THERE ARE TWO BLOGS ON THIS PAGE
However, the next day I would again, sit at my desk and look up at Sister Marie Doulette, as she read from the little red book.
Somehow, I managed to separate my daytime activities from my nights with the devil. To this day I don’t know quite how I bore up against the strain, the thing unnerved me so . . . the utter joy and thrill that he got from stimulating my fear. Strangely, more than the fear of him, was the fright, as the light switch on the wall was clicked off, by the hand of my very own father; turning my bedroom into a chamber for the beast. Left to the darkness, my sister would fall asleep easily enough, but I would sit, and in spite of my self, my senses immediately tunneled towards his spot. As soon as my eyes adjusted, inexorably, I would see him, up in the left hand corner.
Furious eyes, large and luminous were the singular absolute. Otherwise, there was no precise shape to him . . . more so, just a malevolent presence. If anything, he was a gaseous vapor, or a quickening in the walls. Sometimes, he moved, in waves beneath the plaster towards me, until he was quivering above my head, with his ghastly eyes, bearing down.
“We shall talk . . . you know who I am.”
These were his first words to me, words that were not in the red book. Prior to that first speaking, I only sensed what he was saying, as in mental telepathy. His voice was raspy, slow, and apathetically low; and just as I grew accustomed to this, his tone would then turn into a maniacal, screeching, staccato.
I sat still, frozen, whimpering to myself, wishing to shrink under my blankets. He would have none of that. He knew, and I knew that it would be just a matter of time before he entered my body. In the meantime, he was rather enjoying himself. Taunting me . . . in the ways of those that do, that are without a hint of humanity, or soul. This went on for weeks, after Sister Marie Doulette had finished the red book.
Now we enter the realm of good vs. evil. Was he truly wicked through and through? Or, did I make him, what I wanted him to be; an embodiment of my conception of evil. My young mind was probably my worst enemy, for it was a wanderer. I had no real knowledge of wickedness per se, save for what the nun had read and too, what I was learning in my catechism class. In Catholicism, the Devil, or Lucifer, the beloved fallen archangel, is made out to be as real and as vivid as Christ, and the Holy Trinity. And, to claim that I conquered the devil, through the powers that be, would be dishonest. There was no calling out for Christ, or the holding up a crucifix to him as he shriveled up and dissipated in fiery pain. For none of those ultimate, heroic constructs took place. For the most part, he went just upped one night and disappeared.
 | MusicDiva  Music Lover |
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| | Paula  Paula Servetti |
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| | wolfwitch  Wolf Witch |
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| | Paula Paula Servetti |
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| | wolfwitch Wolf Witch |
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| | Paula Paula Servetti |
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| | MusicDiva Music Lover |
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| | Paula Paula Servetti |
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| | scott  Kenneth s cornwall |
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| | Paula Paula Servetti BLOG TWO I entered the fifth grade, after a long hot summer. During those months, I babysat and body surfed. I must have done some blooming, also, for when I returned to school, I was never treated the same way by people, again. It marked the time in my life, when my curious metamorphose, took place. I unknowingly went from a caterpillar to a butterfly, and lost my anonymity along with it. Even, My Uncle Louie, took whistling and calling me “Gams.” I was not prepared for the events which lay ahead. As in most Catholic Schools, we were allowed a few "free dress days," which I suppose we were to be grateful for; before the time came to mindlessly don the drab uniform. This small allowance for self expression was rare. My sister and I had two uniforms, each, consisting of a navy blue jumper, a white short sleeved cotton blouse, and navy and white saddle shoes. A navy blue beanie or a white lace mantilla was required in church, for the girls. My mom managed to save enough for us to have a few other outfits also and that year she selected a more mature look for me. It marked the end of my frilled dresses and full petticoats. My mother was extraordinarily adept at picking out fine clothes that made a statement. Her tastes ran exquisite. So, for me, that year, she decided on two outfits, both were matching, woolen vests and straight skirts; one of Royal Blue and the other of Kelly Green. So, on the first day of school, I curled my long hair for the very first time, and wore the green outfit. That was that. Suddenly, I became the "it" girl. From day one, it was bedlam. Boys were all over and around me, flirting and pulling my ponytail, and every folder had me as Number 1. Sweetheart, on the love lists. I was an overnight sensation, a new hit record on the Billboard Chart. Just as surprising, was the fact that every girl wanted to be my new best friend. I literally had to make a weekly accounting of - who would sit where - at the lunch table. Much to the delight of my mother, the mothers of all the girls in my class, began phoning her to set up visits for their daughters. Mom was in her element. I was stunned at what was going on, but tried to keep the peace as best I could, by fitting everyone in. It was weird, extremely weird, but, it certainly took my mind off devil possession. Even the voices left ~ for the most part. I learned quickly that popularity meant having power over people, but it also left me as a target for jealousy. I mean people really got mad, and cruel, if I didn’t spend enough time with them. It was a most unnerving situation, but one with advantages attached. Being this “new” me, meant that I pretty much ruled the roost. And, it just so happened that a young boy who came to our school a month after the semester started, needed my attentions. His name was Marco Radich. We were told that he had fled, along with his cousin, to the United States from "the Communists in Yugoslavia." Marco was actually from Hungary, and had sought refuge in Yugoslavia before being flown out, by his rich Aunt, who lived in our Parish. She wanted them to have a chance at a better education. He was ridiculed unmercifully by the kids in the class, because he looked different and couldn’t speak English. That, just pissed me off! .. ..
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Will you be including any pics of yourself at the different stages of your childhood?
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