How To See Ghosts
To keep myself interested and committed I’ve specified parts throughout my childhood, recalling uncomfortable circumstances; retelling them in narratives that hold the same emotions but under different context. Life is no experiment, I’m aware. But that doesn't mean I’m allowed to reorganize and play around a bit. In some parts of my life I would like interesting material to go along with me. This practice has led me towards unusual white lies, ones, for which, that still led me to the intended response and points I always complained to speak about: death, teachers, my parents, my sisters, and my experience with the paranormal (or, I should say, the time I scared myself but shuffled around a few details leaning towards the paranormal).
For example: At Barnes N’ Noble, I was standing in line next to a series of gifts like notebooks, children's books, and reading glasses, etc; on the spinning shelf of notebooks was a rectangle mirror. When I turned half-way, only seeing my reflection in the rear-view of my vision, I swore my dad, having the same big head as mine, was standing right near the shelf. I could fairly see he was wearing his big daily glasses. Only to turn fully and see my own eyes staring back at me, and for a second, I thought, who would let their acne get that bad. Only to snap back and see my own dumb smile, quickly glancing away.
When I paid for my stuff and walked to the back where my parents sat in the cafe, I sat down and told my dad what just happened. He laughed, and my mother giggled as I said, “I really need more experiences like this.” Then, of course, I showed them what I got, which was a Clive Barker Art Book and a book about ‘The History of Delusions’.
When I do this - acting sublime about my need to experience projections of my imagination - I feel accomplished to establish a person I enjoy masking myself with; I believe he’s the most productive one out of all my other faces.
I’ve been retelling my memories to support myself in identities I attempted dressing in. Not all of them were nice, smart, nor good supporters to help others in need. However, I will remain proud of the different faces I wore if ever I dare to call them masks. Instead, I’ll just mention them as crumb trails of treasures to my unconscious: people and thoughts I wouldn’t mind being, if my life ever turned for the worse or the better. Sometimes I wish these meaner faces were more my dominant personality, than the blank canvas I inhabit. This I’ve mentioned to many therapists, but all boringly agreed that this Tristan is the kindest and fruitful one - Oh god!
And suddenly I think about grabbing rocks and throwing them at windows. Going over to UNM and throwing eggs at students' windows. Really anything to get the others to wake up; and get taken to police stations, grinning, acting awfully obnoxious as I please as I speak how wonderful it was to see how afraid students were.
If only I was this stupid, like at age 12, I believe I would be much more content with myself now. Maybe more brave, and less insecure of how I see myself. I do know I’m not necessarily weak but I am stubborn and melancholic. And, to make it balance, I’m not strong but do use my energies like gym, or, forming internal spaces to keep calm while doing daily tasks. Thus, I’m aware of the many troubles and consequences many kids get themselves into. But don’t sit there and say you haven’t felt more intrigued and concerned than someone who only can do ‘respectful,’ ‘good’ things. There's just more of a story there…you know.
You may not know half of what I just wrote but that's okay. The real reason I cannot hold back any intrigue on my warped mind, as it is when I become anxious and frightened, I ask myself, what kind of inspiration and stories can I get just from standing here, right now? It’s a question always bugging me; washing dishes or cleaning my room, or having dinner with my mom or dad, or going over to the theater, there would always be a question on how this person, or that person; this kid or that parent; where, in any one these families, could a good frightening tale be told? Maybe with magic, I think.
That kid, I spotted walking with his, I assume big brother to theater 8 - what if that isn’t his brother but an evil fairy taking the form of his brother? Or that boy with his girlfriend, he’s probably curious how he could easily get away murdering her if he wanted to and that's why he’s laughing. Or that girl, she’s probably planning to spread a rumor about her friends…OR, she wants to steal one of the girl's shoes to plan a way to reconnect with one of them, by claiming she found them. Maybe that father, over there near the candy shelf, he’s probably trying to understand why he can’t just be okay with how the world is going: how come I’m worrying about Trump, he thinks; why is everyone so bothered by it more than me; - Am I a monster? Am I hiding something I don’t know yet?
You may have noticed in that last part I was projecting most of my fears. But that's the beauty I could be proud of; I could generally be at a good level to imagine scenarios where people, kids, parents, are tormentors to one another - and terror, as easy it could be, becomes the number one emotion to evoke from these scenes.
I could be partners in what I fear because frightened people can make me feel I belonged all along; I suddenly feel a need to stick around just a bit longer, just to see what happens.
By the way - it’s eleven-fourteen at night as I write this - should I go get ice cream or a nice cup of juice? I’m sort’ve in the mood for lunch.
By this time, I’m still looking for a good ghost story to write, or a good ghost story to film; I think I’ll choose fries and a nice juicy burger.
