Familiar Faces

or that time I accidentally dug up buried parts of myself

Art by Edmund Dulac

You bent yourself into new shapes, an ill-defined rhombus, a furry square, a burning star dimming its own fiery light. You contorted your essence into something more digestible, something more sterile, all in the name of love. You stuffed parts of yourself away, vital parts—animalistic and fierce. That didn’t quite work so you butchered yourself, hands smeared with blood, knives gleaming under the moonlight, and buried it in the deepest recesses of your heart, ignoring its muffled cries. 

All in the name of love or at least that’s what you told yourself. 

This part of you stayed buried for so long, you forgot the animal existed. You continued living, loving, feeling off and out of sorts. Depression set in and you couldn’t get to the root of it. You racked your brain asking why. 

All in the name love. Psychics told you differently, still you ignored the truth, the bitter reality you inhabited. 

You and your lady breakup. Multiple times. Everywhere from Ohio to NYC to LA. You try everything to fix it. Couples therapy, blood magic, vacations. Nothing works. You become amicable, a yes man. Your spine hurts. This shape does not work, it does not fit you; the animal is softly clawing at your ribcage. 

You fall off the grid, you’re barely posting anything on social media. And all of your friend’s voices feel distant and distorted. It’s been years since you attempted to get anything published. Your lady talked you out of it, made the impossible make sense. She didn’t want your light to eclipse her own so you receded deeper into the shadows.

A mere blip.

Someone gives you sage advice on the balcony, a weed shaman, marijuana smoke drifting in the air. Watch her actions, not her words. You take this advice and the actions of your lady are indeed heinous. The truth you’ve been ignoring is too visceral to overlook. Here it is. You let it wash over you like holy water, cleansing you of the false reality you wallowed in. 

Events happens. Events that haunt you. Events that you read about in books and see on TV. Events that crack the porcelain mask of your lover. You’re devastated. 

Heart weeping.

You breakup for good this time, and realize the name of this love was a lie. You’re relieved, you’re free. You’re finally free. A word that feels foreign, almost too spicy for your tongue. You continue living, you continue picking up the pieces of your damaged life, rebuilding, repairing…

A few years pass by and you feel more solid, more whole but not quite. Something is still missing. You hear a soft howl in the distance, but you think it’s your mind playing tricks on you.

Walking to the store, you run across a mangy coyote. You think what are coyotes doing in the part of the city? Strangely, you have no fear as you notice no one else on the sidewalk. You lock eyes with the jackal and it recognizes something feral inside of you, raging to surface, desperate for light. The coyote nods and zooms into the massive parking lot across the street.

You get invited to a party. Something called Familiar Faces in DTLA. The funny thing is the girl who invited you is a hypnotist, someone you made out with after your first date at a shitty sushi joint. Truly a familiar face. 

It’s been two years since this date, since you dipped your toes into the refreshing waters of the 30+ dating pool, and you feel good that you’ve been invited to this birthday celebration. You check your schedule, see you’re free and you say yes, you’ll go. Could be fun, you think. You haven’t experienced fun in so long.

You search online for something casual, something cool. You decide to go with the denim jacket hanging in your closet, some skinny jeans and the Super Rare Muhammad Ali shirt with the colors that pop, the same colors that match your foam kicks. You try on some cheap rose gold earrings you bought off Amazon.

I can’t do this fake shit, you say, looking in the mirror. You toss them aside slightly disgusted with yourself.

You call a Lyft, and hop in. Old Drake spills out the speakers, braggadocious raps, warbled crooning about women in Toronto, and extravagant flexes. The Nissan Altima weaves deeper into LA, deeper into the city. Warehouses and industrial plants pass your window, smoke rollicking from steel towers. Women in tight dresses are huddled together walking in the rain. They say it never rains in Southern California, they lied. Cars are parallel parked on both sides of the street. Electricity thrumming through the air.

There’s a line. A long one. You get anxiety in your gut, wondering if this was a good idea. You reflect, remembering how your ex would berate you and gaslight you for going out, constricting your existence in a straightjacket, each thread one of her insecurities. It’s a miracle you didn’t suffocate. You stopped going out at night even when you became a free man. Funny how freedom is merely a concept without action, without acceptance, without awareness. 

You feel better after this reflection, thinking this is old shit, old baggage, and the driver interrupts. “Shit looks lit.”

“Yeah,” you say getting out the car and walking under the drizzle of warm rain. You get in line and someone scans your ticket. You hold your arms up as a man lightly pats you down for potential weapons.

“You’re good, boss.”

You walk inside the venue, a warehouse. It’s dark, strobe lights gliding over brown skin. Random couches roped off, reserved for large parties. Two bars on two sides of the dance floor, lines emanating from both. You join a line, wondering what to drink. You want a Moscow mule (something not on the menu) but you settle for a Red Bull & vodka. Something you know from the old days when you moved in your original shape. 

You sip it as you move through the sea of swaying bodies, searching for your friend—the birthday girl. She’s not here, you think. Not yet. So you blend in and you listen to the DJ on stage, drunk on power, so drunk on their musical authority over the crowd, their self-awareness is annihilated. The rap music they play is cool, but the transitions suck, the energy is never maintained. It is lost, lost in the darkness, lost in the crowd. 

This DJ is trash, you think, nodding to the music. You check your phone, hoping for an update. No update. You finish your drink and grab another. The alcohol warms your body, the music reverberates throughout your nervous system. You sway. 

You text her. Where are you? The birthday girl, the hypnotist, the Scorpio Sun. The bearer of many titles and the bearer of many names. She hits you back immediately. 

I’m by the Photo Booth thingy lol, she says. Do you see the bright lights?

There’s a Photo Booth with a fake foliage background and a slick logo saying Familiar Faces. Women are lined up, ready to have their photo taken. You search for your friend, but you don’t see her. You wonder if you’ve forgotten her face, her smile. 

You think about texting her again but you see her with a girl leaving the photo booth. The birthday girl is wearing a black dress, a tight black dress, and white ribbons hanging from her hair. Pearls adorn the top of her eyelids. Oh hey, you say, giving her a hug. You look nice, you say, being sincere. She thanks you, raising her voice to be heard over the music, and introduces you to her friend who is a bit taller, wearing a tight orange dress, and you all head to the bar for another drink. 

Sexyy Red’s “Poundtown” plays and the song ends, transitioning into Three 6 Mafia’s “Slob on My Knob.” The birthday girl turns to you, leaning close to your ear. “I hate this. They should be playing higher vibrational music.” 

You simply nod and you begin talking about how great Andre 3000’s new flute album is. Tuned to 432 hz, you say. She seems pleased by this factoid. Isn’t that the heart frequency? She asks.

I don’t know, you say, but it’s healing. 

Two more women somehow join the group and you all head to the back, led by the short girl with the pretty face and the big forehead. You forget her name. There’s a trailer outside, no one else is here. Male and female restrooms gleam under artificial light. Secret shit. The women go inside and you go in the male side, relieving yourself.

You head back inside the warehouse and dance. Men hit on the girls, shooting their shot. You watch these attempts lob off the backboard, missing their mark. A guy with funny hair leans on your shoulder, confused, struggling to process the rejection. He looks at you and says, you her boyfriend? Trying to make sense of it all.

All in the name of the game. All in the name of pussy. All in the name of love.

You say Naw, she’s single. Do you. 

The guy stumbles away. You turn into we for a moment and we dance. We drink. We dance. We head back outside to the trailer, but it’s not so secret this time. Word has spread of the secret bathroom. You hold one of the girl’s coats while she goes inside. She comes back and we share a smoke she pulls out of nowhere. Sativa she proclaims. It hits you the right way.

We head back inside. We dance. We drink. And it’s over. We head back out and it’s 2 something in the morning, asphalt wet. No longer raining. We hop in one of the girl’s cars and she drives us to a parking garage. You get out and hop in the birthday girl’s car and you call a Lyft. You tell her about the shamanic sweat lodge experience and you thank her as the driver approaches. It’s just you now.

You go home and you sleep. 

The next day: work. You’re feeling decent. Eat a red bean donut and guzzle down a purple Amazon energy drink. Once you’re at work, you feel different and you know it’s not the organic caffeine or the sugar high from the donut. Energetic shifts emanating from your heart, soft waves swirling through your chest. What is happening? You reflect, and you tap into your intuition. You consult your high self, waiting for the answer to rise to the surface like a beluga whale. 

You’ve been watering yourself down, you realize. Going out last night unearthed something in you. A small action set off a chain of events within your inner world, a divine catalyst of sorts. A party was more than a party. You feel the animal merging with you, you feel the power surging through your body. You feel tremors running across your chest. You feel good. You feel confident. You feel a long sword in your hand. You feel the weight, the ancient handle made for you and you alone, and you exhale. 

You’re ready to put yourself out there again, you’re ready to cut the doubt from your being, you’re ready to cut down swathes of enemies, you’re ready to carve your own path. Congrats Grant, you are whole again. You are bold and daring.

Your name is Grant Wamack, you remember the syllables. Author of Melancholy’s Finest, Black Gypsies, and God’s Leftovers. You are a tarot reader, a lover, and a friend. You are back, but this time evolved. You think this is the result of the Mars Cazimi (an astrologer on Twitter confirms this), Scorpio Season, dark rebirth, etc.

Either way, you’re ecstatic, brimming with excitement. Intuition heightened, intuition expanded. You can see so much clearly now, perception sharpened to a fine point, a lens cyberpunk engineers can only dream of. 

I mean I’m Grant Wamack and I’m your host. Welcome back to Literary Loud.

I hope things haven’t been too quiet. 

It’s high time we go deeper. Things are just heating up so don’t be surprised if things get even LOUDER around here.

You heard it here first…Bullet Tooth drops Feb. 1st. I’m getting all of my ducks in the row and I’m cooking up something special. I’m doing something a bit different. Exclusive shit, but I’m aiming to have this up for preorder in January and it’ll probably end up on NetGalley and Book Sirens for the reviewers who want an early taste.

Words continue being added to Motorpapi Chronicles 2 and ideas are flooding my brain for various other projects. I also got around to organizing files on my computer and on my phone. I’m tired of scrambling to find a promo image for a book or a specific book cover or a bookmark design. I feel more efficient and prepared for whatever the future brings.

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Currently Watching: Love, Death & Robots Season 3 & Lost Season 1. &
& Castlevania Nocturne & Invincible Season 2 & Caught Up

Currently Reading: Full Throttle by Joe Hill & Cosmic Horror Monthly #2 & An Altar of Stories to Liminal Saints by Rios de la Luz and Violent Faculties by Charlene Elsby & Pedo Island Bloodbath by Duncan Ralston and It Waits in the Woods by Josh Malerman & Broken Katana by E. Rathke

Currently Smoking: Nada

Listening: The Danny Brown Podcast, The Higherside Chats, Agitator, Mutual Aberration Society, and Lost Xplorers

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Bb trickz starts off “Lil peep” with a cocky statement, proclaiming she’s the baddest in Spain and her confidence makes me believe her. Outside of Rosalia, she might be right with her rapid ascension. She rides the Lil Peep sampled track so well I feel like I’m thoroughly invested in her come-up.

This soulful ass Harry Fraud instrumental makes me feel like I can levitate and RXKNephew’s vocal match the heavenly sonics perfectly. Mortal Kombat references, Gucci frames, and shoutout to his auntie…Neph can do no wrong. Really one of the best song about trappin in 2023.

Joeyy invokes Killa Cam with the pink robe and Lil B with the based yet triumphant beat. “Coat I Would Buy” is an ode to that one coat that you can flex in, but keeps you warm at the same time. The Japanese cherry blossoms only enhance the warm vibes.

Kembe X and the production team Hippie Sabotage can do no wrong. Kembe has been bubbling for a minute but if “Pole Vaulting” is any indication, he’s locked in. The way he squeezes into unique pockets in the beat and creates this grim texture with his voice is something that needs to be examined. Kembe’s presence truly is a sauna and I can’t wait for the album to drop.

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Until next time…

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Sign up for a tarot reading with me here.

For business inquiries email grantwamack@gmail.com