Generational Fuckery

My grandmother fucked around with the same ley lines that I did.

There is a place on the old west side of Colorado Springs where the air feels old and slow, and everything outside the area seems dull and muffled, as if on the other side of a window. I used to think this weird energy was produced by the cemetery there, but it is not. Ley lines intersect there, and this is why the weird shit happens.

My great-great grandmother lived a block from the cemetery and she spoke with the dead. They would rock in her wooden rocking chair at night and roll plates across the floor. Other family members feared her for it, and they still whisper about it four generations later.

I do not know if this interest skipped my great grandmother or not. As a child we went to see her once a week, but I spent my visits there outside, feeling, even at the time, that I was absorbing the air’s weird vibrations. My great grandmother died before my adulthood, and I never asked her things I should have.

Just yesterday, my mother told me that my grandmother had mentioned, in passing, the ley lines that cross by the house where she grew up. The fact that my grandma even has any idea what a ley line is blows my mind, not to mention that she knows exactly where they are. Even more importantly, she and her friend, Rosie, fucked around with their energy.

If we skip to about ten years ago, not knowing any of this, my dumb ass insisted that my boyfriend and I rent a place near “this weird old cemetery.” I waited months for a place to open up, and we moved into a duplex about two blocks away from this same cemetery. As I mentioned before, I thought the bizarre energy of the area came from the cemetery. Like any self-respecting human being would, I spent my time there fucking around with this energy.

There were shadow people here. There were ghosts. I had strangely prophetic dreams. Here, I learned to channel the land. I learned how to truly listen. I met a young man who had been 17 when he’d died in 1911 who couldn’t remember his name, but he suggested that I pick up the fallen sticks from the tree right next to his grave that had been recently hit by lightning.

My boyfriend and I got married and, when I found out I was pregnant some time later, we moved. It had been my idea, but I still cried for a month.

Two years ago, I took my kids to this cemetery under the pretense of making grave rubbings. My daughter, however, did not make any. Instead, she sat on top of some of the grave markers and just stared at the sky. Absorbing.

Recently, she’s started asking me when we’re going to go back to the cemetery. She was four when we went and she still has a very vivid memory of it at six and wants to return.

Meanwhile, the ley lines at the cemetery roll their eyes. Jesus Christ, another one of these bitches.

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Ooh, Yeah, Baby, Touch My Decks

Hi.

Sometimes I get a tarot deck and I don’t cleanse it.

Additionally,

I have a couple of decks that I haven’t cleansed that no one else is allowed to touch either.

If I acquire a deck that’s been physically touched by its creator, I don’t cleanse it. At all. This is because I’m a goddamn creep. This is also because I’m like an opportunistic scavenger and I like to weirdly retain their energy in the cards. Um, which I suppose still falls under the “being a goddamn creep” category.

I have a deck that came straight to me from its printing company, but I have something else that I know its creator touched, so that item is used in every reading I do with that deck.

I have a deck that came with a pin that I know the creator of both touched, so it accompanies my readings.

I have a deck that I’m not sure if the creator touched or not, but I do know that he had to have touched the thank-you note slipped inside the guidebook, so this piece of folded-up printer paper joins me in my readings with this deck.

I have a deck that was hand-cut by its creator, so I know she touched every single card, making it super-duper-extra magickal. I made a bag for this deck and touched the deck to it to transfer the energy so the bag would be good enough for the deck.

Do I have a problem?

Yes.

But the real problem is if anyone starts to reach out a hand toward my Paradoxical Trionfi della Luna that was sigNED AND TOUCHED BY PATRICK FUCKING VALENZA HIMSELF WITH HIS OWN GODDAMN HANDS.

Some Shit About Retrocognition

You know that game people play where they sit somewhere in public and try to make up stories for people walking by? I tried to play it once.

“See that lady over there? Her mother had her as a teenager, I don’t think she even knew who the father was–they fucked at a rave or something. Anyway, she has half siblings who belong to the man who married her mother years later and raised her as his own. They’ve never treated her any differently, but she’s always felt different. The only way she knows how to fit in is to look the part on the outside, so she’s very fashion-conscious because she doesn’t want anyone to call her out on not being one of them.”

(This is apparently not how you’re supposed to play this game.)

Retrocognition. Quite possibly a curse.

The opposite of precognition, retrocognition is “backward knowing.” I can’t tell your future, but I do know that the day “it” happened, you were wearing a red shirt.

I haven’t always known what this was. I just knew things. It wasn’t until I was around 12 that it started to feel like a burden. At a weekly counselling appointment, the bitch told me it was called “hyper vigilance,” and I just needed to stop paying so much attention to people. I probably explained it badly or else she didn’t want to have me admitted, so she said it and I accepted it and that was my word for it. For a while.

Now before you get all excited about this shit, let me warn you: it’s normally useless shit. In 8th grade my cooking class teacher hated her first name, someone used to make fun of her for it somehow. No idea how, her first name was Vivian, but I just knew that. So did that shape her as a person? No idea. Maybe.

Also in 8th grade, my math teacher, Mr. Lens, was disappointed with his job. He loved children, they delighted him, but he really preferred younger children. He really wanted to be an elementary school teacher, but he was afraid of what other people would think if their child’s kindergarten teacher were a man. So he taught math to 8th graders while really wishing he were singing songs about the days of the week.

This weirdness droned on. The knowing.

I was well into “adulthood” by the time I stumbled across the word “retrocognition.” Seeing words like “psychic” appearing alongside it made me think it was probably bullshit. Then explanations of it only seem to talk about deja vu. I discounted retrocognition as my affliction at that point.

My first “knowing” from a physical place occurred when I was 21. (There may have been many, but I didn’t make a connection between that and my “knowing” about people until this one.) My husband and I were looking to buy a house, and partway through an entire day of visiting houses with our real estate agent, when we walked into one that looked completely unassuming from the outside. Shag carpet and turquoise walls met us inside, but something else met me. It felt like someone had cracked an egg and let it run down my back. Rape. I finally flipped shit in the basement and staggered out into the back yard, where I will never be able to forget the fire pit. We quit the house hunting early that day. The house has since been leveled and the empty land is still for sale, seven years later. This was when I realized that the knowing from places and the knowing of people were related. Upon further investigation, (and more reliable sources than random Google searches), I accepted retrocognition as the culprit.

My first accidental past life regression happened just a couple years ago. I was lying in bed, not asleep yet, when what I thought was a dream barged in and interrupted whatever I was thinking about. My dress was blue and there was straw on the floor. I sat at a wooden desk, writing a letter by candlelight. It was to my love, who I knew had dark hair, and he was at sea. He would never get the letter, I would never even try to send it, just like all the others, which I stashed in a drawer. I suspected he would never return.

The second happened about a year ago, when I was waiting in the car for my son to come out of school. All of a sudden, I remembered lace curtains. I was in a hurry and I knelt before a dark wooden chest. People were waiting for me outside, but I needed to grab something first. Before I opened the chest, I looked up out the window. The window was open and the lace curtains wafted in the wind that blew in dark storm clouds. I watched the tops of the leafless trees blow violently.

The third was a couple months ago. I was standing on the back porch watching a thunderstorm blow in over the mountains, and then I remembered another time when I did the exact same thing. The walls were red mud and I was weaving. I was quite pleased with the pale blue I had managed for the threads (which I now suspect was dyed with black beans). Children ran inside and back out, chasing and squealing. They were fine…for now. I walked to the doorless doorway and watched the clouds gather over the plains.

I can’t tell you how to do this shit. I can’t tell you what triggers it. Not every place or everyone gives me their story this way.

But hopefully this has done a better job of describing retrocognition than “having deja vu a lot.”