, who is supposed to be the antithesis of St. Nicholas (another equivalent, is “Black Peter”), and who carries supposedly “naughty” children” away in a basket, to God knows where - and does God knows what, to them.
I wouldn’t have given so much attention to the fact, if they had just possessed one figure of this particular being - but they had several figures all round the house, for Christ’s sake. I was petrified of sleeping on their couch downstairs, because they had this Krampus figure they’d made from some ventriloquist’s dummy, with a wooden leg and cloven hoof, staring at one with its pop eyes, and baring its teeth at one out of the shadows of the living-room, in the middle of the night.
I was aware they were into signs and symbols - they had a whole bookcase devoted to the occult, Aleister Crowley, you name it - and I was aware they were into paganism, and the fact that most of their friends belonged in a funny farm, quite frankly - but the seriousness of it all, came home to me about a year ago, when they asked me if I wanted to go to a Satanic Christmas Fayre.
I paused, whilst I tried to compute the logic of this in my mind. “Satanic” and “Christmas” didn’t exactly mesh together, to my way of thinking.
“Absolutely not.” I said. “Why would I want to do that?”
They shifted uneasily from one foot to another. “Oh…well…you know…all my friends are going to be there…”
Yes, I thought, and I bet I know which “friend”, too! We had been watching the boxset of The Avengers during lockdown, and (partner) had been unfavourably comparing the blonde Cathy Gale (me, I suppose) with the brunette, but chipmunk-cheeked Emma Peel, who bore more than a fleeting resemblance to this “friend”, which (partner) was apparently so keen on meeting up with.
Having had a chance to get to know these various friends of my partner, over the time that I had known them, I had found myself becoming increasingly reviled by their art. The art of the “Chipmunk” (we’ll call her that) was rife with depictions of deformity, horror, and dead, bloodied babies; there was something clearly very wrong, going on in these people’s minds. These people, in this friendship circle, all looked ill; their skin was strange; they looked old; they were aging prematurely, and they were championing stuff like the Chipmunk’s art, and other various weird rituals, which seemed completely off the scale, to my way of thinking.
Most were, or had been, into drugs - in a big way. I had/ have, myself been into alcohol, in a big way, but never, ever, drugs. One of them, knowing that I would occasionally self-medicate with alcohol for pain relief, suggested I take ketamine. My partner (who knew absolutely nothing about the drug - which was surprising, since their knowledge of most other drugs was comprehensive) - suggested that this might be a good idea.
I gave them one of my “looks”. “Do you,” I said slowly, “know exactly what this stuff is?”
Upon their answering in the negative, I said, “It’s horse tranquilliser, goddammit! It’s one of the most dangerous things there is! Why, in the world, would you want me to take ketamine?”
So, that was the end of the ketamine discussion. We did, however, go to a dinner party at these people’s house - and left early, because the boyfriend of (friend who had suggested ketamine) was a recovering heroin addict, and was sampling one drug after another, as we were sitting around the dinner table. I was trying to sober up at the time, so did not consider this to be exactly helpful to my cause.
That was not to say, that my partner had not had their own colourful past. When they were a child, their mother used to be prescribed some sort of medical equivalent of speed, in order to improve her tennis performance. It had the added side-effect of drying one up when one had a cold, so she used to give her inhaler to my partner, when they were a young child. Effectively, they were addicted to speed, from an early age.
Their 20-30-year drugs-and-booze bender didn’t stop there; when they openly “grew their own” weed, and started smoking in college, their own father threatened to shop them to the police (and quite rightly so). When they played gigs, rather than being paid in cash, they would be paid in big bags of coke and speed; they would drive their van from gig to gig when high on speed, as coke wasn’t supposedly effective enough, and didn’t give them enough of a buzz.
They had a friend who was addicted to heroin, and also to prescription drugs and alcohol. This friend would rob pharmacies and supermarkets, whilst (partner) would drive the getaway car. How (partner) was never nicked, I’ll never know. I can only assume they were a police informer.
The crunch time for our relationship came, when, as I presume, as a result of their paganism, and also some passive-aggressive feelings towards myself, I discovered that they had been cutting my hair in my sleep. Now, I have pretty amazing blonde hair - and whether they thought they were divesting Samson of their locks, God only knows - but I realized that a lock had been cut, and told them that if they wanted a sample of my hair, they could have this when I myself trimmed my hair (every 3 months), but that they could not just take it in the middle of the night, without my permission.
All was quiet, on the western front, for about 4 months, and then it happened again. I discovered that a patch of hair which was about 3 inches square, had been cut about 1 cm from my scalp. Now, we all know that hair does not fall out according to this pattern, but rather in a diffuse manner. I myself was very upset about it, and the anger built up inside me until I went comprehensively nuclear, and hit the roof, about a month later; which prompted, what was probably a long overdue, split. My friends (I.e. not (partner’s) friends) all said to me: “RUN! You don’t know what they’re going to cut next!”
So yeah, I would say, be careful out there, girls and boys; particularly if a person is into serious goth-ism; horror movies; so-called “artistic” movies (like Pier Paolo Pasolini - artistic, I think not!); Alesteir Crowley; ceremonial knives; pentagrams; tarot or similar (I have a little knowledge of astrology, but nothing too frightful) - if they just simply look darn ill, and you know they are into this stuff - even if they profess to be the most positive, and jolly, and fun-loving people, out there - RUN.
You won’t be doing yourself a disservice, if you do.
If it looks, walks, and quacks, like a duck, it probably is one.
