@PioneerWorks Second Sundays, 4/9/23
I step out into the sunshine filled garden
A jester type - silver body suit + crown of matches, a bouquet of wands bound together
She announces the process, gesturing up a small hill with a stone slab pathway
to a woman in bright colors, a yellow-rope headdress that reminds me of Medusa
The jester is some type of Demon, a time based one, maybe of Now
not all Demons are bad, she says
Explains different kinds of rituals, greek influences, lilith
a psychoanalytic approach that sees our shadows as unintegrated parts of ourselves
looking for acceptance, an invitation to the party that is you
Her crown of matches slips down her brow
We'll burn it at the end of the ceremony, she says
as I step past her onto the stone path
The demon-trapper (priestess?) watches as I approach
her stone seat caught in a shaft of light
She is as quiet as her jester is loud, but on top of that little hill, it is like a blanket
has descended around us and I hear only her soft voice
I came just to see her, to see this, her process - but also I am a little nervous
to learn what I'm about to learn
I hadn't slept well the night before, it had felt like I was being watched
through a sliver of undraped window in my bedroom -
I used to have night terrors as a child, and they whisper to me sometimes, even as an adult
Her questions are very like the questions I ask students - what does your demon look like, feel like, smell like, can you describe its texture, the sounds it makes
It allows a kind of gently active reflection about the things holding us back
a way to look without having to stare it down or defend yourself
To admit, acknowledge its existence
I know this demon isn't mine, I explain to her
It is a family demon, passed down through the women but manifests as choosing
violent, abusive, addicted men to be with us
My mother carries it inside of her, and to protect myself I had to reject the vessel
because she cannot distinguish between herself and this destructive other
I always thought we carried a kind of fucked up female energy, damaged or inverted
but as we talk I start to understand this entity as masculine
desperately hungry for the feminine
What does it look like? she asks in her accented voice
a dainty silver chain with Hebrew letters slips out of her ceremonial costume
A human shaped void - just empty blackness with two moist human eyes
and a scary mouth with long, sharp teeth
What does it sound like? she asks
It has no voice - it just makes sounds when it eats, saliva and teeth sounds
he is so hungry. I guess its a He, I laugh
So it manifests through gender? she clarifies
It is time to invite it into my little bowl
this is the first time I have addressed it directly
rather then through the vessel of family members
I can feel its confusion - curious about being engaged with
about being invited somewhere, anywhere at all -
but also a fear of doing someone else's bidding
of being tricked by the desire to engage and not being able
to protect himself if the dynamic shifted
There is a community of other demons waiting for him,
I find they sort themselves out, she says
I feel him decide to put a foot in, and together we count to three and flip.
Come back for the ceremony, tell me how you feel after, she says.
Her ritual is clear and simple
We all gather together, collect our demons for releasing, make a circle
As she talks about them, she mentions that a few ghosts also showed up
sliding her eyes in my direction for a second
We breathe together, adults and children, holding our little cups, then we dump them out
and shake them out of our bodies, we hum, then we scream
when the crown of matches is lit and then dunked in a bucket of water
And I see how Joy is the antidote, the shield, the thing that frees us
from demons of shame and anxiety, of sleeping to avoid reality and workaholic dervishes
how greeting these demons like loving friends and inviting them to have a seat at the table
is what allows them to live their own lives, not at our expense
But what I have is a ghost
Like patterns in sand that tell us of the presence of wind
I have born witness to this wounded being's impacts through time
surfacing again and again
an inheritance as real as a house but impossible to get rid of
The entire ceremony I could feel him clinging to my body
keeping me from unfurling with the abandon of everyone else in the group
I think of the person my mother didn't get to be
when this ghost wore the face of her father, irreperable damage
for years, a decade I have described her like a Zombie,
shaped like the woman who birthed me but vacant inside
her child self buried too deep to be found in this lifetime
My anger and grief and shame at her inability to be whole or present
became too much
Now that I have located this ghost, I understand what the task is ahead of me
I have to invite it to speak, and I have to listen
listen until it runs out of breath
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