[Full Moon Ritual.]

She actually reaked of death— the putrid smell of something rotting filled the room any time she occupied it — the tepid springtime air an unwelcome match for the unglorified and shabby surroundings that the hotel offered—but at least it was something. I knew that she couldn't be trusted almost immediately— that her “nice” was too nice and that the falsities of her supposed kindness alluded to something greater; she had been for the most part almost heroic in her gestures—offering some of the comforts I craved, but without any of felt affection; she was increasingly suspicious, from the moment I began my short-lived stay with her—I immediately thought her to be some kind of narc, and probably was; the psychological torture I was used to was so familiar, that in fact, it seemed programmed—indeed it was, and the more they wanted to know—whoever “they” was, about my energy and supernatural abilities—the less they would. But, here I was—again, up against another demon, this time in nearly the exact same fight; disgusted by a sleepless night full of haunting moaning, jerking, and teeth grinding, I promptly got up to count the night's takings and clean my half of the room, in shambles after the rush of the weekly having-to-do, plus some extra endeavors which may have turned out more remarkably than planned—then again, I knew something magical would always happen when I recorded—or was being recorded, which was this very morning the case; my roommate had just earlier produced a tape recorder and actually asked if she could record me talking about what would happen at night—grinding her teeth, moaning, and thrashing about—and emitting a horrible smell: the putrid and nausiating smell of death, which was at times strong enough to actually force bile up and out of my stomach and into my mouth, almost vomiting just from the smell alone; I had always been a peaceful sleeper, with a strong stomach albeit—but this smell was disgustingly bizzare, and it had become stronger and stronger from the day I had started my stay in this room, 637, opposite the room that I had occupied previously— though not much had changed— there seemed indeed to be a demon following me, and it seemed to have something to do with my past life— a life I was remarkably happy to leave and finally been done with, and had even recently admitted i would most probably remain single for the rest of my life, if lived long at all— of course, the grinding and gnashing of the teeth was haunting, but paired with the smell and utter unsettling aura of this nasty woman l, I had felt it more than nessesary to protect myself, using magic or otherwise—prayer alone seemed not to be cutting it, as I begged and pleaded God to keep me from this harm—but it seemed the harm intended was against God itself, and with every fibre of my being I kept as quietly as I could, remaining as calm as possible—and remembered that for every bit of hurt and surffering I saw, that my attacker would see worse. I had never wished death on someone so—than again, death would be an absolute relief from any of it, or at least from what I understood; and with such, it seemed like I was on the other side of it, at least for the most part, and though I even rather believed it myself that I would never truly love again or was loved, i knew that mostly somewhere to be untrue— perhaps my worst fear, and just as expected—the most insulting thing she could possibly think of to say flew from her bitter, lopsided mouth, as I grasped at her recording device—just as I had grasped at the TV remote just weeks before—with an absolute iron grip, unwilling to let go from what I knew to be an absolute violation of the shelter's code: she pulled at my hair and yanked at my arm as I walked calmly into the hallway, with her around my arm screaming rabidly as the demon itself took over her small and quite fat little Asian body— and though she said herself to be Japanese, she could have been Chinese or from anywhere else, and I wouldn't have known or cared the difference at all—she was a guest in my country, supposedly, anyway, though she could have been an ambassador from anywhere else or just as likely part of some bruxism study—it seemed that remarkably so, the two roommates I had been housed with were selected specifically to torture me—perhaps even trying to provoke or coax an episode of some sort, but that was as far away from happening as anything—I had made the conclusion that, without having first been beaten and abused, none of the strange behaviors that initially resulted would have arised ; in fact, I was quite healthy, mentally and physically, now, and whatever forces were targeting me and initiating my demise were idiotic at best, and satanic at most— with my suspicions certainly nowhere in between to speculate; it was nice being in New York City, with the comfort of knowing I could always jump in front of the fastest moving train, rather than to board it. It was a sickness, not with myself, but with the world. I had discovered too much about the secrecy of the elite, safeguarding nutrition by overpricing whole and healthy fare and creating an unaffordable and almost unattainable beacon of health; there was nothing much that I could do beyond speculate what kind of body I might be able to live in to do the kind of self care and maintenance the wealthy did; on my own, I was at least halfway there, but of course always having to backtrack due to financial constraints—and there were so many. Still, I was for the most part unwilling to trade my time for money in the worst ways, and sucked it up to make $50 an hour weekly working for one day a week—which, by the way—as a professional DJ, earned me about the same salary I had once earned working at McDonalds for 40 hours a week, after taxes —I recalled my checks almost never being a full $500, even putting in overtime—and once between two jobs, working around over a hundred hours a week or so, give or take, almost never breaking $2,000 per pay period—and having no time at all, not even to rest, or clean—and before I had even been aware of the notion that I would have a daily and mostly mantadory gym ritual, certainly no time to work out. In fact, I barely saw my son. I worked nights, and mornings, and afternoons—and sleep was rare enough, besides the constant having-to-do of normal life; he was two years old, and would be placed right beside me just in time for me to have to wake up within the hour, guzzle down a couple of energy drinks, and head to work, where I would most likely be for the next 16 hours—if not 8, devided by a few hours off, then another 8; sometimes, it was 8 and then 6, and then another 16 before I would even see the bed we all three of us shared—and sometimes, the scent of another woman's shampoo stained the pillow I would lay my head to try and sleep on, but couldn't — things had grown entirely disasterous, and I was working overtime to afford my own apartment. I had selected a beautifully remoldeled unit close enough to both of my jobs that it was reasonable, with two bedrooms—one for myself, and one for my son. I had begun picking out new silverware and shopping for beds and toy boxes—one with a slide for my baby boy, who, of course, then was still a reasonable weight for his age. He was sweet, just beginning to talk, and was a handful—of course—but as the higher earner, and having absolutely had enough of the mind games, evil trickery, lies, and absolute neglect—having existed with limited sleep and even more limited patience for the unhygienic conditions I would return “home” to, I could no longer exist in the world that had become what it had. —but, of course, the thing knew now, looking pitifully at my roommate as I guarded my belongings, making sure that her sneaky and strange, suspicious behavior didn't tamper with my expensive musical equipment as she showered, which didn't alleviate the smell at all, but even almost exacerbated it—I reflected, how I wish I had known then: never let an insecure man know that you're planning to leave him, and take his child into a better home, across town in the place he grew up in. I had already lost about 100 pounds and male attention was no issue, though I had never wanted as much as I had gotten and I wasn't exactly getting the attention from the kind of men I wanted; of course, now I knew that white men were for the most part not really racist, but classist—and also prideful—usually only keeping us, colored women on the side, as secrets, or fetishes—save for those, of course, built well, without the affects of age, brutality, trauma, and abuse to show on our bodies—supermodels, singers of the like—and of course, the ever-wanted light-skinned girls, white passing enough not to piss off any family members. So it was safe to say, back then, that I hadn't ever really wanted any of the men that wanted me— and even now, here, looking over this pitiful somewhat human so prone to being controlled and possessed, thought about words that could have cut deeply, if anything could, that she had sputtered as I stood quietly, using the morning light to fold my clothing; “This is why nobody loves you.” The demonic possession had been relentless and gotten worse and worse—she jerked, scratched, moaned, and arched all night long, tossing and turning and thrashing about so much that even with my earplugs nestled deeply in my inner ears, the foam pressing into a painful pressurized migraine by the morning, the jolting, scratching, and screeching sent bursts of haunting and soul-sucking energy across the room; it truly was a demon, or even Satan himself, and as I sat up one night praying and contemplating, the demon laughed evilly as if the villain in a movie—it was indeed some kind of hell, but of course Hell I hadn't deserved; I had been punched in the face nearly to death in front of my own two children, and everything since then had become strange and unreal—I thought “suicide wasn't my first death—it was my second.” Something in me had died that day; My newborn son flung across the room and onto the couch as my then-husband, the very first love of my life swung to hit me, pinning me down and losing l control—and even years later, between six and seven of them—I would still run my tongue over the scar on the inside of my bottom lip, thinking “that really happened” and it really did—but it was still hard to believe—that was the first but that wouldn't be the last time he would put his hands on me to harm me. I now had a couple scars, but none were really visible, besides to me—the eye-shaped scar that would light up on the right side of my head—the raised marking on the inside of my lip—and of course, the reckless turmoil and boiling in my stomach every time I heard someone grinding their teeth—and now I knew that it was indeed a demonic possession, or a carefully planned psychological experiment planned and paid for by the government itself. It seemed that for the most part, the attack was meant to keep me homeless; I had not had a peaceful or suitable, steady home since leaving my ex husband, and it seemed that everywhere I did go something dramatic would happen that forced me to move or leave, often relating to the people that I shared the spaces with, or even the space itself—despite at some points keeping two or three jobs, the places I would have to live would be disgusting and sufferable, which of course lead to poor work performance, and the eventual abandonment of whatever income I did have—it seemed that the people I would meet and friends I would make weren't really friends—especially men, who would turn evil after learning of my cellibacy, or, of course, would turn to predators if I happened to have fallen asleep around them—which was likely, as being homeless and without a bed, I was always tired. The people that I lived with would turn cruel and hateful, and now that it had happened over and over, I had learned that it was the same demon. “This is why nobody loves you.” “Everybody loves me.” , I responded— one of my mantras, and for the most part, true— until I had the unfortunate circumstance of having to live with or with with them too long; indeed, all of my would had been temporary for quite some time, and though one would think the travel and ambiance alone to be exciting and inspirational (which it admittedly was, incredibly so) , i was tired from having to constantly move around, almost never having more than enough money than I needed to the effect that I was always anxious and worrisome, and though lately I had decided that I was somehow very devinely protected, and that abundance and financial independence would be provided through my itretractably intimate relationship with God, or The Source, that I needle worry any longer. However, the coughing, grinding of teeth, and overall decay of my psyche had become dauntingly irritating, and I was again becoming annoyed enough to sometimes drift off into fantasies about letting the blood leak out from my favorite vein; the artery where The Insomniac Logo crossed over the center of The Eye—a tattoo I loved and hated, as nothing I did really seemed to be good enough for Pasquale, or whoever was really in charge of selecting the lineups at The Insomnisc events; it had actually become almost torture scrolling through the mounds of music I loved but couldn't play at my paid shows, and though I received rave reviews, I was far from a rave at all— actually, I was so far from everything, I felt stranded, left out of an entire world and bound to the bus for hours a day, just to do Simple things—then, of course; to return to a hostile environment, where the mostly-black population did nothing but bicker and squabble in negetivity and misery, ruminating in hatred—and the fake niceness of my second roommate becoming almost impossible to bare; she had become phony, and I was having none of it. The gritting and grinding of her teeth caused me an anxiety that made me want to eat; the more she twisted and turned and moaned and gritted, the more my stomach would become so furiously empty that it sometimes hurt—and when it was full, even to the brim, the nausiating stench that would arise from her body would seep into my nostrils and into my mind and body, forcing me nearly to vomit more than once, but almost violently at least one particular time. I hoped for someone, anyone to occupy the attackers mind from sitting and ruminating on the hatred he held for me; living in the past, with our dead children, the l deciet and the lies, the cheating and the chaos circling in a hateful spew of energy that cast a spell over my entire life; I wanted to love, but knew I could not, I wanted to live, but hadn't so far—and the worst think I could do was kill myself, which would allow whatever his version of the story was to be true. He had never admitted to hitting me, besides to me, and was scared to be prosecuted; he had run away in a fit of suicidal fury, threatening to kill himself long before I ever did, my lip still gushing and leaking blood all over the floors and the walls—blood I myself cleaned up, and still found spatters of for days on end after—the days where everything changed in my mind, and something else took over my body; something about survival which had pushed me into the world I was in today—which was still strange and loveless, but none the less I was grateful for; Love had been ruined in all but music, and my $50 an hour one day a week was far more valuable to me than even the high-salary corporate nightmare that had afforded me a trip across the country to Ultta music festival—where on the night of my 25th birthday I stood in the dead center of the crowd and stared into the U hoisted above the MainStage—never even dreaming of being on it, but just enamored that I had earned a check off off my bucket list. “You're possessed by a demon.” I calmly informed her—something she had informed me of upon my arrival, also bringing up shamanism in the same breath; the first tell-tale sign that this woman could never be trusted, ever—she had either been told what to say by someone who had been listening to and reading along with my podcast series and was a paid informant, selected specifically because she had bruxism—or she was demonically possessed—of course, with the alternative possibility of being selected BECAUSE she was programmable and prone to possession, which any skilled magician can practice; Occultists for centuries had used these practices I was only just now learning to protect myself, to program and control people—none of which I was against, besides it being used against me, however, I now believed that it had been some sort of strategic test to see if I would be in any way violent—and I hadn't; I never punched, hit, or attacked either of my roommates in either struggle— I simply held my ground, and with a firm grip, would not let go—in fact, in both struggles—one being a full-out brawl and the other being just a simple scuffle, my roommates had acted out in petty, girlish violence that seemed not to bother my somewhat strong and warrior-like inner companion—the inner-companion who enjoyed strength training, and proper conditioning—the tiny and gross Asian woman pulled my hair and yanked at me furiously, eyes wild as she called me “Crazy”, which would eventually be one of my album titles, alongside “Retarded”, “Fat” and “Lazy”, if I could ever properly create something that I was actually proud of without being disturbed— and though I wasn't sure—the main purpose of this demon did seem to be to stop me from creating things, usually acting up as I began to write or configure my music, besides during live performances—where of course, besides the overtly-drunken rambling, requests for music I didn't want to play, and the super-salty-black-girl-stares I would receive from scantily dressed women rappers always referred to in their songs and videos as “hoes”, it wasn't anything that I hadn't become used to by now—but by now, I had become used to this weird and strange demon, who seemed to be following me just to make me go insane and eventually kill myself, which I supposed I would do once I felt that enough evidence was published so that my son, now weighing about as much as I did or even more after being kept from me—would understand that I never wanted to leave or abandon him. My ex husband had ripped my keys from my hands as I darted for the door, picking me up and then pushing my face into the floor, where some woman had either urinated or ejculated on the carpet at some point before, rubbing my face in it like a Dog, then removing my house key from the keychain and carving something into the side of my face—before picking me up, as I had become rather small without gaining any muscle—and throwing me out onto the porch, keeping my phone and my glasses inside the house—but more importantly, my son, who I had planned to take with me to the women's shelter— It was the beginning of winter in the harsh tundra—with a frigid wind stinging the still bleeding wound over my right eye, and though I couldn't see nor did I have a place to go, I drove quickly away in my new car, which he had of course dented in the first week or so after it's purchase; he had begun to do all sorts of things once I decided I was leaving; he would allow women into my bed as I worked, or even—sometimes upon coming home during a break, I would discover that he was nowhere to be found, our two year old son all-alone and myself unable to return to work until he returned; sometimes hours or not at all—and I could never then or ever now in good concious leave my son alone, even at six years old, let alone two: I waited patiently for my roommate to vacate the premises; she was dead set on changing rooms, and I was dead set on allowing it—although i was sure I would be stuck with someone intolerable in some way, as long as they didn't grind their teeth or weren't impossibly messy, I would probably be better off; the woman had many times now shown herself to be evil and conniving, and though I hated to place any old-fashion stereotypes onto her, she fitted Hollywoods “untrustworthy, Asian rat” to a T; she had taken the liberty of asking for permission once and then continuing to record our conversations, had began her introduction with talks about demonic possession and shamanism, and had even taken things of mine and hidden them in her things, only to throw childish and unsightly tantrums when I retrieved them; she had opened my water and replaced it with tap or fountain water, pouring the expensive electronyte infused water into her own bottle and perhaps not thinking that I would neither taste the difference or notice that the seal had been broken on the brand new bottles— and she often said hurtful things which may have been true and less hurtful coming from her, after having self-stated that she had been demonically possessed—things that I took with a grain of salt, that were disgusted with false niceties. She often brought up things out of my own past without being prompted; talks about dead babies, failed marriages, twin flames, and spiritual awakenings—she often asked questions that seemed to come out of my own internet history, and indeed, all of her conversation seemed to be in some way scripted—I still couldn't tell if she was programmed, possessed, or a combination of the two, but was more assuredly a combination of the two, as the fat around her midsection alerted me to the deeper issue at play, that obesity itself acts as a pathway for bodiless creatures of the lower realms to find their way in, eventually turning to cancer and even more slowly and eventually death, but first arising as rapid aging, lethargy, aggravation, and maliciousness—all of which are contagious, and whether or not she was the result spiritual curse or a government psychological experiemnt, I didn't care—she smelled bad and was psychotically fake-nice in just the way my mother would be when she would turn one way and then another—or just as my ex husband had, the cycle of abuse so clearly patterened and laid out before my eyes that it almost bored me with its cyclical, almost-never-ending relentlessness. But it wasn't never ending. I had broken the pattern. I had asked God and all the spirits for protection and guidance, and even, some weeks before, with open eyes and ears about the sincerity of my roommates intentions—and within moments of asking God itself, the truth had begun to unfold, just as I had asked God to by any means protect my son, and he had—by allowing him to live with his grandmother—and as I still struggled with escaping the grips of poverty as a black woman in racist-sex-driven-capitalist-America, I knew it would only be moving backwards to run to him as I had before. In fact, every time I moved forward in music at all, some drama would happen so that all of a sudden my old life needed the old me—and like the old me, a gullible, people-pleasing lover-and-doer, I would rush back into the cycle of abusive patterns, behaviors, and terrors—becoming sick in my old ways with obesity, anxiety, and trauma—However, now that the pattern was so much easier to see, I failed to return to the old cycles, or even my old self at all—there was almost no part of that person left at all besides my son, who sadly I had learned to detach from; once I understood that my own baby was being used a means to control me—I had to let go. My motherhood began to be a secret, piled on top of other secrets I began to collect, almost even with pride. It had been remarkable that I could keep them, in a certain way, and also not—this fueled the fire for shame and even more torture, but nothing had or could be done about it, as far as I was concerned. My boy had been ripped from me, kept intentionally away, and even as once I kept him as the soul reason for continuing to try, I had let that go—I knew that the curse or hex and the terrible burden that came with it had more to do with the potential that eventually the truth would surface; ‘Mommy didn't run away from you— she ran away to you.' But either way, i'd be a better parent than I would anything else, especially better than a DJ— but if the point was to use my own children against me to get me to behave in a certain way— I had to let the idea or notion of being a mother go. I had to let the romanticized idea of recreating my family with anyone else go. I had to let everything go, especially the things I wanted— because the things I needed had been taken so much from me that I was no longer human. I had been prone to abuse, trauma, psychological terrorism, cyber attacks, Dillon Francis— and the handful of other actors that only seemed to drive me further forward committing the final act of suicide once more; but it wasn't final, and I knew that—and the worst part about it was, that with all the coughing, grinding, homelessness, being dragged through the mud, compared to others born with silver spoons, and even put up against musical moguls and tycoons—coming face to face with fame and the famous, diving into an intimate expansion of conciousness and having my basic human needs dried up into almost nothing—being stripped of my rights, my privacy, and my comfort, my perception shifted and under constant scrutiny and attack—I was famous without any of the benefit of being wealthy with it at all and growing tired, older, and all the more heartbroken with every clinched jaw and fist tossed at me… “This Is Why Nobody Loves You.” ‘A good name for an album but not as catchy as ‘crazy,'' I thought— the sniveling woman throwing a tantrum as she stormed in-and-out-and-about preparing to leave; I was relieved. She was a snake, my dreams had grown dark and I had been jolted awake by her terrible night mannerisms and her new roommate would be too; it was a disgusting sound and a disgusting smell—and her new roommate would just as likely be just as putt off by it as I was. “He's going to continue to use you—you'll just get fatter and fatter…” I couldn't remember all of what I had said, but I told her the truth; whatever was using her body, even if it was just to get to me, was going to continue to use her—even if not the same force, she had proven herself programmable—buying a personal blender to match mine after observing me; planting obvious notions about what I should or shouldn't do—notions that I had reflected; in fact, I had reflected everything. That was my strongest power, and always brought the most adversity; showing people themselves, from the outside in. Most people hate themselves, and it becomes painful—as I began to since the increasing hostility, I began to leave the room messier, not taking the time to clean up—my half of the room representing the subliminal damage she had been playing on my psyche with; Infeed, what she was doing was wrong, and easily recognizable from the start: my mother had acted in the same way, as well as my ex, and I knew immediately that she was attempting control, as she would complain about any light at all when I most felt like working on music; sensitivity to light, also the sign of a demon —and hers was severe enough that she had changed all the light bulbs. The morning light of the curtain opened merely ¼ as she angrily barked “Azul! Azul!” I ignored her. She had started calling me Azul after seeing it on the roster, and though it was my name no one called me that. I had never made any gripe about it, however, it did bother me—neither had I, though, confronted her about the water she had stolen, or the laundry sheets, or any of her bizzare behavior—in fact, she had made up arguments to bring up those things herself and then tried to pen things on me I actually hadnt done, like “stealing her soap” and “opening her drawers”—the latter of which I had only done looking for something she had stolen. It was all strange, but all familiar, too— now that I understood the function of a tool for possession, I rather became enamored with it, as if a subtle mysterious voice spoke “look how easy this is”. And though I did for some reason poses the natural ability to influence, often watching the bodies around me change to wear clothes more like I did, do their hair more like I did, their nails more like I did, talk more like I did—or overall, become somehow more like me in some way everywhere I would go for as long as I could remember— but I had never wanted nor needed to fully possess another human being, especially for selfish or asenine reason—and although this did feel much like war, I didn't care to fight in it, nor would I surrender; I would simply continue to hold my ground and defend myself, for whatever was at stake—which so far was nothing. Possession was simple, but a far cry from Shifting, which I had learned to do with ease and at will—it was more useful of course than any of the other skills I had learned; the telepathy I kept command of was used simply only as a means of relinquishing all of the secrets I did keep—and though I had first-handedly published by selection a small percentage of my very intimate and personal writing and experience to the public eye via my podcast, there was much more for the first time in my life that I knew and kept to myself—even and especially with people close to me, even by default and without choice, I only ever said or mentioned things that I wanted people to know; I knew now that I was always at the mercy of technology, and was more than likely being recorded than not—it didn't matter, now at all. The point was, I did have a son—and as far as he sadly was, I had technically done my job; He certainly did possess his own range of powers and magical abilities, and with or without me would grow up to be a spectacular and wonderful person. There wasn't anything I could do about his father; I decided to remain single and celibate, finally happy to be so—Sonny was a tough act to follow and Dillon had all been a plot—part of a ploy to destroy my mind, body, and soul; Perhaps if it weren't for deadmau5, it would have—I learned to self-soothe using the melodic frequencies of musical hypnotism, understanding programming only enough to program myself to continue to survive—and I had, at the very least survived, but I was some sort of machine now; my love was in the music but with money tied up in it, never to be freed The devil was ever-presently on my shoulder pointing out all of his demons and wishing to dance, but I had yet to oblige. God and I were at odds and ends but never on-and-off; my faith unyielding and unwavering as a shield and magical ally, as I thought there not to be a force of whimsy and wonder that wasn't by her hand. The world was weird and strange; I had been hacked, beaten, starved, robbed, fought, tortured, followed and taunted— recorded and photographed at all ends and angles— drawn to men I could never dream to touch—or could dream, but could never touch— punished by being born in to a body they could never love— And realizing, that in 30 years the only people who had ever loved me had learned how to love from me—or so they said, without ever knowing what love was. “This is why nobody loves you.” If the wind blew down your door, How would I call for you? —Through her, I suppose And the silk of her hair, Or the satin of her dress, — Oh, it's almost admissible, Surely admirable, Worth a smile or not, That all the world is words, In the end, As I tear down my worlds, and start over from One And I've already stopped enough once for today, I think Surely, what you'd like is just The time to get it all to nothing (Never had I wanted it or needed it) The phone was ringing, But I'll never be off the hook again, If you look for the proper way to move forward, You'll never find it, Especially looking behind you (Always looking behind you— Head in the past Just like you It's just like me, Too, To sit down and decide a whole song about you While taking it all down. I'm never distraught with the thoughts of a stranger, Oh, on the contrary; You should be mad about battle, But I'm all for the veterans and And never off if we were not at war with one another, but Then again, That's all we've ever done It would be Devastating To even think of Something more clever “Clever and splendiferous confectionary efforts, Just spectacular concessions my dear; I'll have another.” Hadn't I deciphered once or twice the rhyme for riddles down to dollars and cents? I did, I thought, once. I never hindered Heaven from pondering over my shoulder once or twice upon a full lit moon, which under I predicted my own fortune. Once— or twice, but— Nevermind, or nothing; Indifference, for instance, instantly inscessent ancestral insimination incriminating risidual visuals uhh —From the festival. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. [The Festival Projext]