Hekate Station Book 2 Transcript

Drawings can be seen at http://hekatestation.net/files/Book_2.pdf Password: Venus
Page 1: Cursed be the man who makes a graven or molten image, an abomination to the Lord, a thing made by the hands of a craftsman, and sets it up in secret.
Page 2: I've literally been in Hell, not figuratively. I did not escape in that I will return despite my desire not to stay there forever. It was more of a –nearly- permeant death experience. It was ugly. I’d stop reading here, right now if I was you and didn’t already know what I know. Fling this text far from you, preferably into flames unless you wish to hate yourself a little more. In Hell I found myself on the surface of a river of humans and their shit, being rapidly clawed down into it by my peers, the others down there before I. I knew what was soon to happen. I’d be pulled down into the writhing nudes, my clothes so shredded off and eaten as they clawed and ate me. We only drank piss and diarrhea of our neighbors. No drink but that and blood, eons of frothy mutual hate slightly lubricating each of us from each other.
Page 3: You were to be pulled down unlying but being eaten by hunger. You’d be eating the others as they ate you. Sexually prodded by someone seeking some kind of relief, like using a back fire in the face of an inferno, a ludicrous path but none the less as no other option seemed to exist, unlying you’d be. Pulled down, losing skin, then organs, bones gnawed and crushed by the weight of newly added bones, shitting the shit of others, forced to drink as you force, then at the bottom, BLINK, you ceased to exist. It takes forever to get there and you stay that way even longer.
Page 4: I hesitate to write this journal, not from fear of it being found, but from fear that it won’t. The demons threw the last one, but somehow now I think this one will be allowed. I could be wrong. I have done projects for others before, this was however my first one for the Hekate. I prefer to think of the fringes aspect. Alecto, Mageren, Trisphone. But this was a cross-rooted dedication so it was the Hekate herselves, old school straight out of Works and Days. It seemed rather straight forward. First thing I did was procure a Hekate structure. Second I separated the area. The scouting journal is the one they took. How to get there? So, I’ll not go into detail about that, guessing that’s what they wanted suppressed and keep underground.
Page 5: General Outline: Huge trash filled swath – an old quarry with dangerously vertical cliffs and oddly aligned, massive cut stones the size of small trunks – holes drilled right through them – some in lines paralleled to the valley which ran darn rear, due north and south, and a couple of circles one filled in, one not and hollow – one half-done – a railroad line ran under a series of new bridges being built – it was those overpasses and the tracks that made the crossroads. It was crossing the open fields, where it’d get weird.
Page 6: I’d enter the field, always at night, midnight, the earliest start time. 2-3 of 4 preferred. And well, I wouldn’t get lost – but the place it would change. It was like going in one end of a piece of spaghetti on a plate – a plate that was gently rotating – a microwave Hell – you could get from one place to another but the bottom line was, you never came out where you thought you would and not ever even be sure if you ever returned to the exact same world or not.  How I keep alienated seems to be what they want suppressed, so I’ll not elaborate. Just say the field of trash was maze-like with paths.
Page 7: The crossroads itself was 3 shades of dark below rumbling freeways. Cold, black, shadowed areas where I felt safest, grey areas that offered a feeling of safety where the other denizens worked, and bright areas of too much light reflected off white concrete paired with seas of pits and craters from kings nearby.
Page 8: My most immediate physical concern was taggers, the new clean bright walls attached then like moths – their work was stunning in its amount of detail, the time they have put in I found hard to compute – I decided they had to be working during the day. It would have required them to bring huge batteries of lights to work there at night to generate rock masterpieces. Still, I didn’t wish to encounter them, nor irk their wrath at the early preliminary consecration. One hears of taggers being armed and reacting violently if their works were vandalized. I opted for glow-in-the-dark paint and a very long pole with a roller brush on one end. I worked spots and bands high above their works that were empty. On this void I made the markings noting the crossroads were the Hekates’.
Page 9: The glow in the dark paint was glossy – hard to see in the day and at night – unless light held to it prior, near invisible. I had to hold a blue LED up to it for near 120 seconds to get it to shimmer. But if one looked for it, knowledge of where to look was there. Elsewhere with chalk that had laid at the feet of the Hekate I added families of theirs, the perros, negros, ravens, nightmice – and their tokens, cord, torch, and blade. It all worked well, next time I visited two ravens (that) had a nest in a high crook, bats were seen and an odd little owl-like bird, but much faster. Not sure what it was.
Page 10: The bridges complex consisted of six bridges and the iron railroad tracks, castor beams stood huge and leaning in the drainage ruts, big hands overhead – tempting seed pods – trashy trees nearby – I never saw any bugs of any kind. I had time – weeks to birth until the consecration date allowed – the new moon before Samhain (it fell two weeks prior) – this was a clue to which of the Hekate was most involved, which was good for me. – I don’t think Krone is a bad term – think battle aspect of Maub – This also made the ravens appearance all the more valuable and significant. Waiting for the right time is very important. Time is the most valuable element in many incarnations. Time is not something you buy at the store. Hitting it at the correct moment takes knowledge. Knowledge you can buy. – And with time there are windows – a slight false factor – the valuable time is that which is invested getting to the moment that is darn near priceless.
Page 11: Ok, so there was a wait. This was time to be put to good use. – Time to invest with portend. I choose to mark the boundaries. I found a good place to get up on an island sized area between the traffic streams – A very wide dirt center divider – Four to six traffic lanes wide in its own. Some eucalyptus trees were there – mostly packed dirt and weeds – a cement lined rut ran its length, a run lined with sunflowers – a joyous wall of green and yellow along the rut. This provided cover to this path up and down the island. Even at two in the morning you’d think someone would’ve seen me, but I guess they’re going over sixty miles per hour and intently watching for things in the cone of light pushed ahead of their cars – it wasn’t until the very last mission I ever worried about a cop interfering.
Page 12: One of the bridges was held aloft by three pillars – (so) huge (you) couldn’t wrap your arms half-way (around the) monsters. Glow-in-the-dark paint had worked well on the original site – I used it again on the pillars – different kind though – one each on the pillars. I depicted one of each of them facing into traffic where the light of the oncoming (traffic) would lit them best – These were tall representations – Words on (the) back of /b/. 
Page 13: Another night I added to three other pillars – they were in a row on the east – I had to cross two lanes of north bound traffic – It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be – more (of) just waiting for the right time. There were three eucalyptus trees there to wait by – info I could use later – again, tree representations – a different day-glow used – it still held light harder to use orange (on), not charter use.  Again into the traffic they faced holding the rope of (a) torch or blade – there was near zero level ground there – (a) steep, steep incline I had to stand within two feet of traffic – I couldn’t stop if a car approached – nowhere to go – If I stopped every time a car came I’d have been there forever, but again felt no one notice that I existed.
Page 14: I still had cardinals to cover – one involved the cliffs on the edge of the quarry- it took two consecutive nights – one to scout it out – I needed some place I could get to without killing myself – good view – flat vertical stone and (I) knew of a place of power – I used spray paint this time – thin heliographic people resulted (words written over other words) their glowing bodies looked across an abyss into a domed home’s windows, but they saw unseen. Held a pair of pencil leads to their heads for 6 minutes to bring them up – worked really well. The first thing they saw (was) the dark abyss and I – they grinned on their own – I made it clear I was (grinning) but the hired help as were they – that angle was covered best – skulls in the eucalyptus trees and some phantoplasmas else. Where on other nights rounded to it – but the eyes of those three still haunts (me).
Page 15: The Hekate: I made an altar in my home. Think it was by four animal skulls and one above (it). At its feet, thirteen little skeletons. Rubbery plastic things of green and orange – I had about fifty of them. The rest I planned to hand out as favors with a candy bar or two on Halloween to trick-or-treaters. That majorly did not work out.
Page 16: The Full Moon before the Samhain, I took a handful of glow in the dark skeleton stickers and hiked up to where I’d done a job for… actually, I don’t know who it was done for but Mab. Heard Mab was in charge of the area and was watching. I was grateful for her help and understanding. Not Maub, mind you, great as she is, but Mab- they are not one in the same. This may have been where I made my mistake. It wasn’t part of the order – I embellished a bit – I somehow decided the Hekate would like others to come to the dark before the Samhain dedication – So I went to the other site and invited the ones there to come to the railroads dedication.
Page 17: I left a trail of glow in the dark stickers on things marking the way back from the Mab area for those denizens to the crossroads – And didn’t look back – that’s the hard part. After you invoke and be (something) and invite, you walk away and don’t look back. – It’s far scarier than you can imagine. – As each step further away you take, you are more sure they’re following. I walled them to within call of the crossroads – not all (are) a pair of scouts? A vanguard, roohie evils given the slit detail?   
Page 18: I’d thought… no I hadn’t thought – it was later, even just now I see the clash – the invited were of the full moon and the crossroads were so very, very new and dark… I didn’t know, maybe they liked the results – All I do know is this male. The results more about me – it was my doings. The night before the dark night I brought offerings of fruit – in threes – I placed them before the Hekate altar – the 13 skeletons – 3 ochre gourds – 3 red apples – 3 lime pears – 3 other other. I asked the mistress of change, the lovers of black dogs, winged rat, and raven jet – torch welding daggers, keen cord lashing to accept them in prevention. They did.
Page 19: I left before midnight which I didn’t like, but I wanted to do it at midnight, which I did. When I got under the bridges, some of the taggers had written over some of the dedication I’d put up so high – I’m not sure they knew it was there at that time, but fear they suffered enough later for that inadvertent discretion later. I had with me the consecrated fruits, rubbed shiny clean – stupid stickers removed – a bag of dark sweets – some pale chalk, and a lot of clear varnish. There was a lot of traffic – as it was earlier – and right above the chosen spot was a work crew! In the middle of the night – the black flooded to dayish reflection with huge circular lights – Who’d invited them? – Huge trucks and a white crane. They were putting on a fucking, truly huge sign.
Page 20: The sign was in place already – they were fastening it to this spot where it’d now be forever. Tightening these massive thick bolts with a wrench by hand – COLO HARD HARD FAST SQUEAKS as the twisted then down the nuts so slowly CREAKING along, nonstopping squawks like a ship being torn apart as it sank into inky wet brine – like a dinosaur scream, (a) pterodactyl dragon baby being born, or giving birth of dying – The bolts loudly complained as they were forced down where they were to remain skuidlly holding a bright sign – it was over music. I was right below them – it was a steep path down to my darkness. I doubted any of them would venture here without being pushed – The cranks – harsh, shivering metal on metal – piercing – unstopping like it never even been able to remember before. I found a fairly flat spot with no graffiti yet and made a dog – though one didn’t show up – the ravens – the tools for the taggers benefit. I wrote the dedication in a Latin tongue hoping they’d at least think of a witch and use some caution.
Page 21: These crossroads are forever the Hekate’s axis of change – she of the starry night – triple aspect, dark moon dog friend, path over path, terrible, north, cold, Bella, lung, virgin. These roads cross here for you – all over then you touch – I thank you for being and humbly hope you’ll accept my gift – I want not – for an honored an happy to serve as I turned to leave. I thought I saw a flash of light, perhaps a hand torch further down the track in the direction I wasn’t going. A light at the end of the tunnel – I turned from that light – I did not look back – I walked home – followed.
Page 22: The next day I had to go to work. When I came home I noticed my neighbor had an umbrella on his porch that is the exact same as mine. – Then I realized it was mine – as mine was gone. Now I live on the second story – above a row of garages - as does my neighbor. I was all like, what the fuck?! My neighbor was (a) stochy white guy with a real tall mulatto transvestite “roomie” – fake blond hair – tube tops – spandex hot pants and platforms.
Page 23: So I go over there and start banging on the fucking door. – I can see someone is inside, but they aren’t opening the goddamn door. I resolve to go back every half hour and knock and knock until I get my friggin umbrella back. Back at my apartment, I’m thinking maybe a wind came and blew the umbrella off my porch and the neighbor picked it up thinking “finders keepers.” It was a big ol’ umbrella and I thought I’d tightened it down well onto its heavy base with the bolts it came with – I’d cranked the bolts down with pliers even – guess (it’s) not hard enough… I look at my clocks so I can see if when a ½ hour has was going to be up… Fuck. All the clocks are fifteen minutes slow. All of them. Even the ones that ran on batteries, the plug in the wall ones, the computer’s clock, all 15 minutes behind. Only the watch I had on me was right. The watch I’d worn to work, the one I’d worn at the dedication.
Page 24: No. My watch wasn’t fifteen minutes, last I checked. So I’m thinking this is fucking weird as I’m changing all my clocks. I go bang on the neighbor’s door from time to time – and 30 minutes later – again and again – I’m getting pissed – I don’t eat as I figure maybe the a-hole will want to fight – over a fucking umbrella – fine. I couldn’t reach the umbrella from his steps even standing on the railing. I made a noose out of some coarse twine and tried to fling it up and catch the crank handle to the umbrella and pull the thing to me. So like on the ninth try I bang on the door and it finally opens.
Page 25: It’s the stochy white guy – he’s more pasty faced and flabby than I thought. – Anyway he freaks out when I tell him my umbrella is on his porch – “He had no idea it was there.”!! I believe him – he seemed seriously freaked out… It was pretty dark by the time he opened the door, maybe he just got home and somehow missed it – guess the tranny hadn’t look out the sliding door to the porch – I’m sure he was in there the whole time I was banging on the door, I know – I know it’s hard to understand them not noticing it, but the guy really seemed amazed to see the umbrella there… And, well, if they had taken it – Shit, they’d put it right where I had to see it as I pulled into my garage… The guy went on his porch and handed it down to me – The umbrella was seriously fucked up – all the struts were tweaked in weird ways and back.
Page 26: I next decided that some freak wind must have picked up the umbrella and wrenched it up and out of the stand over four rooms – this involved going straight up 13 feet to clear my kitchen and get off my porch and land on his porch – bang, dang, banging across the tiles. I wonder if anyone saw it walking the roof I was thinking as I carried it back, I put it down on my porch (later threw it away, it was screwed up too bad) I’m pretty wined by now. I didn’t sleep much the night of the dedication – I was all adrelizaed out, banging on the guys door and preparing to fight. Played violent video game [scribbles over name] as I waited. Back inside, I sit for a second. Then I hear the cop radios outside my porch.
Page 27: Two things hit me – one: that stupid idiot next door had called the cops on me! Shit – I quickly unloaded the .38 I keep under the bed and his it – if the cops were coming in to talk about that I didn’t want a loaded gun there – they take that kinda shit all personal… but they didn’t come to me. Another car patrol unit pulled up and an ambulance. Then the second thing dawned – less pressing – just kinda weird – I was working on the border. The crossroads, the train tracks were the jurisdiction like, between the older, neighboring city on the far side and the newer land I was in – I knew this but hadn’t focused on it – S & E I knew because I couldn’t listen in on the cop radio chatter on the outside of my window, but I could of the cops on the other side of the tracks. I had a police scanner, but it was old. And the city I was in used trunked talk channels that shipped frequencies like motherfuckers. The neighboring old world used clear talk over well-known frequencies. I could listen to them to give out each other’s cell phone numbers and the SS numbers and stops – and did so sometimes as I surfed the Net. The cops opened the garage door directly below my bedroom – This was (the) double garage that opened into the apartment below but (the) back of mine.
Page 28: The cops were going in the apartment below, not directly, but below and in back of me, through a double garage that was directly below me. The fucking cops were right below me, below my bed where the .38 had been, where my computer was and my scanner that listened to the other side, but not here. (The) Cops (were) there for hours. The gal that lived down there had shot herself dead. (The) carpet cleaning company showed up – a black body bag (was) left. I’m all like whoa. I decide to record this shit in my journal. My journal is gone.
Page 29: With a cold click it all hit me upside the head. They’d taken the journal – some dark power didn’t want that one part written down – some dark power had been in there and the clocks stopped. – Some dark power there long enough for the gal below to sense – Some dark power exited with a vortex up that ripped a huge fucking umbrella up out of an iron base to go dancing macabre across the roof to land, KERBANG, mangled and now useless, it (was) the tyranny’s porch. The gal, had she been waiting for them from some event in her life? Had she been an opportunistic target? I felt more she was on the edge already and it was them above in my room she felt and maybe be even seen the two of them – I went until after the ceremony, but maybe she did then BANG! Straight to the temple. – Straight to Hell. I searched for hours for that journal knowing I’d never see it again. Time had stopped for her.
Page 30: Someone else showed up days later and moved out all the suicide gal’s stuff. By the walk, they dropped a small miller – glinting sharp shards lying by a small shrub. By the shrub, they’d dropped a little valentine pillow, fallen unnoticed heart, unnoticed now in an area of preputial shade. I gingerly picked up a sliver backed splinter of glass and drove it into the heart – It seemed the least I could do.
Page 31: Part 2.
Page 32: The theft of the journal frightened me a great deal… Such a specific target. The sole thing taken. The moving umbrella was a poltergeist power show display of force, a display they could disturb the material, displaying my cover at will… The suicide below shows their ability to disturb, too. But the journal was so direct and pointed and ached on both planes as well. Then there was the stopping of the clocks. Ugly. I decided I had to get rid of the Hekate statute. I consulted and was given a respectful way to do that. The new moon nearest to the winter solstice. I’d bury it with due ceremony at the crossroads.
Page 33: That meant I had nearly two months to kill. I needed to keep busy to help spread time along. Let me clarify – I wasn’t rushing it – the time element had to be respected. But I had to do something to fill that time or go mad. Little things intruded, literally. Small pebbles barely more than grains of sand started falling on me in my home. I’d be sitting at the computer, or reading in bed, or standing in the kitchen and –plink-. A pebble would fall out of nowhere above. I got the very distinct feeling image that above me was the surface of the soil and something was trotting heavy up there and would occasionally push a bit of dirt down through whatever membrane there was separating my world and it’s.
Page 34: Plink! A grain of sand – a pebble would materialize here above me and –plink- fall. The ceilings were not that sprayed on acoustical crap – nor were there ants falling on me – my first reaction had been they were ants, but they were not living things, but bits of stone.
Page 35: I worked on my lucid dreaming to pass the time. I had been quite good at it at one time, which is why I’d stopped the first time after mastering it. Now seemed as good a time as any to take the art back up. You can control your dreams; here’s how: First, keep a journal of your dreams – at first you’ll have brief remembrances. “I dreamt of a tree” or “I saw a bucket of eyes.” The descriptions will get more elaborate. The idea of the journal is to make, to teach, rather, you to remember your dreams – to become more aware of them.
Page 36: Part Two: You have to be aware that you are in a dream – dreaming. While there, you need to prove yourself that you can control the dreaming by doing something you decided upon and wrote down before prior to the whole experiment. I was taught to look at my hands, then at something – anything, in the dream world – then back at my hands. Your hands are always there with you. They symbolize control and manipulation.
Page 37: The first time I accomplished this, I awoke elated. I was on my uncle’s farm and someone was chasing me with a huge black iron frying pan. I was most concerned. The person cornered me and raised the pan to clobber me. I help up my hands to ward off the blow. Then it dawned on me as I looked through my upraised hands at the threat. MY HANDS. I was dreaming. I looked at my hands – at the pan – and then back at my hands. The person with the pan backed off in horror filled with terror when he saw what I knew. He dropped the pan and fled.
Page 38: A couple nights plus one later or so I dreamed I was wondering in a dump. A bully came up to me and began to threaten (me). I held up one finger and pushed on the bully. He floated back a bit like a balloon. He was terrified. I left him there a foot or two off the ground frantically trying to claw his way back down to Earth. A few nights later I dreamt I was floating above my hometown.
Page 39: I realized I was dreaming and was flying. – I could control it by doing a kind of breast-stroke swim motion. I had an idea. That week a person I knew had their home catch fire. I was near there in the air. I’d get to see the damage. I flew over to check it out. When I got there, I landed. In front of the home was a huge green dumpster – a huge one – industrial sized. It was at an odd angle in the street, a dead end. The building had smoke damage going up from the windows like dirty fingerprints of vast smoke, God, that was trying to get out of the building by lifting the roof. But all in all, the house was as burned down as I thought it would be…
Page 40: I awoke. I got dressed rapidly and rode my bike over to the house approaching it at the same angle as I’d seen it in my dream world – from the spot where I landed. The house was exactly like I’d seen it in my dream. The huge green dumpster, its odd angle, the smoke fingers. I’d like to say I was stunned, but I was very sure it’d look that way when I woke that morning – but still role over feeling I needed to check. The very next night… I decided to try this astral projection stuff again. I became aware I was dreaming – but it was so dark – a featureless gloom – I was in contact with nothing – then I realized I was floating above myself in my bedroom looking down at me. I made an error.
Page 41: I reached down and touched my sleeping form – it seemed a golem-like waxy. I touched the tip of one finger to an exposed foot. I woke in extreme pain. It felt like someone had hit my foot with a bat. It was not a cramp, but no burning either which surprised me due to how it felt. It was more like I’d been shocked – it really, really fucking hurt. Looking back on it, I’m not too sure I came close to killing myself – a doppelgänger antimatter/matter material/ethereal short circuiting of my soul and my corpse. It scared me. Plus I wasn’t getting any rest at night anymore. My dreams were getting so elaborate I would write page after page of description of places I’d go and people I’ll see for each dream. And increasing, I kept ending up at this one place. An orphanage on the edge of a desert – a dilapidated place with pale greenish white walls and grime – and everyone there knew me. I wasn’t sure of them like I hadn’t seen them for thousands of years – an old woman ran the place and was so happy to see me return. I’d awaken as soon as I got there, never able to explore the site and learn what it was.
Page 42: I was doing so much dreaming I was awakening exhausted. Nights weren’t restful – just ticks – night after night of ticks. I shut the whole dream experiment down even after the fire site visit which had been so successful. I stopped writing – I, I just stopped it and after a while nights became lonely and black and empty and I was so happy. That was decades ago. I waited for the new moon nearest to the winter solstice. I somehow decided it was a good time to start up again. I started a dream journal – dreams of me wandering a blue white tinged medical campus and being horribly bored were the main element. In one a pit-bull charged (at) me, and this wasn’t at the medical school but at the home where I’d done the previously mentioned dreams like 20-30 years ago. I looked at the frothy dog like give me a break and it stopped short and wandered off. In that same dream I entered that home’s garage. It was horribly dark – on the floor were those meter long hand wide luminous centipedes – I steeped on some of them, squishing them with no more care than treading on tiny ants.
Page 43: It was I then has Then I had a dream (where) I was in a diner. I was at the counter, between me and the windows was a row of booths. Two truckers were sitting by the window, they seemed to be talking about me – but they might not have been. I stood up – totally aware it was a dream. “You guys want to see something?” I asked them. They rocked away from me a bit and didn’t have a chance to speak in reply. “This is all fake.” I told them. I reached –through- one of the guys, as if he were but a ghost –a projection- or maybe I was.
Page 44: I reached through the man and through the window and grabbed the distant landscape by a corner and peeled it back. It was just a screen velcroed on to a wall on to which reality was projected. “See, not real.” I said. Panic ensues.
Page 45: In finding clumps of dirt all over my floor now – I know, I know, my first thought too was dirty shoes – it’s not that – but still these thumbnail sized flattened dirt clumps are on the floor – in the carpet they’re like flakes but thicker like squished olives but dry dirt – I changed the dead bolt to my apartment door – Maybe (the) maintenance guys are coming in –I leave hiking boots by the door – it had no effect. I can’t imagine another living soul in here. – They still seem to have fallen before from above – the dirt didn’t bother me so much – weird to watch specs fall – but the missing journal still gave me chills. This led me to decide I needed to wedge my bets.
Page 46: Between here and the crossroads, I’d set up a loki-tree in hopes of getting some trickster advice, maybe even some luck. A gnarled, big tree that looks dead, but it’s not. I tied three heads in the branches at the cardinals – these weird heads, very festively garbed, they cost me dearly. They were miniature things of beauty – art.
Page 47: The fourth refused to stay tied in the tree. I let it dropped where it willed. In the main fork I set a crystal sphere in which a wizard was encased – it looked expensive. It was a gift. Around the base, a circle of mushrooms left as an offering. I asked for a half hour of luck in warnings – and got that and some advice.
Page 48: The train tracks that ran under the bridges divided not only the cities – it was the boundary of the city of the east in which I lived but the city to the west where I didn’t. But Loki, shapeshifter, wit wise skywalker - wolf – unfairly bound, pointed something out to me. 10 missed – there was a powerful psychic divide there too. The IRON of the rails was a double band of offending rusty. The IRON of the rails was a double band across which the fey would not cross willingly. The COLD rusty iron offending them injuriously. Mab, the queen, was able to help me on this side, but I must not cross over to the west even for a second – Mab and the fey could not help me if I crossed over to the Western lands. I could come to harm I was told – stay here in the east.
Page 49: THAT Mab would help me cheered me. I would stop at the loki-tree before going to the final dedication and give thanks again for this advice.
Page 50: Part Three
Page 51: It was a cold day. Christmas (was) not far behind – as I calculated it the new moon wasn’t at midnight here but closer to 2:00 am – I had the graven image – 13 maiden skeletons that had lay at its feet one day, shy of a fortnight – fruit again for the ceremony – 3 and 3 that too spent time on the altar. Chalk to render a new image if the old (one) had been obliterated. I need all black attire – the mood true – the moon new and I was going up in the center of the divider for who knows how long digging – ended up all Jet save an indigo and black plaid thick flannel – I toyed with the idea of taking 3, but feared I’d attract a reason to use it to add blood to the fruit to wet it’s appetite. I found myself thinking of the trench Demers filled to fetch and feed the shades.
Page 52: It came time. The black backpack didn’t seem as heavy as (it) should’ve been – awkwardly shaped – rubbed gleaming to remove any ridges and whorls. I stopped at the loki-tree – the wizard ball was on its side on a slab of concrete. (The) wizard (was) still intact, however. – I put it back in the crotch. – Jagged and tined. I THANKED LOKI for his earlier advice which I still heeded.
Page 53: Down at the tracks I stopped and looked south to the crossroads. I stood still. There was a silhouette under the third bridge. It looked (like) a man, a man staring at the Western wall intently, (his) nose near the stone. I waited and watched. I did not really want to abort – I could not. I withdrew a bit trying to find a comfortable place to sit and watch. I’d wait him out. My main concern is that it was a tagger – he could be there for hours. I had a dead line and he on the other side was there showing things. Maybe it occurred to me I should’ve brought the .38. He wasn’t painting though or doing anything – Just staring at the wall, mesmerized, dazed seem more like it. And then he wasn’t there anymore – the impression was he’d made up his mind and stepped forward one step and was now inside the wall. Fuck it was my thought, now and forever.
Page 54: I moved up quietly, staying case of the tracks as per loki. There was a truck under the bridge. Its hood popped open, careening oddly. It’s tail less than ½ a yard from the track’s westernmost rail. A chunk of fender and the rear bumper was on the track. A mirror’s back on the passenger’s side glinted light from elsewhere, not from down there. There is no easy way to drive down to that spot, but it could have been done by coming from very far south – but you’d be seen day or night along the way and more likely than not get stuck in a gully or on the tracks doing so. A puff of wind (made) a pinkish child’s ball roll from the truck towards me though it was still on the far side of the tracks. I would not cross to the west – man in (a) wall – truck – nor for this invitely globe.
Page 55: I needed to go down as far as the truck to get to where I had to ascend up to the divider. As I neared I could ascertain it was a work truck with racks and tool botes bolted to the bed walls. It may have been white, but down here all you could tell was that it wasn’t black. All the tires seemed popped. I wasn’t going nearer to it than needed. I felt very safe, sure if I stayed on my side of the two iron riffs I’d be okay. I wondered if a train could get by the truck, or if one already had and the bumper had been stripped off by a passing locomotive. Either were bad – it might attract white bats. I climbed up to the center divider, truck below me and to my back. Up there I found a hollow, it seemed safe in that I couldn’t see anyone digging there in the future. I lay on my right side, (and) with my left hand, I dug. The top three inches went fast, but then it gave way to patched gravel and coarse sand. A hard dig. Car lights hit me too often for my liking, but (that) couldn’t be helped. Somehow I felt more vulnerable in that hole than when I’d stood by the pillars feet away from speeding cars. It was that truck, I was on alert for a bolt down to the tracks if a cruiser stopped or if I heard a chopper – but I dug. Time was now to do this – else be damned.
Page 56: I got the hole about elbow deep, but it’d take about half an hour. It’d have to do. In went three roadworm coins, the image face up. The 13 scattered atop. I packed the dirt down. A gutter nearby held mats of brush and trash. I harvested some and put it like a wreath on top. It got weirdly still. I scurried and slid back down to the tracks. I’d left the fruit down there by the place I’d put the other before. I now arranged it by (that) one drawing that reminded (me of) last time – a good sized dog.
Page 57: I tried to add some more images but the chalk seemed moist like it soaked up some nourishment. Wet from near or (to) the air – it crumbled like cornbread against cement. I said (these) words aloud, “The truck carcass watched.” I turned north and departed, not looking back. I got home, looked at the clock – barley an hour had elapsed since I stepped out the door. I didn’t give a hoot. I rather foolishly felt free.
Page 58: I was way too wound up to sleep – I logged on and surfed the web a bit and listened to a police scanner… A cop had been dispatched to debris found on the freeway – when he got there he found a length of guard rail bent and twisted from its roots. Looking down he saw the roof of a truck that had gone off the bridge – it had spun out on the road and landed –KERPLOP! - near a track below.
Page 59: The coppers were closing off both ends of the one on the bridges – traffic was backing up. Down in the truck they found a woman seatbelted in and crimsoned. Wet with her own blood, but not dead, but not really totally of this world. She was there in the passenger seat one hand out the window on the mirror. No driver in sight. I listened as more and more cops and a copter showed up – a call came from a volunteer corps to come and comb the area. They were worried the driver, dazed, was milling about in the floor down there. I doubted they’d look in the wall and find him.
Page 60: They called the local hospitals looking for an accident victim that walked through the door. This went on for hours. A huge crane of a tow truck came and lifted the body of the truck up.
Page 61: I wasn’t worried they’d find the Hekate. I do like that someone must have been down there taking strobe bright photos and later when they studied the pictures, (they) noticed odd graffiti on the gray slab walls.
Page 62: Not gang stuff but shimmers – glowing words (with) chalk white familiars, maybe even the varnished body at the feet of the rescue crews. I wonder if they saw my footprints up in the to the center divider and thought they were the drivers – the one who caused the wreck and carnage and blood – who I’m fairly sure wasn’t.
Page 63: And then it was nightfall – I can’t remember any of the daylight. I hadn’t slept in days, that was (for) sure. As the sunset was (setting), I (was) sitting at the computer and there was a bustle at the window. I looked outside, through a gap between the curtain. A ladder has propped up against my window, a ladder up from below.
Page 64: A cream bone colored fluidish demon was ascending and about to enter my room. I gave a shout and slapped the wall and withdrew.
Page 65: I bolted out onto my porch in time to see there were two of them fleeing my apartment. Once I looked at them from the porch they sensed me and wheeled about. Hard. They were so smooth like stretched rubber over wire twisty dolls, but they moved so fluidly. One was much larger than the other, no hair or ears, no legs – eyes and mouths impaled by indentations. The color of ivory – of bone.
Page 66: Two arms very rapidly moving and purposefully – but they seemed unable to get more than a few feet, a yard at best, above the Earth. No legs – they flew like thick goo through water. The larger one would have been seven, eight feet tall if it could stand, the smaller about five. When they wheeled I ran back inside then went and threw open the front door. I knew I was dreaming. I’d look at my hands, then at them, then back at my hands and I’d control the world. I opened the door to see the larger one wrapped around the rails of the steps, watching me.
Page 67: The smaller one darted fast up into my face and grabbed each of my wrists in its strong gripping hands and jerked my arms out hard to each side – away to each side (of) me crucifix-like, back behind my shoulders out of my line of sight. It hurt. It leered in my face from inches away imploringly.
Page 68: I could not see my hands. I could not move. I was being torn apart. I could feel my hubris separating from my torso pop pop popping out of my shoulder blades and I screamed and I screamed trying so very hard to wake up.
Page 69: But I wasn’t asleep. And then I fell and fell and fell.
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