More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (30. A Kick in the Pants)

PRINCESS of DISKS … again.

Christa sent me an email this morning and had a real go at me. She was upset that I was being so introverted and self-absorbed. She thinks that I should phone Janice, just to catch up. Don’t bring up that she stood me up, maybe hook up for a run – something I’ve done every day since we ran together. I couldn’t bring myself to do it today.

I’ve taken to playing my music very loudly when I’m home: performance volume. Does that mean I’m going dead … deaf? I’m off this week, so I’m just sitting at home practising, except for today. I went to see Evangeline to get felt up … knocked … um, touched up … my henna, that is. She’s very good at what she does, and agrees with Jem that I shouldn’t bother being integrated … initialized … initiated as a witch. She can tell I’m ditzy … different, and she can see the bite-marks in my soup … soap … err, soul.

I think she’s been talking to Marcel about me, too. Suburban St Louis isn’t exactly witch-ville, and he has his own coterie – not exactly a coven, but a group of mindless … um, like-minded friends. I could be one of them – if I could keep my fantasies out of his pants. It’s those bites from my soul that leave me wanting him, and knowing that while I was at the depths of my recession … depression … (Stop it!) … possession, that he had nearly given in to me.

I don’t know what his wife must wink … think about me. I don’t even know if she is a witch. Their house seemed quite ordinary, unlike the houses of most Wiccans I’ve slept with … err, met. Evangeline has planned a dinner party for next week, and most of the coterie, as well as Mrs deBussy. (I don’t even know her name!)

Aside from that, I’ve also been working on my latest story. Eirica is having quite a love-fest. I wonder how much of me is in that. She keeps saying she isn’t a lesbian, but she keeps having encounters with other co-eds. Having the object of her pretension … obsession tell her his fantasies in embarrassed detail is probably too much like me, except of course that they are definitely a man’s fantasies.

I’m going to format the next chapter and post it in the next few days. 


More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (29. Peculiar)

I hate the holidays. You play loads of concerts of crappy music. You hear lots of it, too, all joyous and cheerful, and what do you get for it? Yes, I get paid to play it, but I get no job satisfaction, nothing like the high of playing Strauss’ Alpensinfonie or the reconstruction of Bruckner’s 9th (to which I am listening while I write).

Nothing from Janice about missing dinner, nothing from Marcel … nothing from … anybody. I’m still banned from having fun … um, sex, but now I can’t even get anyone interested. All I’m good for at the moment is turning up the volume on my hi-fi. (At the moment it is very odd … err, UP.)

My card for today was fighting … fitting (as usual):

XX. The Aeon. (inverted) It’s a great card, meaning a definitive movement or decision in a peculiar … um, particular direction. It’s the end of a matter.

Yes, it was inverted, so strike all of that. No matter was decided today, no subject closed, nothing finished, except that I’ve gained all my weight back after my episode. I still have no other explanation for it other than obsession … err, possession, and I’m afraid to see a shrink … um, doctor about it. (Maybe a shrink would be better!) I’m healthy enough – I’ve even gained a few extra pounds for good measure – too many post-concert receptions and holiday dinners, none ending in “would you like to come back to mine?”

The urge to change something is there, but what? Maybe I should take a step and become initiated – as a witch. Jem says I already am one and don’t need (and probably don’t want) to formalize it. I’m different from the others anyway. I wouldn’t fit in an oven … a coven. (What do you think, Marcel?) I’d still have to reconcile it with my vacant … err, latent Catholicism.

That’s easy. I’m a sinner and going to hell. That’s what some of you think anyway. I have news for you.

I’m already in hell.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (26. Lost, swearing)

Christa and Dana are gone. I’ve never let myself become the maternal sort, and that prevented me from becoming too attached to Dana. Christa is more where that instinct hit home. As a student, she was much like a daughter to me, one that I fortunately didn’t have to raise and suffer through her teens. She is an adult and in love with me, but I can’t help that. I love her, too, in a different sort of way.

I got fucked … lost on the way home from the airport. Before I knew it, I was in Springsteen … Springfield, and that is quite a distance too far. I don’t know how I got onto I-55 either. It was dinnertime before I made it back home to East St Louis. Was that a vestige of my possession? Probably not. I was conscious the whole time, thinking of Christa and being lonely … and Allen.

Why haven’t I made any friends here? Am I just too weird for them?

By the way, I need to clear something up. Allen did dispose … depose … err, propose to me last year, but we couldn’t find a priest for our date, so the wedding was delayed, and then I had to come to St Louis, and it kept being put off. Allen didn’t push it, and neither did I. I think he knew me too well.

I only realized that I was still wearing the ring while I was driving, around the time I hit the signs for Springfield. Sadly, I’ve taken it off now. Do I send it back? He hasn’t asked for it. I should give it to him next time I’m in heaven … err, London.

FOUR of WANDS. Completion (inverted).

I don’t think I even need to explain that one. Inverted, that means it is imperfect, incomplete, unreliable (there’s that word again), and over-anxious. (So much for being settled or clever!)

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (25. Me, Myself, I)

Jem phoned me today. She said that she was happy to have me back to my old self.

But am I?

I’ve never been the happy-go-lucky sort, and I’ll probably hit bottom tomorrow, after Christa leaves, but I’m not myself. The are black spots … no, bite-marks on my soul where Ms Ball tried to smite me. Should I go to church and make a confession? I can just hear it now:

Me: Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 35 years since my last conversation … um confession.

Fr Daniel: I’m glad to see you back. What may I do for you?

Me: I was possessed by an evil spirit and did lewd and lascivious things. I’ve been cured of that by my witch friends, but there is still a mark on my soul. Am I doomed? Oh, and while I was possessed I fornicated with loads of men and ate their souls … I think … I couldn’t remember any of it when it was all over. I would guess that I dreamt it, except for … well … I lost several days, and my friends refuse to tell me what happened. I was naked a lot. I’m sure of that.

At that point, I could imagine the bell … book … candle … err, cloth screen fluttering as he made a big sign-of-the-cross … err, sigh … well maybe both. Why the screen? I’m a little old-fashioned, and couldn’t stomach the pasta … um, prospect of seeing the look on his face. You should be impressed that I knew his game … name. (I didn’t just make it up.)

What would he say next? Would he send me away for consorting with witches? Should I have told him about my use of tarot?

Too many questions. If he didn’t send me away, I’m sure I would still be saying Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers until I dropped. Little good it would do. I’m lost.

Is that my hair … despair? Your faith will save you my dear.

Maybe that’s my problem. What is my faith? I believe in a God (Goddess, actually) that watches over us … well neither a God or Goddess, but a profound presence that may or may not judge us by our works … certainly not by our faith. Would a last second conversion save me? Depends on which passages of the bible you refer to. It isn’t really clear, by my interpretation. Yes, I’ve read it all (not just heard it read at Mass), and studied enough of it to know that it is contradictory. (I was a nun in a past life, too!) Okay, I do believe in reincarnation. (It’s has to do with the preservation of energy.)

Sorry, I didn’t mean to go all escapist … estrogen … err, eschatological on you there. I do that when I’m down and self-absorbed.

Yes, today was all about my “self.” I drew the PRINCESS of WANDS, the card (if you remember) Jem uses to refer to me. She can be superficial, false, shallow, cruel, or faithless, if ill-dignified. (I’m not very dignified.)

The best thing about today was that the Strauss was awesome!

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (23. Small feet)

XVIII. THE MOON. Illusion, deception, bewilderment, hysteria …

My actions with Marcel seem to have brought on a wave of cynicisn … cygnets … um, criticism. I couldn’t help it. I’m still a little lazy … sex-crazed, and I’m flipping … gripping … slipping hot … err, a lot today – so bad that Marie Langer slapped me when I said, “Go fuck yourself.”

Okay, maybe I meant that one. She sits at the back of the wankers … um, second violins, and complained that we were playing too proud … loud. I shouldn’t have been a cunt … um, so blunt. It was Strauss, for God’s sake! Somebody backed out, so Christa is going to play in the poker game … err, off-stage brass ensemble. It was nice to be able to put one of my own lovers … (Christa, you aren’t reading this, are you?) … students forward. Okay, maybe with the other regular thorns … horns, they might be lovers, but it’s different with me. I must have a lover to do that, and Allen is gone. Besides, he don’t play chess … or French horn.

Marcel hasn’t spoken to me since the war … err, grope. Ah well. Maybe it’s better that I don’t get close to any straight-jackets … men. (Straight-jackets? They might just come and get me!)

I think I’m also developing a stool … um, foot fetish. Christa has amazing knees … uh, feet. Very small but elephant … elegant. (It’s not just her. One of the trumpet boys had his shoes off during rehearsal today. It was driving me potty.) Christa also has the tiniest hands I’ve ever seen. She could probably fit her whole fist in … her horn, that is … in the bell … like all horn players do. (That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it … with it.)

You must really be having proclamations … problems reading me today. I’d better leave you … wanting … yes, always wanting a whore … err, more.


More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (22. Too Soon – swearing)

Oops. I kissed him. Marcel. And I touched him in an inappropriate place. I couldn’t help it.

I was due to have Christa feel me up … err, retouch my henna tattoos, and Marcel took me to see his henna-artist friend, so Christa could explain what everything was, what they meant, and the best way to apply them. Excuse me if I became just a little egotistical … um, excited. I was sitting there completely naked for the better part of two hours with Christa and Evangeline (the artist) poking, prodding and painting me, all in front of Marcel.

Of course, Marcel had seen me naked while he was under enchantment … that is what he believed to be me at the time. What he saw was much more voluptuous than I have ever been, although he admitted later that he preferred the real me. I was so flattered that I kissed him, and so turned on that I touched him right in front of Christa.

That means, I’m afraid, that I’m still not completely recovered from the enchantment. It was too soon to go to rehearsal today. Just seeing a cute guy like Gary Everett (an extra trumpeter for the Alpine Symphony), made me ornery … orgasm … err, a little too horny for my own good. I couldn’t wait to get home. He’s too young and I still lack control, as evidenced by my tête-à-tête with Marcel in the evening.

Christa was lovely … living … um, livid, and wouldn’t speak to me until we arrived home after midnight. I’m still not sure that we’ve properly put on my make up … kissed and made up.

All was explained when I drew today’s card.

EIGHT of WANDS (Swiftness). Speech, light, electricity, energy, velocity … too much force applied too suddenly.

OK, I skipped a few, but you get the meaning. I emerged from my house arrest too soon.

I also dyed my hair back to it’s “natural” color today, a deep red. No more blonde bombshell … or blonde bomb, whichever you choose. It inspired Christa to recolor my leopard spots more reddish. No, they aren’t actually leopard spots (not all of them, at least), like my unfortunate friend on the X-Factor, who restored hers far too late to redeem herself. They never really went with her platinum blonde hair. (What was Demi thinking?!) She’s back on the plane home to Decatur.

I’ve been to Decatur, you know. I have distant relatives there …


It’s very dry today, and I just got fucked … err, zapped by static electricity. (Must stop using rubber sheets!)

Anyway, my spots have resumed their awesomeness, so I’m reading … ready to take on the world tomorrow. Well, maybe not, if today is anything to go by. Maybe I’ll dream of Gary tonight … or concoct some elaborate fantasy about time … him. (He’s not much older than Christa!)

Must get to it. Goodnight lovelies!

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (21. Hung up)

THE HANGED MAN. Redemption through sacrifice, enforced sacrifice, punishment, loss, suffering, defeat, failure, death.

No I haven’t died, but I’ve been confused ever since I drew that card two days ago. I wasn’t sure how it applied to me. I am now.

I would sleep with Marcel, if he wanted to.

There. I said it.

But I’m not allowed … and he, of course, is hen-pecked … err, married.

Max is gone off the face of the hearth … Earth. He has made no attempt to contact me, since before the first blackout. Allen … yes, him finally … sent me an email. He’s been having … thoughts … and I don’t blame him. It was a short email. He doesn’t understand me. He …

Sorry. I must stop there. I screwed up. I should pay the price. (More sighing.)

Do I love you, Allen? Do I know what love is?


Christa is still here. We went to therapy today … retail therapy, since I go back to rehearsing tomorrow. I wish she didn’t have to go back soon. I have so much wisdom to impart to her … NOT!

  1. Never fall in love if you don’t know the meaning of the word.
  2. Never allow yourself to be possessed by an evil spirit.
  3. Don’t sleep with trumpet players. (She already blew that one.)
  4. If you can’t be funny, stop trying.
  5. If you can’t stop thinking about sex, think about sex.

The last is my favorite. I think about sex all the time. It’s more than a habit or an addition now. It’s a routine, and horrible when I’m not allowed to sleep with anyone. Of course, before Max it had been a year or so … OK, 412 days, 4 hours and 43 minutes …

I’m not good at celibacy before marriage. Did Allen ever propose? No.

Case closed. I’m not the marrying type, and he knew that. Did he also know that I couldn’t live without sex? Apparently not.

*deep sigh*

Just to follow up on a few things, I haven’t had any visits from the police or the feds. There have been no unexplained disappearances, and Marcel won’t tell me about any of the occurrences during my blackouts. (I must have done something absolutely stupid.)

I’ve got to move on, and not think about him (Allen) … or it (my possession) … or sex …

Wait a minute. Not that.

Christa’s baby wants a feed, and my udders aren’t up to the task. I don’t want her peering over my shoulder tonight, while I’m wallowing in self-pity.

Time to cry myself to sleep.