It was late summer. I was 13 years old waking up in my old bed in the new home my family had just purchased in a richer neighborhood which was zoned for the better high school I would be attending in the fall. The move was exciting because the house had an in ground pool in the backyard and a creek running behind it. And that very first morning, full of excitement and budding possibility, I woke up to my freshly-opened eye being tickled by a cockroach antenna. A big ugly water bug (thank you swimming pool and creek) on my white pillow, probably headed towards my warm little mouth. I screamed, I cried, my heart beat hard and an event was born. I remember that moment, consciously and subconsciously, and I probably will for the rest of my life...my life which was just interrupted by another cockroach encounter. An event.
I had left my apartment to take a break from writing for, you guessed it, (un)afraid, and left the window wide open to welcome the cool, end of summer breeze. And to welcome a giant cockroach. It was the size of a mouse. It almost escaped. I cried and screamed "No, NO, You can't live here. You. Can't. Live. Here." as I threw various shoes at it from across the room. Finally, I managed to stun it inside my moccasin, into which it had crawled for cover.
My roommate Tim, hearing my screams, and figuring out what was going on, took charge of the moccasin, dumped out the totally intact roach and killed it WITH BASICALLY HIS BARE HANDS (and a paper towel), and dropped its crushed body into the trash. I did dishes to calm down. Sometimes people have to kill things that frighten them. These are major events. The taking of lives.
And now, the rest of the story:
Fresh off our mental hospital expedition, we got on a train and headed into the wild, ragged North. Maloufs Mountain is a place I went on my birthday that gives you every single thing you need to feel like a rugged adventurer but rest like a pampered camper...fire pit, tent, food, cooler, gas range, gas lamp, picnic table, map (though I declined one this time after not being able to make sense of it, getting lost for seven hours and having to call a taxi to pick me up from someone's yard the last go around), bathrooms and toilets with running water...and forest spirits to communicate with at your leisure. Yes, more spirits. (There were other people around too, but we weren't in it to make friends with the living.)
After a long day of hiking straight up the mountain, singing songs to a big green caterpillar and piles of baby snakes, lamenting the fact that no matter how high we got or hard we climbed we could, as Jill simply put it, "still hear the highway", we made it to our campsite. There was food waiting. Also much to do. After a night of stories, laments, exciting artistic discussions and brainstorming sessions, we hung the video camera from the rafters of our platform sight and called on some ghosts.
Here's a sneaker. A real good shoe.
And here's a sneak peak at some of our Ouija-ing. This is the first spirit we contacted.
You'll hear me saying "Spirit...spirit."
Then you'll hear something walking through the woods. Right by our campsite. No other people awake, no reason for any sort of person to be walking by. But there it is. Then you'll hear me whisper "What's walking through the woods?" Then a whistle which turns into a roar. Kind of sounds like an airplane. But I swear we heard no such thing at the time. I only picked it up when I turned the volume up super high.
Then you hear everyone's breathing get faster. Because...to be honest...we were all incredibly freaked out.
And that's all you get...for now. A piece of an event. Stay tuned for more pieces.
The pieces of that cockroach are twitching in my trash. The pieces of the caterpillar and snakes are hopefully still intact. The pieces of the spirit were barely discernible. To the complicated relationship between fear and life and death and living.
To remaining (un)afraid.
Oh! And by the way, see the recent Washington Post article written on Malouf's Mountain by a woman who got more lost than I did on my first visit-a whopping 13 hours to my seven. Apparently, according to Dick, the salty long hair who picks you up at the Beacon Metro North Station and drops you off at the trail head, she got lost for 13 hours on Friday the 13th and ended up having to be picked up at exit 13. There was something significant he mentioned about 666 too, but I don't remember what it was. Maybe that's how much her taxi ride cost. Anyway, Dick was convinced I was her for the first eight hours we were there, and made a big deal out of teasing me. I corrected him a couple of times, but kind of liked living in her legend. He eventually figured out I wasn't her after all and gave me a free beer to apologize. I kind of felt like "Apologize for what? You made me famous!" But I accepted offered beer anyway. Moral of story: Dick and Malouf's are a very good decision. Go there.
Love,
Cara
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