THE UNINVITED GUEST

 I woke up suddenly with a sharp gasp, like a heroine in a 1960’s Hammer Film. I wasn’t scared, but the adrenalin flooding my system told me I was on high alert. Remaining still, I listened for suspicious sounds until I was satisfied that no one was inside the house…and then I noticed the circle of mist on my ceiling.

It was a perfect ring, about a foot and a half in diameter,  glowing like a neon halo, the jarring lime green of radiator fluid. It revolved so slowly in a lazy counter clockwise orbit  that I wasn’t even sure it was actually moving.

Fully conscious and completely sober, I’m also ridiculously blind.  My eyes didn’t stray from  the mist as I groped for my glasses on the bedside table, certain that what I was seeing was an optical illusion  caused by the dark and my bad eye sight.  As I slid my specs  on, the radium-like glow became crisp and intensified. It occurred to me that the misty circle was probably emanating from the little operation light on my smoke detector, mounted above the headboard on the wall behind me. I twisted around to check; the light was on all right, but it was red, not pale green.

  Convinced I was experiencing a lucid dream, I clambered out of bed in order to wake myself fully. I entered the bathroom,flicking on the light switch.  I peed,  wiped, flushed the toilet, washed my hands, dried them, and applied lotion. Satisfied that I had performed enough mundane actions to prove that I was truly awake, I turned off the  bathroom light,padding  the down the hall to my bedroom.

 I tossed my glasses  carelessly  onto the bedside table, crawling back into bed without looking at the ceiling. Deliberated keeping my eyes closed, I pulled the comforter up all cozy around my chin.

Then the internal debate started.

 I felt like a cartoon character with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other as   a two-way conversation began inside my head.

 So, are you really going to go to sleep without checking to see if that thing is still on the ceiling?

 Yeah… it’ll be ok.

 The First Voice paused for a moment, trying to comprehend the stupidity of the Second Voice’s answer, before snapping,

 Are you fucking high?

  With that, my eyes fluttered open tentatively, and I realized two things simultaneously:  that the mist indeed was still there- and it’s very presence was a confirmation that I hasn’t in fact, been dreaming.  I also understood with more than a passing feeling of discomfort, that in order to have gotten into bed completely willing to not check on the mist, that it  somehow must’ve been hypnotizing me into a compliance. Whatever this was, it was real…and it was now brighter, solidifying and definitely moving faster. As I watched the revolutions become more rapid, I tried to think practically and stuff down the dread that was rising up in my chest.

 The First Voice suggested,

 You should say The Lord’s Prayer

  To which the Second Voice replied with  disdain,

Someone’s seen wa-a-a-a-ay too many horror movies!

  Ignoring the Second Voice, I telepathically communicated to the first Voice, “ Should I actually say it or is it ok to just think it?

   There’s no one here, the First Voice answered, either way is fine.

 Dutifully, I recited out loud,

 “Dearly Beloved…”

 The Second Voice cut me off immediately:

 You idiot-that’s not The Lord’s Prayer! Who doesn’t know the fucking   Lord’s Prayer?

 That’s for a funeral or a wedding or something…Get it together!

 Seriously, what kind of a lame-ass was I?  I hadn’t really been raised with religion but-pun intended- God knows how many times I’d seen The Exorcist, and I certainly listened to Siouxsie And The Banshee’s 1979 punk song version of I The Lord’s Prayer enough to have the entire thing  memorized.  I wracked my brains, groping for the correct words  before I began tentatively,

 “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name….”

The vapor pulsed on the ceiling, blinking rhythmically while it spun, as though it was transmitting a code. True panic started rising in my chest as furtively wondered if I should ask it to leave.

  Then, before then First or Second voice even had a chance to chime in, my  real  voice took on a forceful tone that wasn’t my own as I abruptly commanded loudly:

 “IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST, YOU NEED TO LEAVE NOW!”

The words were barely out of my mouth when intense pitch black dot appeared in the center of the circle of mist, accompanied by a  quick pressure drop in my ear canals, as though I was in a plane that was losing altitude  quickly.  Suddenly, like stop motion animation, the black dot widened with a roaring sound , and as it did, and the green mist grew with it, swirling precariously. The mist circle suddenly split in two,  both halves leaving the ceiling shooting down towards the bed.  Just as rapidly, they rocketed upwards, roaring through the hole, disappearing.  The hole then sealed itself shut with a loud crack.

 I bolted upright, my hair on end, my entire body covered in goose bumps. I slapped on the bedroom light as I leapt out of bed and crashed through the hall, knocking a couple  framed photos off the wall. I turned out the bathroom light, the lamp and overhead in the in the living room, and both kitchen lights.  Pacing like a lunatic, I switched  on the television, the radio, and my computer. The clock said 3:33… The Witching Hour, I noted only semi-ironically, as I began to cry. It was too early to call anyone, and even if I did, what the hell was I going to say?

 I wasn’t sure what had just happened to me, but   I didn’t feel  comfortable with it…at all. I stayed up listening to talk radio and an early morning local news program, chain smoking and doing busy work  that I never normally would do, like reorganizing CDs and dusting.  I went out and got sage   that morning and smudged the entire place.

 A month or so later, a neighbor who lived in the front half of my house asked if I thought it was haunted.  He said that the night before, he’d heard footsteps on the roof.  I asked him if he was sure it wasn’t raccoons, and he said he was.

 Sizing him up for a moment, I decided he looked like handle my story without getting too freaked out, so I told him  everything.  There was a pretty long pause before he asked,

 “Why didn’t you call me?”

 “Oh, suuure,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes,

 “Like I was really gonna call you in the middle of the night to tell you that a portal opened up on my ceiling?”

 “I guess not,” he said sincerely, “But if it happens again, please call me!”

 A week after we had that conversation, it did happen again… but this time I was prepared.  The mist manifested sharp, dense and considerably larger this time. It had barbs and points sticking out of it  like a really badly done late 1980’s Tribal tattoo. I had been on the verge of sleep when it appeared, so it was a lot less disorienting than being awakened for REM sleep.  Narrowing my eyes as I stared directly  at it, I addressed it with the psychotic bravado of Robert DeNiro as Travis Bickel in  “Taxi Driver” -You talkin’ to me?   This time I bypassed the First Voice, The Second Voice and The Lord’s Prayer, growling like a battle cry:

“IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST YOU HAVE TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW!”

… and it did.

The portal sealed back up and the pressure normalized in my ears. Before I rolled over and went to sleep, I saw that the clock said 3:33.

The next day, my neighbor didn’t mention hearing me yelling, and the mist never came back.

 #

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HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM BEYOND

Zein on the cover of Arabesque Magazine, early 1990's

In 1999, during the days leading up to The New Millennium, like many people, I began reflecting on life: historical events I had witnessed, personal goals that I had achieved, the things I still wanted to accomplish and all the people in my life, living and dead.

But what seemed to really dominate my thoughts were the many significant relationships I had with family and friends. I was blessed with so much love, nurture and support. I thought of the many special people who were there for me not matter what… friends and relatives who shared their lives with me, gave me affection, support and influenced my creative and artistic endeavors.

One of these special individuals was my friend and belly dance mentor, the late Zein Abdul Al Malik.

Zein was a dancer of prodigious talent. Well over six feet tall and lanky, he had piercing green eyes and performed draped in billowing genie pants and luxurious folkloric garb, wrapped in antique Egyptian Assuit, a traditional mesh fabric that has small strips of silver hammered into it to form designs.  Zein looked imposing and exotic when he danced balancing a huge brass tray with a full tea set and candles upon his regal head.

Zein began his career in the San Francisco Bay Area in the mid Seventies, dancing with one of the mothers of contemporary belly dance, Jamilla Salimpour. He went on to live in Morocco and Saudi Arabia, where he resided in one of the royal palaces, thanks to his Saudi prince lover.  Zein lived and breathed Oriental Dance, performing, teaching and doing research.

After we met in 1990, he took me under his wing- me, a beginning baby belly dancer with barely any skills- but somehow he saw my potential and nurtured me. Zein would have me over to his apartment- a wonderful, mysterious enclave of inlaid North African furniture, luxurious plants and relics from the Middle East.

He’d make me fresh mint tea in a silver Moroccan teapot and we’d spend hours together while he showed me steps and technique, discussed belly dance traditions, and watched vintage clips that he’d taped from the television in Saudi Arabia, featuring 1940’s and ‘50’s “Golden Age” Egyptian movies which starred famous dancers like Naima Akef, Samia Gamal, and Tahiya Carioca.

 Zein also helped me select costumes, heartily encouraged my dancing, and got me my very first dance job at Hollywood’s Moun Of Tunis Restaurant, where he worked.  More than two decades later, whenever I am in Los Angeles, I still perform there.

Appropriate music for Middle Eastern dance was hard to find in America back in those days, and Zein made me many Arabic mix tapes- remember, there were no CD’s back then- with the cassettes featuring everything from classic live Om Kalthoum performances to the latest in Egyptian pop and Algerian Rai music.

 Every cassette Zein made me also had a special cover that he thoughtfully put together by hand. Some featured Middle Eastern clip art others photocopy of vintage Turkish cigarette boxes and pictures of famous belly dancers like Nagwa Fouad and Soheir Zaki.

Tragically, Zein died about five years after I met him. By that time, we were close friends and because of his encouragement, we were also gigging together regularly. I was absolutely devastated. I remember speaking-or rather blubbering through a speech- at his memorial, my face wet with flowing tears, but I don’t remember a thing I said.

I thought of him often, so many things reminded me of him. At gigs when I felt pre-show jitters, I would think of the way he used to calm my nerves through his twisted humor right before we both went on. Wrapped in a turban and wearing a brocade galibiya, shimmying to warm up, with an ever-present Marlboro in his mouth, Zein would sense my anxiety, catch my eye, make an exaggerated coquettish gesture then and whisper in a feminine falsetto,

“How’s my hair?”

Somehow, our private joke never got old, and always made me laugh. Whenever he did that, I had a great show, entering the stage with a huge grin on my face. Even though Zein has been departed for years, I always think of him just before I go on.

So…fast forward to New Year’s Eve 1999, at five minutes of midnight. Of course I was at a belly dance gig, in a dressing room, wearing a brand new costume- my first costume for the New Millennium.

The dancer I was working with that evening asked what music I was planning to perform to for my first dance set of the century.

“I don’t know, “ I said, pawing through my CD binder, “I’m so sick of all my music!”

My gig bag was full of the usual belly dance accouterments: stray finger cymbals, perfume, hair accessories, mis-matched sequin armbands, loose aspirin tablets, safety pins.

Suddenly, something fell into my hands, a small plastic case. Though my suitcase was always chaotic, there was a method to my madness, and it was always re-packed before every show. The little plastic box was decidedly an unfamiliar object that I didn’t remember packing. Recognizing what it was in the dim dressing room lighting by the feel of it alone, I wondered how it got there.

“Hey, no way, there’s a cassette in my dance bag!” I cried, kind of amazed.

“You still use cassettes?” the other dancer asked incredulously.

“Well, no, not for years”, I answered, dumbfounded, “I have no idea what it’s doing in here!”

“Well, maybe we can dance to it,” she said, “What is it?”

I glanced at the clock- it was now one minute before midnight.

Thinking we’d better figure our music out, I turned the mystery cassette case over in my hands. The cover featured a black and white drawing of a 1920’s flapper lounging in a champagne glass.

In hand-lettered Art Deco font, it read:

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!

 LOVE, ZEIN”

As the clock struck midnight and the new century began, I got chills.

#

The story you’ve just read is from my  memoir Showgirl Confidential; My Life Onstage, Backstage And On The Road  published by Punk Hostage Press.

 Get a signed copy of the book here: www.princessfarhana.com/shop.htm

My forthcoming  memoir,   Good Girls Go To Heaven, Bad Girls Go Everywhere will be published by Punk Hostage in 2015

 

Photos by Dusti Cunningham & Maharet Hughes

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