Thursday, December 21, 2017

Weird Things... and The Society

I had the weirdest sensation yesterday. Weird. Unique. But lately not unusual. Let me explain.

I've been baristaing near my place. With tips it's just enough to get by so it keeps me smiling even if it's fake (not always). By the end of my shift I can't stand the smell of coffee so I treat myself with a boba nearby. I was sitting, and someone touched me. She just wanted me to move my chair, but it affected me so much I literally just stood and ran away. 

I am a weirdo.

What was it?! As her hand lifted to  reaching for the middle of my back her pinky grazed against my spine. Immediately I froze. My pinky on my right hand started to twitch.

Then her hand lowered onto my spine. First her thumb... I clutched my boba and gasped... then her index finger... and like that some invisible tumbler in me clicked. 

And I ran. 

Pinky. Thumb and Index.

Like some song I know by heart, my hand starts doing it on my wrist as I hug it close to myself. Pinky. Thumb and Index. Thumb and Pinky.
Pinky. Thumb and Index. Thumb and Pinky.
Pinky. Thumb and Index. Thumb and Pinky.

What is wrong with me?

Weird right? But not unusual. These things have been happening to me all the time. 

I told you yesterday that I can't seem to remember anything prior to three years ago? Well I think my parents are to blame. I think they either have damaged my memory or there's something so damaging that I'm blocking it out. Either way, wouldn't you agree that a child should know these things? A child should not just be allowed to forget their trauma. Because now I am having to figure it out alone with no clues to guide me except the confusing images that surround me. Memories I know I haven't lived. Memories of my loved ones, my parents, Beverly, as children. Memories of that act like some time machine into my curiosity and feeds me with moments my heart seems to manufacture.  

The new footage of my dad that Eubanks has found ALSO very upsetting. Was never told he was in The Society. I couldn't even mention them growing up, but no of course not, they never had anything to do with it. Quiet Troy and Amy of Montauk never let on. Might have been good to know. 

It's no wonder I have a hard time telling fact from fiction. 

Anyway, speaking of 

The Society

Some of you are intimately aware of what The Society is... on the surface. Hell, some of you are low level members. 

And others of you have been assiduous researchers and journalists, interviewing subjects and going on missions up into The Mountain for The Bobo. 

But sometimes it's helpful to remember what's important. 

(For those looking for a primer, I think Chris Wollman's long form piece in Haunting does a better job than I ever could. Not all his findings match my own, but I'm no arbiter of The Truth.)

So when it comes to The Society, what are...


1) They want a moonchild.
The Society believe that a certain combo of magical elements can create a godlike human capable of great destruction or great healing depending on the circumstances of their birth.

2) It matters how and where a moonchild is born.
A moonchild that is born in pain, born in confinement, is gonna fuck shit up. 

3) Mary is being held against her will and is due any day now. 

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

I'm Back, I'm Not Sorry, and I'm Defining Boanthropy

Well, first of all I want to apologize.

I want to apologize but I won't.

I want to apologize if you read those first few posts and expected me to say more right away. I want to apologize if you met me at the Harvest Moon and wanted to know I was okay. I want to apologize for giving you the impression that you had access to me, to my thoughts, to my daily life, because I had opened a Facebook account and told you some of my story. 

I want to apologize.

But I won't. 

Instead I want to start with gratitude. 

None of you have asked me to apologize. That urge for forgiveness I feel, the voice that tells me that I am failing you and failing the Resistance, the voice that insistently shames me for turning away from my purpose and shutting my eyes to the truth: that voice is mine alone.

If you are still following, I am grateful.

In that spirit, let me forget myself for a moment and get you up to speed not just on me and my own little LA life and how are things with Beverly blah blah blah, but let's see where we are.

Let's begin with TheBoanthropic.

Since the dawn of time there have always been gurus. Teachers who calls upon followers to enter into a greater understanding, to expand horizons, and nourish and enliven the spirit. 

But there have also been the flip side. Anti-gurus -- let's call them "urugs." These urugs may look and sound the same, but ultimately their goal with their followers is to to separate them from the world and limit their understanding. They bind the soul and starve the spirit. Under the most skilled urug, the follower will be subject to such total negation and abuse that they will undergo a kind of soul death. She will become boanthropized. She will become like cattle, a piece of meat and a tool for the master. 


The soul can never die. Or so the story goes.

When someone is boanthropized, their soul is in accessible. Everything about that person that a loved one might recognize has faded and is unreachable. Memories, familial ties, even the recognition of common sounds, smells or symbols are sometimes lost. We don't know as much as we should. Scientists have carefully avoided any rigorous studies, though cultures around the world have names and stories of the phenomenon. In the 20th century we thought of it as being "brainwashed" or "programmed." But these lacked the fundamental other half of the equation. If the spirit is dead but the spirit cannot be killed, where does the spirit of the soul dead go?

It escapes into TheBoanthropic. 
It is TheBoanthropic.

Many metaphors have been used to describe TheBoanthropic, but what works best for me is a cloud. A cloud is made up of a gajillion water particles, but we don't think of it as a collection. It is one thing. It moves and breaks apart, it gathers and holds energy, and it strikes with a collective force on particular spots when the conditions are chaotic enough. 

We are living in the age of the lightning bolt. The static memory created by The Society's abuse has reached a tipping point. The souls of those taken too soon will no longer be silent.

Next, The Society. 

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Best Laid Summer Plans

Okay. So it has been over ten days since my last post... TEN!  Ugh. I told myself I was going to write this summer. I was full of ambition to be my best self and to be productive. But instead I am focusing on things very typical of teenagers at this state, I guess. I am in like. Deep like. But it's a work thing, and I don't know that it's reciprocated, and I can't seem to stop looking in the mirror thinking about what he sees and under the moon when some song makes me want to move, I start thinking about his face BLAAAAA ...

Anyways. There is NO reason I should be telling you this. My last ten days were not noteworthy or important. Not here in Montauk anyways ... I can't speak for LA!

I miss Bev. I've also not seen much of Bev since her ocean "incident," as my dad calls it. Dad put a lock on the gate between the houses. He said she needs her privacy. Ummm.... wut? I swear sometimes it seems like my parents want any excuse to get me away from Bev. They are my parents, they'll always be my parents, and I'll always care what they think, but why they have to get all paranoid and insecure about loyalties and boundaries, it's just like, why do you even pay for her house if you don't want me to think of her as family...


Like I said none of that matters, because we are gonna talk about the fucking boanthropic (sorry I had couple beers on the beach after work ... woops!)

Oh man, I have missed The Boanthropic. I've missed the energy it brought. The confusion. The danger. I know that for you guys it's just getting started, and that you have really important stuff to do (and a really important person to save), but since TheBoanthropic went silent, myself I just feel kinda useless ... and probably will until TheBoanthropic returns. Oh man, I can't wait.

When did you say it was? October something? It said something on The Devil's Gates scroll.

Remember? ... because I don't HA!

Boy it would be cool if we could be together on that day, if the voice does come back.


The sun is coming up. Better get back to my summer reading and try to catch a couple hours (Pynchon puts me right to sleep).

Moar Soon


Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Looking for Independence

Hihihihi. Krysta here.

Before I continue. Just want to talk about last night.

Bev and I went to the beach to watch the fireworks. I love fireworks, but it took some convincing to get her out of the house. She steadied herself on my arm while our toes settled into the shifting tideline and we waited for the blue sky to turn black. The water came in, came out. I could feel some of her tension leaving her body. It was the first time since all this Boanthropic stuff started that we'd taken the time to just breathe.

Then the fireworks started.

First light. Then sound. She loves the light, and she can't hear the sound -- so I thought it'd be perfect for her. I didn't think of how the explosions feel. I forgot about the blast wave.

That all surrounding WOMP to the chest.

That's what I felt when The Boanthropic were here. The voice only she could hear -- just like of the two of us only I could hear the fireworks. But we both could feel the wave. The WOMP WOMP WOMP.

I felt Bev's body go cold, and goosebumpy. I had to hold her up as she steadied herself. I tried to turn to her to mouth, "should we go?" But she brushed me away and walked toward the water.

The feeling of The Boanthropic felt like chaos to me and made me feel totally unsettled. But for Bev, the feeling was different. She was at home in that heart-stopping pressure and wore it like a blanket. Without it, she was so uneasy. So lost.

As the explosions grew and night wind picked up, I could see Bev's shoulders softly shaking as she walked into the water. First to her ankles, then her knees. Then the seventh wave, the one that takes you by surprise, crested quickly and swallowed her up.

I ran into the water and grabbed her hand, but she pulled it away. I grabbed at anything I could and got hold of the tail of her sweater as we churned in the saltwater. I dragged her back to the shore and pulled her onto the sand, her body shaking, weeping. I pulled the hair from her eyes and held her face in my hands -- what she had done for me a thousand times when my rage or my frustration were just too much.

Her eyes told me everything. That living without them, for her was living a life without hope.


Now back to the story of June 7th:

When I found Bev at her kitchen table, she was in a trance. Staring mouth agape at the ceiling as whisker-thin arcs of static electricity jumped from her head to the walls.

When it passed, and we had sat on the floor drinking glass after glass of water, I only had one thought.

What. The. Fuck.

I had so many questions.

Turns out on the other side of the country at the exact same time, some other shit was going down.

TheBoanthropic were making moves in Los Angeles, here...

Something magic happened at this spot if we were to believe the voices Beverly heard. The Boanthropic spirit that spoke to her -- this ethereal ghostly presence composed of what I did not know -- had an urgent message to relay to people near the spot.

"But why?" I asked. "What's so urgent?"

She looked down at the floor, playing with the linoleum like a scared child. "They're down from the mountain."


"The Society."

- K

moar soon

Saturday, July 1, 2017


I'm Krysta.

As far as I can remember I never believed in anything before.  The only 'spirit' I ever believed in was music -- nothing religious or superstitious. Since I was little my parents called me their 'pet atheist.' But then afterwards they'd always warn, "never been is not never will." ... fucking parents.

Up until a few weeks ago, I had laughed at the dumb kids who still believed in TheBoanthropic. Up until a few weeks ago, I never thought I'd have anything to do with that stupid LA mountain sex-cult The Society. And I definitely never thought I'd be used in a plot by those anarcho-dumbdumbs, The Bobo.

Up until then, I didn't know anything about the way things really were. The only thing I did know was that I had a neighbor named Beverly. And there was something special about her.

By the time I got on this ride, it was already going. I guess it has been for decades. I've had to play catch up to understand what's happening. Who's who. What's what. Who's real, what's not, and where to go next.

If you're here, I imagine you're in a similar boat.

I'll help catch you up, and we'll find our way together.

I'll start with me:

I live in Montauk, New York which is at the NE tip of Long Island. For those looking at a map, look at the island as a forearm in profile. If Bay Ridge is the elbow wenis, Montauk is the middle finger giving The Atlantic the bird.

I live with my parents. I'm 17. I will not give out more personal details. My parents are... worriers.

But I will tell you about my neighbor. Bev.

We say we're neighbors, but I know she's more than that. Mom and Dad always said we have to be careful talking about Bev because if people knew she wasn't a landowner, or even a renter, then she'd lose any standing in the community, and she's been here forever. The deed of the lot next to ours where she lives, it may be in my dad's name, but it's hers, and for as long as she wants to be there. My parents never wavered on that. Family is family they'd say. She's not my aunt, she's not my grandma, but she's more than a neighbor. The words don't work to describe what she is to me, but that doesn't matter to Beverly. They're just words she can't hear anyway.

She doesn't go out much, but when she does, she's beloved, and people have considerately (and also a bit patronizingly) learned the basics of signing. Thank yous, hellos, and whatnot.

I run back and forth between my side of the fence and her side, always have and I've worn down a path through the opening between the two. They're both home to me. But, I always knew Bev's side was different. A different smell, a different energy, a different frequency. Like a weird fun-house mirror from the house where my parents and I slept. A little exciting. A little dangerous.                                                                                                                                                                            
I had no idea how important Bev was. To me she was just Bev.

Until that night. June 7th. Around midnight.

I was in my room, reading. I started daydreaming, looking out the window to the full moon hanging over Bev's place, listening to the breeze and the waves whipping up. Then under that sound there was this growing hum. It grew. It was coming from Bev's place. Looking over, I could see the lights were flickering. The hum grew. My eardrum was saturated. My head felt heavy with an adrenaline rush that made my mouth whimper and my jaw lock up. My body moved on its own. I ran.

I was afraid for Beverly. I busted through the screen door through Bev's back gate and into her kitchen. She was sitting there like a statue. She was staring at a spilled tea cup resting on her table. Tears were running down her smiling face.

As I took her by her shoulders, this rush of faint memories washed over me. I had seen those flickering lights before, hadn't I? I had known that smile. That dark cold rush that cracks me open with a shiver. But quickly warms. I'm vulnerable now and exposed my gut gets pulled in taught, my diaphragm suspended, locking my jaw open, sending me to my knees. Awestruck.

This is still the only time I can remember. But I know there've been more. I saw them. I think.

When the thing passed we didn't quite know. It was just a slow realization. By then we were on the cold kitchen floor, leaning on our hands and each other.

We both took turns pouring each other waters from the tap. We both swallowed four glasses in four long gulps punctuated by some deep gasping.

"What was that?" I asked her, after my last glass.

"That," she said, her smile lines still cracking all over her sweet face, "that, my love,  is TheBoanthropic."

- K

p.s. moar soon