Jinn cautionary tale

Date: 3/22/02 5:05:34 PM Pacific Standard Time

Thank you for your "CyberSpaceOrbit" site and its rather eclectic conspiracy-cum-convoluted-mythos content selection.  Your approach to the labyrinthine vicissitudes and eldritch horror machining of modern existence makes for a mind-ripping good multimedia yarn.  

Your recent addition of the jinni to the mix is something of interest to me, as I have had my own hecatean crossroadkill experience at the hands of beings similar to them.  If you have never been acquainted with Paracelsus' little monograph or pamphlet on nymphs, sylphs, salamanders (these being the equivalent of the fiery brand of jinn) and gnomes, they seemed to match up to his analysis on quite a number of points:  quaintness of attitude, fixedness of facial expression (something on the order of appearing to be smelling offal when exposed to my turdescent presence), being able to assume various and sundry human and even animal forms (a silver fox and an irish setter bounding around together on one occasion at a construction site soon to become the new Russian Embassy that I used as a shortcut route to classes on occasion) and passing as though a spirit through a security chained and dead-bolted door.  There was a regular small army of them, unless they were constantly density shifting forms (to borrow a turn of phrase from David Icke).  The only one that didn't bother with costume changes, as it were, was a female vision of fairylike beauty that must have been all of 6 and a half feet tall, slender as a willow wand, with raven black fine straight hair that hung down to the middle of her back, translucent white skin and tiny perfect facial features__except for the eyes.  These were a deep cobalt or oceanic blue.  All blue, without a trace of white or iris or capillary or pupil.  She spoke a broken English mixed with  gutteral utterances of some language (the latter was mentioned in L'Ondine of de la Mott-Fouque as being their native speech). 

I saw her on a total of four occasions: the first being her unfolding like a carpenter's rule from a badly beat-up Datsun with several cracked windows. The second her sudden materialization in a bedraggled public park where I had gone to clear my head and burn a joint (when I went back early the next morning, I saw rather largish cat-like pawprints in the snow intermingled with my hiking boot treads). The last and final was glimpsing her in my rear view mirror driving a new Chevette and wearing a beret of the garden French variety. 

The third encounter with this paragon of witchy-weirdness was at my northwest Washington DC roachdom of an efficiency (I was then in the process of flunking out of Georgetown University's School of Foreign Service undergraduate program, which I have lately seen described in the thefifthhorseman.com website, now defunct, as a draconian Tavistock affiliate replete with  gargoyle waterspouts and thickly gothic atmosphere well suited to affording backdrop for The Exorcist film trilogy that the Jesuit Fathers kindly provided technical consultancy for and even acted in, in the scene involving one retiree chowing down in their commons room) where she asked for $5 change in quarters for the laundry room.  After scrounging them up and giving them to her in exchange for some extremely crumpled bills (which I now believe to be a shaktipat sink, although she did jerk back her long-fingered hand when I attempted to touch it during the  exchange to ascertain her degree of tulpazuzuness---pazuzu being the Sumerian scene-stealing she-demon of The Exorcist), some few hours later I found myself in the crosshairs of a veritable gatling gun of invisible needles piercing the approximate area of my heart, which did not abate until I lost consciousness.  These were preceded by an olfactory (olf = elf?) excrescent of the utmost putrescence that continued to the point of inducing uncontrolled vomiting (I since learned from some source which I have forgotten, perhaps Dion Fortune, that this is a blackest of the black arts ritual termed The Opening of the Drains of Iniquity, which is performed at the auspices of the nymphs for the setting up of wet sand pinpricking poppets).  I collapsed on the floor, face down in my own vomit, having been recently previously ill from an intestinal viral epidemic that had closed the entirety of Georgetown University for three days during which I had serially puked to the point of dry heaving on several instances. 

The point of my retelling this seemingly supernatural personal epic is that I believe I had somehow invertently pissed off these nymphs (which I guess them to be from Paracelsus' description of them as being the most human-like in appearance of the four elemental races--the all-blue eyed woman-child perhaps being a siren, her having Paracelsus'  tell-tale departure from regular features by  the device of those two blue orbs ensconced in her eye sockets, sirens described as living omens from God to the people of their impending doom if a spiritual repathing was not put into play.)   

As an aficionado of your ongoing multimedia rant in the teeth of what is perhaps going to turn out to be the Last Days of the Eschaton, I would urge you to exercise extreme caution in your selection of verbiage concerning these creatures, as they do not suffer mortal fools gladly (to say the least).  You seem to be a person of some reasonable moral turpitude and compassion, and if there were more individuals like yourself included in the Power Elite, it would no doubt be a more livable world. 

Although I could conceivably be termed paranoid and fear-riddled to the point of no return, which I have to reluctantly concede that I am, I have at least to recount to you my little tale of weirding-woe, in the hopes that you will tread lightly in their presence.  My life since incurring their wrath has been a hell of mirrors, as I am not magickally gifted as you Celts are, being myself a Slavic nondescript, and most times I cannot tell them apart from regular human resources.  Their elfink bag-o-tricks seems to be bottomless and variegated as the wave-tossed oceans from which they emerged, probably looking like the two-tailed androgynous mermidon of Starbuck corporate logo fame.  I beg you, sir, do not end up endlessly dredging through an Ishmaelstrom of painful degradation and despair as have I.


Fanfully yours,