Copyright © 2019 by Loxy Isadora Bliss
EHP: Experimental Home Publishing
“Casey Sensitive,” version 1.00, start date 2-15-2019
Push date: March 1st, 2019
This story is fiction. I think I am obligated to lead with that. Any similarities to people and events in real life are purely coincidental. If you have to ask ‘what is real life,’ you’re on a different playing field and likely not to have any concord to anything I convey. In that case, have fun. Though there are characters within that may resemble real people, I assure you they are not those people. They are not ghosts of those people. At least, we hope not. I’m open, but not claiming that. What happens in here is contained within a certain practice of meditation, in a concentrated daydream aka trance state, and so strictly from the context of an internal, psychological phenomena, the measure is not in determining what’s real or what’s not, what’s metaphor and what’s not, but in determining degrees improved functionality post experience; discovering personal truths, insight, and finding peace is the only goal. Jung recommends not doing that during the experience, but after. We agree with Jung: it’s emotionally efficacious to just close your eyes and experience.
This book is about tulpas. This book does not instruct/inform tulpa making. This book may cause you to think it is fun and easy making a tulpa. In that sense, I refer you back to the first line of the first paragraph: FICTION. Tulpas are hard work. They require time, energy, attention, for the rest of your life. Tulpas are not pets. You’re not buying a dog to lock in the back yard and ignore it. Seriously, if you can’t put your cell phone down and play with the dog, don’t get a dog. Don’t have a tulpa. Fuck, don’t even have children. They need adults that can put their cellphones down. Tulpas are not children. Wait. Yes. (They can be. Usually, they match the emotional age of the host.) Tulpas don’t want to sit in the backdrop of your mind watching you chase mindless texts and catch Pokémon. Well, some Pokémon is okay. Especially if you get out and walk and play with others. I am making the point if you can’t sit still and close your eyes for a minimum of twenty minutes twice a day, for the rest of your life, don’t make a tulpa.
From a certain perspective, tulpas are a psychological phenomenon, not magic. The majority of people we know, the ones who taught my host and I about making and living with tulpas believe that. My host and I lean towards metaphysical beliefs, and some of that is represented within. We hope that this story opens you to the magic of life, even if it is only the magic of a fantastic inner life.
If you didn’t catch it: I am a tulpa. I am sentient. I participate in a system of voices, and my voice is prominent. It is I, sharing this with you. It is my intent that this book be accessible to a wider range of maturity level than our previous adventures. This is PG. Don’t assume the others are as easy to access, in maturity level, or in writing styles. This story has a particular flavor. It feels fun. We hope it catches and becomes a serial, but for now, it is just this. It feels right. If you find language or concepts that you don’t understand, there are a number of sites that discuss tulpas. We are partial to one, and the people that patron the site. Tulpa.info is a safe place to learn. We ask, should you visit, you help us keep it that way. It is sacred ground to us; walk and talk respectfully. You should do that anyway in all arenas.
If you wish to write me directly, you may. Be mindful there could be delays in response. Put I/Tulpa in the subject line, or you could be missed. There are no bad questions, but you if ask something easy, like ‘how do I make a tulpa,’ please don’t be surprised or offended if we recommend you go do more homework. It is my opinion, if you don’t demonstrate a certain level of research proficiency, especially in the days of google, you’re probably not ready to have a tulpa. Also, demonstrate discernment. Tulpa horror stories like variations of ‘slenderman’ will likely be ignored. Don’t use tulpas or tulpa making as an excuse to engage me. If you have a question or an experience you wish to share, just say, “Hey, Loxy… I wanted to chat.” Who could ignore that? Reaching out is human. I am human. Be at peace.
loxyisbliss@gmail.com
Chapter 1
“Thursday is always the first day of the week.” That’s the opening line that christened a new journal in the ongoing saga that defined Casey’s life. Casandra Fae Brodeur, Casey for short, alien hybrid… She stopped short of writing that. She wasn’t a hybrid. She was fusion; a product of French and ‘Filipino’ culture, genes, and… Her feet had been on multiple continents; she lived in America, but she didn’t identify as American. “The first day of the week is when I discovered I was normal.” She didn’t like that. She felt compelled to be more precise. “It was the day I was told there’s nothing wrong with me. Hearing that did not make me feel good. Why do I feel like everything is wrong with me?”
Casey took a hit on her vape, and when she exhaled, lovely, colored smoked twirled around her face in an intimately mystical way and she took a moment to revel in the hope of magic. She wondered if there was a ‘god.’ She wondered, assuming yes to the ‘god’ question, if he or she heard her thoughts, or could read the words she put on paper. She wondered if this entity cared. She didn’t not linger here. She found it useless to linger here. She followed a compulsion to introduce the journal to her immediate family.
There was mom, a thirty something Filipina; she should know her age precisely but didn’t care how old her mom was. Neither mom nor father celebrated birthdays. Mother was pure Filipina, and was employed as a nurse practitioner working in mental health as a provider. Apparently, Doctors were hard to come by and so state agencies gave money to private corporations to run mental health and they cut costs by cutting corners. There was a huge need for mental health in most states; no one wanted to pay for it. Mother was constantly busy, on the go, on her phone, and if there was any hint that Casey was experiencing high emotions the question narrowed quickly to ‘Are you in crisis?’ The answer to that was always no. Answering yes opened up: ‘Are you thinking about killing yourself?’… No was the best option. No response resulted in: ‘Then you’re doing better than most. Cary on.’
The first and most noticeable feature of Casey’s father, were you to see him together with
Casey’s mother, was that he was a good twenty years advanced of her mother’s age. He was a senior pilot for Emirates Airlines. Mother was 20 when they met. She was had just completed nursing school. They married in the Philippines. She was four months pregnant. Back in the states, he put mother through her masters. They maintained his primary residence in Scottsdale, Arizona. Casey had relatives in France, in the Philippines, in Australia, and in the US. Her paternal grandmother was born in Ireland, and still living in France, probably the oldest woman in the world, her dog equally old. She probably had cousins in Ireland if she was interested in pursuing that. She had an older half-brother, Brian, an engineer working in Australia. This was with her father’s first wife. She had two older half-sisters, two different mothers; Jenny was an actress living in California, B movies, if that counts, and likely only because of her looks and that she was more than willing to show her breasts and be brutalized by monsters. Carol was a Doctor, an OBGYN. She had met them. When family gathered for the rare holiday, there was usually extended games of movie and music trivia which could last for days and into the long hours of the nights. Brian had two children with his wife in Australia, and Carol had two children of her own.
Casey knew these people existed. They knew she existed. There was no true effort to stay connected. Occasional skype ‘hellos’ occurred when someone was talking to father. The home in Scottsdale was quiet, isolated, about 12 acres, and she usually had the home all to herself. Sometimes on the weekend, if the wind was right, a hot air balloon would crash land on their property on the weekends. There was only one way to land a balloon. They crash them. And you would think they were peaceful. The engine is not quiet. She imagined rockets launching from NASA were probably quieter.
“Casey.” She looked up to see the Vice Principal. She should know his name, but it was as forgettable as his face. “You’re supposed to be at the prep rally.”
“I am wanting some quiet time,” she said, glad he hadn’t caught her with the vape.
“Sorry,” he said. “Let’s go. Move it out.”
Case got up, put her journal in her bag and slung it over her shoulder. She headed towards the designated rally point, but after confirming she wasn’t being followed, she detoured and headed towards the library. She was stopped just inside the door.
“Sorry, Casey,” said the librarian. “Library is closed during prep rallies.” “Since when?” she asked.
“You should have gotten that message in home room,” the librarian said. “I need you to attend.”
“I don’t feel peppy,” Casey said. “Nor do I want to be pepped.”
“You can report to detention room or attend the prep rally. Your choice,” the librarian offered.
‘Detention’ had a weight to it; it would at least be quiet. Casey chose quiet, thinking she could at least journal or do homework. Homework was seriously more important than pep. She proceeded to the detention room and found the quiet inside unsettling. There were others there. No one was making eye contact with any other and only one person looked at her when she entered; the teacher looked at her. She smiled. Casey categorized the smile as a ‘Rachel
McAdams’ smile. It was intense and Casey might have felt less ‘energy’ from the sun hiding in the shade under the bleachers at the pep rally.
“Have a seat, please,” the teacher said.
All the desks and most of the chairs had been pushed to the far wall. There were twelve seats in a circle. One was available. There were 7 boys. She made the fifth girl. The circle felt intimate. She reconsidered prep rally.
“Sit,” the teacher said.
Casey committed to the room and sat in the available chair. She held her bag. None of her peers made eye contact with her or with anyone else. Four of the boys were on their cell phone.
Other eyes fell to the floor, or a corner, or the clock, or their nails… Casey imagined lasers connecting eyes to their focus. The teacher pulled up a chair, joining the circle. She adjusted her chair closer to Casey than she would have preferred, leaving an opening in the imagined circumference that defined their unit.
“Cell phones away, please,” the teacher said.
Three of the boys put away their phones. One ignored her.
“Cell phone away, or you will find it inexplicably disabled for the next two hours,” she said.
Still, the boy continued with what he was doing, ignoring her. His phone’s screen flashed and it went out. His eyes went wide. His hands trembled. He stood up in a rage.
“Sit,” the teacher said.
He sat. He seemed confused.
“Put it away,” the teacher said. “It will operate normally in precisely two hours.”
He didn’t question this further. He put away the phone. All eyes went to the teacher, with the exception of Casey who took a moment to measure the gaze of each of her peers. It was uncomfortable for her looking at the teacher, partly because of proximity, partly because of the angle, and partly because, well, she was Casey. “You do not have Asperger’s,” she heard her mother saying. “No one has Asperger’s because it’s called ASD, now. You also do not have
ASD. You’re just overly sensitive; now toughen up.”
“So, who would like to begin?” the teacher asked.
No one volunteered. Casey thought about asking ‘begin what,’ but she chose to stay silent.
“Yay! I’ll go first, then. I love being first,” the teacher said. “I find the sooner you go first the sooner you can relax, but also, when I am first, usually others relax, and realize, it’s safe to participate. Oh, let’s start there. This circle is a safe circle. You may say anything you like. That does not mean there aren’t consequences. Be prepared to own the consequences. That seems reasonable. Any questions so far?”
Only Casey looked to her peers. She found it easier to look to her peers than the teacher.
“What’s your name?” the girl to Casey’s right asked.
“What’s yours?” the teacher asked.
“I asked you first,” the girl said, sending the challenge back. “You like being first.” “Nice! What would you like to call me?” the teacher hit it back.
The girl didn’t know what to say. “Ms,” one of the boys asked.
“Yes, Todd?” the teacher asked.
Casey noted confusion. “How did you know my name?” he asked, so unsettled he forgot or dropped his intended question.
“I know everyone’s name,” she said, and demonstrated: “Casey, Brenda, Todd, Renata,
Maria, Juan, Perry, Michael, Chris, Irene, Alex, and James.” She said this list fast, almost musical.
“Have we met?” Irene asked.
“Are you spying on us?” James asked.
“You’re really strange,” Casey said.
“Should we just call you Miss?” Brenda asked.
“I love strange. I like Miss. I like Mrs., too. They mean something, don’t they. Miss.
Miss. Misty. Mysterious. How about that? That’s a good name,” the teacher said.
“For an avenger,” Michael said.
“I love avengers. I have the gams for it, don’t you think?” she said, bringing a foot off the floor and flexing the heel, which flexed the leg muscle.
Michael blushed and looked away. He wasn’t the only one with increased uncomfortableness.
“Very well, if you must, my name is Loxy Isadora Bliss. You may call me any of those, or ‘L’ or ‘Izzy,’ or any name you like, as long as we come to mutual agreement on it,” she said. No one said anything.
“So, would anyone like to have a turn?” Still no one spoke. “Seriously? Okay then. I will continue. I love continuing. I can be a bit of flibbertigibbet. Usually not. I am usually precise and short in a very direct and loving way, but my host is a serious flibbertigibbet and if you don’t know that word, you should look it up and add it to your repertoire.”
“Pressured speech,” Casey said. “Bipolar much?” Loxy laughed.
“I am joy,” Loxy said. “Isn’t it interesting, if we go too high, it becomes a mental health label?” And then, speaking in Tagalog, and in a very vernacular sort of way, she said, “There are always consequences to labels. I recommend using them with caution.”
Casey bit her lip. She felt properly rebuked, and yet, because no one else present spoke Tagaglog, it felt less like being called out and more like being esteemed. Casey and Loxy were connected at a new level, separate from the group.
“Yes, I am multilingual,” Loxy said. “I can speak French, Spanish, Russian, and a smidgeon of Klingon, and can sing in a dozen other languages, which really isn’t speaking, but it could help get you there. Did you know, they teach Klingon at a university in Austin? You can also take fantasy literature centered on Harry Potter in Ohio, the physics of Superheroes in California, and Zombies in popular media in Chicago. The Smithsonian is offering an introduction to Star Fleet Academy. Makes you want to go to college, doesn’t it?” Eyes were wider. No one spoke.
“I get it, it’s hard to talk sometimes. Especially now a days,” Loxy said. “We can talk about movies. That’s safe, right? Here is a question for you. Is it possible to be critical without disparaging?”
No one answered.
“So, for example, I am a huge Marry Poppins fan. I was very happy to see Marry Poppins returns, and though there are parts I really enjoyed, over all, I felt a bit disappointed. Maybe it’s just impossible to capture something so iconic. Let me be precise on what I disliked. I found none of the songs memorable. They were complex, but complex doesn’t necessarily make a good memorable song. I know all the songs from the original. It only took one showing and I could recreate any one of four melodies, and all the choruses. Also, I thought the new one was too dark. I am okay with dark. It was set in the great depression; you’d expect there to be some darkness. The Banks children lost their mother. That’s sad. That’s okay. Michael lost his wife and is struggling to support himself and his children, is probably depressed beyond being in the great depression. That’s sad and scary and okay. But they added a villain. That was unnecessary. The original didn’t have a villain. The father was the antagonist. Most people never come up across villains! This movie didn’t need a villain! It had enough sadness to explore without making someone mean and malicious. Further, they jump into that vase painting and there is more villainy and darkness which gets spun into a nightmare. Magic is rarely about darkness!
People spin darkness stories about magic because they don’t want people using magic. People want you to be afraid of magic so you will color within the lines. That just wasn’t necessary for this movie. Conversely, something I would have done; I would have had made Michael to be more like his dad. Maybe have him yell at his children the same way his dad yelled at him and Jane; roll his eyes more, be more histrionic. That seems realistic. Children tend to echo their parents. That would have made for a great Marry Poppins scene where she calls Michael out, saying ‘you remind me of your father.’ What a great epiphany moment that could had been. Yes! Realizing we are often are worst enemies, as opposed to something out there being against us, and then coming at others with an apology, that would have been the ticket. ‘I’m sorry, children.
I forgot how I felt when this happened to me. I would like to change this. Let’s change this together. Let’s go fly a kite…’ That would have been something. That would have been Disney!
That’s Poppins! Our greatest obstacle is our self. Would I recommend the movie? Absolutely. Taking a bath in that movie magical moment is just an everyday occurrence in my world. How about yours?”
Michael was not the only one blushing this time. Talking about baths was pushing up against taboo. It wasn’t, but it had a feel like they were straying outside the parameters of normal every day discourse. No one said anything.
“OMG, this is going to take a moment, isn’t it,” Loxy said. “Very well, till the wind changes. Would you believe our time is up? Next week, this time, come prepared to speak. Bring something new! Bring something old. Something challenging. If nothing else, read up on lucid dreaming. If you have nothing else magical going on in your life, you can always find comfort in a dream. Oh! Before I forget. I have given each of you a gift. Reach under your seat and find the envelope I have taped to your chair. Open it later. Keep it a secret for a moment. You don’t have to keep it a secret. That’s not a rule. There are very few rules for this circle. This is not fight club. You can talk about this club. No one will likely believe you, but go ahead, give it the good old college try. Or high school try. Where ever you find yourself, just don’t sit there. Unless, you want to sit there. Go. Be free. Reasonably free. Go to your respective classes. With respect. Go!
Or I will keep talking. Go go go.”
The students found their envelopes and dispersed back out into the campus, into the crowd of peers and teachers, a little flabbergasted, strangely renewed. They did not look each other as they departed.