In 1978, I spent some time in California in the fall, looking for a quiet place to live. I finally found what seemed to be the perfect apartment. But the night after I moved in I heard a tremendous pounding sound. As it turned out, I had moved in right above a Hawaiian hallow log drum school. Every other night, it was converted into a hula school with a live band of six Hawaiian guitars.
I decided to soundproof my place but I didn`t hang the door very well and all the sounds kept drifting in. About this time, like a lot of New Yorkers who find themselves on the West Coast, I got interested in various aspects of California`s versions of the occult. We would sit around at night when the Santa Anna winds howled outside, and ask questions to the ouija board. I found out a lot of information on my past 9,361 human lives on this planet. My first life was as a raccoon.
— And then you were a cow. And then you were a bird. And then you were a hat, spelled the ouija.
We said “a hat?” We couldn`t figure it out. Finally we guessed that the feathers from the bird had been made into a hat. Is this true?
— Yes, spelled the ouija. Hat counts as half life.
And then?
— Hundreds and hundreds of rave eyes.
Now this is apparently my first life as a woman, which should explain quite a few things. Eventually though, the ouija`s written words seemed to take a kind of personality, a kind of a voice. Finally we began to ask the board if the ouija would be willing to appear to us in some other form.
— Forget it, forget it, forget it, forget it, forget it, forget it.
The ouija seemed like it was about to crash. Please, please, what can we do ###060318 now so you will show yourself to us in some other manifestation?
— You should lurk. You should L, U, R, K. Lurk.
No, I never really figured out how to lurk in my own place, even though it was only a rented place, but I did find myself looking over my shoulder a lot. And every sound that drifted in seemed to be a version of this phantom voice whispering in a code that I could never crack.
