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FEBRUARY 21ST, 1998, THE HOUSE WAS FULL OF HATE
The psychic entered my house, a week before he had sorted out the spiritual problems of a suburban family, he walked through this house saying that there were a few manifestations, he reached out his arms and told them to go to the other world, 'you can go now,' he said, 'leave this place and step into the light,' a moment later he turned back to the woman, and said 'he's gone now,' this one had manifested itself the children's room, then he was walking through the house and he reached the woman's bedroom, he looked at the big oval mirror on the dressing table, 'you have a manifestation in the mirror,' he said, then he came to my house, he walked through it sensing everything, already I could feel whatever it was starting to lift, swirling around his angles and knees the way the icy cosmic currents and stars did, he turned to the house and then to me, 'Something in here really hates you,' he walked, 'It's everywhere,' he said, 'It really hates you,' he walked out to the kitchen and said, 'It's here,' and then to my bedroom and into the front room, it's particularly strong in here, it hates you, how could you have lived with that all these years?, I said, 'the reason I have to live is them,' I look into the eyes of my dogs when they are ill and say, 'don't leave me here alone or I'm going to come with you,' why would a woman want to follow the spirit of a dog to nothing, not even stars?, it was because the house was full of hate, it was like the nullarbor, the size of it was my house, her powerful rock had shells on a petrified ocean that had cooked its inhabitants in the sun for millions of years, it was like a space so big was full of hate, or one of those perfectly windy winter days west of Wellington in New South Wales, the days where clouds and kites and birds were streaming, the cold eucalyptus breeze of The Blue Mountains swept across the skin and made the body alert to landscapes and joy, it was as though that day, or those perfect days were rooms that contained yet more hatred, but it was sad hatred, those rooms of hatred never gave up on me, it was axe-room tonight, a despairing axe and shovel standing behind a laundry door room, what would these tools that rested in the psyche be used for?, we entered the landscapes to be healed by their nature, but the human mosquitoes that filled the sleepy and moisture laden air of Bellingen were hating me too, you once asked me, 'would you kill a mosquito of it was biting you late at night and it just wouldn't give up?,' I said, 'what would you do of if a six foot psychopath was stabbing you again and again in the arse with the same big needle?' |
