The Tengu

Hey, Wilson. You know how I used to talk to you about the prophet sight and seeing the spirits? Well, I met one. A Tengu. That’s a type of Yokai. A Japanese demon. But first, before I tell you the story about this particular episode of the curse of Elijah, I want you to read a note I sent to a friend in the UK. It’s a crazy thing, and I hid it and was on the verge of deleting it. It comes off as an insane rant from some guy who thinks he is being destroyed by women, and I originally didn’t want to put out there such an example of me in that kind of mental state, but as it turns out, that is actually happening! So I am sending it to you.

In retrospect, I’m sorry I didn’t send that letter to you. Julia never read the thing, and we’ve been talking less over the last several days, as I could never find time to talk to her with the eight-hour time difference. But now that you’ve read it, you’ll have an idea of the mindset that this place has been putting me in.

So things continued in their strange ways for a week. Every time I would sit down in the living room, every woman in the room would get up and leave. This is a great place to feel at home, right, Wilson? It makes you feel like you can accomplish anything! It makes you want to write your books and take care of everything you came to Los Angeles to do! Of course there were the Lesbidrome incidents to make me feel even better about everything, right?

Also, at one point, like four or five people from the house just spontaneously stopped following me on Instagram. Nobody said why. Nobody ever answered any texts I sent them on Instagram either, except once from this guitarist dude in the complex, but he mysteriously unfollowed me later. It seems like out of the people I met and exchanged Instagram with, one or two of them will spontaneously unfollow me every day or two. I imagine the dozen or so people in the category of people I added to Instagram from this co-op I live in will be all gone from my Instagram in a couple of weeks. And this tells me people can’t stop talking about me and finding reasons to hate me while having nothing to do with me. I, of course, spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me. After this last event, I can only say I am glad I didn’t. It just would have added more names to the legion of Lilith accusers trying to drive me crazy. I was stress smoking quite a bit, and the overall vibe was miserable.

Now be advised, Wilson, that this complex is composed of four connected houses. I live in house one, and that’s where the majority of women live who can’t resist the urge to throw up every time I walk through the living room. Rekhilut, the lovely Israeli who called me ugly, creepy, and weird after I told her I wrote a poem about her and then decided it would be better not to show it to her, lives in house two. I don’t know where the rest of the Lilith mafia lives, as I never did get to know the names of my legion of accusers.

Because of all the enemies in house one and probably two, I started hanging out at house four on the opposite end of the complex. There were two Japanese girls who usually liked to watch TV there, and I showed them a movie, Being John Malkovich, and with my translator explained the movie to one of the girls who had just moved in and started studying English. She barely knew any. I offered to teach her English, something that she received well. Interestingly, she asked me during that initial conversation how to ask if someone will go out with them. I thought that was interesting, and quipped, “I’d be glad to go out with you at any time.” She also received that with a smile.

Now this Japanese girl did answer all my texts. Over the next couple of days I didn’t see her because I’d been going to bed super early. So we had a variety of conversations about things she would like to do while here. Aya, of course, reminded me of Chloe, and I had a pretty strong draw to befriend her, get closer to her, maybe adopt her, maybe date her if she wanted, etc. I wrote a poem about her, and on the next day I saw her, she agreed to go for a drink. I ended up paying a $70 tab for three drinks, Wilson! Get me back to Mexico please! We had a good time, though. She read my poem, and it made her smile.

Here is a picture of us having drinks at the Wallflower on Rose Avenue. She looks terrified, doesn’t she?

She had said she wanted to go to a jazz club and an American football game, so I started looking around for places to take her to. I could see a kind of a sugar baby thing developing, though not one that would likely result in my having a girlfriend, but rather would involve me paying a lot of money to hang around with a cute Asian chick who reminded me of Chloe. An Asian chick who spoke no English.

I was adjuring her to concentrate on learning English, and at one point she asked if I was willing to learn Japanese. I said yes, but I was already hardly studying my Hebrew, and my work had been slow going and in many ways disappointing, partly due to lack of effort on my part from all the misery and distractions of my living situation. I was thrilled to be having drinks with a lovely lady and flatmate, finally escaping the Lilith energy of house one. I almost bought a book to learn Japanese, in fact. In retrospect, I am glad I didn’t.

Overall, our texting was more or less entirely normative, casual, and friendly. Things like: what do you want to do in the USA? / I want to travel around and see things, but I don’t have much money / What kind of music do you like? / Japanese pop / I like to go to Jazz clubs / I’d like to go to one of those / I can take you to one. Would you like to go? / yes… and things like that. It was pretty obvious I was interested in taking her around, having some company in this city where friends are impossible to make while filling the burned and bleeding hole in my heart left in the wake of Chloe’s disappearance.

There was only one short exchange that would come back to haunt me. There was a point at which I told her I liked one of her outfits. It was a baggy, torn jeans Asian punk outfit I thought was kind of cool. She asked me which of her outfits I liked, and this engendered a bit of a monolog on my part. See, although she is from Japan, Aya shares in a practice of the LA girls that I described in my Lesbidrome rant post to Julia: her Instagram profile consists almost exclusively of her taking hundreds of pictures of herself. It’s like she wants to be a model. In fact, I asked her at one point if she was a model or was trying to be one. Most of her pictures of herself were of the typical Japanese anime girl type of fashion, seeking to heighten an image of extreme innocence while also being extremely provocative. The typical sexy Japanese schoolgirl kind of look. Lots of skin, revealing clothing, etc.

I commented that those looks were beautiful, but I liked her baggy punk look because it complemented her natural softness. Honestly, Wilson, while I do just love models in revealing clothing, being one to push limits and find extreme artistic expression, the whole sexy child look that many Japanese girls go for kind of strikes me as designed to incite some kind of inner pedophile in your average over-worked, lonely Japanese businessman. I mean, no wonder that country has vending machines where one can buy the dirty panties of teenaged girls to sniff. The Japanese fashion media has really done a number on the poor Japanese guys.

I thought the little exchange was a cool way to pay a nice compliment while flirting a little to see how she reacted to know if things were going to go toward a platonic friendship or in another way, if time would tell if we liked each other in any other way. She didn’t react negatively, and the next day when we went out for drinks, she was wearing the baggy punk outfit I said I liked.

Anyway, the next day after drinks, I sent a couple of links to some Jazz clubs in the area. I say in the area, but taking a Lyft to any of these places was going to cost me $40 each way. I had actually planned on taking a trip to Tijuana in October to get back to feeling like a real man and human being again, but I could see I was going to spend all my money taking this chick around. I wasn’t excited about that. But jazz clubs are fun. Football games are fun. At this particular moment, though, Tijuana is back on the table.

Things get interesting later in the night. Aya didn’t respond as to a preference on the jazz club, but she sometimes responded slowly, I assume on account of her lack of English. But I found the girls watching, you guessed it, the Barbie Movie, and sat down next to her, and she pulled her feet back and scooted a few inches away. I didn’t take that as a good sign. But I assumed it would mean she decided to back off, which would mean I wouldn’t be spending all my money taking her around. All would be well.

However, after heading up to bed after making it through as much of that movie as I could take, one of the house leaders texted me that she needed to talk to me about something. So I went down and found her, and she pulled me into a private room and told me that I had been reported to her for preying on the younger members of the co-op. Aya is 28 years old. She is one of the older members of the co-op, actually. The house leader pretty much yelled at me the whole time, ignoring my pleas to communicate like an adult. She tried to tell me the things I said in texts were inappropriate, but I had gotten no indication that anything was inappropriate from Aya.

During the altercation, the house leader read to me the text exchange where I told Aya that I preferred her baggy punk outfits to the naked Japanese anime child looks that cover her Instagram profile and told me that such communication was completely inappropriate.

I’m not kidding about all this, Wilson. Instead of just telling me, “hey, I’ve changed my mind. I am actually not interested in going out with you or going to any jazz clubs or football games,” Aya thought the appropriate response would be to report me to the leadership of the co-op as a sex predator. Yes, Wilson, it looks like this Halloween is going to be scarier than most.

None of this reminded me of Chloe, Wilson. That girl, at 22 years old, is a complete adult and can tell a person she is not interested in hanging out. Ayas beauty faded instantly and completely for me, and I wouldn’t go to a football game with her if she bought my ticket, beer, and hotdogs.

What would make this chick think that was an appropriate response? The obvious and final answer is that I am surrounded by spiritual enemies, and these enemies are all too happy to work out my Elijah’s curse. I’ve been saying for years that Satan is a one-trick pony. When he wants to get rid of someone, sexual impropriety is his go-to tatic. Look at Ezra Miller, Joss Whedon, Henry Cavill, the Justice League actors I have been following, how they were making movies with profound spiritual meaning, and suddenly half of the crew gets accused of issues of sexual impropriety.

Now this crap has been happening to me for years, with absolutely no connection between people and events. There was the issue with the Iraqi interpreer in 2005, the women of the 201st Battlefield Surveillance Brigade who gave me PTSD in 2011, the van Ouwerkerk incident in 2019, and the Alabama incident in 2022. None of these people knew anything about each other. But it keeps happening over and over. And in absolutely no case did I ever once ever tell a single soul that I wanted to have sex with them, date them, anything. I never got laid. I never got a girlfriend. Nothing. In every single, solitary case, it was just destruction wreaked out on me just for hanging out or just for talking with someone or just for thinking that it might be okay to do so.

But now, at this co-op I’ve been living at, I have gotten the sex predator treatment twice in two months. This tempts me to look for a naturalistic explanation. Apparently I have been correct to assume that there are women enemies everywhere, telling all the women at the place that I am a sex predator, so of course any time I talk to one, I am going to get reported as a sex predator.

Now I live with about 90 people. half or more of them are female. 80% of them are under 30 years old. So not being able to interact with any females under 30 at this place would make human interaction impossible. Every time I would sit down next to a male, there would be an under 30 female around. Any time I sat down next to the three females I know of that are over 30, there would be a female under 30 around.

I’m already having this problem, actually. The Liraz chick had been gone lately. It worked out well for her to start a “Jonathan Bailey Sex Predator Fan Club” and then head off for vacation. But now that she is back, and we live in a matriarchy in which I am the enemy until approved of by all the women around me, I feel on the one hand an urge to somehow get casually cool around this chick enough not to be disturbed by her presence. She is everywhere now. But when I look at her, it’s like somebody put me on a scooter and told me to drive over a 500-lb bomb.

I was in house two for game night last night, after this tengu incident, and in comes Liraz with her new boyfriend and plopped hersef down to play, and I couldn’t do anything but get up and leave. I am not the most normal guy to begin with. I like to have personal one on one conversations with people about art, spirituality, philosophy, and the grand design of life. I’ve never been one to be able to sit down with anybody and rave for hours about how funny Frozen was. Now that I am the house sex predator, how the hell am I supposed to make cool with this chick that I have nothing in common with anyway who took a dump in my face and smeared it all over?

But Wilson, she is everywhere. So house one is my own personal Lesbidrome, house two is Liraz zone with the walking PTSD trigger, and now house four is the house of the tengu. I talk to fewer and fewer people, and day by day fewer and fewer people from here are on my Instagram.

This is the environment in which I am supposed to be finding my voice. I think I need to get out of here. First, I actually do need to take that trip down to Tijuana to remind myself what it’s like to be a human being again. And I need to look for another place to stay. I can go out to bars and take hobbies and meet people like normal people meet people, and if some chick in some bar doesn’t gel with me for some reason, she can tell me so and move herself to the other end of the bar. Too easy. No Satanists have to get involved to inflict my Jezebel curse on me.