Can’t look at my Sedona pics without that bad acid feeling. Haunted house feeling. People are right. There’s energy there. It’s evil. There was a massacre, something. I hiked to one of the attractions, a giant sinkhole. Hundred ton rocks had plummeted into the bowels of the Earth. I felt like an antenna picking up a TV station broadcast by Pennywise. Feel it again now talking about it. Last night before I slept. I carried it with me.
Sedona is evil. How are there hot stone lavender massage places. Acupuncture slash aromatherapy facilities. How did this tourist trap spring up with vans circling constantly giving out parking tickets, at this Satanic wellspring. I’m terrified again typing this. I’m an HP Lovecraft character now, crippled by nameless horror.
Sedona is evil. The main attraction is energy vortexes. There are four. Girls talk about them. You hike there for yoga. First Angela told me to go. Then Christine I met in the Grand Canyon. She was meeting her mother there for dinner. I’d watched her ass sway down Skeleton Point trail through 500 million years of geologic history. Black yoga pants. Three distinct ecosystems. Four thousand feet down she turned around. She was perfect. A wholesome prairie girl you want to make Laura Ingalls Wilder novels with. How far down are you going, she asked. The Grand Canyon is soul exploding awe beyond pictures and words. A miracle from God’s hand. More rare: a pretty girl spoke to me.
I’ll keep going, I said. I saw those signs with a guy puking and dying but I don’t think they’ll medivac me out. She laughed.
I didn’t ask her to come. I was there to meet God. Farther down I stopped to meditate on a grass patch between cliffs. Vistas and colors before and behind me for miles and miles. I closed my eyes. God spoke to me like turning on a light switch. I climbed back up to Skeleton Point. There she was. It meant something.
We hiked back up together. Did you see the real estate fliers in town, I asked. 65 grand for a house on 22 acres. It’s my dream to get a spread like that. Leave the world and live like Ted Kazcynksi. Me too, she said.
She came from Oakland. Lives in a shitty apartment. She didn’t want to work anymore and neither do I. Her face. Her skin. How can I talk about her big tits without sounding crass– I mean fuck it, she has big tits. Her long black hair like a daguerrotype of an American Indian maiden. A Land O’ Lakes package. We climbed and talked and I didn’t need to work to keep it going. She said things and thought things. What I want is a Randy Weaver life, I said. The Captain Fantastic trailer. A Laura Ingalls Wilder life. We have kids and I hunt and you home can goods and she said, me too, me too. How is this happening. I don’t even have my shirt off.
She was headed to Sedona for the night. She’d hike to a vortex. Tomorrow, dinner with her mother. How do I make this work. Get her number. Tell her hey I’m in Sedona. We get drinks. On weekends I see her in Oakland. In six months the three bedroom house. I’m going to stop here and eat some beef jerky and nuts, I said. Do you want company, she asked. My God.
We sat on a Wile E. Coyote rock, all creation below us. How much water did you pack in, she asked. Well the park ranger told me three liters. So I humped forty fucking pounds down. My 16 ounce bottle would have sufficed. Me too, she said. I have four liters. My husband would laugh. He always says pack light.
They’ll find her bones when the rains come, would be a good punch line. Really it didn’t bother me. God teaches lessons you already know. He reveals the path once He’s placed the banana peel.
I went to Sedona anyway. The views are astounding but once I hiked into the dry creek bed past the parking lot I felt the vortex. There are places you can stand and feel safe. Little eddies of good energy. Then places on the path in the woods with no birds and a fist made of magnetism pulling you to hell. They– it– didn’t want me there.
No one else felt it. Families on the trail. Old Chinese people with ski poles for the day hike. More yoga pants girls– nice day they all said as their faces twitched into Jacob’s Ladder demons. Juniper branches bloomed into fractals. Red cliffs leering with squinting black eyes. The vortex. Path turned to twisted fairy tale forest. Branches like flames in Kelmscott Chaucer engravings. No birds. When I turned back I felt the swarming dark mass chase me out. When I stopped it got angry. When I moved it let up. People died here. People were hurt here. How do you not feel this.
I drove home on the 10 through dust storms. Moonscape of neutral beige sand and creosote bushes. Rock berms and ditches for floods that never come. Saw a Facebook message from a bar girl I met in Olongapo, Philippines. She’d typed some caveman English phrase. Where are you baby. I beat off to her photos with cruise control pegged at 90. White T shirt on the beach with her slightly chubby thighs out. Pumped a nut into into my Western style shirt while a trucker watched my unmistakable cum grimace in his high side mirror. Picked up his CB radio to tell everyone. In August I’ll go back and get her pregnant.
delicioustacos 
nice slice of life kid
Had to stop for a breather after the h-word, was like a jumpscare. I should have known better.
This, this right here is pure gold.
I’ve felt those too. Places that give a chill up the spine, an automatic tightening of the solar plexus — your body reacts first before your brain does. Notably happened in Martinez, CA.
Happily, I’ve felt the opposite of that cavernous black feeling too. My aunt had joined a cult and was after that the subject of family gossip for years and years; she was the foolish one, gullible, soft-minded, stupid, superstitious. One night I was up at 2AM having coffee — after a short exchange we had about Lacan she guided me to a little room she had made in the back of the house, cushions on the floor, photos of Sufi saints peering down from the uneven shelves. She told me to shut up and stand on the prayer mat in the center of the room. I did—I’m an atheist, but I felt intense sudden warmth and peace as soon as I closed my eyes. Never anything like it.
From my readings of Schrodinger and Wolfgang Paili, some depth physicists interpret the equations that reflect the behavior of light, time and electrons as saying: matter is psyche slowed down.
When I was in LA every dumb bitch with an Instagram account and a sugar daddy was sick with obsession for self-healing. House of Intuition, Ojai, crystals, horseshit like that. These women, all of whom were dead inside, were obsessed with Sedona and its healing energy. Perhaps enough of these vampires reached Sedona that its recuperative powers have been exhausted, like an abandoned coal mine invested by corpses of miners long dead. Just a thought.
Matter is ‘bottled light,’ whereas light is ‘bottled matter’; i.e. matter is light (not psyche) slowed down. But if it is your intention to argue that light *is* psyche, I’ll have no quarrel with that. Everything is light. Even DT. Although he’s still going to die stupid, narcissistic and miserable. Good day, sir.
Pauli’s notes suggest that he thought matter and psyche were somehow the same thing. (Observation fucks with quanta in rather bizarre ways–even backwards causation has been noted, in which future measurements influence past events.) Note: I don’t understand Pauli or his arguments fully, I’m just relaying what he thought, but that’s what he began to write about near his end.
Not that it’s up to us, but if we allow for backward causation, i.e. quanta fucking with observers, it actually calls in question causality as a whole, as there are no causes leading to effects or effects bringing about their own causes; for cause and effect may rise and fall together as one. To borrow from Shakespeare, there is no cause and effect but thinking makes it so. Hurry, tell all the people: it wasn’t their shitty childhoods after all!
Changing the topic, do you think the title of DT’s book “The Pussy” refers to those pulchritudinous poon caverns he so desperately craves, or … to the author himself?
*gooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng*
Nothing is thirstier than the mallard, btw
The final few sentences made me think of something by David Cronenberg or maybe Lynch. That’s where the unclean spirit of Sedona was purged.
I thought you lived here?
Here = meaning Sedona
I guess that was the asshole I was chasing down when I found your blog…
I think you may be confusing “something is evil here” with “something does not want me here.” I don’t even believe in this shit, but it seems to me that your particular spiritual presence might not be an uncomplicated one. Is it possible that you’re capable of being an asshole in some meta-realm, beyond even your own perception?
I’m curious though, given the site you linked: did you visit a male- or female-aligned vortex? What were your goals in doing so?
Sorry, I guess you did express it in “something doesn’t want me here” terms. But it’s an interesting topic. 🙂
Dearest ass-fucking DELISH! Hello from Sors (-erygod!)
Remember I’m your lottery ticket. If I can pull some money together, I’ll see if we can become friends in RL. Strange, I know, but stranger things have happened. I happen to be an admirer of your work, you read my review of your skills on an earlier incarnation of my websites, and now I’m thinking of you hoping you’ll go to my newest (final) website:
http://www.templeofsorcery.wordpress.com
BTW, if you ever want to exchange letters, I’m at:
thegodwithpurpleeyes@gmail.com
I’m an incorrigible optimist — and I have a habit of cheering up people wherever I go.
Please drop a few comments to my site to let me know you’re alive and you still believe in un-paid-for lottery tickets.
— S*Gd
Fag
Cheeto stains cover half your possessions
Sors: The AI Spergman Cometh
Look – a Wangskin cushion. You know, for your face.
http://testerkorea.com/Product/w-wangskin-eight-effect-cushion-spf50-pa-15g-_34908
Write more, asshole.
And by that I mean post more of your writing.
I miss you is all I’m saying.
I was in Sedona, and I was shocked that there were vortex’s, and it was wonderful. The author would have this reaction in the presence of Archangel’s. (Really, can you imagine the gloom and narcissism if the author was in the presence of St. Michael, Raphael or Gabriel? Think this guy would write about the great experience or would it be another one of these? Sedona showed good sense in kicking his negative ass out.