Nothing can stop us wolves from howlin

Nothing can stop us wolves from howling.

Not the passive aggressive middle aged office hags, dragging themselves through uninspiring marriages, bemoaning their drugged up offspring who should be smarter than they are.

Not the starry eyed hipsters who cower in soft lighted rooms, posing in their underwear, influencing nothing more than their inflated ego

Not time and space, the fabrics thereof, red traffic lights and stuffed train carriages, rusty chains and wet shoes.

Not nightmares and bills, the shrieks of fairies, fascists and homophobes, bitches and trolls, the pandemonium of adjacent lives.

Nothing can stop us wolves from howling.

We dance like wolves, through crowds of sheep and mice with hungry  eyes and envious lips.

We fuck like wolves, our cocks hard and unrelenting just by the scent of each other.

We love like wolves, healing old wounds and roaming like a pack, even if apart.

We live like wolves, if only in our dreams and future plans, where the world is ours

Nothing can stop us wolves from howling.

Akatombo

Desperation is a terrifying beast when it creeps into your life. Its stench, claws and foul breath can, even from a distance, paralyze you with fear. My uncle has been battling with this monster for some time now; a fight none of us was even aware of. He’s a retired loving grandfather, still a very active karateka and the first to come help out when someone in the family is moving or has some renovation project. When I was completely broke he would invite me over for dinner and made sure I was alright. Last week he sat down in a dark room, far away from anyone he knew and downed a boatload of pills. He had lost to desperation. It was a kata he couldn’t finish. 

But there was still a spark which made him call his daughter who immediately called an ambulance. He did not want that help. He fought, trashed, lashed out. It was as if the beast was all that was still left. He was finally strapped to a bed in a psychiatric hospital, after fighting the nurses and the police. A lifelong commitment to martial arts makes for a rather difficult patient. When I told my brother all this, we looked at each other in fear. This is our blood. This is one of our role models. This beast might rear its ugly head in our lives too.  My uncle, my father and my niece are now going on a walking trip to Spain together; to heal, reflect, support and gain strength. Strength to, maybe, kill that ugly beast once and for all.

I wish I was joining them. I remember he named his karate club Akatombo and as a kid I was told it was the Japanese word for dragonfly. I just found out it’s also a children’s song from 1927, with lyrics from a poem by Rofu Miki. It’s hugely popular in Japan and that’s where he most likely got the name from.

Little red dragonfly
Resting, waiting
On the end of a bamboo pole

This poem better not be on some memorial card soon uncle, you’re a lot stronger and wiser than you think.

Sensei ni rei.

Alpha, Theta, Gamma

Today they are a leader, healer and caretaker. Today they are wolves chasing a wild river through the forest. Tomorrow that might change. The river might turn into a lake or a small creek while the forest twists and turns into something else entirely. Even the wolves change shape as if their metamorphosis is as easy and natural as ice melting in the sun.

Their world is a dreamscape. They live in the time out of time, the everywhen. Once they were, or will be, satyrs with cocks as thick as tree trunks and legs as strong roots going deep through the earth. Then they are monkeys flying through a giant honeycomb grid sucking on the sweet nectar of beings we will call, for lack of a better word, gods. They might as well be giant bees. They are also gusts of wind, following the intoxicating notes of a song.

Sometimes, when the world settles in darkness, they melt into each other. Their strong, hard bodies become soft and malleable and their minds float peacefully through the everywhen. When they wake up they are a Rarotonga peppermint angelfish, a Wallachian ram and a Tanzanian red clawed scorpion. They hold court high up in the stars to discuss the prints they left behind on each other. Scientist might call these petrosomatoglyphs of the soul, like hands imprinted on their individual cores.

“That’s a bit much, don’t you think?” the phantomape says.

 Is it the petrosomatoglyph part?

 “No that’s quite clever. But it reads live Ovid had a trip with some aboriginals and woke up without pants the next day.”

Well, that’s the only way I can describe it, little tarsier.

 “Then you must be in deep. From the house you destroyed for me, through the harlequin fields you finally reached the wild forest.”

Are you pretending to be a wise mentor through my journey to manhood?

 “Might as well. Train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose.”

Upādāna. Wait, did you just quote Yoda?

 “He was a wise muppet.”

The Blue Orb

My earliest ‘strange’ memory is from when I was about five years old. My older brother (he must have been seven back then) and I were in our Lego phase. We were obsessed with Lego and our entire bedroom floor was covered in brightly covered bricks and pieces. My mum got fed up with the huge mess and ordered us to clean it up. After a lot of loud protest, we start the task of putting everything back in these plastic containers we had for our Lego. I vaguely remember our mum helping us at first, but I guess she went to her own bedroom to finish some ironing or sometimes. In any case, she couldn’t have gotten far. I remember sitting on my knees, putting bricks of Lego in the container, my brother talking to me in the background and all of a sudden time seemed to slow down to a halt. Strange electricity engulfed the air of the room, giving me goose bumps. I don’t remember if it flew in from somewhere or just appeared but there was this blue orb. The orb was quite small, about the size of a tennis ball, dancing erratically through the room. It was clearly electrically charged, I remember blue sparks coming out of it. I wasn’t scared at all; in fact I was mesmerized by it. It seemed to explore the room, quite playfully. In my memory, the event couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, but next thing I know I’m being shaken by my mum. She looked worried and confused. Apparently, after I hadn’t moved in almost half an hour, my brother got worried and called out to my mother. When she came in the room and started talking to me, I didn’t react to her. When she crouched down to my level, my eyes were blank and staring into space. Only after shaking me, I snapped out of it. I don’t know if I told her what I saw, but if I did she must have assumed I was daydreaming. After all, my family told me I was a strange kid, prone to escaping to fantasy worlds and having a very active imagination, especially when it was my bed time. Aside from that one experience, I never see a blue orb like that again (as far as I can remember at least.) Now, as part of exploring a lot of my strange childhood memories, I did some quick research about orbs and I found out that there is a phenomenon called ‘ghost orbs’. It seems mostly linked to them showing up on photos, and I doubt there is any truth to them. One site mentions that a blue orb is associated with psychic energy and truth. It is associated with spiritual guidance, which is somewhat comforting. After all, I didn’t fear the orb at all and was quite amused by it. None of these so-called ‘ghost orbs’ seem to be electrically charged though, so I have to dig a bit deeper. So far, nothing really has turned up that managed to convince me. These ‘ghost orbs’ pictures don’t seem paranormal in the slightest and accounts of other people seeing these orbs don’t quite match up with my experience. The only thing close to this experience happened a few years ago. It was during the short time I lived at M’s apartment. When I was lying in bed reading, I felt a surge of electricity coming out of the wall close to the ceiling and slowly making its way through the room to the opposite wall. I didn’t see anything, but I felt the power of it slowly crossing the room. I could easily follow it with my eyes, although there was nothing to see. I have no idea if these two events are related in any way, but as I was writing this I was reminded of it.

The Eilean Mor Lighthouse Mystery

In 1900, the only living souls on the Scottish island of Eilean Mor were three lighthouse keepers, alone in the vast ocean. The day after Christmas, a supply ship arrived at the island. To the crew’s surprise, the lighthouse keepers were not waiting for them on the island’s small dock. After blowing the ship’s horn and sending up a flare, there was still no activity on the island. A replacement lighthouse keeper named Joseph Moore was eventually sent to investigate. As he climbed the narrow, rocky stairs leading up to the lighthouse, Moore recalled being struck with a sense of nameless dread. As he neared the door, he saw that it was unlocked. Stepping carefully inside, he also noticed that two of the three waterproof jackets usually kept in the hall were missing. Reaching the kitchen, he found the remains of a meal and a chair lying on the floor. The clock in the kitchen had stopped working. The lighthouse keepers were nowhere to be seen.A further investigation revealed the disturbing final entries in the lighthouse log. The entry for December 12 was written by a keeper named Thomas Marshall. In it, Marshall claimed the island had been struck by severe winds, worse than anything he had experienced in his career. Even though the lighthouse was solid enough to outlast any storm, Marshall wrote that the Principal Keeper, James Ducat, was very quiet. The third keeper, William McArthur, was an experienced sailor and a famously tough tavern brawler. The log entry ended by noting that he had been crying. Further entries recorded that the storm continued to rage for a few days. Secure in their lighthouse, the three men had nonetheless begun praying. The last entry stated: “Storm ended, sea calm. God is over all.” Though the lighthouse was visible from the nearby island of Lewis, no storms were reported in the Eilean Mor area during the days noted in the log entry. The bodies of the three lighthouse keepers were never found.

The Isdal Woman

The Isdal woman (Norwegian: Isdalskvinnen) is the subject of an unsolved case involving an unidentified woman found dead at Isdalen Valley in Bergen, Norway on 29 November 1970. Considered one of Norway's most profound mysteries, the case has been the subject of intense speculation over the years regarding the identity of the victim, the events leading up to her death and the cause of death. Public interest in the case remains significant. The woman was found in a part of Isdalen popularly known as "Death Valley", which lies in the direction towards Mount Ulriken. Next to the scene police found a burned-out passport. The autopsy showed that the woman had suffered blunt force trauma to the neck and had taken several sleeping pills before she died. The official police report concluded suicide, but this conclusion is highly controversial. Police traced the woman to two suitcases that were found in an NSB train station in Bergen. Police also found that the labels had been removed from every piece of clothing she wore, and that her fingerprints had been sanded away. Police eventually found out that the woman had travelled around Norway and Europe with nine different identities: Jenevive Lancia, Claudia Tjelt, Vera Schlosseneck, Claudia Nielsen, Alexia Zarna-Merchez, Vera Jarle, Finella Lorck and Elizabeth Leen Hoywfer. All of these identities were false. According to witness sightings the woman used various wigs, and in the trunk there were found several cryptic diary entries. Witnesses reported that the woman had spoken several languages: French, German, English and Flemish. On 24 November, five days before the discovery of the woman, a local 26-year old man was hiking with friends around the same area. He reported to have come across a woman of foreign appearance, her face completely distorted by fear. He noted that the woman was dressed elegantly, although not appropriately for being outdoors, let alone hiking in the hills. As they passed each other she formed her mouth as if to say something but appeared intimidated by two black-coated men who followed her.

The Bloop

In the summer of 1997, an array of underwater microphones, or hydrophones, owned by the US government picked up a strange sound. For a minute, it rose rapidly in frequency; then it disappeared. The hydrophones, a relic of cold-war submarine tracking, picked up this signal again and again during those summer months, then it was never heard again. No one knows what made the sound, now known as "The Bloop". Its origin has been only loosely pinned down: it seems to have originated from somewhere off the west coast of South America, and could be heard from 2000 kilometres away. The Bloop sounds like it has been created by an animal, but it is far louder than any whale song. The marine creature that made it would be many times bigger than any whale.