Got a nice shout out from Cameron Chaney on his YouTube channel. I look forward to his thoughts on my collection Engines of Ruin.
The books became her life. She ate less, slept less. Sometimes she woke up in the middle of the night to start reading again. She read at work, at school, in bed, and on the toilet. She stopped seeing friends. She stopped going to see Ruthanne.
Jake started coming around less and less. The last time she saw him, he said he could tell he wasn’t wanted, told her to call him when she’s ready to come out of her cave. She wanted to stop him at the door, throw her arms around his neck and say, “Of course I want you. Please don’t go.” Instead, she stood and watched him leave. Once he was out the door, she opened The Cosmic Heart and started reading again.
She never stopped to cry for his absence. Never stopped to think about what her obsession was doing to her life. She just kept reading.
Katie believed that within their pages, she could find some kind of meaning. A cure for cosmic ills? Nothing so dramatic, but she hoped to at least find something, some nugget of wisdom, some piece of magic to help her get her thoughts in order. To help her make sense of what had happened to her family. Maybe help her find out what happened to Melissa. Maybe find out what really happened to her father, somehow.
She supposed this was what it was like when someone began to explore a religion, particularly if they were someone who expected a religion, a faith, to fix them somehow. Like alcoholics who swore off the sauce and gave their addiction to a higher power. Like a CEO who loses all his earthly gains and decides to reject materialism altogether, throwing himself into Eastern thought. Like the child whose family is killed by drone strikes, and grows up to be radicalized, a killer for their god. All different degrees of mad devotion. She wondered where she lay on the spectrum.
Something swam behind the veil. She couldn’t see or hear it—couldn’t even see the veil, really—but she knew it was there. Just. Out. Of reach.
The only things that remained from her life before the books were the dreams. Everything on fire, spiraling into that unfathomable black hole.
Three months after she obtained the books, a call from Ruthanne woke her from a midmorning nap. Hearing her therapist’s smooth, clean voice brought Katie, not just out of sleep, but also back from the brink of disappearing completely into her own head.
“Ruthanne, hey, how are you?”
“Concerned about you. I haven’t heard from you since before the funeral.”
“Is everything okay?”
The question, standard enough, something people asked each other all the time, carried great magnitude. How Katie answered it seemed like the most important thing in the world. Despite that…
“I, uh, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe I should schedule another appointment.”
And so they did. The next morning Katie entered Ruthanne’s office, comforted by its familiarity. The smells of cinnamon and chili powder. How the building’s temperature never dipped below seventy-two degrees or above seventy eight. She crossed her arms and plopped down in the waiting room, feeling at ease for the first time in months.
She made it a point not to bring the books with her. She wanted to have her head clear for the conversation. Hoped Ruthanne would serve as the perfect sounding board for everything she had been going through.
A door opened and Ruthanne padded down the hallway. She always moved in slow, purposeful strides, feet soft on the ground. Her skin always had a glow to it, like a serene energy pulsed somewhere within her. Katie sometimes wondered if Ruthanne’s catlike manner of movement was all part of an act, something to make it seem like Ruthanne had it all figured out when she was perhaps more damaged than Katie, or any other client. The glow made it seem like more than an act though. Something like that was hard to fake.
Katie knew very little about Ruthanne’s personal life. Once she looked Ruthanne up on Facebook, but most details were hidden from people who weren’t friends, and Katie couldn’t bring herself to send a friend request to her therapist.
Ruthanne smiled and it held a warmth Katie felt she didn’t deserve. When Katie examined the last few months of her life, she saw a woman who had isolated herself, engaged in selfish pursuit of answers while neglecting people who only cared about her. Deserved or not, Ruthanne’s smile Katie even more at ease. She felt okay admitting her own faults around Ruthanne, and part it was because of that smile. So welcoming, so soft. On the way to the office, Katie hadn’t been sure how much she would tell Ruthanne. After that smile, she decided she would confess a good portion.
They said their hellos and Ruthanne led Katie back to the room where their sessions took place. Katie sat in the corner seat of a teal sofa and Ruthanne sat across from her in a flowered armchair. Ruthanne rested a legal pad on her knees, but she seldom wrote in it. For the most part she just listened. Only time she scribbled something down was when Katie said something pivotal, profound, something they could return to later.
Ruthanne waited for Katie to talk. It was a ritual, in and of itself. Sometimes Katie started talking immediately. Sometimes it took almost a minute. Other times, Katie just wanted to scream and beg Ruthanne to talk instead. This time Katie led with an apology.
“I’m sorry I haven’t set an appointment in a while. It’s been a hard few months.”
Ruthanne’s eyebrows raised, imploring Katie to continue.
“The funeral was a nightmare. I had some kind of attack.”
“Like a panic attack?”
“I guess…I mean, I’m not sure. I thought I saw my father in the woods outside the church and…I don’t know. Jake and Dale said when they found me I was just screaming.”
“You said you saw your father?”
“I thought I did. My memory of that day is kind of foggy.”
“I can understand that, but you’re okay now though? No more attacks?”
“What about the dreams?”
“They’re still happening. Pretty much every night, whenever I actually sleep anyway.”
“Are you not sleeping?”
“Not a lot. I got these books the day I was cleaning out Dad’s house. They were intended for him, but, you know.”
Ruthanne’s expression grew somber. Right on cue, but genuine.
“Did the sale of the house go okay?”
“Yeah, some developer bought it. Not the ideal buyer, but I just wanted to get rid of it, really.”
Katie stopped talking, let several beats of silence pass. She worried they were getting off track by talking about the house.
“So, these books,” Ruthanne said, as if reading Katie’s mind.
A nervous laugh escaped Katie and she covered her mouth.
“Basically, they’ve been my life for the last few months. I can’t stop reading them or thinking about them.” Ruthanne frowned. “They’re religious texts. I mean, sort of. More like, I don’t know, esoteric mythology or something. I never heard of them until they showed up at Dad’s house.”
“What are they called?”
Katie told her.
“Never heard of them either. Can you describe the symbol?”
“I can draw it.”
Ruthanne handed her the legal pad and a pen. Katie sketched a rough version of the symbol, about the size of her hand, its points and angles exaggerated, the animals mere impressions. She handed back the pad.
“I’ve never seen that before,” said Ruthanne.
“Yeah, I’ve tried occult message boards in every seedy corner of the internet you can imagine and haven’t come up with shit. It’s very obscure. The book explains it—and The Cosmic Heart’s—obscurity by saying people who share the wisdom without permission would be killed.”
Ruthanne laughed. Katie didn’t.
“You don’t believe any of this, do you?”
Katie kept a straight face, said nothing. Ruthanne took a heavy breath. Worry creased the therapist’s features. She wrote something down.
“Anyway,” Katie said, “my brother’s girlfriend went missing the day I got the books. I found my sketch of the man who assaulted me and my mother in her room. Maybe it’s all coincidence, but I don’t know.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Of course.” Katie peered out the window. Several cars zipped by on the street below. Sunlight reflected off the window of a nearby building and made her eyes water when she stared for too long. “I guess I’m just looking for answers.”
“We all are,” Ruthanne said. “Especially in difficult times. You’ve had a tumultuous year.”
“I think the answers are in those books.”
“Like their message may help all of this make sense? Sure, I can appreciate that.”
“More than that. The books have these rituals and…”
“You’re thinking about trying them?”
“I wouldn’t recommend that.” Her voice hardened. Katie had never heard Ruthanne take such a tone. “When people are in a fragile mental state, dabbling in the occult, hell any religion, can have an adverse effect on your ability to distinguish reality from fantasy. I did a thesis on it.”
“Maybe, I don’t think I’m so fragile.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Except, you did.” Ruthanne’s lips pressed together. Katie gave a dry laugh. “You want to talk about the difference between reality and fantasy? I never told you everything about the day my mother and I were attacked. That woman my father was with, the one the man who kidnapped us wanted back? She was someone from Dad’s past, someone who died and came back.”
“At least that’s what he told me, and what choice did I have but to believe him after seeing a photo of her standing next to him when he was twenty-two. So, yeah, it’s safe to say, my ability to tell between reality and fantasy is a little skewed.”
“Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I have to ask.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. No, I’m not suicidal, homicidal. I don’t own any guns and I’m not fucked up on drugs.”
“I’m worried about you.”
Katie tried to focus on the comforting scents of the office, on Ruthanne’s kind face, even though the jaw was tight and the eyes bore into Katie. She needed to regain her composure. She hadn’t come here to fight.
The session’s time ran out without any other words spoken. This was becoming an uncomfortable pattern in Katie’s human interactions.
Katie handed Ruthanne a check and said, “I’ll call you.”
As she marched down the office stairs to her car, she wondered if she would ever see Ruthanne again.
Here in Austin, it’s 73 degrees. I ran the air conditioner in my car while driving to a friend’s with my son. Tonight, Mom texted me to say she was driving home in an ice storm. I hope she made it back safely. I remember those Pennsylvania winters well, and not at all fondly.
I woke up with itchy eyes set between pressure that only comes from exhaustion. I had a somewhat decent night sleep, save for a dream in which I was boxing George Foreman on a bus (don’t ask). I woke up afterwards, at 1:30 A.M., with a pressing need to piss. But otherwise, no complaints. Still this pressure. This itch. Maybe it has something to do with the beer I had last night. I only had one, but it was of a higher proof and very heavy. Maybe it’s the winter blues belting out their ugly melody despite the warm weather. Maybe it’s the itch and the pressure I feel to get as much writing done as possible before the semester (my last semester) begins. Maybe I just want to be financially secure again.
My son is a joy that constantly breaks my heart. After he fell asleep leaving the park, I decided to take him home instead of to a friend’s. When he woke up and realized our friends were nowhere nearby, he got very upset. So upset that he wanted me to pour his water in his mouth for him, as if he were a baby taking a bottle. When we put him down tonight, he wanted to read a bunch of old books we haven’t read in a while. It was weird and sad. I love him so much and want him to be happy.
My friend gave me a copy of The Hero With a Thousand Faces the other night. I’ve read so much about the book, and indeed, I’ve had many crash courses on the hero’s journey in its many variations, but I’ve never gone right to the source. A lot of times, going right to the source is the best way to really learn. Regurgitated information is never exactly the same as the information ingested. I’ve found this to be true everywhere. In classic works of literature. Religious texts. Bills written into law. People tend to take the pieces that speak to their biases the most, and then build their arguments around that limited information. It’s fucking bonkers when you think about it. Like, is anything really fully true?
Anyway, I digress. It will be interesting to get Joseph Campbell’s argument formed from his biases and based on the limited information he provides. 🙂
I’ve been on a hero’s journey of sorts myself. Since enduring a genuine crisis at the beginning of the summer, after dwelling in the underworld for four years, it’s been all progress, save for difficult dreams, difficult news, itches and pressures. I’m happy, despite having a day in which getting out of bed seemed a horrible chore (been a while since I’ve had one of those).
If you’re reading this, I hope you’ve got something to keep you warm and bright this winter. Even if you live somewhere the temperature doesn’t drop, keep the fire burning. The blues still tend to sing through the leafless branches of sleeping trees.
I wonder who’s singing them.