I was determined to use my long weekend to watch Nymphomaniac in its entirety in one sitting. Then some strange power messed up my whole day yesterday, I couldn’t think straight, and I had huge problems installing my new computer and dealing with all sorts of craziness so I got started on Nymphomaniac late and fell asleep with an hour to go. Then I woke up this morning and first thing watched the last hour. Since the sun comes up at the end of the movie it was like I had lived through the whole experience of the movie myself, in a strange magical ritual of rebirth, which was awesome. 

I used Chat-GPT to write two passages about the Sickie Souse Club. Even though they’re hardly original, and I would be very unimpressed with any writer who tried to sell them to me, they’re mine and it did make me happy to read them. So posting them is genuinely an act of self-expression, one step closer to understanding what I I should be doing artistically. They’re both versions of the same prompt, the second one is tweaked a little better.

Version 1

In the hushed corridors of Ravenswood Academy, where the weight of history and privilege pressed down like an invisible fog, the Sickie Souse Club gathered for one last hurrah. It was the eve of graduation, a time when the future beckoned with a mix of dread and anticipation, like the distant rumble of a storm.

Drake Marshall, with his poet’s heart and rebel’s spirit, leaned against the aged oak locker, his thoughts adrift in a sea of Kerouac and Burroughs. The Doors’ lyrics whispered in his mind, a siren song of freedom and chaos. He glanced at Patricia “Trish” Crown, ethereal and dreamy, lost in the melody of Fleetwood Mac that only she could hear. She caught his gaze, her eyes a mirror to his soul, reflecting a shared yearning for a life less ordinary.

Charles “Chuck” Crown, Trish’s twin, stood beside her, a study in contrasts. His future was a well-trodden path laid out by generations of Crowns, yet his eyes held a glint of mischief, a silent rebellion against the inevitability of his destiny. He smirked at Drake, a silent acknowledgment of the wild adventures they had shared, adventures that had become the fabric of their youth.

Dustin Everett, the enigmatic philosopher, leaned against the opposite locker, his expression thoughtful. He was a bridge between worlds, his mind a labyrinth of existential questions and digital dreams. He was bound for M.I.T., a future crafted in codes and algorithms, yet his heart remained in the poetic musings he shared with Drake.

Graylyn Aleksandr, the artist of the group, her spirit as colorful and tumultuous as her canvases, sketched idly in her notebook. Her future at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was a blank canvas waiting for her vibrant strokes. Her engagement to Drake was a promise of a life painted in bold, unconventional hues.

Angela Thorne, the athlete with a philosopher’s soul, stood slightly apart. Her gaze was steady, her determination as unwavering as her strokes in the pool. She dreamt of Loyola University, of a life dedicated to helping others. In her, the group found their conscience, a grounding force amidst their whirlwind lives.

Alvin Albrecht, the mystic, lounged nearby, his eyes closed as if seeing beyond the physical realm. His future at Cornell was but a stepping stone to a world of design and mystery. He was their oracle, a window to a world of astral planes and ancient wisdom.

As the bell tolled, signaling the end of an era, they gathered their belongings. The Sickie Souse Club, a tapestry of dreams and desires, stepped out into the twilight. The air was electric, charged with the energy of impending change.

Drake led them to Chuck’s borrowed Mercedes Estate, the vehicle of many a nocturnal escapade. The car’s engine hummed a familiar tune, a prelude to their final journey together. They drove through the streets of Evanston, the world outside a blur of neon and nostalgia.

The car came to a stop at their favorite haunt, Denny’s, an oasis of fluorescent light in the encroaching darkness. They piled into a booth, the familiar setting a bittersweet comfort. The waitress, a fixture in their late-night sojourns, approached with a knowing smile, her pen poised over her notepad.

As they ordered, their voices melded into a symphony of laughter and reminiscence. They spoke of the past, of the adventures and misadventures that had forged their bond. They spoke of the future, of the paths they would soon walk, separate yet forever intertwined.

The night deepened, and the moment of parting drew near. They lingered over empty plates and half-drunk cups of coffee, reluctant to break the spell. Finally, as the first light of dawn crept through the windows, they rose as one.

Outside, they embraced, each hug a promise, a pledge of enduring friendship. They whispered farewells, their words echoes of a time that would soon be a memory. As they went their separate ways, the strains of “Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds filled the air, a fitting anthem to their shared past and individual futures.

In the golden glow of the rising sun, the Sickie Souse Club walked away from Denny’s, their silhouettes etched against the light. They were young, full of dreams and doubts, stepping into a world that awaited them with open arms and unknown challenges. And as they dispersed into the dawn, the echo of their laughter lingered, a testament to their unbreakable bond, a bond forged in the hallowed halls of Ravenswood Academy.

Version 2

In the dim twilight of an early spring evening, the lights of Ravenswood Academy flickered like distant stars, casting a warm glow over the school’s ivy-clad walls. It was a time of endings and beginnings, of whispered secrets and shared dreams. The Sickie Souse Club, seven friends bound by their unique spirits and unspoken bonds, lingered on the edge of tomorrow, the precipice of their graduation in May of 1988.

Drake, his thoughts as tumultuous as the melodies of The Cure, leaned against the ancient oak in the courtyard, his gaze lost in the dance of the fireflies. Beside him, Trish, ethereal as a muse in a painting, watched him with eyes full of unspoken words, her thoughts a blend of longing and uncertainty.

“Remember this moment,” Drake said softly, breaking the silence. “Years from now, when we’re scattered like leaves in the wind, remember this place, this feeling.”

Trish nodded, her hand finding his. “I’ll never forget,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

Nearby, Charles, the mastermind of midnight escapades, leaned against his borrowed Mercedes Estate, a smirk playing on his lips. He was the orchestrator of their nocturnal journeys, the driver of their adventures, always pushing the boundaries of what was possible.

Dustin, deep in conversation with Alvin, discussed the mysteries of consciousness, their voices a low murmur under the starlit sky. Alvin’s mystical insights, gleaned from his belief in past lives, intertwined with Dustin’s philosophical musings, creating a tapestry of thought that stretched beyond the ordinary.

Graylyn, her artist’s soul ever restless, sketched the scene before her, her charcoal strokes capturing the essence of the moment. Angela, her athletic grace belying a depth of thought, listened intently, her mind weaving their words into a tapestry of understanding.

As the night deepened, they found themselves drawn to Graylyn’s studio, a haven for their creativity and camaraderie. The space, much like Andy Warhol’s Factory, buzzed with the energy of youth and the promise of the unknown.

In the studio, amidst the clutter of paint tubes and canvases, they shared stories, laughter, and music that echoed their innermost selves. The Cure’s haunting melodies filled the air, mingling with the scent of oil paint and the warmth of friendship.

As the night wore on, they spoke of their dreams and fears, of the paths they would soon take, diverging yet forever intertwined. Drake’s voice, tinged with a writer’s melancholy, spoke of his literary aspirations, of capturing the essence of their youth in words that would outlast them all.

Trish, her voice soft but resolute, shared her uncertainty about the future, her desire to find purpose beyond the expectations set upon her. Charles, with a confident grin, talked of embracing the family legacy, of adventures yet to come before settling into the inevitable.

Dustin, his eyes alight with the fire of knowledge, spoke of technology’s potential, of worlds yet to be explored. Alvin, his words laced with mysticism, shared visions of beauty and harmony, of designs that would challenge the mundane.

Angela, strong and thoughtful, spoke of her desire to make a difference, to touch lives in ways that mattered. And Graylyn, her artist’s heart laid bare, talked of capturing the fleeting moments of life, of creating beauty that would endure.

As dawn approached, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, they stood together, a circle of friends on the cusp of change. In that moment, suspended between the past and the future, they made a silent promise to remember, to carry a piece of this night, this bond, into whatever tomorrow held.

And as the first rays of sunlight kissed the horizon, the Sickie Souse Club dispersed, each carrying a fragment of shared dreams and memories, like a melody that lingers long after the song has ended.

Today I was reading “Called Out Of Darkness” by Anne Rice, and she had the text of Gloria In Excelsis Deo in there, saying it was her favorite Hymn back then. Tonight I scryed NIA, the 24th Aethyr, and below is what I wrote on June 16, the first time I scryed it:

A suit of armor appears with a sword, an ancient enemy. None may pass who are not qualified. Beware now the forces you interfere with. It is radiant bliss of the cities of light like the ship in Close Encounters. It is like the medieval room at the Art Institute. Everything is together where it should be. I feel terrible because I’m drunk though, and I should probably not do this again. I feel very drained and I will have to come back in the morning when I am sober. But this does feel more like the Quiet City from my decrees. They would have lived for this, wouldn’t they? It was brought forth from the chaos of nature. There were beings like Dee who knew how to do things, and that was the meaning of guardianship. There is knowledge of civilization here. And I sense Dee and the arising and passing of life, contributing to the edifice of civilization. This was the meaning of Christ at that time.

It will be interesting to compare with other visions of Nia to see if mine is accurate or relevant. I’m having a bit of confusion because even though I’m drunk and got a message that this might not “qualify”, it is vivid and full of information. But perhaps some spirit here will help me see the propriety that Dee was hoping to preserve with this system, extending the British Empire.

Thank you. Gloria In Excelsis Deo.

The above is what I wrote weeks ago, I just want to emphasize that I was reading those words in Rice’s book today, and then found them again tonight in my own record of scrying NIA. There were other things that happened today so absurdly synchronous that I can do nothing but rejoice.

I’m so inspired by my birthday week of conventions – Flashback Weekend last week, seeing the awesome Rose McGowan, and then this weekend FanExpo, the first day of which I just got back from – that I came up with an idea for The Downward Spiral, part 2 of the Sickie Souse Quartet. In the sequel Warren is somehow involved with this sordid disgusting sex-addict director loosely based on a real Hollywood director who millions of people have heard of. This director is a virulent misogynist who has his minions sabotage movies so that he will be called in to “save” them by re-editing them, leaving out scenes where women are portrayed sympathetically and rewriting endings around his own pathologically disgusting idea of male bonding. So there’s a move based on what happened with Aliens 3, where they killed Newt. There’s a young female character that everyone in America loves, just like Newt, and then this freak director directs his minion Warren to sabotage it, and he comes in and kills her and humiliate the lead character, and the lead actress by making the whole thing an exercise in sexual horror like Aliens 3 or The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover. The whole novel is to examine how the entertainment business in the 90s became a breeding ground for disgusting sex and drug addicts who don’t care about audiences at all.

Also, I’m wondering who Warren really is. I may switch up and make Derek the slimiest villain of The ArtIC Circle. Maybe Warren will be the evil adult director, who has this ranch where he has these sex parties where he directs “Warrens”, which are orgies of naked gay men forced together into small spaces, simulating the hellish paintings of M.C. Escher.

But the new idea I got tonight is that a major piece of it is a story based on the travesty of Aliens 3, and whether the friend is Derek or Warren he somehow involves the Sickies in it, and it’s a very dark battle with a sad ending like The Empire Strikes Back.

This is an experiment in fanfiction to see what happens. I don’t have the energy or patience or focus to actually write fanfiction but if I start with explaining the story it will perhaps attract energy on the astral plane and adapt into something else.

So this story is about Ron and Hermione’s Christmas party. Hugo and Rose are very young, and Ron is settling in to his life as an adult but he’s still cranky about doing whatever Hermione tells him to do. So He and Harry get drunk at the party and Ron starts griping so they go upstairs to the library, which is usually Hermione’s territory and Ron is rambling on about various things and he starts talking about how the muggles are all fascinated with Quetzalcoatl returning and are any of them actually doing anything about it. He pulls down a book from the shelf and he and Harry figure out the magical circle and sigil require to summon Quetzalcoatl, just for the fun of it. Ron casts the circle and the sigil, but then he realizes there’s a big, long list of guardians and beareaucratic spirits to call on as well. He get’s bored and just waves his wand and says “Accio giant central American snake god!” And a giant snake comes blasting through the gate and starts tearing up the library.

We’ll see if this seed grows.

I had a compelling dream in which I was going to visit my friend’s old girlfriend. I had a pen in my hand, which is why I’m writing this. The pen reminded her of him, and she started to cry. I was going to listen to her talk about all she’d meant to him. We were in southern Illinois, I think. There was long grass all around. I woke up and thought of another girl he’d had sex with, who was so into him that when she met him, she threw herself down on a sofa and asked him to take a picture.
When I was awake, I felt a sense of release. This person died thirty years ago; shortly after that, my life fell apart. I stopped feeling like a complete person then, and I entered the realm of shamanism, living half in and out of the world. In a way, he was the only person I ever saw as real. Years after he died, I realized he may have been entirely evil. He had been pursuing a Master’s degree, and he had been caught cheating. His life was destroyed, and he committed suicide. He was a total liar who took advantage of the vulnerable. Waking up, I could see him as a person again for the first time in thirty years, and also, I could see myself as a person again. This is interesting because I was doing some powerful ritual magic last night, and the spiritual forces seem very active.
I could see or sense the reality of all the other people he affected in this world. In some sense, I could heal the damage he did to me and feel like a human being again.

It was interesting to feel the story just beginning. She was about to pour her emotions out to me. The story of life was about to feel real. That’s something I missed in life, and now I have it.

Warren is a sex addict, a total liar and sexual predator. he can’t read. He thinks that all movies are basically pornography, that all stores are based on a “character arc”, in which the movie overwhelms the identity of the viewer and pulls them into a sex fantasy. He believes the audience are only seeing themselves. He lurks in hollywood, going from gang bang to gang bang, sabotaging other filmmakers, especially women and gay filmmakers who want to portray characters who love each other. He’s known as one of the most progressive and visionary directors in hollywood because his movies use special effects to appear gothic and mysterious, like the paintings of H.R. Giger.

Version II with Grammarly:

Warren is a sex addict, a total narcissist, a liar, and a sexual predator. He’s known as one of Hollywood’s most progressive and visionary directors because his movies use special effects to appear gothic and mysterious, like the paintings of H.R. Giger. He can’t read. He viciously attacks people in public, but he gets away with it because one of his lovers is a high-ranking Republican official in the Department of Defense. If anyone criticizes him, he calls them homophobic, but he doesn’t care about right and wrong at all. He doesn’t care about anything but sex. Humanity is nothing but sexual darkness to him; all movies are essentially pornographic, and stories are nothing but fascist power based on a “character arc,” which overwhelms the viewer’s identity and pulls them into a sex fantasy. He believes the audience is only seeing themselves, and that the essence of film is nothing more than power. He lurks in Hollywood, going from gang bang to gang bang, sabotaging other filmmakers, especially women and gay filmmakers, who want to portray characters who love each other.

It was a typical Friday night in Chicago, with the streets thronged with people looking for a good time. For seven high school students, however, it was not just any night. They were going to see their favorite Goth rock band, Blackened Roses, at a dingy club on the outskirts of town. They had been looking forward to the show for weeks, and they were determined to make the most of it.

The group consisted of seven friends who had bonded over their shared love of alternative music, horror movies, and all things dark and macabre. There was Matt, the brooding lead singer of their own high school Goth band, who was rarely seen without his black eyeliner and leather jacket. Then there was Kim, the guitarist and the only girl in the group, with her jet-black hair and studded bracelets. Jesse, the bassist, was the quiet one, always lost in his own thoughts. Alex, the drummer, was the goofball of the group, always cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Then there was James, the tall and imposing figure who played the keyboard and provided the atmospheric soundscapes that were a hallmark of their music. Rounding out the group were twins, Max and Maya, who were inseparable and always dressed in matching black outfits.

As they approached the club, they could hear the thumping bass of Blackened Roses’ music spilling out onto the street. The club was dark and grungy, with walls covered in graffiti and neon lights flickering overhead. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sweat, and the sound of moshing bodies filled the air.

As they pushed their way through the crowd, they caught glimpses of the band on stage, dressed in all black and bathed in red light. Matt let out a whoop of excitement, and the others joined in, as they elbowed their way to the front of the stage.

The music was intense and visceral, and the crowd was swept up in a frenzy of headbanging and moshing. Kim was shredding on her guitar, her fingers moving so fast they were a blur. James was lost in his own world, fingers gliding over the keyboard as he conjured up haunting melodies. Alex was pounding away at the drums, sweat dripping down his face.

For the next hour, they were lost in the music, feeling the pounding beat in their bones and the searing guitar riffs in their souls. The energy of the crowd was electric, and they were swept up in a sea of bodies, all moving in unison to the music.

After the show, they stumbled out of the club, still buzzing with adrenaline. They walked in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. But as they approached the train station, they started to talk about the show, reliving the high points and discussing their favorite songs.

As they waited for the train, they started to notice that they were getting strange looks from the other commuters. They were all dressed in their Goth finery, with black makeup and leather jackets. But they didn’t care. They were proud of who they were and what they believed in.

Suddenly, they heard a loud crash and a group of young men in hoodies appeared, looking for trouble. They pushed and shoved the Goth kids, calling them names and trying to intimidate them. But the group stood their ground, refusing to back down.

Matt stepped forward, his eyes flashing with anger. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Just leave us alone.”

The young men hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked away, muttering under their breath.

The group breathed a sigh of relief, then started to laugh and joke, their spirits

The seven high school students from Chicago had been planning this for weeks. They were all fans of goth rock, and they had heard that one of their favorite bands was coming to town to play a show. They had all saved up their allowance money to buy tickets, and they had spent hours getting ready for the concert, carefully applying their black eyeliner and putting on their studded leather jackets.

As they piled into a beat-up old van and drove to the venue, they could feel the excitement building inside them. They were going to see their favorite band, surrounded by other fans who shared their love of dark, moody music. It was going to be an unforgettable night.

When they arrived at the venue, they could already hear the thumping bass and the screeching guitars. The line to get in was long, but they didn’t mind. They were too busy admiring the outfits of the other fans, who were dressed in all manner of goth-inspired garb, from corsets and top hats to torn fishnet stockings and combat boots.

Finally, they made it inside the venue, which was dimly lit and filled with swirling smoke. The stage was set up at one end of a large room, with a dance floor in front of it and a bar along one wall. The seven high school students made their way to the front of the crowd, eager to get as close to the stage as possible.

As the lights went down and the band took the stage, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. The music was loud and intense, with pounding drums and wailing guitars. The lead singer, a tall, skinny man with jet-black hair and a pale complexion, began to sing, his voice a haunting whisper that sent shivers down the spines of the high school students.

They danced and shouted and sang along with the rest of the crowd, lost in the music. They felt like they were part of something bigger than themselves, something dark and mysterious and beautiful.

As the night wore on, the high school students began to lose track of time. They didn’t care that they had school in the morning or that they were running out of money for drinks. They were completely absorbed in the music, in the energy of the crowd, in the feeling of being young and alive and free.

But eventually, the concert came to an end. The lights came up, and the band took their final bows. The high school students were exhausted and hoarse from singing and shouting. They stumbled out of the venue, feeling like they had just experienced something truly special.

As they piled back into the van and drove home, they talked excitedly about the concert, reliving their favorite moments and singing the band’s songs. They knew that this was a night that they would never forget, a night that would stay with them for the rest of their lives.

And as they drifted off to sleep, still buzzing with excitement, they knew that they had found a community, a group of like-minded individuals who shared their love of goth rock and the darker side of life. They knew that they had found something that would give them a sense of belonging, even as they navigated the ups and downs of high school and beyond. And they knew that they had each other, seven friends who had shared an unforgettable experience and who would always be there for each other, no matter what.