It started with a simple candle-lighting. I feel as lost as everyone else right now, something as benign as lighting a candle to meditate on seemed like a great idea. Also, I was out of vodka.
Of course, I can’t just leave the house on a whim to buy a proper meditation candle (or more vodka) because death and stuff, so I dug around in the closet until I found a scented candle. Remember those? Scented candles were the predecessors of wax pots and essential oil diffusers. At one time there were entire cities built around the production of scented candles. Old people like me know these things because we’ve been trying to cover the smell of marijuana since 1983, when whether or not parental units could smell weed in your room was our biggest concern.
The candle was black, which didn’t seem strange. My candle-period coincided with my Morrisey fascination, where everything on the outside must be black due to conditions of blackness on the inside.
I lit it and held back the urge to oscillate wildly.
I took deep breaths.
I wasn’t feeling it. I couldn’t relax. I wasn’t in the groove. Something was missing.
I needed a chant to make this candle-lighting meditation complete, so I did what anyone who makes terrible life decisions would do – I Googled it.
“Incantations and meditative chants to promote peaceful prosperity.”
Boom. My bitch. I skimmed the piece until I could find something remotely pronounceable. I was ready to meditate my way to the sunny beaches of Cancun. When the plague ends, that is, but I don’t need that negativity in my chant so I proceed while pretending like everything is going to be just fine and shut the fuck up, brain, we are not all going to die and I’m getting ready to mesmerize you with my chant and meditation. So there.
I composed myself.
I lit the candle again.
I took a deep breath and chanted, “Inna gadda da vida, honey, inna gadda da vida,” because I couldn’t remember the words to the stupid prosperity chant and averting my eyes from the flame to read it would be counter-productive. Or so I thought.
A giant raccoon landed on my desk. Before I could get the words, “What the fu…” out of my mouth, he said, “Hi. I’m Larry. You conjured me?”
“Oh shit, Larry,” I stammered, “There’s been a mistake. I was trying to chant my way to Cancun.”
“There’s a plague on, you know,” said Larry, knowingly.
“I don’t need that kind of negativity in my chants right now, Larry,” I snapped. “If you’re going to be a downer, you can just get your ringed ass back into the universe.”
“Do you have any grapes?” asked Larry.
“What? Grapes? Christ, I haven’t seen a grape since March. I don’t leave the house, Larry. That’s why I’m currently crazy enough to think I could conjure my way to Cancun through meditation,” I cried.
“That’s too bad, luv,” said Larry. “I quite like grapes, you know.”
I ignored the fact that Larry had suddenly adopted a British accent.
“I don’t have any grapes, but I do have some stuff floating on top of the dirty dishwater in the sink you’re welcome to,” I offered.
“Does it stink?” asked Larry.
“Oh, you bet,” I confirmed.
“Worse than you?” he pressed.
“That’s a low blow Larry. I showered just a, well, time doesn’t matter anymore, Larry. If you want the sink-critters, you can have them. Leave me out of this.” I said.
Larry gave me as dirty a look as a raccoon can give with their cute little faces. He trundled off to the kitchen to check out the sink flotsam.
I covered the candle, snuffed the flame and decided I really didn’t want to know if Larry was real because who needs a critical raccoon with a bad British accent in their lives with a plague on?
As for Cancun, well, one day again, maybe. But for now, I will revert to my old behaviors of smoking weed, oscillating wildly and wondering how soon is now. I’ll probably have a few more blue Mondays but when we finally get to be out and about again, it will be like fascination street.
Stay safe, my friends. And never Google your chants or incantations.