#WOMAN SPIRIT WOOOOOOOO | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

socialanxiety-queen · 3 years

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My thoughts on the last conjuring video:

• Their previewing music is giving me some Viking vibes and I’m here for it.

•Carousel Solby is happiness

• The fact they said their names to the owners is just scary as shit and I feel this could be a weird trap from the demons to get them back in the house.

• Advertising xplr club and I weep for I am poor

• Seth lasting only 30 secs

• Josh and Seth hell yeah

• I think the Amanda and Scott in the sand is just a coincidence, someone who visited before them could of written their names there. But who knows, maybe the spirits write down fake ass people in their mean girls sand book. “Amanda is such a fake betch” -scribbles her name in the sand with gel pen-

• “Maybe they want us to do videos with more mediums”

Stop Sam. Please stop. Maybe the spirits are actually telling you guys to stay away from them, because clout chasing fake mediums Amanda are harmful to spirits.

• Also thank you Sam and Colby for saying everything about Bathsheba is speculation and rumors you rarely hear anyone state that. 🥰

She was buried on Christian soil, If she were indeed a witch they wouldn’t have let her body be buried there. Even though the witch trials happened centuries before her time, people still held onto those beliefs.

Whatever this woman really did led people to dirty her name and movies bank off of it and make it worse. Chances are she was hated for being different, and anything you did made you a witch and even if she was one (because there is nothing wrong in that) I don’t think there’s any proof she was an evil one.

•BOB THE BONE FINDER

•Sam hates the woods and Colby hates bridges

•Josh is an adorable Jersey Devil 😌

• Snakes showing up outta nowhere got me saying “Nope Fuck that”

• “Dude, and there’s BATS!” Ain’t nothin’ but a sky puppy, Colby. 🥰

• “Perfect setting for us to die” “Oh god no we are not going to do that again, because we might actually die here”

•Colby saying he’d never leave her behind was just Awh

•Colby: Walk the beam I haven’t done gymnastics since the third grade!

Josh: Dang, Good luck bro.

Seth: You were a gymnast, Colby?

Colby: Fuck yeah bro. I can do the splits on anything!

Sam: O-On On anything, or? 😳

Incorrect quote to appease the Solby gods Colby: On that ass 😏

• Sam choosing the right way was adorable and shows he has a very good intuition.

•Colby making an angry face and Sam leaning on him to make him laugh with “Fat nutties” while also stuttering (flashback to that car video if you know you know) was extremely fucking cute and my Solby feels are flying.

• Also the fact Colby didn’t laugh at Sam for stuttering and was just casually still playing mad, was very cute because it shows he cares so much about Sam and Sam might have issues with stuttering that Colby doesn’t find funny. 🥰

• That pentagram is inverted which does mean evil.

•Yes double Estes

• It was heart wrenching the way Sam shot up over hearing Colby’s name and Colby said Sam’s name in such a painful way.

• Their going in alone guys! Woooooooo

•The I love you exchanges 😌🙌🏻

• “What if we stayed the night at the Stanley Hotel”okay yes hyped hyped! “But we bring Amanda.”

WHY?

Why do you have to always bring Amanda? She is a bad vibe con artist, she brings nothing to the videos with her classic “I was just about to say that!” being about the only thing she says. Honestly I push through for SnC and the others they bring with them, but Amanda is just sucking the joy from the videos like a vampire who doesn’t know how to read the room or when they’ve over stayed their welcome and won’t leave.

•Neck touching ghosts

• Confused R2-D2

• “Uh uh!” Colby, mood

• I love when Sam and Colby are alone ghost hunting because their excitement to catching stuff is adorable.

• The fact a full body was in that window is unnerving, whatever it was drained Sam’s walkie and was being a huge stalker.

• Sam and Colby being worried about each other durning the end 🥺 We Stan in this house. 🙌🏻

• I’d love to see them do more videos with just themselves, just maybe no more listening to Amanda’s about stuff that could put them at risk. Give us an xplr duo vid please.

#sam and colby #colby brock #xplr #sam golbach #solby

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bandofholyjoy-blog · 7 years

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IT GETS LOCKED UP IN YOUR CHEST: MICHAEL BRANDON IN HAITI... Things get locked in your chest. Your chest-corporeal, I mean. You can be as stalwart as you wish, but things……get locked…. in your chest. Part One: “What The Hell - Where Am I?” Forget that there was no ceiling over the majority of the house, yes, that is correct, no roofing. The impact was particularly “lofty," in that huge, arena-esque space ; a baby bird’s mouth at spit-feed time, indeed, the "living room.” We had mango trees where most homes had bookcases. They rose up and up, practically touching the stars, in my ripe, 11-year old imagination. Forget the (massive) mosquito nets , compulsory to sleep under (you best believe: Malaria and "This-or That”, killer fever). Forget the adult-male-hand-sized tarantulas, and how they’d drop on my fucking head, in that "Uniball Signo-207-level,” inky-blackness... of the country’s foul, microwave nights. Forget the omnipresent, after-dark-bats, or the violent chickens (yes) that would “entertain”, on random, possessed evenings. All of the unwanted guests, they had an oceanic entrance, and then some, through aforementioned, ‘negative-roofing.” I recall my mother, with broom-as-rapier, beating back those truculent, pecking , rabid-assed chickens. They behaved like They were, but I’ve never heard of rabies-infected fowl. WTF = indeed. WTF was in the feed? Forget it all. Forget that I’m in Port-au-Prince, and it is 1977. From Park Avenue to Haiti ; I can envision the Off-Broadway, musical tragicomedy. “Why Mommy, Whhhhhy?” would be the opening number. The Backdrop of glimmering, rubbish-free Park Avenue sidewalks would be crumpled by a drop sheet festooning over the previous one ; the new background, blaring sunshine, highlighting makeshift huts, skeletal dogs and cats, and a woman encumbered or emboldened…via eight, weaved baskets (of varying size and weight) atop the crown of her head. “Ha," indeed. All traces of levity now-removed, as I type the name: “Baby" Doc Duvalier. Forget the sight of him. The sight of a pinguid, nasty, ever-smirking menace, as he pierced the open sunroof of a too-long limousine ; all that was missing was a hood decal of the reaper. Forget that feculent beast, hurling coins to armless / legless children. I’m talking about kids that were my age and (much) younger. The sight of the children, literally tearing each other apart for a meagre allotment of coins... Let’s forget it. These were the same children, I’d consistently gift my sneakers, shirts, pants( everything) to. I’d walk home through those seemingly endless, sugar cane fields, “home”….back to the haunted house, only to be greeted by mother-irate. To be fair, my mom was "half-irate.” It only pissed her off that she’d have to order me more clothes from the U.S.A . An overtly-charitable nature , innate. I’m serious. Was this a somatic mutation, only, in behavioral format? I was this way from birth. It can be grotesque, the kill-with-kindness shtick. I assure you, I have no freaking idea - why. WhyI’ve been this way. I do not choose this bizarre, saintly shit , do I? You will pay the price for kindness. Oh man, will you pay ; you'll even be despised for it. “You’d feed a starving dog and let yourself die.” My mother used to say that to me, and often. Would I? Hell if I know the answer to that question. I hope the answer is: “no way." I’d defend my recurring actions. "They were missing limbs!” t’was my clarion wail. My plea for the: "amputated-for-god-knows-why…” kids. I still do not know why so many were limbless. I’m assuming, petty transgressions (food theft?) ; these beautiful, still-smiling children, ever-clamouring for my clothing and shoes. Damn. Now I’m reminded to forget my truancy. The headmistress of the (country’s best) “Creole / American” school, admonishing my mother: “your child is too intelligent to attend. Our school is shit. I advise you to stay away." OH! Let us also forget the omnipresent heat,it’s own universe of hatred and scorn…. a heat so pernicious, it incinerated my (American) comic books, literally, to ash. Forget that we’re in Haiti before the term ‘“Sweatshop” was fashionable. In all fairness….My mother has always, always treated anyone, anyone who has worked for her, like bordeline-royalty. She took care of every last person, and still does today. There is no one quite like her…for all the …Wait. Let me not lose focus (snicker!) Mike Brandon, lose focus? Remember. I am trying to forget. Forget my cat showing up at the doorstep with half his brains removed. What ungodly beast did that? I’ve forgotten it. Forget the rank, gamey pigeons we ate. I might not be able to forget... affable Destan. Destan. The ever-smiling, perpetually, (infectiously!) happy houseboy. My mother offered Destan a proper room, but he opted out. Destan preferred the dank, dark, "bird- basement", covered in turkey, dove, pigeon…. you-name-it / “ it’s what’s for dinner!” bird shit. I’m talking about spackle. I”m attempting to verbalize... shit-as-caulk. I’m talking about tenfold layers and layers of bird crap. I’ll never be able to find the words for the density of that avian, "shit-splosion." The stench alone? OH, dear g….. Forget it. Forget “Hank" - was it? The turkey I loved.You are actually reading this. It’s not a dream. I loved a damn turkey. Wow. What else ya gonna DO in Haiti, ah? Forget that he was served for dinner one night, as Bruno, my mom’s drunkard boyfriend (who I adored, BTW) darted a nefarious grin my way, indeed he did. I called “exemption" on Hank, but, my plea, clearly it meant jack-all. The turkey I claimed as a pet, yep, he was now on my dinner plate. Ahhhh forget the minuscule shit. It only “mattered” to a wussy child, anyway. Let’s get to one “experience,” shall we? One Haiti experience that is probably worth remembering, just for the sheer culture shock and spectacle. A "Cirque Du Wha-HEY!” that I doubt… any other spoiled, Park Avenue bitch boys got to see. I was a lucky bitch boy, it could be said. Let’s not forget that tidbit. I’d like to forget that Serge, one of the gents who brought me to the “experience,” was (quite a few years later) found tied to a tree, throat slit, ear-to-ear. OK. The experience. Yes. "The Experience." Part Two: “The first time I fainted." Voodoo rituals, to say the least? they are myriad. I believe the one I endured ; I believe it was a: “Repel Demonic Spirits Ritual." Memories are brutal things, eh? Who knows what the template for a memory... truly is. Fiction pales. This is, in my opinion? a “level two" (out of ten) true-life shocker. My age played the largest role, as did the country, itself. What a wake-up call. It is unique, and for this reason, and this reason alone, it is possibly worth revisiting. My mother was in her early 30’s. She always worked her ass off, and she partied just as hard. Prime period, Bardot-level beauty (beyond) who took advantage of "nature’s temporary gift.” Fuck you, nature…BTW. My mom was a hardcore player. Some nights I was passed around like an American football. This was one of those nights. “Want to see something endemic to Port-au-Prince?” - something to this effect, but in "layman-ese” ; obviously, he did not use the 50 cent word I supplied. I was with Serge (I forget…I really do forget! )and two others. I was taken to the ceremony by three men who worked for my mother’s sportswear company. Factory employees, oh yes, turned makeshift babysitters. Hoo-rah! My mom was (likely) at the Royal Haitian Casino and Hotel. High-end for Port-au-Prince, this joint was, indeed. Stepping into the Air Conditioned “Royal Haitian,” was akin to attending Epcot Center’s best attraction…if it had one, I mean. My mother was doing “her thing…” (* never “caved" to self-deprivation, is all I will say) Me, I was in a filthy van. I recall being in that van, for what seemed like ages ; myself and three cackling adults, clearly amped that I was about to be “de-flowered"….erm...in some fashion. “Tonight, we are going to show you the real Haiti!” Indeed, they were about to show me something, and boy, had I been giddily rapacious. “Authentic Voodoo Show? Hell yes!” was at the forefront of my already-twisted, little skull. Let’s be honest. This was well before I went crazy. That happened at age 12 and beyond. This was unique, especially for a Park Avenue-born kid. Forget the amorphous mind of the over-zealous, ignorant child ; good decisions , like batteries….never included. When I wrote: " these rituals were myriad,”or something to this effect, I was imagining a color spectrum. I was told (in 1977) Voodoo Ceremonials took place, for just about any occasion. I cannot verify this, nor have I ever cared to research it, via the web. This was a: “you’re in over your head” occasion, because it was: "pre-everything.” I retained innocence, I did, in 1977. I know that I still had innocence, even when Haiti tried to rend it from me. “Pre-Hell-Dipped-Mikey, and His First Voodoo Ceremony.” Honestly, this was akin to watching a Shirley Temple film ; I simply had no comparisons - not yet. I have to assume, however, that this was one of the more “epic"(?) voodoo ceremonies. I mean, if not, then what am I missing? Let us also forge...t that it took place in the middle of freaking nowhere, and in a perfectly grim setting. Central casting and location scout teams? Hell, they’d piss over this package, in it’s entirety. It’s 1977, babe! Woooooooo! I know nothing! Mikey knows nada! I have not even met my dick, yet! Shit, where was I….. The van pulled up where roads terminated, and tangled, foreboding woods claimed dominion, 360 degrees, everywhere you canted your head. So dark, those nights, all of them, in Port-au-Prince. Crickets, oddball,insect noises ; not much else. We had to foot it to the makeshift “arena”. I recall those bleak woods… The flashlight… “Hold onto my arm” etc. Eventually, I could see the gleam ; the flicker of flames. As we drew near, upright pole-torches guided us past the narrow, dirt pathway, widening until we hit it. I remember thinking: "earth-arena.” I knew it was man-made, but it appeared jungle-birthed, this stage…OH yeah. A stage forged in dark, dark soil. Serge made sure we got primo seats, as in: a huge-assed log, right in front of “Kaiju Circle" A damp, mossy log, one o...f maybe ten? They served as seats. Primo on the Primitiv-O. Our log. Our front row, ass-pain-delivery-conceyance log. She only required a few handkerchief thwacks , ending or hurling away, maybe a dozen, pesky, fire ants. A soil / dirt circle. A circle large enough to accommodate 20 people. Ornate the concentric designs were, beautiful, to be honest. Detailed, alien-scripture-ephemeral, as the street paintings that are doomed by foot traffic. The drawings and writing (by stick, I assume) etched inwards from the outer ring, all the way to the center, where the “MC” would eventually take position. The ceremony was mostly comprised of locals, as I’m pretty certain tourists were: in-absentia. the rumps on those stumps, the bums on that bark. I’m guessing, now... 30 people were in the audience? It was no... "Radiohead gig." Before I was carried to the van, and later briefed about the “finale” I missed… I can relay this much. The “MC” was a young(ish) woman, adorned with feathers and bones. Bone. Bones. Bone through her nose. Small prey. Mammalian = another guess. “Bone Gear.” Wherever her face and naked body ("mondo-regalia,” aside) was not tattooed or pierced by small scraps of metal, there was bone. Rat skulls? I remember bone. Mucho Hueso. Suddenly came the drums. Loud as hell, this percussion. Man, there was a small army of drummers, banging these upright….tree-stump-type objects. If ever a time was right for earplugs, this was it. The jungle did not absorb that pummeling. I felt it in my body, like a recent, audiophile demo, at Soho's “Stereo Exchange." A beverage was passed around to the spectators, and my “handlers” ensured, and fairly aggressively, that I did not drink from that clay bowl. Four men. Four men Flanked the Priestess (I think this was what they called her), two on her left side, and two on her right side. A (very) young girl scurried forward, carrying some "Tim Burton-looking” cage, comprised of dead palm fronds and mossy bark, set it near the priestess’ feet, then darted back. Her entrance alacrity perfectly paced with her exit speed. Doves. Doves were crammed-tight! Doves! Doves , like concentration camp train victims….crammed in the most repulsive manner.i Thacrap-looking cage. Doves, super-stuffed, like ten marshmallows in a baby Raccoon’s fist. Trust me, I’ve seen it .Same visual. More drums. “When will they start?” The waiting. The endless, percussion-as-punishment. I wanted to bail. Then. Then, it just began. The squeeze. Why? to push the heart upwards - WTF? Then the bite. Surgical, her “bird-headings” were, Yeah. This gal was biting, then spitefully! It was ( a guess?) pre-PETA, but it felt...mega-pear-shaped. What am I even saying? It was Haiti. 1977! Spitefully, she spat those dove heads, and in random directions. Bite…spit-quick-bubble-mouth. What the…? Ohhhhh! White morphs non-stop-red. Her “trick" was to make arterial spray, post-head-eject, rapidly retain dove blood in her mouth, then turn, to the drum beats…. Grand Guignol? I think this was a form of it. To the beat…. Bite, suck, hold, turn…spit… Spit the blood. SO much, the blood. Too much. Magic speed. Winter-squirrel. Puffy cheeks. She spat the blood left, then right, spray-painting the faces of the four men. I was having a rough time. I saw a grid. Black splotches, then a green, “electrified” grid, right tin front of my face. Still, I held on. I was definitely not happy. Then came those powders. I cannot tell you what was in them, nor what they were, no way. No tengo idea. I’d say 4-5 doves were given the "feral cat on PCP” treatment, then she blew various powders! Yes. Those mad powders, like sugar bombs exploding in the male faces. I was utterly amazed that the "dove-splosions" did not fell me. Amazed. I think my adult cohorts felt the same ; “Ballsy kid. Ballsy, for a spoiled, yankee bitch boy.” What did me in? It was that somnambulism “trick?” Was it a trick? Was it real? This was where I began to board the “Wooze Cruise.” One of the powders blown , obscured the male faces for a few seconds, then….THEN. Next, the powwders, and I’ll hazard another guesstimate: 2-minute absorption time. Those white powders. They made the dudes “Danse Macabre” . I am talking: some scary-assed, David-Lynch-type action. I was now in Batshit Town. Population: MIkeyboy, Grunts and howls. Pain. Ugly , animalistic sounds of agony, emitted from all four men. Freakish, gross, naked men, falling backwards, yet still-standing. Utterly insectoid. The unedited version of “The Exorcist.” Regan doing the spider-walk. Four naked, full-body-paint-adorned , synchronized wig-outs. Jacob’s Ladder.. Esther Williams on shards of glass and bath salts. When the men's eyes rolled back, fiendishly displaying… I mean: "pop-out-level,” hyper-bulging, white orbs ; yes indeed, I was getting my baaaaaaaaad freak-on, finally. The priestess summoned the men to do dog-like tricks. An arm was cut. She sucked from it…I barely recall my backflip off that fat-assed, wet log (eventually, I’d be doing that move endlessly, as a scuba diver, only, a tad more gracefully) I awoke in the grimy van that brought me to this netherworld. Ostensibly, I missed the highlight ie. “the finale.” I missed the part where the priestess and her charges were “resistant.” Example: They downed 4 bottles of Jack Daniels (apiece!) and remained “sober.". The alcohol was inspected by the audience to prove it’s veracity etc. I missed this bit, and the wound-proof bit. I cannot tell you what I missed, as it was verbally detailed “at" me, I still had (intermittent) ink splashes in my eyes. I was in and out of brief fainting spells. I did not have any interest, none, in hearing more about the finale. I blew it. I never saw :The FULL Enchilada." Maybe? Someone cut one of the “performers” and there was no blood. Honestly, My 11-year old brain was knackered for the evening. I felt nauseated in a way that I never experienced (again), save for a night in Coney Island where my stripper girlfriend was performing at the sideshow, and her pal ( a writer, of course!) was retelling me his testicle injury horror story. OH, this is one that needs to be heard. That was faint number two. The only other times I have “hit asphalt?” You don’t want to know. I am sure, rituals modern and old, can be found online. I have no idea if there are or were(ever) “rules or regulations,” in regards to said rituals. I saw what I saw, and it was unique, especially for Mikey, the 11-year old / previous dweller on “The Gold Coast of Manhattan." Haiti has beauty. There were amazing sights and indigent, yet upbeat people, but…. It’s a shit-show, by and large. It was awful then. and it’s worse , I believe, yes, worse now. I will not get political. I just forget. That’s what I do. I try to forget. It’s all locked up in my chest. I try to forget. It’s all locked up in my chest.

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