Getting to Know Your Ghost

With Naked Gardening day, tomorrow…I discovered I had more time on my hands. Particularly, now that I don’t have to pick an outfit out!

To be honest, I have been particularly obsessed with these days of wine, roses and too much time on our hands.

Thus, like Leonard Nimoy, I went in search of! In search of all things, paranormal, strange and unique. After all…May 3rd is National Paranormal day.

As luck would have it…while walking the dog in dark forbidden forests…I have found my own ‘ghost’ and my dog…did the same.

Below is photographic evidence of what we encountered:

18% of Americans have seen a ghost!
More women than men believe one can be…cursed!

**Most of us believe that the ghost of Christmas Past will come a knockin’ long before, E.T., stops by for a visit.

F.Y.I.

If you were obliged to hunt ghosts. Such as I do on a rainy, damp night, sleeping the back of my Honda Element. Just myself, the Dog and strange noises in the night. Resting uneasily at the free campsites offered by Park Rangers, along the Lost River highway.

If you are just as…curiously, freaky, as I am…

There are rules one must pay attention to:

$29.95
  • Get to know your ghost
  • Ask permission to be there. Personally, I have a bad habit of entering abandoned houses for some good pictures. Next time I need to remember to ask if I can upload to instagram! This is their house! Not mine!
  • Be curious but Be safe! If it says, do not trespass…do so with caution!
  • Carry with you and this is very important, a 1/4 ounce to offer up as a sacrifice, a poop bad (for when you get the shit scared out of you) an a Ghost Pro Meter for beginners!
Remember:
Conscience is no more than the dead speaking to us.


In the end, after my first encounter in the forests so dark and deep, I have discovered some key phrases to communicate with the dead.

Give the new friend…the benefit of the doubt!

Oh, hey, strange finding you out of here! I’m staring at you…not because you’re a ghost! But whomever does your hair…make sure to give ’em a tip.

Keep it simple, stupid! I found that cutting to the chase is the best way to go!

This is where I go to pee in the woods. It isn’t far from the site and I don’t have to stumble around in the dark for bathroom handles. So…
this is my spot and it bothers me when you are around all the time.  Would you please leave?

Sometimes, these wood sprites wish to want to just sit down and talk. They haven’t had any real communication since the battles at Fort Constitution!

I always begin this sketchy conversation in a friendly manner:

Do you know you’re dead (sometimes, like us, ghosts are not quick on the upswing.)

Do you want a rum and coke? Ghosts have wants too!

Here is the last and vital tip:

Let them know you are of the physical world. This is your crib…not theirs! Madonna comes in handy for this exchange:

I am a material girl
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl

…come and remind me
 who you are
 have you traveled far
…come and remind me
who you are
have you traveled far
are you made of stardust too
are the angels after you
tell me what I am to do
but until then I’ll save your side of the bed
just come and sing me to sleep
Emilie Autumn

barefoot pallbearer

vanishing a toe into the surface waters

I have reached another plane

coming-to, from this a fitful union

a cow…feasting upon hay

nothing but a nervous, deliberate, ploy

constant combat towards dreamy imps

who exploit any attempts at joy

I allot to carry slurping, acidic, pails of tears until the willingness comes

or

until I am turned from friend to foe

I am not the water girl for original sin

nor a sorceress with chimes of time to ring

just a nervous barefoot pallbearer…

mistakenly trying to soak up the other side

 

 

Ulalume by Poe

The skies they were ashen and sober; 
      The leaves they were crispéd and sere— 
      The leaves they were withering and sere; 
It was night in the lonesome October 
      Of my most immemorial year; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
      In the misty mid region of Weir— 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
Here once, through an alley Titanic, 
      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— 
      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 
These were days when my heart was volcanic 
      As the scoriac rivers that roll— 
      As the lavas that restlessly roll 
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
      In the ultimate climes of the pole— 
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
      In the realms of the boreal pole. 
poverty pond 5
Our talk had been serious and sober, 
      But our thoughts they were palsied and sere— 
      Our memories were treacherous and sere— 
For we knew not the month was October, 
      And we marked not the night of the year— 
      (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 
We noted not the dim lake of Auber— 
      (Though once we had journeyed down here)— 
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, 
      Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
And now, as the night was senescent 
      And star-dials pointed to morn— 
      As the star-dials hinted of morn— 
At the end of our path a liquescent 
      And nebulous lustre was born, 
Out of which a miraculous crescent 
      Arose with a duplicate horn— 
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent 
      Distinct with its duplicate horn. 
And I said—”She is warmer than Dian: 
      She rolls through an ether of sighs— 
      She revels in a region of sighs: 
She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
      These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
And has come past the stars of the Lion 
      To point us the path to the skies— 
      To the Lethean peace of the skies— 
Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
      To shine on us with her bright eyes— 
Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
      With love in her luminous eyes.” 
But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
      Said—”Sadly this star I mistrust— 
      Her pallor I strangely mistrust:— 
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger! 
      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.” 
In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
      Wings till they trailed in the dust— 
In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
      Plumes till they trailed in the dust— 
      Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 
I replied—”This is nothing but dreaming: 
      Let us on by this tremulous light! 
      Let us bathe in this crystalline light! 
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming 
      With Hope and in Beauty to-night:— 
      See!—it flickers up the sky through the night! 
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
      And be sure it will lead us aright— 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 
      That cannot but guide us aright, 
      Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.” 
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
      And tempted her out of her gloom— 
      And conquered her scruples and gloom: 
And we passed to the end of the vista, 
      But were stopped by the door of a tomb— 
      By the door of a legended tomb; 
And I said—”What is written, sweet sister, 
      On the door of this legended tomb?” 
      She replied—”Ulalume—Ulalume— 
      ‘Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!” 
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
      As the leaves that were crispèd and sere— 
      As the leaves that were withering and sere, 
And I cried—”It was surely October 
      On this very night of last year 
      That I journeyed—I journeyed down here— 
      That I brought a dread burden down here— 
      On this night of all nights in the year, 
      Oh, what demon has tempted me here? 
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber— 
      This misty mid region of Weir— 
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber— 
      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.” 
poverty pond 2
Said we, then—the two, then—”Ah, can it 
      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls— 
      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls— 
To bar up our way and to ban it 
      From the secret that lies in these wolds— 
      From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds— 
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet 
      From the limbo of lunary souls— 
This sinfully scintillant planet 
      From the Hell of the planetary souls?” 

##Edgar Allan Poe

 

Death, to the dead for Evermore

DEATH, to the dead for evermore
A King, a God, the last, the best of friends –
Whene’er this mortal journey ends
Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door;
Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore
Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn
Disturbs the eternal sleep,
But in the stillness far withdrawn
Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.

For as from open windows forth we peep
Upon the night-time star beset
And with dews for ever wet;
So from this garish life the spirit peers;
And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread,
Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo!
After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears
And clamour of man’s passion, Death appears,
And we must rise and go.

imageedit_12_3508387364

Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears
Weary of utterance, seeing all is said;
Soon, racked by hopes and fears,
The all-pondering, all-contriving head,
Weary with all things, wearies of the years;
And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;
And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.

#Robert Louis Stevenson