I saw your picture while I was scanning the office. Michael and I talk about you often, like a sister who somehow died. I remember that one night, when there was no one in the house save for you and me. The computer sat on the landing right above the front door, with that huge window. It was pitch black outside, and probably 2 or 3 in the morning when you started barking like crazy. I couldn’t tell if someone was at the door, but I turned off all the lights, and ran downstairs to turn on the alarm system. Then I tried peering into the backyard to see if anyone was stalking around.
I couldn’t really see anyone or anything. Except, I remembered how someone told me Boles Farm was built on the slaves quarters of an old plantation. And the old slave graveyard was right down the street, where the Deans lived. Rumor has it when they started digging for their pool, they came across the burial plot, bones and all. In our own backyard, if you went to the very edge right near where you would poop, beside the old tree that was very huge and I tried to climb, there were still some artifacts.
You scared the shit out of me.
When you started barking that night, I immediately thought ghosts were in the house. I wanted it to be someone outside. True, I’ve always had an overactive imagination. But that house always made my hair tingle at night. Sometimes there were definite cold patches for no reason. And my eyes would well up with tears, as they do when I’m truly afraid. Afraid; down to the depths of my soul afraid. I like to think I’ve a pretty good sense of when there are spirits present. Mostly because my eyes will well up with tears for no reason. Something stirring in my own soul. Maybe my imagination is overactive.
In the old house in Duluth, I felt bad vibes from the land. The mixture of Cherokee Indians and old slave quarters don’t mix well for those with overactive imaginations. On that tree, near where you used to poop, I sometimes got the sense someone hung from that tree at some point. I got the sense the presence of the neighborhood was never really welcomed.
In our new house, I don’t get those vibes. Mostly I get the sense that Grandma Nettie visits often, with Aunt Odessa and my Uncle John. I get the sense there are family ancestors watching over and protecting us.
Except the past few days have been off. The wind carries eerie sensations. Twice I’ve seen a buck dart across the street, through the patch of trees near the garage and disappear into the pines behind the house. The sound of his hooves on the pavement alerts me to his presence. At first, I think I’m simply hearing rustling from the breeze, and out darts a buck. I’m not sure how that omen augurs, but if it helps I haven’t been able to see the stars for some nights.
I also know the trees have been trying to convey a message, but I haven’t been able to decipher their words lately. Again, it creeps me out, in the welling of tears kind of creeping out instead of hair standing on end creeping out. The breeze rustles their branches and yet I haven’t been able to decipher their message. I know fall approaches but there’s an intensity and urgency in their voice but I can’t quite make out the words. And lately, I’ve been dead on when witnessing falling stars.
I used to divine them as omens of love or good news. Except, I realized I was reading too much into them. Army Reserve Guy had the seal of a falling star, and clearly that turned out to be a disaster. No pun intended. Still, whenever I converse with the moon late at night and in need of a decision, a falling star usually brings some thought from the depths of the subconscious and I realize how I feel about the situation. Like the night after my first reading. I passed words to the moon in form of translucent smoke drifting towards the sky, and a falling star appeared. I was ecstatic, and promptly went to bed.
Perhaps the breeze is simply telling me, now that the Sun has entered my sign of Scorpio, that now is the time to tap into my subconscious. I’ve had this restless anxiety lately. Perhaps the breeze is attempting to tell me to tap into my hidden thoughts, discover what it is I love and go after it. Perhaps the breeze is telling me I’ve completed one lesson and now it is time for the next, only I need to decide the lesson plan. I’ve a tentative one, but I’m slightly terrified of submitting it.
And yet, that terrifying fear is the same one I feel when standing on the precipice of a cliff. Or witnessing La Pieta or The Romans of Decadence or Winged Victory over Samotrace. The feeling of contentment while wandering the Louvre and the arrondisements of Paris, especially Ile de la Cité. That feeling of familiarity and home.
Blue, you know more than anyone how terrified I am of home. I thought returning home this summer was hammering in the nails to my own coffin, when really it was merely setting my own phoenix pyre. The plumage has come back nicely, and I’ve been gaining strength in my muscles. I’m almost ready to fly yet again. Almost being the operative word. Je sais que je suis cryptique, mais mes pensées ne sont pas encore terminé la formation.
Don’t fret too much, ma cherie. The Rottweiler next door has been on the lookout for les espirits du mal, and alerts me with his barks when he thinks something is amiss. I’m going to delve back into the spirit world/subconscious to see what it is that plagues my soul. I probably just need to write more.