Dream Journal: 2017-06-30.01

“Y’all said this was one of them channeler road shows, like those medium shows, ya said. Y’all said jacque shitte about this being a traveling Christian prophet.”

“We did… we… just didn’t specify which religion was involved. But channelers are channelers, right? It’s all made up anyway!” Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2017-06-30.01”

Dream Journal: 2017-02-15.01

I see the rosary first. The loop is entwined between fingers and over hands clasped together in a solid grip as if for prayer. The pendant of the crucifix hangs over the knuckles in a way that strikes me at first as an apotropaic amulet, then as a visual censer, and lastly as a key to a lock that disturbs me with its implication.

So I look at the person holding it instead. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2017-02-15.01”

Dream Journal: 2016-12-03.01

Doing some light reading and coming across multiple references to St. Cyprian again. While I expect to find references with that book and that author, it has been a crescendo of unexpected references this past month to the point where I am about ready to defenestrate the next person, place, or thing, that makes another reference. “That shit is all fine and good”, I mutter, “but I’m fucking apostate. Doesn’t that disqualify me?” Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2016-12-03.01”

Dream Journal: 2014-10-24.01

The Instagram Nightmare.

Required information: My face makes me uncomfortable because Childhood Abuse. I am not a Christian. I hate being sandbagged by fear so I will challenge it directly.

Waking world information: I have an Instagram account that currently shows my face clearly as well as the rosary. For some brainfart reason, I tagged the rosary and it has attracted some attention.

The Nightmare: The rosary is featured on a popular Catholic web-channel, and I get an avalanche of comments about it. Most of them are the expected varieties. Praise for Mary, a few prayer snippets, some chatting about the rosary beads and how they are strung. This is very amusing, but also is making me nervous. Because folks like to see what else is on a person’s public account. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2014-10-24.01”

Dream Journal: 2014-10-09.01

Angels. I counted eight before their combined glory dropped me to my knees. If more appeared, I was unable to see them. I sensed no harmful intent towards me, but I had been dealing with some shit before they arrived, and those wounds were still raw. I raised a hand up to my face in a futile attempt to shield my eyes from the glare. Remembering that I’m not in the physical world, I allowed myself a chuckle as I covered my face. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2014-10-09.01”

Dream Journal: 2014-01-22.02

Keri is burdened by a memory, and sharing it is the only way to release her from its grip. A tale from her Christian days that gives a visceral example of why she is so distrusting of angels now. 1,579 words.

So you long term readers know I’m a little… hostile… to angels and Christianity in general. So much so, that it was over a year after meeting kir before Kay admitted to me that ke and TA are angels. And even then, it was under carefully controlled circumstances (read: Weaver was restrained before being told.) because my rage is just that fucking intense.

And you long term readers know I was involved in a Christian based cult before making my break with Christianity. Once I would have called it a splinter church, but the longer I am away, the clearer my hindsight is.

A memory won’t leave me. I tried writing it down, but it still grips me. I need to get on with the day unencumbered, I haven’t the luxury of falling apart today. So I’m going to assault you readers with the rendition. I don’t care if you believe it happened or not.

I need to scream, and either I do it with silent digital words, or I start punching shit until I break my hand again. I choose the former.

It was mid-week services at church. Well, the services had ended and now the church band was practicing the Sunday routine. I was attending as ordered by the elders because continual exposure to a “holy atmosphere” would be good for me. So they said. So I obeyed. The drums were talking to me and coaxing my cognition lower and lower. (The church used hand drums as well as standard concert drums.) I had not realized I had tranced out to the drums again. I only knew I was suddenly very comfortable, suddenly at peace, and suddenly in solitude despite the dozen people in the room with me.

I felt a fire starting to collect in my throat. It took me a moment to recognize where I had felt this flame before. I became afraid. Last time I felt this flame, [The Christian god] turned me into a pillar of flame and his spirit spoke through me to a very surprised audience. That time before ended well for the audience and myself. But that was before I came here. That was before I was declared unclean. That was before the angels that ministered to this church had revealed just how much I was still in league with demons. Nothing I said was trustworthy. Nothing I did was innocent. Nothing pure could come out of me, and even the word of God was suspect if my voice spoke it.

I tried to swallow the fire back down. I tried to deny it. I tried to pull my cognition away from the drums that kept bringing me lower and lower. The knot of fire in my throat increased and solidified. Words were coming. I couldn’t stop it. The fire was burning me but I felt no pain. The fire would consume me like it did before, and I was strangely at peace about that despite knowing the chaos it would unleash in the room. I started to willfully yield to the flame.

“Keri. Look at me. Keri, roll your eyes back forward and look at me.” I heard the voice of the eldress, the one that was supposed to be keeping me in line. She was supposed to be my surrogate mother, since my own mother was more monster to me than maternal. I felt her hand touch my face. “She’s burning up.”, she said to someone off to the side. “I can’t tell if fever or something else. But I know the source. Get the others, we have to purge her of these demons. She can’t do it herself. She’s weak in faith.”

No. Leave me. It’s [the Christian god]. He has me again. It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Don’t take me away from Him. The thoughts didn’t descend into my mouth. My mouth was too filled with holy flame to acknowledge my desire to speak. I heard others rush into the room. I heard other things descend from above.

My physical eyes were still rolled back into my head, but I could see around me clearly. I saw the other elders and high ranking members of the church pulling the chairs away from me. They were restraining me with well practiced grips and calling on the angels that ministered to the church. And those angels came. I watched them fill the room with their glory and throw their bright splendor over everything.

They were beautiful. So bright the sun would have been ashamed to shine. So clear that the purest water would be mud in comparison. It was hard to tell where their billowing robes ended and their wings began. It was as if they were robed in wings and feathers of pure light. So beautiful.

I raged at the sight of them.

Something was wrong with them. I have never been able to identify just what, but on some deep instinctual level I just knew that something was just not right with them. These beings appearing as angels, appearing as workers of light, weren’t. They were angels, and they were not angels. But what did I know? My bloodline is steeped with the offerings to demons. A descendant of slaves is a slave herself. Generational demonolatry meant I was born in a state of deeper sin. The sin of Othersight, the sin of Prophecy, the sin of Interpreting Omens, the sin of being of an unpure bloodline. It was this inherent evil that was reacting to the angels, I was told. To overcome it, I needed to pray harder, to serve harder, to yield at all times.

I didn’t know better. They were just repeating the same shit my mother told me. Not good enough. Bad blood. Bad thoughts. Bad. I needed the bad beaten out of me. Yield to the rod and make the spirit pure. Yield. Pride is a sin. Yield. Challenging authority is a sin. Yield. Bow the head and let the rod break on your shoulders. Yield.

I never yielded enough, they said. And that’s why bad things happen to me. That’s why the demons can use my throat to speak. Yield. Or be broken.

I jerked in my uncontrollable rage. The angels had come and I wanted to tear them to shreds. The fire in my throat surged at the thought of taking on the angels. Words burning in my throat. Words I could not say because I had been physically gagged.

The first strike was to my throat. The angel’s punch was true and I physically responded by attempting to stand up. I managed to lift three people off the ground from a tilted back position before they were able to force me back onto the pew. The people around me held my head back, my arms arched over the pew behind me, and placed heavy weights on my legs to keep me still. The elders laid hands on me and prayed loudly.

I remember screaming. The words were caught in my throat and the flame was no longer gentle. “Release her, demon! You shall not have this child of God! She has abandoned you and is covered by the blood of Christ!” I started laughing. That part of me that wanted to believe what the church was teaching me was not aware anymore. I watched through an outsider’s eyes. Madness. All madness. They’ll kill me and call it a blessing. This isn’t a Christian church. This is a cult. And I’m trapped in insanity.

Another punch to the throat. My attention returned to the angels above me. Their reminder of their presence chased away the last bits of willful cognition and rage empowered me again. But the people restraining me was ready for the bursts of strength. They kept me immobile. The angels assaulted where the knot of holy flame resided. The flame, denied a proper exit, broke apart and started to seep into my bones. The angels chased it, pummeling me from head to toe.

The assaults were not physical, but bruises appeared on me anyway. The assembly interpreted that as the “demons” being pulled from my flesh. I don’t remember when my spirit could bear no more and fell to pieces. I remember suddenly shuddering as my body began to seize. They kept me in that strained position until it was clear I had no strength to push against them.

An angel gripped my face. “You do not speak unless we tell you to speak. You do not see unless we show you what to see. You are unclean, unworthy of grace. You are allowed to live to be a testament to others about the folly of denying the righteous power of God, the power that we wield. Never forget this.”

The angel struck me and I blacked out.

When I came to, the room had been arranged back to normal. I was lying on the pew with my coat folded under my head as a pillow. My body was a solid bruise. The fire was gone. The eldress, my surrogate mother, noticed I was awake and came to me. She rubbed my head softly and spoke so gently. Everything will be okay, she said. I just had to stop being so stubborn and yield when commanded.

There were other incidents, but few were as violent as this one. And folks wonder why I am antagonistic towards angels and Christianity in general, why I call missionaries, “slavers”.

Dream Journal: 2012-11-30.01

The long week caught up with me and I dropped into deep sleep at once. When I finally did come up for dreams, I found myself working at a coffee bar in a hospital.

There were rumors of the world ending but we didn’t have time to debunk them. Business was booming and customers were assholes demanding. The night before was a wild ass party and I still had a hangover. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2012-11-30.01”