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How To Summon Demons

I bought this beautiful journal almost two years ago and haven’t wrote in it until today. Here is my first entry:

Originally, I was going to use this journal as a spell book but, I seldom cast any—maybe a song book but, I’ve tried that already.

All of my songs are typed out in my phone’s notes app because writing something down makes it real. Typing something keeps the “thing” at a distance and that’s where my songs belong—locked away in a phone; protected by a four digit password where no dark spirit can access it.

I’m scared that writing my songs in a journal will manifest the same demons that haunted me in my childhood home.

I recently watched Robert Egger’s “Nosferatu” which reminded me of a Nosferatu of my own. As I watched Count Orlock’s hand cast a shadow over the town of Wisborg, I was reminded of an almost identical shadowy hand that used to suffocate and molest me in my bed; that haunted my childhood home—house. a house that was filled with shame, fear, and anger.

When I was 15 years old, my Grandmother, a religious zealot, came to “bless” our home and exorcise it of the demons that possessed it. She claimed that there were three spirits; two of which were negative entities. One of those spirits resided in the corner of my room where my piano and of course, my song book were. She told me that the spirit fed off of negative emotions such as anxiety and depression—THE ONLY THINGS I WRITE ABOUT!

I stopped writing songs in journals; the demon(s) didn’t go away. I stopped believing in the Christian God and started practicing witchcraft; the demons started to disappear one by one.

In conclusion, her blessing and what she told me was likely bullshit. I’m still trying to unpack the religious trauma that was likely the true culprit of those “demonic manifestations”. I’m trying not to be afraid any more—of both writing songs in journals and ghosts. I think I’ve done a pretty good job at deconstructing over the years:

I read tarot, play with ouija boards (I even have a planchette tattooed on me), I worship Lilith (who is fucking awesome by the way), and I’m a member of The Satanic Temple.

Since moving out and deconstructing, I don’t see ghosts anymore which is honestly kind of lame…

I’m not sure what will come of this journal. Is it a spell book? A song book? a diary? A conglomeration of all three? I think I just need to let go and stop compartmentalizing my life.

Apparently, I can summon demons with fucking song lyrics! I guess my music was a spell after all.

#demonology #songwriter #diary #journal #spellbook #witchcraft #witch #satanism #lilith #ghosts #spirits #religious trauma #religious deconstruction #music #the satanic temple

mothercain

The Consequence of Audience

As I went there through the long, long wood, I felt no-thing and I was no-thing and I was at ease. The grey ash trees and their mottled plumage were as one with each other, curving and branching to form a ceiling overhead. There was wide separation between trunks, creating vast corridors stretching off in all directions before me, behind me, all around me. O, what praise I could sing of that never-ending dusk fall I spent between those oaks! None came with me, none came upon me, for I was alone and I was at ease. Yet came the day the trees broke, the corridor ended, and I was thrust upon the rocky expanse that was the Great Dark. There I saw first face and heard footstep, few and far between, but I was no longer alone. It was a shameful deed to carry these two naked hands as they clenched hotly, now in full display for all to see. I had never noticed them in the wood, for I was at ease. Here, the taut skin seemed to stretch and sweat, almost glowing, as if exasperated of their own grip. For as I wandered the Great Dark, there was not but grey, barren rock as far as any eye could see. It did make a passerby out of an observer. I saw them trudge by, fingers dipped into their open mouths desperate for wetness, the lolled tongue. There, in the wood, I was the watcher, but here I am nothing but displacing air. Yet, within the smothering toil of my apathy, I had heard the bell. Murmur of God between their slick, bent fingers ruffled the hair on the back of my neck. My muscles groaned against the weight of the skin around them, aching to be set loose. All at once, I saw, from where I stood, there rose a great dome atop a hill on the horizon before me. Yes, I saw it there with mine own two eyes! The white exterior peered at me with flat orifices obscured through the mist, barely distinguishable from the dark sky behind it, as though all the world beyond the dome was cut from the same slab, only slightly effaced. The convex roof sat atop a disk, held up by great ionic pillars circling the temple. Steps radiated out and down the slope, like ripples in a pond escaping a dropped stone. It was greater than life, greater than the wood, greater than all else which filled this dark, and my gullible delight was that it was all mine. Yes, all mine! One could follow me to it but they could not follow me in. My hands stretched outwards with an audible cracking in the bone as I crept forward there. I could not tell you the rest. I would not even attempt, for it would change no-thing. To know if I did go completely naked into the theater of the divine. If I did need for no-thing, want for no-thing. If I was then full to the brim, cylindrical pull slid through my gaping jaw into my endless throat. If I saw it there, shimmering through the veil like pearlescent oil over crystal water. If it heard me singing with every atom that formed me, through every orifice and wound I had, polytonal in my begging for it to complete me with the fifth. If it looked into me, saw how I needed to know what God knows and to be with him. If it spoke back to me in flat dissonance, “how couldn’t ye?” It would be of no good to speak these things to you. In what way I was still returned to the ground, even if beneath it, intact with my puerile need to repeat my-self and my mistakes. Who would not climb the wall for a peer over the edge? The cautionary tale is the fool’s errand, and I am no fool. I am as my hands are; twisting in on themselves and bursting at the seams. I can-not contain the ache for sensation, just as I could not contain the grief as I fell, nor the agony as I crawled my way back to this rocky countryside, and lo! I am on my way there again now. I am, I am, I am! But I will not tell you the visceral details, as you already know them. You all do.

It’s happening to every-body.

you lost your voice;

drenched it in poison to heal the pain,

but i found my voice at the bottom of your bottle

traumatized

“why do you want to leave me?”

mom it’s alright,

but i promised myself that i’d leave once i turned eighteen

but i don’t want to leave

still a little girl that needs her mommy

i wish you felt like home,

but the truth is you scare me