How Cooking With Mister Opus Banishes Ghosts

How Cooking With Mister Opus Banishes Ghosts

In Sète, all vitamins are consumed in cocktail form. In the sun. On or near a boat, yo. (With or without T'Pain.)

Because I clearly have the mental age of a small child, for me it is terribly exciting to discover that people you know are on vacation at the same time as you -even if they are on different continents.

(When I read this post I just had to email and say “wheeee! Horay for the seaside!”)

Anyway, as previously mentioned, we have taken some down time.

Most of it was spent in Sète (I’d recommend the place but I don’t actually want you all to go and clutter it up) and Languedoc.

What with roaming data being so expensive and me being -by the time we got back to our room- way too smashed to bother with wifi, it took until our last night in Marseille for me to catch up on my beloved magical internets. (Pastis will be my downfall. They’ll write an opera about it, I swear.)

There was some fascinating gold in the internets that afternoon, as well.

And within a twenty four hour period it became hyper-relevant.

To understand this story we’re going to need a little sidebar while I introduce you to my bestie gay Maori.

Probably the only gay in the French village. Wait, except for the three he brought with him.

That’s him on the left. He’s on this side of the world for my thirtieth.

There are two things you need to know about him:

Firstly, he has that weird twin combination of being extremely dyslexic and extremely psychic. (There is something behind the dyslexia/precognition thing if anyone’s in the mood for a fully-funded psi study.) This dyslexia is sometimes so acute that he has trouble forming a chronological sequence of events when recounting a story.

Secondly, since we met almost a decade ago it has been entirely non-sexual love at first sight. (This is rare for gays. If there are more than three of us standing at a bus stop it’s pretty much fifty fifty whether things will descend into an orgy.)

Clearly there’s some kind of past life connection there. More on this in a bit.

Anyway, so we hit the town in Marseille for our last night, got loaded in an amazeballs Corsican restaurant and stumbled back to the hotel.

Whereupon we all attracted some weird, hostile ghosts.

It gets a little bit Black Swan in terms of explaining things after the fact making them look a bit lame but here’s the sequence of events.

  • Had a horrible, insomniac, night of weird nightmares and odd dreams. (We’ll keep this brief because hearing about other people’s dreams is really boring.) One of the dreams involved my bestie gay wandering around his yard with a camera looking for ghosts. There were bodies buried everywhere, including one which was the body of Jesus.
  • Woke up the next morning and consulted with the bestie gay. In the room next to mine he kept repeatedly waking up to hostile presences in the room which he tried to convince his partner about in vain. When he slept there were nightmares about assaults on his house.
  • We get to the airport to return to London and I get a text message from my mother the psychonaut in Orkney (where she’s seeing this and this). It reads: ARE YOU OKAY? LOTS OF ODD ENERGY AROUND YOU. SHIELDS UP BE AWARE. (Sidebar: I love my mom. Other sidebar: Not a text you want to receive at an airport.)
  • I explain it is probably just some of mine and my bestie gay’s Cathar/Occitania/Magdalene karmic burnoff. (I can’t even listen to GaGa‘s Bloody Mary without almost welling up at the moment. There will be more on where this is going once it gets there but it will probably end up somewhere between what Jason said a while back about reconsidering the New Age and this.)
  • My bestie gay says “this is a really old part of the world” and puts it down to that. He was doing that Maori/enigmatic thing but I knew what he meant.

Speaking of Jason, like him, I’m not all that bothered with exploring past lives. To me this is like smelling your own farts. We’ve all had them. They’ve all led us here, now get to work.

The Setois joust on this canal in honour of their patron saint. France rocks.

So let me just briefly gloss over the realisation from a few days earlier that my bestie gay and I had a Cathar/Perfecti life together.

We have always had this whole non-sexual, familial, teacher-pupil, gifting-of-worldly-possessions thing. (His mom fosters kids in NZ and I basically gave her an entire house of stuff for them all when we left for London.) On the trip it began to crystallize.

(Sidebar: Presumably this puts paid to the idea that the consolamentum is an instant ‘get out of the cycle of rebirth free’ card. Unless incarnation is optional? Which I suspect it is. I suspect incarnation is the overtaking lane on the road to enlightenment.)

Anyway, back to the story. Comme d’habitude, my mother the psychonaut was right and I was wrong. Because the ghosts/baka/entities/malefic psychic flotsam followed us back to London.

Here is where the story gets RO-related. Because the solution required making some magical decisions on behalf of others.

I work from home so the house-clearing was no problem. Everyone went to work and I did my thing. But then we come to the thorny issue of the personal clearing.

For me and my bestie gay? No problem. I could just say “we’ve brought back some ghosts, I’m going to wave this shit over you and say some things in Greek.”

But for our long-suffering partners? One of whom is atheist and the other from a fundy Christian family? A bit more of a problem.

So let’s play Choose Your Own Misadventure. Would you:

  1. Trick them into a magical solution without their knowledge?
  2. Leave them at the mercy of these ‘confusion spirits’ (there’s probably a cooler word but that’s what they are) even those these are people you love and their exposure would risk your own wellbeing due to your shared lives?

You know which one I chose. In the best radical practicality style, I cooked with RO. The executive decision was made and implemented.

We all ate our protective medicine in the form of a meal filled with charged, protective and banishing herbs made with anointed cooking implements.

To them it was just Italian. (Italian is great for hiding magic.) To me it was the other half of a very necessary cleanse/protect enchantment.

Because, one way or another, we are all of us in the business of making omlettes. Even the most fat-free, whites-only monstrosity requires broken eggs. Non-intervention is still breaking eggs.

So enchant and be damned.

Bon appétit.


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  1. 2

    Haha. Love it.

    In all seriousness Indian hasn’t worked for me because the spice combos are actually quite restrictive. You notice if something is off with your garam masala.

    But… like you say… you never notice the meat. :)

  2. 4

    Love it. I’d do the same thing. Jow still isn’t sure if I slip blood in his marinara and has said he doesn’t care if I do. Complacency helps!

    Also I get aggro’ed when people are all oooooooooooooh don’t touch things and then launch into a frenzied THREE! THREE! LAWS OF THREE! Because I’m like, um . . .we’re touching the universe/web All. The. Time. It’s impossible not to. So instead of being a frenzied helicopter mom screaming at your toddler not to touch, we need to contemplate what we’re touching and why we’re touching it and if we’re okay with the worst case scenario.

    Finally, as a beloved mentor once said to me, some of the worst shit I’ve done magically was when I was trying to help someone and some of the best things I’ve done is when I was trying to hurt someone.

    There’s no promises. There’s no guarantee. So go forth!
    Deb´s last blog post ..[Recipe Monday] Black Beans

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