(RING MY BELL)
Hollywood magic on a higher frequency.
MEMPHIS, 1979
A young substitute teacher begrudgingly agrees to throw a fish into the mainstream. The fish being her talent. The stream set to the tune of a four-on-the-floor beat.
The song was “Ring My Bell” by Anita Ward, ringing harmonious in the ears of all humans, at 440 Hz.
PARIS, 1941
A live music ban ricochets across Nazi-occupied France. Small clubs begin playing records, in order to dance. Circumnavigating the ban on bands. The discotheque is born from human necessity for joy in the face of oppression.
Or — if you were able — to make an escape from it all for a record’s worth.
NEW YORK, 1973
Modern disco takes root underground again, in city clubs. Hot and sweaty spaces of inclusivity. People dancing with an intimate freedom to songs that supercharged connectivity. The songs tickled the good brain chemicals.
And yes, some enjoyed the spiral of disco sound because they matched the same freak as a razor sharp line of cocaine, and hit the same beat as a key bump.
That’s neither here nor there. Disco was cool because it offered everyone, even and especially, those on the fringe… a chance to exist free of inhibition. A lingering love from the hippie era. Feelings felt and wanted in a time when idealism was traded for paranoia and war within a decade.
WASHINGTON, D.C., 1980
Soon, disco would travel to the place where cool things go to die… the mainstream. Some might say. What was once cool, was ironed out, rinsed out — making the authentic… begrudgingly, generic.
One month after Anita Ward released “Ring My Bell” in 1979, an annoyingly-named rally took place in Chicago, marking the death of disco and its monopoly on the stream. Applauded by punks and Christian rockers, alike, swimming up river.
After Disco Demolition Night, bells would no longer ring. Certainly not on dancefloors. In came Reagan, in came conservatism, in came country music, along with Christian nationalism and trickle down tears. Harmonious sound, out. Patriotic narrative, in. A cultural switcheroo! 440 Hz for pick-up trucks.
HENAN PROVINCE, CHINA, 1000 BC
The Zhou dynasty is at its height, and a celebration is attended by high-ranking society. At the end of the evening, guests listened, swaying to 7,000 Bronze Age bianzhong bells ringing in two-tone harmony.
Clinging and clanging. Ringing and dinging off-beat, but in unison. A traditional ritual strung together within a harmonious, high-frequency. Chiming with sonic power. Fireworks would not come for centuries.
LOS ANGELES, 2026
The information-sharing power of the digital age brought “Ring My Bell” back to the airwaves and into public discourse. Online trends stamped the disco hit as a song of abundance after news spread of its universal ban in casinos. The song’s 440 Hz frequency, apparently, alters the universal truth that the house always wins.
‘Twas word in the feed. Reading between the lines of disinformation, the feed was speaking a lot truth that winter.
It was barely even February before the world was forced to grapple with millions of pages of (a tad too satanic and) non-sensical information. Humans had very little time to string together the headlines and process them. Though, one banner statement started becoming clearer and clearer. A reality pushing the world further and further through the looking glass.
Conspiracies were once exceptions, but now… they seemed to outline the very framework for all the rules.
It was non-sensical because the news left the humans furrowing their eyebrows as of recent. Asking, “is this a joke or should I pack a bag?” Until, the follow-up. “Now, where the feck am I going to go?”
It all left the humans, even the witchy ones, thirsting to feel the ground. Use all the senses. Kiss, and sweat, and dance, and cook. The world was living inside an orchestrated drought of authenticity.
For the purpose of this narrative, thou shall ignore the fact that AI is sucking all the water out of the ground. Like a winter chill to a pair o’ lips!
Back to the conspiracy bells. “Ring My Bell” launched back into the zeitgeist when it was needed most, just like “Dreams” did with the skateboarder and that jug of Ocean Spray. The zeitgeist is only a matter of coincidence. Sure!
For the purpose of this narrative, thou shall ignore the fact that a certain witch’s favorite song was “Dreams.” A certain witch who also drank Ocean Spray as a kid like an alcoholic.
Coincidence catapulted this disco track into the stratosphere at a time of intense speculation around technological mind control, and an intense reality of economic inflation… It is no coincidence that the song hit a nerve with listeners in this moment. Especially, since the song has chimed confidently at 440 Hz since 1979.
Anita Ward might be banned from the casinos, but the house doesn’t necessarily always win in the digital age. The algorithm is built for profit, like casinos, so if the consumer likes the song, the song will proliferate. Even if the song frees the people. A lot of tech titans were coming to that ill-timed realization rather quickly in 2026.
The point of this omniscient narrator? Sound is powerful. Save for science, magic is the obvious root cause for certain harmonious sounds. Songs tuned to 440 Hz, for example, sonically-orchestrate harmony, clarity, consistency, and brilliance within listeners. Whether made true by a conspiracy theory or not. It was 2026! Everything was up in the air! Theories and truths suddenly became interchangeable.
Maybe the trendsetters, critics and commenters were right. Maybe it was the age of untruth, indeed. When those who controlled the narrative could no longer control it, the truth came to light, free of its restraints. The real juggernaut for the general populace was accepting that the truth was seemingly-embedded inside things labeled as heresy. Truths understood as untruths.
Now — there’s no need to remind a New England witch of what heresy means. It’s like asking that same witch if she knows a Puritan.
Joanie Oyster got curtain bangs as winter drew to a close. Or rather, as winter splatter-painted to a close. The shellfish sister chose to watch the world behind drapes for spring. She was exhausted. She got these training-bangs as the Santa Ana winds blew into Los Angeles. Wisps of healthy hair blew like willows in the wind that March.
The timing was not ideal, but these sorts of things were not Joanie’s specialty. Booking appointments and the like, or what she referred to as the “paperwork of life.” She couldn’t be bothered by it, which was obviously more a curse than a blessing. It was an executive-functioning issue, apparently. Joanie was unpacking a lot. Hence, the half-off bangs.
She went to California to get her taste back. Ugh, long COVID knew no bounds. She moved to feel her life with all her senses, for the first time. Yet, that winter, the world seemed to spin like a tornado at the top, and both witches desperately wanted to twirl at the bottom. With feet planted firmly on the ground and life, all there — just waiting to be picked up.. The Oyster gazes were small in those days. Insular. They wanted to throw their phones off cliffs. One on even days, the other on odds.
It was all a bit too much. Jobs, jury duty, scheduled payments, societal collapse, and otherwise. Evie got the flu and watched three seasons of Bridgerton. Joanie fixed elixirs and their mum sent them three pints of ice cream from a land far, far away. A land called home. Evie, ever- the energizer bunny, slowed for a few days. In-between chills and fever spells. Joanie, ever- the anxious, ate ice cream straight from the pint and joined in on some period drama.
The two of them engaged in a certain-kind of survival mode, common in those days. Intentional auto-pilot. A necessary frock for winter that year. Why? Well, the malaise and disillusionment, of course! All the uncertainty! The lunacy, really. It was all a bit too much. Tack on a blizzard or two, a war, or rather, a not-war. Or whatever doublethink du jour. Too fecking much. Everywhere, and all at once.
Remember, these witches came to California for grounding. For clarity. For harmony. For healing. They came to pull a Don Draper, but have that be the beginning of the story. Intentional auto-pilot was NOT on the preferred menu. In protest, the two witches gossiped over coffee, hidden in Laurel Canyon, and bought flowers when the sun was too irresistible. Joanie would stare at the one late-blooming lily in the vase until its petals finally burst. She fought every instinct to force a bloom. She rolled her eyes at her impossible metaphor.
The witches lived in a world of friction. They came for the sun, and all the other elements. Elements to be felt through all the senses. Los Angeles was the place to bloom like a lily, so to speak. They searched for shortcuts, ones that provided intense grounding during a time of pixelated chaos. Something became clear to Joanie… something Evie had chewed and swallowed years previous… one could retreat from expectation.
The game was rigged, stop playing. It was the push and pull. The need for delicious stability and an utter disgust with the entire rulebook.
Powerfully-magical, the Oyster sisters were like everyone else that winter. Morally and mentally-exhausted. And like one of those adorable, wee cherubs fluttering down from the sky, a cheeky boy from Northern England dropped a new pop album. Right when the girlies needed it most. Suddenly, spring was feeling different.
The first buds of a new season were sounding like ancient bells waiting to be rung even louder. These ringing bells urged listeners to kiss all the time, and disco, occasionally. Like many, many feminists, the powerful witches were seemingly under the spell of this certain pop star.
Dream Sequence.
A piano sings four notes.
Joanie wakes up to a tickling ocean breeze. Aside from the obvious feelings that all humans crave, a breeze blowing gently through the window was Joanie’s favorite feeling. Evie, too. Napping on couches, one street over from the Atlantic made this peaceful predicament, a familiar feeling. Though, Joanie had been persuaded. There was nothing like a California sun, especially in the morning. Today, life felt iridescent. Another day living in a dreamscape.
Before opening her eyes, she sunk into the breeze caressing her face. Something felt different about this morning. She woke up. Opened her eyes. Her house was not her house, but she was not Dorothy. She was confused. Joanie was a witch. Magic was familiar. Though, the extreme makeover, home edition was peculiar. Even for her.
Joanie heard singing down the hallway and followed the sound. It didn’t sound like her sister. Of course, it was the mid-century modern beach house of her dreams. This should have been her first and only clue. Joanie walked into the kitchen. Walking felt more like floating. There on the counter was a plate of warm chocolate croissants. The second clue.
She still could hear singing and obviously, the witch was entranced. She was not asking the right questions. Just floating through a dream. A trail of croissant crumbs following her bare feet. Outside, there was the sun and the ocean and the breeze. Her perfect house was lodged into the hills of Los Angeles. Coastal living in the storytelling capital of the (western) world. Too good to be true. French pastries and the gentle tickle of the Pacific. Please! In 2026? This was not reality, but Joanie didn’t care to ask questions. The plight of so many humans in the digital age.
Still, there was this singing that was turning an all-powerful witch into Pavlov’s dog. Clue number THREE. Joanie followed the singing to an outdoor shower. She loved an outdoor shower with every bone in her body. They reminded her of her childhood. Charmed, of course. Rough sea wood surrounding a spigot on the side of beach cottage. A rogue bar of soap sitting on a ledge as if it had been there since the dinosaurs. She walked to the door, the lyrics now able to be understood by listening ears.
“Did you get your taste back? You just need a little love.”
There was absolutely no way one of the world’s biggest pop stars was singing about love inside an outdoor shower. A British man shampooing, just waiting for Joanie. Absolutely, no way. The odds were zero on Polymarket. She went to open the door of the shower. It was a squeaky clean fantasy that suddenly went POP like a bubble.
She woke up again, but now, in her crumbling Hollywood bungalow. Laundry on one side of her bed like a lover. Cotton blankets tangled around her legs and the Santa Ana winds blowing in from overnight. Evie was getting ready for work. Playing this new pop album on its highest frequency while she brushed her teeth down the hall.
Then, a news bulletin dropped and the phone buzzed. There were more news bulletins than bombs in those days, which was a pretty impossible feat considering the incapable powers were starting wars everywhere. All at once. The headline read…
California could be attacked by drones off the coast because of Iran war, FBI memo warns. California officials downplay threat as there is no credible evidence.
The lesson?
Swishing and swaying to a cheeky boy from Northern England felt a whole lot better than the alternative waiting in the algorithm. And in this recharge and refresh from music and the sun, the witches were able communicate an important lesson that they sent up into the hazy skies of Hollywood.
Listen for the harmony and follow it. It may be vibrating at a higher frequency, only known when truly heard. It might be a pop sound eliminating the restraints of inhibition. Listen for the thing that feels like ringing bells. Follow sounds on a 440 Hz frequency.
This harmony is clarifying, clearing the mind and creating peace within. And it was a form of magic the Oyster witches were experimenting with in those days. There’s a reason they worked so well with sound and loved music more than most things. The sound unlocked their own magic.
Spring was coming and all’s to say, these two sisters needed live music like vampires need blood. Though, this is a whale of a tale. It’s fiction. Don’t read too much into it.