Insomnia does strange things to you.
Awake at one in the morning. I've been lying there for over two hours and it's going to be at least another hour before I fall asleep. It's not quite dark and it's not quite silent.
Even though I'm too tired to move, I'm wide awake. My eyes wide open. Staring at everything and nothing.
I do a lot of thinking. I think about chaos. I think about the people I've met and the things I've always wanted to say to them. I think about sex and how much I hate it. I think about loneliness.
I do a lot of writing. About hatred. About the end of the world. About love. All of it forgotten by the following morning. I try to hold on to it, but it's always gone.
I do a lot of remembering.
I think about the very, very small scars on my arms. I think about how much blood I was able to draw using a piece of broken glass, the lattice of scratches turning my skin into a bloody mess. That's invisible now. No scars.
I think about the terrible secret, the one I discovered at the age of twelve, the one that I know I remember but it slips away from me every time I try to see it. I think about the one time I was able to remember, when I collapsed, overwhelmed with grief, crying for the first time in months.
I think about my past girlfriends and what I've done to them. I think about Danica. I think about the people who are vulnerable to me. I blame myself for everything. Part of me still thinks I'm a monster.
I think about being hurt. I don't enjoy it but I'm still driven towards it.
I think about going downstairs. I'm hungry. Maybe something to drink will help me sleep. No. There are knives downstairs. And no one around. If I go downstairs I'm going to carve myself up.
I stare at the clock. 1:36. The past fourteen minutes have taken a very, very long time to pass.
I think about going downstairs.
If I go downstairs in this state, I'm going to kill myself.
I think about going downstairs anyway.
My lip trembles.
It spreads. My jaw. My neck. My whole head, shaking. It grows.
No.
No.
I haven't had spasms in the night for over a year.
I fold my arms over my chest. They begin to tremble. It spreads to my hands. I raise one arm and try to intensify it, isolate it. Gradually my head stops, my left arm stops. My right hand thrashes furiously, fingers clenched, muscles twisted. Then... I let it go.
It leaves me.
I relax for a second. It hovers over me, a twisting, snarling blob of darkness. Then it returns, strangling me, smothering my head. I can't breathe, I can't think. I choke out what sounds uncomfortably like a death rattle.
Then it's over.
I look toward the clock. 7:42. Before my eyes close again I smile.
I made it.
Dec 29, 2008
Dec 27, 2008
Inside and out
"So," said Styx. He and Lank stood on the edge of the forest, staring at the world stretching out before them. "Our quest begins." He stretched and steadied himself. "Where to begin?"
Lank scratched his head lazily. "Obviously they're at Grandfather's Mountain. Where else would they be? It's bad, but, you know, where else?" The pair looked to their left, where far away a menacing purple mountain loomed. Flashes of dark light burst forth from the doom fortress built into it. "Although perhaps that's not a good place to start," he finished hurriedly. "I think the Broken plains would be the best place."
"Let's go there, then." And the pair went to the Broken plains. "Now," said Styx, "surely there must be something here..."
"Wait," muttered Lank. "How did we get here so fast?..."
Styx shrugged dismissively. "This is our world. Its size is disproportionate to its surface area because it's convenient. We can do anything we want here."
"Really?" Lank began to float.
"But not that." He tumbled to the ground in a cluttered heap. "We're not gods, you know." They avoided looking back to the blue mountain. No need to drag Skeleton into this.
"The rules here make no sense," Lank grumbled.
"A lot of it's arbitrary. We are a chaotic being, after all." They nodded sadly.
A short distance away was a patch of scorched grass. The grazing bull creatures eyed them warily but casually nearby. In the center was what appeared to be an old campfire. "Someone was here," he said. He poked the remains with is foot. Suddenly it burst upward into a balloon of fire, setting the shocked identity state alight. The pair stood for a few seconds, perplexed, as he burned. Then Lank pointed. "The stream!" he yelled, moving forward, and when a stream of running water failed to appear he settled for hurling himself into one of the cracks that covered the plain.
Styx jumped after him into the hole, landing on soft dirt about a metre down. This he began packing onto the still-burning Lank, muttering "This is bad, this is bad," under his breath. Then the earth opened up beneath them and swallowed them.
Beneath the Broken Plains, Styx and Lank awoke. They were in a cavern with a low ceiling. A small, gnomelike creature huddled nearby, beneath where the fire pit had been, crying.
"Okay, I've had enough of this," said Lank. "Freeze." The creature froze in place. Lank turned to Styx. "This is pointless. We're going nowhere."
"We are going," said Styx, "where we're meant to go. Once we're finished we'll have what we came for."
"But it's meaningless!" cried Lank, aggravated. He began to pace, flinging his arms about wildly. "We're just going to blunder about endlessly, finding nothing. Because we're making this up as we go along. This is our mind." He turned to Styx. "Our world."
"But it's not just us. The others are a part of it too."
"The others are just as bound by it as we are. We won't find anything in this world. Not like this." He sighed. "Look at the fire trap. That was put there, by one of us. Because we were expecting to find it. But we didn't know what it was for, so it blew up in our faces. This gnome thing is no different, as well as anyone or anything else we may happen to meet on this quest. It's our invention. We can't tell ourselves anything we don't already know. Our efforts will be fruitless. If we never find what we're looking for - our siblings - or even the secrets of our past - what then?" He stared at Styx mournfully. "What then?"
Styx was silent for a long time. He looked up. "What do you propose we do?"
"I think you know."
He sighed. "Well, under different circumstances I'd suggest we finish our search here, gain experience, pick up new allies along the way, explore the Rocks, find the secret at the heart of the Dredge ship, discover if the Hanging Forest is real, pick up a new weapon, go to Grandfather's Mountain to rescue our brother and sisters, stop by the Peak to seek Skeleton's aid, then collectively head to the Chasm for a final confrontation against our demons. However, since we're bound by our internal systems, such a scheme would undoubtedly draw us deeper into this deceptive web of our own devising. So..." he stared blankly into space. "We've got to somehow cheat the system."
All around the cavern collapsed. What was left was blackness. Lank looked around sadly. "Our world isn't real."
"Our world is as real as it needs to be. Everything here exists in one form or another. All that changes is our perception. Just because it's unreal doesn't mean it's a lie."
"But nothing is as it seems. Inside and out, we have no way of knowing what's real and what's not. Our perceptions are skewed."
"We see what's important. Is that not good enough?"
"I don't know." He closed his eyes and sighed. "So much fear, so much uncertainty. So much pain. Is a different sense of reality worth that?" Silence. "How can we know what's important when we don't know what's real?" More silence. "Am I real?"
The pair did not say anything for a long time.
Lank scratched his head lazily. "Obviously they're at Grandfather's Mountain. Where else would they be? It's bad, but, you know, where else?" The pair looked to their left, where far away a menacing purple mountain loomed. Flashes of dark light burst forth from the doom fortress built into it. "Although perhaps that's not a good place to start," he finished hurriedly. "I think the Broken plains would be the best place."
"Let's go there, then." And the pair went to the Broken plains. "Now," said Styx, "surely there must be something here..."
"Wait," muttered Lank. "How did we get here so fast?..."
Styx shrugged dismissively. "This is our world. Its size is disproportionate to its surface area because it's convenient. We can do anything we want here."
"Really?" Lank began to float.
"But not that." He tumbled to the ground in a cluttered heap. "We're not gods, you know." They avoided looking back to the blue mountain. No need to drag Skeleton into this.
"The rules here make no sense," Lank grumbled.
"A lot of it's arbitrary. We are a chaotic being, after all." They nodded sadly.
A short distance away was a patch of scorched grass. The grazing bull creatures eyed them warily but casually nearby. In the center was what appeared to be an old campfire. "Someone was here," he said. He poked the remains with is foot. Suddenly it burst upward into a balloon of fire, setting the shocked identity state alight. The pair stood for a few seconds, perplexed, as he burned. Then Lank pointed. "The stream!" he yelled, moving forward, and when a stream of running water failed to appear he settled for hurling himself into one of the cracks that covered the plain.
Styx jumped after him into the hole, landing on soft dirt about a metre down. This he began packing onto the still-burning Lank, muttering "This is bad, this is bad," under his breath. Then the earth opened up beneath them and swallowed them.
Beneath the Broken Plains, Styx and Lank awoke. They were in a cavern with a low ceiling. A small, gnomelike creature huddled nearby, beneath where the fire pit had been, crying.
"Okay, I've had enough of this," said Lank. "Freeze." The creature froze in place. Lank turned to Styx. "This is pointless. We're going nowhere."
"We are going," said Styx, "where we're meant to go. Once we're finished we'll have what we came for."
"But it's meaningless!" cried Lank, aggravated. He began to pace, flinging his arms about wildly. "We're just going to blunder about endlessly, finding nothing. Because we're making this up as we go along. This is our mind." He turned to Styx. "Our world."
"But it's not just us. The others are a part of it too."
"The others are just as bound by it as we are. We won't find anything in this world. Not like this." He sighed. "Look at the fire trap. That was put there, by one of us. Because we were expecting to find it. But we didn't know what it was for, so it blew up in our faces. This gnome thing is no different, as well as anyone or anything else we may happen to meet on this quest. It's our invention. We can't tell ourselves anything we don't already know. Our efforts will be fruitless. If we never find what we're looking for - our siblings - or even the secrets of our past - what then?" He stared at Styx mournfully. "What then?"
Styx was silent for a long time. He looked up. "What do you propose we do?"
"I think you know."
He sighed. "Well, under different circumstances I'd suggest we finish our search here, gain experience, pick up new allies along the way, explore the Rocks, find the secret at the heart of the Dredge ship, discover if the Hanging Forest is real, pick up a new weapon, go to Grandfather's Mountain to rescue our brother and sisters, stop by the Peak to seek Skeleton's aid, then collectively head to the Chasm for a final confrontation against our demons. However, since we're bound by our internal systems, such a scheme would undoubtedly draw us deeper into this deceptive web of our own devising. So..." he stared blankly into space. "We've got to somehow cheat the system."
All around the cavern collapsed. What was left was blackness. Lank looked around sadly. "Our world isn't real."
"Our world is as real as it needs to be. Everything here exists in one form or another. All that changes is our perception. Just because it's unreal doesn't mean it's a lie."
"But nothing is as it seems. Inside and out, we have no way of knowing what's real and what's not. Our perceptions are skewed."
"We see what's important. Is that not good enough?"
"I don't know." He closed his eyes and sighed. "So much fear, so much uncertainty. So much pain. Is a different sense of reality worth that?" Silence. "How can we know what's important when we don't know what's real?" More silence. "Am I real?"
The pair did not say anything for a long time.
Dec 23, 2008
Baraev Neu Wereld
Still not sleeping. But that's probably my fault.
There's in my mind a mountain, now. It's blue. To what we've arbitrarily decided is the north face it's hilly with forest patches, while to the south it's steep and rocky. It has a small, snow-capped spire where Skeleton and the haich live. Despite their past rivalries we haven't heard any trouble from them. I wonder if they've finally come to a peaceful settlement.
To the north are the Broken Plains, a series of rolling grassy plains with large cracks and gashes running across it. Strange creatures like bulls roam it. To the east is the Dredge, a wet and slimy swamp. There's a massive ship mostly submerged in it, the bow sticking out at a crazy angle. To the south is the Chasm. It's a bad place. Southeast are the Rocks, which are pretty much just rocks. To the west there is possibly the Hanging Forest, consisting mostly of mushrooms, but since this was reported by Prophet in one of his moods it's entirely possible this was a hallucination.
To the northwest there's a second mountain, tall and narrow. The land around it is barren, storm clouds surround it, and the sky fades to a grim purple. Dark birds circle it, its peaks are jagged, and built into the side is an unmistakable Doom Fortress. It is Grandfather's Mountain. It is also a bad place.
And so much of this brave new world remains undiscovered. We have to explore it, and quickly. Away from the peak only Styx, Wraith, Prophet and IMPACT have been found. We don't know where the others are. It's possible they're in danger, absurd as that may sound. We have to find them. Soon.
I'm so sick of spiritual healing.
Healing is for each person what they need it to be. For most it's a painkiller, allergy medication, or even a placebo. Whatever it takes to keep that person happy and functioning. For me it's like heart surgery. Being touched by God feels like having my innards cut apart and stitched back together. I know, it's all in the name of making me better, but it hurts. Words can't describe how much it hurts. And it serves as a constant reminder that I need to be fixed. Sometimes I wonder if being healed is really worth this. I think about cutting myself free and letting myself bleed.
But of course. I can't do that.
I'm not a bad person. Just a little misguided.
And I like to destroy things.
But come now, enough of this pessimistic banter! It's nearly Christmas. True, it's become a facade of commercialism in recent years and historically it should be celebrated in the middle of March, but this is still the time for peace and love and goodwill toward men. And political correctness be damned. Just over two thousand of our years ago a man was born who completely changed the face of the earth. Show me anyone else in the whole of history who was so important that their birthday is so celebrated after that long.
In honor of that, I pledge to not speak another pessimistic or depressing word for the next few days. This is a happy time. Or else. There'll be not talk of chaos, or self-harm, and absolutely none of heartbreak. Let us be joyous. Now.
If you don't hear from me till then, a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good afternoon. Share the love.
There's in my mind a mountain, now. It's blue. To what we've arbitrarily decided is the north face it's hilly with forest patches, while to the south it's steep and rocky. It has a small, snow-capped spire where Skeleton and the haich live. Despite their past rivalries we haven't heard any trouble from them. I wonder if they've finally come to a peaceful settlement.
To the north are the Broken Plains, a series of rolling grassy plains with large cracks and gashes running across it. Strange creatures like bulls roam it. To the east is the Dredge, a wet and slimy swamp. There's a massive ship mostly submerged in it, the bow sticking out at a crazy angle. To the south is the Chasm. It's a bad place. Southeast are the Rocks, which are pretty much just rocks. To the west there is possibly the Hanging Forest, consisting mostly of mushrooms, but since this was reported by Prophet in one of his moods it's entirely possible this was a hallucination.
To the northwest there's a second mountain, tall and narrow. The land around it is barren, storm clouds surround it, and the sky fades to a grim purple. Dark birds circle it, its peaks are jagged, and built into the side is an unmistakable Doom Fortress. It is Grandfather's Mountain. It is also a bad place.
And so much of this brave new world remains undiscovered. We have to explore it, and quickly. Away from the peak only Styx, Wraith, Prophet and IMPACT have been found. We don't know where the others are. It's possible they're in danger, absurd as that may sound. We have to find them. Soon.
I'm so sick of spiritual healing.
Healing is for each person what they need it to be. For most it's a painkiller, allergy medication, or even a placebo. Whatever it takes to keep that person happy and functioning. For me it's like heart surgery. Being touched by God feels like having my innards cut apart and stitched back together. I know, it's all in the name of making me better, but it hurts. Words can't describe how much it hurts. And it serves as a constant reminder that I need to be fixed. Sometimes I wonder if being healed is really worth this. I think about cutting myself free and letting myself bleed.
But of course. I can't do that.
I'm not a bad person. Just a little misguided.
And I like to destroy things.
But come now, enough of this pessimistic banter! It's nearly Christmas. True, it's become a facade of commercialism in recent years and historically it should be celebrated in the middle of March, but this is still the time for peace and love and goodwill toward men. And political correctness be damned. Just over two thousand of our years ago a man was born who completely changed the face of the earth. Show me anyone else in the whole of history who was so important that their birthday is so celebrated after that long.
In honor of that, I pledge to not speak another pessimistic or depressing word for the next few days. This is a happy time. Or else. There'll be not talk of chaos, or self-harm, and absolutely none of heartbreak. Let us be joyous. Now.
If you don't hear from me till then, a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good afternoon. Share the love.
Dec 16, 2008
So am I dead, or what?
Well, this is certainly a puzzle.
It happened on Thursday. Thursday, of all days... it never goes quite the way you expect it. I crawled back inside covered in snow, freezing even by my standards, barely able to walk. I haven't improved much since then, though I'm able to get about just fine. My head feels like it's been carpet bombed. My insides feel smashed and misshapen, with a splinter of ice running right down the middle of my body. I'm tired, as though I haven't slept for weeks. Constantly. And I'm not exactly sleeping well either. I'm careening between feeling like I'm going to pass out or burst into tears. Emotions are running wild. Not a day goes by when I haven't been triggered or slipped into a pit of depression. I can't concentrate on anything. The Rooms are in chaos; alters are switching out seemingly at random. Spiritually it feels like something prickly crawled into my soul and died. I'm broken, bleeding and falling apart on all three levels. To top it off I'm getting a fever.
And yet... somehow... I survived.
We have made what we call the Pact of the Banshee. (Because we like silly names.) Long story short, so long as we can prove that there's still hope we're allowed to live. Dum spiro, spero. While I breathe, I hope. Life goes on... for now.
Perhaps this is for the best. I believe in strength through adversary: that which does not kill you only makes you stronger. Maybe this was a gift... on the other hand, if my condition deteriorates, or if it strikes again, I almost certainly won't survive.
Curious to think about it. Death. But not right now.
Anyway. Point is the nightmare is over for now. The skies are clear again. Time to rest, to recover. And I'll be able to say, "In my darkest hour, I stood against the darkness... and I survived."
It happened on Thursday. Thursday, of all days... it never goes quite the way you expect it. I crawled back inside covered in snow, freezing even by my standards, barely able to walk. I haven't improved much since then, though I'm able to get about just fine. My head feels like it's been carpet bombed. My insides feel smashed and misshapen, with a splinter of ice running right down the middle of my body. I'm tired, as though I haven't slept for weeks. Constantly. And I'm not exactly sleeping well either. I'm careening between feeling like I'm going to pass out or burst into tears. Emotions are running wild. Not a day goes by when I haven't been triggered or slipped into a pit of depression. I can't concentrate on anything. The Rooms are in chaos; alters are switching out seemingly at random. Spiritually it feels like something prickly crawled into my soul and died. I'm broken, bleeding and falling apart on all three levels. To top it off I'm getting a fever.
And yet... somehow... I survived.
We have made what we call the Pact of the Banshee. (Because we like silly names.) Long story short, so long as we can prove that there's still hope we're allowed to live. Dum spiro, spero. While I breathe, I hope. Life goes on... for now.
Perhaps this is for the best. I believe in strength through adversary: that which does not kill you only makes you stronger. Maybe this was a gift... on the other hand, if my condition deteriorates, or if it strikes again, I almost certainly won't survive.
Curious to think about it. Death. But not right now.
Anyway. Point is the nightmare is over for now. The skies are clear again. Time to rest, to recover. And I'll be able to say, "In my darkest hour, I stood against the darkness... and I survived."
Dec 8, 2008
Just a couple of days
Soon. Very, very soon. Almost certainly this week. Before Friday, no doubt. It's going to happen.
I've gone over every possible scenario in my head. Will it be light or darkness? A battle, a message, an offering? Will I arrive at the appointed place and find nothing, the ultimate betrayal? I don't know. This was officially predicted ten months ago, and signs pointing to it have appeared for even longer. You'd think I'd be ready. Hells no I'm not. There's so much more I have to do... messages. Gifts. Final words. If anything should happen to me, people are going to want to know why.
And yet I can't. I'm a bundle of guilt and anxiety - I never feel this bad about anything - and I can't even bring myself to talk to anyone. I have to let someone know... just in case this is the end.
I guess for now all I can do is speak my mind here. Such as it is. Presumably at some point this will be read.
Speaking of which, Jane... strange that you, my unexpected commenter, should be a matter of such interest. It's rare that anyone takes interest in a character such as myself, so forgive me if I seem suspiciously intrigued by someone entering my (albeit public) domain. You are a welcome distraction. I thank you.
...I haven't slept in a good long time and it's really starting to show.
Anyway. The December event will happen soon. This I know for certain. I need to prepare. And prepare fast. If I'm going down in fire and flames then dammit I want people to know why.
I wonder if this is gibberish. Can't be bothered to check.
I've gone over every possible scenario in my head. Will it be light or darkness? A battle, a message, an offering? Will I arrive at the appointed place and find nothing, the ultimate betrayal? I don't know. This was officially predicted ten months ago, and signs pointing to it have appeared for even longer. You'd think I'd be ready. Hells no I'm not. There's so much more I have to do... messages. Gifts. Final words. If anything should happen to me, people are going to want to know why.
And yet I can't. I'm a bundle of guilt and anxiety - I never feel this bad about anything - and I can't even bring myself to talk to anyone. I have to let someone know... just in case this is the end.
I guess for now all I can do is speak my mind here. Such as it is. Presumably at some point this will be read.
Speaking of which, Jane... strange that you, my unexpected commenter, should be a matter of such interest. It's rare that anyone takes interest in a character such as myself, so forgive me if I seem suspiciously intrigued by someone entering my (albeit public) domain. You are a welcome distraction. I thank you.
...I haven't slept in a good long time and it's really starting to show.
Anyway. The December event will happen soon. This I know for certain. I need to prepare. And prepare fast. If I'm going down in fire and flames then dammit I want people to know why.
I wonder if this is gibberish. Can't be bothered to check.
Dec 4, 2008
The usual banter
You know what bothers me? Well,
Got a haircut. Worrying about it.
Very tired. VERY tired.
- God is not in the sky. Well, technically He is, but I don't think it's right to define a being that exists in every point in the Universe at the same time as being simply "up".
- On that note, if God says to love everyone, does that mean we should also love Satan and all his demon friends? Do we make an exception for ultimate evils or not? I'm not sure.
- I'm worried about how I smell again. I don't really have a good sense of smell, so I can't tell if I'm just fine or repulsive. How do I smell? I don't know.
- On that note, I don't know what I look like. I mean, I can see myself in mirrors and pictures, but facial recognition just doesn't kick in. I never recognize myself. I wish someone would just tell me what I look like.
- On that note, I wish someone would just describe myself to me. And I don't mean in a general way, I mean specifically. I'm sick of self-examination, I want a full psychological analysis. I want someone to be able to tell me why I think the way I do, why I do things, why I twitch, why I get tired, and so on. I want someone to know me better than I know myself, and tell me what they see. Is that weird?
- I have no idea what to get people for Christmas. I'm not good with gifts. I feel obligated to outdo myself and then guilty when I don't. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear in a corner somewhere and have everyone forget about me until the new year.
Got a haircut. Worrying about it.
Very tired. VERY tired.
Dec 1, 2008
And so the end nears
First day of December. How do I feel?
It's strange. There's a chill on the air, a kind of apprehension buried beneath smoke. Now is the time to get things done. I might not get another chance.
We're wearing a cross. The little gold necklace. Skeleton's orders. It makes sense; if the worst should happen a holy symbol may be no end of help. Still though... when I put it on I feel tired, dizzy, prone to headaches. I swear the thing burns slightly where it touches me. I can't eat when it's pressed against my skin, it nauseates me. I think it's going to continue to hurt me so long as I believe that it will. It's better than the alternative. However, that borders on Things Too Terrible To Contemplate (TTTTC) so it's best to leave that alone.
I've decided I'm going to do push-ups. Lots of them. True, I'm not really built for that kind of thing judging by the shape of my arms and neck, but... I don't really know. Just one of those things.
Work to do. Lit and Anthro. School is really wearing me down.
Did I mention summer camp? I'm signed up for four weeks of camp in the summer. Or so. Much of it is a canoe trip out into the wilderness. Just paddling out with food and tents and going around rivers for a week or two. Fun or hell? That's yet to be decided.
Oh, and I read Twilight. In a single night, if you're interested, which is why I've been so tired all of today. And I refuse to comment. I know everyone else in pretty much the entire world has something to say about the series or the movie or whatever, so I'm defying conformity by saying nothing. You do not get to hear my opinion. As far as you know I have no opinion. The fact that I read it all at once can be attributed to boredom, or not having any reasonable idea of when is a good time to go to bed, and not to the fact that I couldn't put it down. Maybe I was enjoying it and maybe I wasn't. I lowered myself to mentioning The Dark Knight, but this cultural phenomenon has left me untouched! I am the only blogger in the world who has read the book and not voiced an opinion! Revel in my power! Hahahahahahahaha!
(Of course, Danica will beat it out of me within minutes of reading this, but let me enjoy it while I can...)
I have work that I should be doing. That I really, really need to do. What am I still doing here? Stop blogging and start working right this inst
It's strange. There's a chill on the air, a kind of apprehension buried beneath smoke. Now is the time to get things done. I might not get another chance.
We're wearing a cross. The little gold necklace. Skeleton's orders. It makes sense; if the worst should happen a holy symbol may be no end of help. Still though... when I put it on I feel tired, dizzy, prone to headaches. I swear the thing burns slightly where it touches me. I can't eat when it's pressed against my skin, it nauseates me. I think it's going to continue to hurt me so long as I believe that it will. It's better than the alternative. However, that borders on Things Too Terrible To Contemplate (TTTTC) so it's best to leave that alone.
I've decided I'm going to do push-ups. Lots of them. True, I'm not really built for that kind of thing judging by the shape of my arms and neck, but... I don't really know. Just one of those things.
Work to do. Lit and Anthro. School is really wearing me down.
Did I mention summer camp? I'm signed up for four weeks of camp in the summer. Or so. Much of it is a canoe trip out into the wilderness. Just paddling out with food and tents and going around rivers for a week or two. Fun or hell? That's yet to be decided.
Oh, and I read Twilight. In a single night, if you're interested, which is why I've been so tired all of today. And I refuse to comment. I know everyone else in pretty much the entire world has something to say about the series or the movie or whatever, so I'm defying conformity by saying nothing. You do not get to hear my opinion. As far as you know I have no opinion. The fact that I read it all at once can be attributed to boredom, or not having any reasonable idea of when is a good time to go to bed, and not to the fact that I couldn't put it down. Maybe I was enjoying it and maybe I wasn't. I lowered myself to mentioning The Dark Knight, but this cultural phenomenon has left me untouched! I am the only blogger in the world who has read the book and not voiced an opinion! Revel in my power! Hahahahahahahaha!
(Of course, Danica will beat it out of me within minutes of reading this, but let me enjoy it while I can...)
I have work that I should be doing. That I really, really need to do. What am I still doing here? Stop blogging and start working right this inst
Nov 30, 2008
Clickety-click
Two nights ago I felt really depressed. Yesterday I was supposed to be working but didn't do anything much because I couldn't concentrate. Then my mom interrogated me and got really upset with me but I couldn't say anything because I didn't know how to explain it. I'm really upset with the pair of them, they haven't really made any effort to understand what I go through. I went to bed crying. Seriously. I was actually crying.
But I'm better now!
Which means I have to work. Carp.
December tomorrow. Should be interesting. Big month for me.
Going to New York in April! Four-day field trip with the 11 and 12 Lit and Visual classes. I was #6 to sign up. There's going to be museums and galleries and libraries and Broadway productions and sleeping in a new bed and it is going to be AWESOME! Cannot wait!
I do not like my bed. I think my old mattress gave it character. This new one, while arguably softer and many times more comfortable, just doesn't have that. It's just that slightest bit too short. And there's a streetlight right outside my window. I haven't been able to sleep properly for years because of the bloody thing. Nothing we can do about it, I suppose... but still.
I still feel very, very tired. I need more sleep. Just in general. I need a holiday, a proper one.
But I'm better now!
Which means I have to work. Carp.
December tomorrow. Should be interesting. Big month for me.
Going to New York in April! Four-day field trip with the 11 and 12 Lit and Visual classes. I was #6 to sign up. There's going to be museums and galleries and libraries and Broadway productions and sleeping in a new bed and it is going to be AWESOME! Cannot wait!
I do not like my bed. I think my old mattress gave it character. This new one, while arguably softer and many times more comfortable, just doesn't have that. It's just that slightest bit too short. And there's a streetlight right outside my window. I haven't been able to sleep properly for years because of the bloody thing. Nothing we can do about it, I suppose... but still.
I still feel very, very tired. I need more sleep. Just in general. I need a holiday, a proper one.
Nov 24, 2008
Hated by all (well, not really...)
...sigh.
Spent an hour this morning in the mental health centre. Answering question after mindless question from one big book. Drugs and alcohol every third page. Mostly about memory. For the last time, I don't remember if I can't remember anything! Honestly... but at least it's progress. All signs so far are pointing to a positive diagnosis for DID. This won't make it better, but at least I have a reality now. That's why people struggle so much coping with these things. They want something that will make everything go back to the way it was. But there are some things that can't be fixed. However much you fix and scrape and pry and comfort you can never, ever change the fact that this terrible thing has happened. That will never go away.
They wanted to know whether I'd had any unusual experiences. They don't care what they are. They don't want to know about the purple flashes, or the titan jellies, or the scars running down my back. The whole time I was answering these questions I wanted to shout "there was more to it than that! There's a story behind it! This isn't a statistic, it's important to me!" But then of course we wouldn't have been able to finish. It took a full fifty minutes.
Oh, and then later on a friend of mine made an entirely untrue (and extremely hurtful) comment about the nature of DID. I was appalled, since she's the last person I'd expect this kind of ignorance from, and while usually she'd at least state her own case she didn't want to argue because she's got other problems at the moment. So now I've got a pit of simmering anger boiling a hole in my stomach. I can't take it out on her - not that I'd be inclined to anyway - and I'm not allowed to take it out on myself any more. It twists and burns.
Incidentally, her mind is mahgging impenetrable. I wonder what her story really is. It makes it all the worse that I've lost much of my respect for her.
Seriously, WTM!?
Watched The Shining last night. I liked it. I think it says a lot about me that I didn't flinch or even blink during the whole thing, except on the word Tuesday. I grasped a lot more of it in my own way than other people might, though I'm still not convinced I understood the whole thing. It's the sort of film you have to see more than once. There are many, many subtleties you never catch the first time through. I liked the mirror scene; I found the movement of the eyes entertaining. I also loved it from the start for casting Shelley Duvall as Wendy, who I think is the only genuinely beautiful female lead I've ever seen in any movie. Think about it.
Very few people know why I hurt. I guess I should be sad about that. To be honest, I've been having trouble feeling much of anything lately. I'm cold and numb, inside and out.
Haven't heard from Danica in awhile. I hope she hasn't gotten sick of me. No, that's overreacting and pessimistic... you know, the usual banter...
Essays to write. I hate essays.
Spent an hour this morning in the mental health centre. Answering question after mindless question from one big book. Drugs and alcohol every third page. Mostly about memory. For the last time, I don't remember if I can't remember anything! Honestly... but at least it's progress. All signs so far are pointing to a positive diagnosis for DID. This won't make it better, but at least I have a reality now. That's why people struggle so much coping with these things. They want something that will make everything go back to the way it was. But there are some things that can't be fixed. However much you fix and scrape and pry and comfort you can never, ever change the fact that this terrible thing has happened. That will never go away.
They wanted to know whether I'd had any unusual experiences. They don't care what they are. They don't want to know about the purple flashes, or the titan jellies, or the scars running down my back. The whole time I was answering these questions I wanted to shout "there was more to it than that! There's a story behind it! This isn't a statistic, it's important to me!" But then of course we wouldn't have been able to finish. It took a full fifty minutes.
Oh, and then later on a friend of mine made an entirely untrue (and extremely hurtful) comment about the nature of DID. I was appalled, since she's the last person I'd expect this kind of ignorance from, and while usually she'd at least state her own case she didn't want to argue because she's got other problems at the moment. So now I've got a pit of simmering anger boiling a hole in my stomach. I can't take it out on her - not that I'd be inclined to anyway - and I'm not allowed to take it out on myself any more. It twists and burns.
Incidentally, her mind is mahgging impenetrable. I wonder what her story really is. It makes it all the worse that I've lost much of my respect for her.
Seriously, WTM!?
Watched The Shining last night. I liked it. I think it says a lot about me that I didn't flinch or even blink during the whole thing, except on the word Tuesday. I grasped a lot more of it in my own way than other people might, though I'm still not convinced I understood the whole thing. It's the sort of film you have to see more than once. There are many, many subtleties you never catch the first time through. I liked the mirror scene; I found the movement of the eyes entertaining. I also loved it from the start for casting Shelley Duvall as Wendy, who I think is the only genuinely beautiful female lead I've ever seen in any movie. Think about it.
Very few people know why I hurt. I guess I should be sad about that. To be honest, I've been having trouble feeling much of anything lately. I'm cold and numb, inside and out.
Haven't heard from Danica in awhile. I hope she hasn't gotten sick of me. No, that's overreacting and pessimistic... you know, the usual banter...
Essays to write. I hate essays.
Nov 19, 2008
List Reckoning
A chronological list of just some of the weird shit that has happened to me:
- the lightning bolt
- that kind of ghost thing
- the face
- stabbing myself in the leg
- meeting with the dark king, part one
- Jim
- the grav-kak
- a slug
- fire in the sky, part one
- nester
- hunter
- ghoul in the night
- the fire prince
- meeting with the dark king, part two
- torment
- assassination
- the goddess
- fire in the sky, part two
- the orange man
- the golden trial
- meeting with the dark king, part three
- Any object, life form, location or situation that is at least 51% out of the ordinary in which the expression “shit” can be used appropriately (but not necessarily) to indicate danger may be classified as weird shit.
- Weird shit attracts more weird shit.
- Weird shit is bad.
- Weird shit may be good, but only when held in direct contrast to some really bad weird shit.
- Weird shit may only be classified as “really, really bad” when at the head of at least two other pieces of bad or really bad weird shit.
- Weird shit that is particularly disgusting, menacing or enormous may be classified as “holy shit” which is 2-300% more dangerous than weird shit. Really, really bad weird shit generally falls into this category, but not always.
- Weird shit beyond the point of being really, really bad is purely hypothetical, and best left nameless.
- Multiplicicity and all-around madness.
- Some days I still walk with a limp.
- A scar on my side that sometimes feels as though it’s bleeding.
- Five scars crossing down my back. They took months to heal.
- Broken and misshapen wings.
- Dents and lumps all across my chest.
- Six tiny stab wounds evenly spaced across my back.
- A fear of purple flowers.
- A fear of broken fingernails.
- A fear of the outdoors.
- Very little desire to convert to Satanism. (hah.)
- The Dream Jar
- The True Map
- Babylon
- The Blood Flowers
- Vampirism
- The Golden Trial, parts 2 and 3
- Skeleton's Final Plan
- My Destiny
- What I really look like to myself
- You remind me of the good things in myself.
- The sound of your laughter.
- Your strength and depth.
- You see things clearly.
- You think I'm beautiful.
- How beautiful you are to me.
- You care about what's best for me.
- You never let me fall.
- I feel happy just being near you.
- You're easy to open up to.
- The way my hand fits in yours.
- The score was unmemorable. Can anyone recall any of the tracks from the film? I didn't think so.
- The acting, with one notable exception, was bad. The worst was the prison scene, where the pretty damn awesome Heath Ledger failed to make up for the underwhelming Christian Bale.
- The tech was bad. This is Batman, not James Bond. Batropes, batarangs, even the batcar are plausible, but the batcycle, batballoon and that freakish batsonarwhatsit were over-the-top. Which leads me to
- The writing was mediocre at best. You can tell the writers have no idea what they're doing when they substitute special effects and a few decent lines for ideas and then write half the plot around getting to use them.
- Heath Ledger is dead. Get over it.
- It's already old news. The greatest movies of all time last forever, but we've already moved on. When the next Batman movie rolls around it will be over, since no superhero movie has ever topped the second in its own series.
Nov 15, 2008
The Quest, part 2
Time is short. I must be assertive.
Assertive! There's no longer time to wait and think. I've been waiting my whole life. For years I've been thinking, and watching, and waiting... all this waiting, endlessly in silence. We've had time to reflect. Now, everything points to action. It's time to implement... Project Assert.
In the past such projects have not gone well. Project Crush never really got off the ground. Project Stop was a miserable failure. Project Rebirth succeeded beyond my expectations, but within months had begun to splinter and crack and ultimately left us worse off than before - without memory. Two other unnamed projects came close to destroying us altogether. Will this succeed where others have failed? I can't say. Certainly it looks promising.
What follows is the outline of the plan so far. The details are better left unsaid. In no particular order,
Assertive! There's no longer time to wait and think. I've been waiting my whole life. For years I've been thinking, and watching, and waiting... all this waiting, endlessly in silence. We've had time to reflect. Now, everything points to action. It's time to implement... Project Assert.
In the past such projects have not gone well. Project Crush never really got off the ground. Project Stop was a miserable failure. Project Rebirth succeeded beyond my expectations, but within months had begun to splinter and crack and ultimately left us worse off than before - without memory. Two other unnamed projects came close to destroying us altogether. Will this succeed where others have failed? I can't say. Certainly it looks promising.
What follows is the outline of the plan so far. The details are better left unsaid. In no particular order,
- Stop worrying.
- Take Danica out and show her the time of her life.
- Get a job.
- Get my G1.
- Make peace with my alters.
- Put my schoolwork back on track.
- Find stability.
- Resolve my anger.
- Survive December.
- Be open and honest about my feelings.
- Work with these doctor people to find out what's really wrong in my head.
- Accept my destiny.
- Actually finish one of my big writing projects.
- Purify my thoughts.
- Start a webcomic.
- Get over my pain addiction.
- Start exercising again.
- Love the world.
- Love myself.
- Forgive Grandfather.
Nov 9, 2008
After a brief interlude...
There are voices in my head. I sometimes mention it but no one listens.
I don't know what they are. They're not from outside, and they're certainly not part of the collective known as Nine. They're just there. Talking. We've named them Molotov the Cruel, Morgoth the Indecisive and Sheba the Enchantress, more as a joke than anything else. They don't have any physical or mental form and can be found nowhere within the System (that we know of) so ascribing names and personalities to them seems illogical... but we just like giving things names.
Molotov speaks quietly, in a low, mocking voice, rising to a crescendo when I'm feeling weak. He calls us all manner of names and assures us that we deserve to die.
Morgoth questions everything. He casts doubts on all our actions, leaving us confused and uncertain. He's not so much of a running commentary as a backseat driver, telling us that we're doing things wrong.
Sheba spends most of her time singing. She's got a fairly good voice, actually. She alternates between songs we've heard and those of her own invention, which have nice tunes but the lyrics are gibberish so far as we can tell. Sometimes Morgoth joins her, but not usually.
Maybe talking about them as physical beings actually helps me deal with them. I don't know. I rarely know.
Sigh.
They whisper in my head, constantly. Semi-constantly at least. Always there. For me that's normal. I often think it must be very lonely in other peoples' heads. So empty. So quiet. Sometimes I think I'd like that... but it's still very alien to me.
Other times I just wish this lot would shut the hell up.
I don't know what they are. They're not from outside, and they're certainly not part of the collective known as Nine. They're just there. Talking. We've named them Molotov the Cruel, Morgoth the Indecisive and Sheba the Enchantress, more as a joke than anything else. They don't have any physical or mental form and can be found nowhere within the System (that we know of) so ascribing names and personalities to them seems illogical... but we just like giving things names.
Molotov speaks quietly, in a low, mocking voice, rising to a crescendo when I'm feeling weak. He calls us all manner of names and assures us that we deserve to die.
Morgoth questions everything. He casts doubts on all our actions, leaving us confused and uncertain. He's not so much of a running commentary as a backseat driver, telling us that we're doing things wrong.
Sheba spends most of her time singing. She's got a fairly good voice, actually. She alternates between songs we've heard and those of her own invention, which have nice tunes but the lyrics are gibberish so far as we can tell. Sometimes Morgoth joins her, but not usually.
Maybe talking about them as physical beings actually helps me deal with them. I don't know. I rarely know.
Sigh.
They whisper in my head, constantly. Semi-constantly at least. Always there. For me that's normal. I often think it must be very lonely in other peoples' heads. So empty. So quiet. Sometimes I think I'd like that... but it's still very alien to me.
Other times I just wish this lot would shut the hell up.
What follows is nothing you haven't heard before.
I feel like I'm going to scream. Or cry. Preferably both. But I never do.
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm angry. I'm angry with the world for being populated by idiots, I'm angry at the spirits, I'm angry with the Father, I'm angry with Grandfather (oh HELLS I'm angry with Grandfather), I'm angry with everyone I know, I'm angry at myself. A little ball of fury, burning to death but refusing to be put out.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I just want to be loved. That's all. I don't want materials, I don't want an education. I don't want to be successful, I don't want to have to face my destiny. I don't want to live and I don't want to die. All I want is to be loved, cared for, nurtured. Ever since the Great Divide and we sealed ourselves off from the world in different forms I've been my own mother, my own father, my own mentor. It's no secret that everyone who's ever loved me has hurt me. That's everyone. EVERYONE.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm a cold-hearted, manipulative bastard. I know how to play people and I do, unstoppably. Yet I don't have any goals; when you play both sides of the board, how can it possibly matter who wins? I have no purpose, and I don't care about anyone other than myself. I just draw people tighter and tighter into my web of manipulation, and when I'm gone they'll all have to come crashing down with me.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm a broken, bleeding little grotesque, who might - just might - have the powers of a demigod. I crawl ever onwards, too weak to hold myself up but too proud to ask for help, trying to hide my weakness and becoming angry when it works. I bathe myself in scorn and arrogance to smother the pleas for affection, torn between pretending to stand tall and screaming out for mercy, knowing full well that I've warned people not to listen. I fake Münchausen syndrome. It's pitiful... but I refuse to be pitied.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
I don't care what I am or what I strive for. I am me. I live with things that other people don't live with. I'm basically a good person, at least I think so. I talk about myself a lot, mostly because I'm trying to understand. I don't believe in the "self" that so many people try to find. Actually I sort of look down on them. I'm sorry. I put myself down a lot. I tend to blame myself for things. I have difficulty discerning between what is or is not my fault, what is or is not good and evil, between life and death, between pain and pleasure, between truth and reality. I have no sense of time, place, or worth. I think it's highly likely that I have mental problems. I'm highly intelligent, not that that's worth anything any more. I'm highly conflicted. I'm fed up with the world. I draw lines so I can walk on them. I'm deluded. I'm dangerous. I am Nine... and all I want to do is sleep. Forever.
One month left.
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm angry. I'm angry with the world for being populated by idiots, I'm angry at the spirits, I'm angry with the Father, I'm angry with Grandfather (oh HELLS I'm angry with Grandfather), I'm angry with everyone I know, I'm angry at myself. A little ball of fury, burning to death but refusing to be put out.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I just want to be loved. That's all. I don't want materials, I don't want an education. I don't want to be successful, I don't want to have to face my destiny. I don't want to live and I don't want to die. All I want is to be loved, cared for, nurtured. Ever since the Great Divide and we sealed ourselves off from the world in different forms I've been my own mother, my own father, my own mentor. It's no secret that everyone who's ever loved me has hurt me. That's everyone. EVERYONE.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm a cold-hearted, manipulative bastard. I know how to play people and I do, unstoppably. Yet I don't have any goals; when you play both sides of the board, how can it possibly matter who wins? I have no purpose, and I don't care about anyone other than myself. I just draw people tighter and tighter into my web of manipulation, and when I'm gone they'll all have to come crashing down with me.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm a broken, bleeding little grotesque, who might - just might - have the powers of a demigod. I crawl ever onwards, too weak to hold myself up but too proud to ask for help, trying to hide my weakness and becoming angry when it works. I bathe myself in scorn and arrogance to smother the pleas for affection, torn between pretending to stand tall and screaming out for mercy, knowing full well that I've warned people not to listen. I fake Münchausen syndrome. It's pitiful... but I refuse to be pitied.
but beyond all that bullshit,
I'm so tired. And so cold. And so afraid.
I don't care what I am or what I strive for. I am me. I live with things that other people don't live with. I'm basically a good person, at least I think so. I talk about myself a lot, mostly because I'm trying to understand. I don't believe in the "self" that so many people try to find. Actually I sort of look down on them. I'm sorry. I put myself down a lot. I tend to blame myself for things. I have difficulty discerning between what is or is not my fault, what is or is not good and evil, between life and death, between pain and pleasure, between truth and reality. I have no sense of time, place, or worth. I think it's highly likely that I have mental problems. I'm highly intelligent, not that that's worth anything any more. I'm highly conflicted. I'm fed up with the world. I draw lines so I can walk on them. I'm deluded. I'm dangerous. I am Nine... and all I want to do is sleep. Forever.
One month left.
Nov 5, 2008
Spake, rath, holy fier
I feel like shit.
Multiple times I've felt moved to kick one of the cats, break mirrors, hurl Susan across the room, or physically strike someone.
My speech is further dissipating. Language skills are falling apart. I'm worried it's only going to get worse. Yet another symptom of schizophrenia. Sigh. The panic attacks have started again as well. No... not panic attacks. Triggering episodes. I'm going to call them what they are, because dammit, I take my disorder seriously even if no one else does.
I'm just so angry. Angry at myself. Angry at the world.
People try to comfort me by saying that I'm okay. That I'm a good person. That there's nothing wrong with me. This doesn't help. It's just denying that there's a problem. That's not what I need. I want someone to just accept me for what I am. But then I'm always hiding. There's always that divide. I'm good at it, too. For the past couple weeks no one's realized I'm in enormous emotional distress.
On one hand I'm friendly, charismatic, content. On the other I'm angry, self-obsessed, violent. On the other I'm small, in mortal pain, and screaming (no one hears). On the other I'm quiet, unwanted, unnoticed. I circle round and round, never finding rest.
Every day I go to school afraid that I'm going to kill someone. Every. Day.
I keep walking.
Multiple times I've felt moved to kick one of the cats, break mirrors, hurl Susan across the room, or physically strike someone.
My speech is further dissipating. Language skills are falling apart. I'm worried it's only going to get worse. Yet another symptom of schizophrenia. Sigh. The panic attacks have started again as well. No... not panic attacks. Triggering episodes. I'm going to call them what they are, because dammit, I take my disorder seriously even if no one else does.
I'm just so angry. Angry at myself. Angry at the world.
People try to comfort me by saying that I'm okay. That I'm a good person. That there's nothing wrong with me. This doesn't help. It's just denying that there's a problem. That's not what I need. I want someone to just accept me for what I am. But then I'm always hiding. There's always that divide. I'm good at it, too. For the past couple weeks no one's realized I'm in enormous emotional distress.
On one hand I'm friendly, charismatic, content. On the other I'm angry, self-obsessed, violent. On the other I'm small, in mortal pain, and screaming (no one hears). On the other I'm quiet, unwanted, unnoticed. I circle round and round, never finding rest.
Every day I go to school afraid that I'm going to kill someone. Every. Day.
I keep walking.
Oct 30, 2008
So, how's the holiday going?
The holiday is not going well.
It's to be expected, I suppose. This close to Halloween - the day when the worst of both worlds comes together. I keep staring at the discoloured streaks on my hand from last year. I'll probably have them for the rest of my life... then again, they have faded. We'll see. Anyway, it's a bad day. Things have been bad. I'm tired, even more so than usual. I'm falling behind on my work, conversation is dead, I've been angry with everyone for awhile. I hope I don't do anything stupid this year. I wonder... *goes and searches the intenets for a minute* Ah, here we go. http://sevenfoldspirit.blogspot.com/2007/10/ween.html One year tomorrow. I remember when this wound was still fresh, sticky and stinging to the touch for days.
...probably best to stop reflecting on that.
The quest.
A tree. The tree out in a corner of the back field. I walked out to it in the dripping rain. I hadn't recognized it at first, trying to decide which of the few trees along the fence was the tree, but the trunk... not quite wide enough for one person to fit their arms around... the branches... just low enough for me to walk into... that one stick, nearly straight and sloped enough to hang a hat from...
One spot. This is where it happened.
Her hair, streaked with red and blond. Her clothes, the flowing skirts, her habit of walking barefoot whenever she could. Her smile. Her aura; a wonderful feeling of pure, unrefined happiness, so rare these days. Her piercings... her lip rings. I once wondered aloud what it would be like to kiss someone with lip rings. I imagined it was like being stabbed.
I was wrong.
I stood in that spot, staring at the ground. The tree shielded me from the rain. I remembered her warmth. We were kindred spirits, she and I; she'd realized it first, and curse of curses fell in love with me. Tired of life and unwilling to resist I found myself drawn closer to her, faster than we should have.
A kiss.
I hug the tree and sigh. The rain drips down my face.
That night I broke up with Tasha.
Officially, anyway. It had been over for awhile, we both knew it, but... hell, it was still cheating. I mean, it was over... but still. I don't know if I can decide for certain. I still feel in my last moments with her I betrayed her.
It wasn't meant to be. We both knew that. We drifted apart over time. Not long after... I insulted her. I made myself angry. I wanted her to hate me. I suppose I was alone and angry and needed someone to blame, and the most convenient person was myself. Maybe I thought it would give some closure to our relationship, some finality. It didn't work. I just felt awful, unable to apologize, and in a chance encounter she forgave me.
She lives in Montreal now. I hope she's happy with her man. I smiled, a mix of bitterness and forgiveness. I think I'm finally coming to terms with it. Finally coming to get over it. Finally coming to forgive myself. And this is only stage one.
Another figure walks by in the rain. I wonder what her story is. I go over and ask her.
It's to be expected, I suppose. This close to Halloween - the day when the worst of both worlds comes together. I keep staring at the discoloured streaks on my hand from last year. I'll probably have them for the rest of my life... then again, they have faded. We'll see. Anyway, it's a bad day. Things have been bad. I'm tired, even more so than usual. I'm falling behind on my work, conversation is dead, I've been angry with everyone for awhile. I hope I don't do anything stupid this year. I wonder... *goes and searches the intenets for a minute* Ah, here we go. http://sevenfoldspirit.blogspot.com/2007/10/ween.html One year tomorrow. I remember when this wound was still fresh, sticky and stinging to the touch for days.
...probably best to stop reflecting on that.
The quest.
A tree. The tree out in a corner of the back field. I walked out to it in the dripping rain. I hadn't recognized it at first, trying to decide which of the few trees along the fence was the tree, but the trunk... not quite wide enough for one person to fit their arms around... the branches... just low enough for me to walk into... that one stick, nearly straight and sloped enough to hang a hat from...
One spot. This is where it happened.
Her hair, streaked with red and blond. Her clothes, the flowing skirts, her habit of walking barefoot whenever she could. Her smile. Her aura; a wonderful feeling of pure, unrefined happiness, so rare these days. Her piercings... her lip rings. I once wondered aloud what it would be like to kiss someone with lip rings. I imagined it was like being stabbed.
I was wrong.
I stood in that spot, staring at the ground. The tree shielded me from the rain. I remembered her warmth. We were kindred spirits, she and I; she'd realized it first, and curse of curses fell in love with me. Tired of life and unwilling to resist I found myself drawn closer to her, faster than we should have.
A kiss.
I hug the tree and sigh. The rain drips down my face.
That night I broke up with Tasha.
Officially, anyway. It had been over for awhile, we both knew it, but... hell, it was still cheating. I mean, it was over... but still. I don't know if I can decide for certain. I still feel in my last moments with her I betrayed her.
It wasn't meant to be. We both knew that. We drifted apart over time. Not long after... I insulted her. I made myself angry. I wanted her to hate me. I suppose I was alone and angry and needed someone to blame, and the most convenient person was myself. Maybe I thought it would give some closure to our relationship, some finality. It didn't work. I just felt awful, unable to apologize, and in a chance encounter she forgave me.
She lives in Montreal now. I hope she's happy with her man. I smiled, a mix of bitterness and forgiveness. I think I'm finally coming to terms with it. Finally coming to get over it. Finally coming to forgive myself. And this is only stage one.
Another figure walks by in the rain. I wonder what her story is. I go over and ask her.
Oct 26, 2008
The Quest for Self-Worth
Epiphany #1: Once a conversation has begun, the most difficult subjects to deal with are the easiest to talk about.
Epiphany #2: The only reason my past still matters is because I let it... or want it to.
Epiphany #3: A little boldness goes a long way.
Epiphany #4: It's actually nice to not have everything be my fault.
Epiphany #5: Just because I don't forgive myself for things doesn't mean that other people can't either.
Epiphany #6: Brooding over the past is a form of psychological torture. Don't stand for it.
Epiphany #7: Finally admitting that I have an addiction to pain.
Epiphany #8: It doesn't have to be this way. I don't have to hurt. I don't have to be full of self-doubt. I don't have to keep trying and failing to get the worlds attention. It doesn't have to be like this. It can change.
Epiphany #9: I can't keep hoping that God or Skeleton or some doctor will come out with the miracle cure. I'm not your average case. If I'm going to change then that change has to at least in part come actively, not passively, from me.
So begins my social sabbatical.
A few days "alone in the desert" as it were. Quiet self-reflection in an attempt to build myself into a reasonably sane being. I've always been full of doubts, self-hatred and pain. Such pain. Anyone I tell this to will think I'm exaggerating... so I don't. Anyway, if all goes well that will stop soon. It will be a bumpy road, and no doubt I'll stumble many times, but I'm ready to face it. I'll crash right through everything that was holding me back and emerge strong, bold and pure. I might even look into getting baptized if I feel I trust myself to live up to it.
I won't make any inspirational speeches or declarations past what I've already done. This isn't that kind of quest. It's the quest for self-worth, the quietest and least interesting adventure of them all.
Epiphany #2: The only reason my past still matters is because I let it... or want it to.
Epiphany #3: A little boldness goes a long way.
Epiphany #4: It's actually nice to not have everything be my fault.
Epiphany #5: Just because I don't forgive myself for things doesn't mean that other people can't either.
Epiphany #6: Brooding over the past is a form of psychological torture. Don't stand for it.
Epiphany #7: Finally admitting that I have an addiction to pain.
Epiphany #8: It doesn't have to be this way. I don't have to hurt. I don't have to be full of self-doubt. I don't have to keep trying and failing to get the worlds attention. It doesn't have to be like this. It can change.
Epiphany #9: I can't keep hoping that God or Skeleton or some doctor will come out with the miracle cure. I'm not your average case. If I'm going to change then that change has to at least in part come actively, not passively, from me.
So begins my social sabbatical.
A few days "alone in the desert" as it were. Quiet self-reflection in an attempt to build myself into a reasonably sane being. I've always been full of doubts, self-hatred and pain. Such pain. Anyone I tell this to will think I'm exaggerating... so I don't. Anyway, if all goes well that will stop soon. It will be a bumpy road, and no doubt I'll stumble many times, but I'm ready to face it. I'll crash right through everything that was holding me back and emerge strong, bold and pure. I might even look into getting baptized if I feel I trust myself to live up to it.
I won't make any inspirational speeches or declarations past what I've already done. This isn't that kind of quest. It's the quest for self-worth, the quietest and least interesting adventure of them all.
Oct 23, 2008
Love letter to nobody
Hold up a sec. Let's think about this realistically.
- I'm very cold (my hands have been freezing all day) but I haven't made any effort to warm myself up.
- All my writing practices in the past few days have been about struggling under some form of madness or oppression.
- It takes a genuine effort to smile, and even then my face feels strange.
- People keep asking me if I'm okay.
- I've been told I'm eating less and less lately.
- I've not only been slacking off work, I've been slacking off play.
- I feel as though I want to laugh insanely, strangle everyone around me, or burst into tears, but I don't.
- I'm tired, not physically tired but a deep, soul-crushing tiredness.
- More than once I've thought of slicing my palms open or otherwise injuring myself. I can't guarantee I'm not going to.
- I have moments of complete, all-consuming hatred.
- Even when I get the chance to talk to my love I do nothing but bitch at her.
- I've been talking to people a lot less in general.
- I've been blogging a lot more, mostly just putting myself down.
- When I wondered if I was depressed, the response was that I'd better not be because I only complain and drag everyone else down with me.
I think I might be depressed.
I could sit here and wonder what do do with myself now I'm depressed, but since I'll only have depressed thoughts that wouldn't do any good. I could find someone to talk to about my being depressed, but I imagine this would only dampen their day. There's not much point talking to anyone anyway, since I don't make any effort to stop being depressed and end up feeling worse because I think I'm bothering them even when I'm not. Mostly am, though. I constantly get the feeling people are wishing I'd stop being so depressed and just talk normally, as though it's my fault that I feel this way and I could stop anytime I wanted.
I mean, yeah, of course it's my fault. I have no reason to be depressed. The disorders, the paranoia, the oppression, stuff like that, there's no reason that should bother me at all. Yeah.
I'll tell myself to shut up, but I doubt I will. I'll just continue to act like a leech, draining the life out of anyone with the sympathy to put up with my complaining. If I really cared about these people I wouldn't even mention it here. Stupid selfish bastard, me.
Easy. Less than two months to go.
Oct 20, 2008
Astronaught
Surreal.
The mental health centre is mostly wide and flat, misshapen and lumpy, as though someone had thrown three floors of rectangular blocks together. Then a steel monolith rising from one corner. For a building of greys and browns it's remarkably psychedelic.
The parking system is outdated. You can tell it's a government building because they have to physically type in the information on my health card instead of swiping it. Carry the envelope upstairs. Studies show that if you put someone in an elevator with three other people facing the back wall, that person will turn around. A good twenty minutes early.
They seemed nice enough. I am not like you. Ergo, some of my answers you will understand and some of them you will not... nagging feeling that this has been said before. Ignore it.
I don't like talking to strangers about such things. I've been conditioned. (Shut up. Stop your whining, we don't want to hear it. You think you're the only one who's got problems? You think you know what pain feels like? You think you're special? You're not. You're just a child, you don't understand. Honestly, get up, you're not fooling anyone. Stop it. Look, now you made her cry. You see what you've done, you little freak? You think the only one who cares about you is you? Stop this pretending and stand up. I said STAND UP, YOU LITTLE CREEP!) Makes me less comfortable talking about it. Having to pepper everything with "I have to keep making sure I'm not just imagining it." I'd rather just not bring it up.
I hate questionnaires. There's never a Well Yes But answer. Since I subscribe to absolute truth in such matters I probably skewed the results a little. Giving the impression that things don't bother me, simply because they've become so prevalent in my life I've learned to live with them. Headaches, tremors, twitches, evil voices in my head, that sort of thing.
Of course, one of them is going to Australia. I'd like to live there someday. Or Alaska. Skagway. I fell in love with Skagway. Someday I would like to go there again. The cold, and the quiet, and the ocean always in view.
After this morning everything seems surreal. I wish sometimes I had a miracle pill, so I can check whether or not things are real. But then... I couldn't live like that. I couldn't let any drug take the pain away. No good EVER comes of that.
Played Taboo. Velociraptor is the best word for that, I think. Spent the afternoon wondering almost where I was. Everything seems faded. The colours are draining from the world, it seems.
Still can't tell whether or not I'm saying Dan's name right. Tried to write a love song. Failed miserably. Within minutes it collapsed into darkness. I'll try again later, maybe. Still can't find any synonyms for beautiful... every description of the body is worthless. Everything is just a euphemism for sex. That's not what I want. Sex kills. I'm supposed to be a writer, for glascoumsand, why can't I even express the one emotion that really matters? I'm still worried I'm going to unintentionally insult someone. Sigh. I hate words. Sad for a writer but I do. Even my muse cannot change that. I think in ideas, and nothing ever translates directly from that. Everything comes out wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. In that sense I'm hopeless.
It's getting colder.
I do talk about myself a lot, don't I? Sigh. I'll shut up now.
The mental health centre is mostly wide and flat, misshapen and lumpy, as though someone had thrown three floors of rectangular blocks together. Then a steel monolith rising from one corner. For a building of greys and browns it's remarkably psychedelic.
The parking system is outdated. You can tell it's a government building because they have to physically type in the information on my health card instead of swiping it. Carry the envelope upstairs. Studies show that if you put someone in an elevator with three other people facing the back wall, that person will turn around. A good twenty minutes early.
They seemed nice enough. I am not like you. Ergo, some of my answers you will understand and some of them you will not... nagging feeling that this has been said before. Ignore it.
I don't like talking to strangers about such things. I've been conditioned. (Shut up. Stop your whining, we don't want to hear it. You think you're the only one who's got problems? You think you know what pain feels like? You think you're special? You're not. You're just a child, you don't understand. Honestly, get up, you're not fooling anyone. Stop it. Look, now you made her cry. You see what you've done, you little freak? You think the only one who cares about you is you? Stop this pretending and stand up. I said STAND UP, YOU LITTLE CREEP!) Makes me less comfortable talking about it. Having to pepper everything with "I have to keep making sure I'm not just imagining it." I'd rather just not bring it up.
I hate questionnaires. There's never a Well Yes But answer. Since I subscribe to absolute truth in such matters I probably skewed the results a little. Giving the impression that things don't bother me, simply because they've become so prevalent in my life I've learned to live with them. Headaches, tremors, twitches, evil voices in my head, that sort of thing.
Of course, one of them is going to Australia. I'd like to live there someday. Or Alaska. Skagway. I fell in love with Skagway. Someday I would like to go there again. The cold, and the quiet, and the ocean always in view.
After this morning everything seems surreal. I wish sometimes I had a miracle pill, so I can check whether or not things are real. But then... I couldn't live like that. I couldn't let any drug take the pain away. No good EVER comes of that.
Played Taboo. Velociraptor is the best word for that, I think. Spent the afternoon wondering almost where I was. Everything seems faded. The colours are draining from the world, it seems.
Still can't tell whether or not I'm saying Dan's name right. Tried to write a love song. Failed miserably. Within minutes it collapsed into darkness. I'll try again later, maybe. Still can't find any synonyms for beautiful... every description of the body is worthless. Everything is just a euphemism for sex. That's not what I want. Sex kills. I'm supposed to be a writer, for glascoumsand, why can't I even express the one emotion that really matters? I'm still worried I'm going to unintentionally insult someone. Sigh. I hate words. Sad for a writer but I do. Even my muse cannot change that. I think in ideas, and nothing ever translates directly from that. Everything comes out wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. In that sense I'm hopeless.
It's getting colder.
I do talk about myself a lot, don't I? Sigh. I'll shut up now.
Oct 18, 2008
Kaus
I don't know why I keep acting so depressed around people. I mean, it's not as if it's something I have a great deal of control over - people sometimes don't seem to grasp that it's not something I can flip on or off like a switch - but when it does happen, why do I keep trying to force it on other people? There's no cause for that. It doesn't make me feel any better and it only causes them to get depressed themselves, or worried about me, or just lose their patience with me. I should really just shut up until I'm better.
And now, a few things about Amanda Palmer's solo album. Just because.
Now, judging each song by its own merits, it's still an incredible album. I think there's no doubt that some of her best work so far is here. But the whole way through a few things just niggled at me.
1. The tracks were unbalanced.
In the past her albums have been a good mix of fast and slow, happy and sad, with all sorts of tones and themes mixed in. In this case I didn't feel that. It felt choppy, with not nearly enough flow between tracks, and too many slower-paced songs that the uppity "Oasis" near the end couldn't save.
2. Those segments at the ends of songs with the long pauses and quiet voices.
So sometimes it's effective, and sometimes it's not, and say what you like I think it does nothing for the album overall.
3. No Brian Viglione.
I know it's a solo album, but I've always thought that any of her songs that didn't feature him playing alongside her were lacking something. The Dresden Dolls have always worked best in harmony. I think he doesn't get nearly as much respect and appreciation as he deserves.
4. Overly orchestral.
I'm not saying that being orchestral is a bad thing; in some cases a song couldn't have survived without it. It's just that part of the allure of the Dresden Dolls was the way that they could create something absolutely incredible using only a keyboard, drums and some incredible vocals. ("Sex Changes" springs to mind.) After that a fully orchestral album just feels over the top and unnecessary. The only instruments that I think have ever worked well with them are the strings, such as in "Runs in the Family" and that creepy version of "Missed Me" with the violin.
Now, what was point number 5... khe. I'm sure it will come back to me. I still love the album. The knowledge that I'll never top Amanda Palmer is what keeps me struggling to try.
I feel tired. Not physically tired, just exhausted all the way through. It's getting harder to hold my head up. Oh, how I long for solace... to be in the arms of my love. To finally find a happy place. To dream when I'm asleep but stop dreaming when I'm awake.
And now, a few things about Amanda Palmer's solo album. Just because.
Now, judging each song by its own merits, it's still an incredible album. I think there's no doubt that some of her best work so far is here. But the whole way through a few things just niggled at me.
1. The tracks were unbalanced.
In the past her albums have been a good mix of fast and slow, happy and sad, with all sorts of tones and themes mixed in. In this case I didn't feel that. It felt choppy, with not nearly enough flow between tracks, and too many slower-paced songs that the uppity "Oasis" near the end couldn't save.
2. Those segments at the ends of songs with the long pauses and quiet voices.
So sometimes it's effective, and sometimes it's not, and say what you like I think it does nothing for the album overall.
3. No Brian Viglione.
I know it's a solo album, but I've always thought that any of her songs that didn't feature him playing alongside her were lacking something. The Dresden Dolls have always worked best in harmony. I think he doesn't get nearly as much respect and appreciation as he deserves.
4. Overly orchestral.
I'm not saying that being orchestral is a bad thing; in some cases a song couldn't have survived without it. It's just that part of the allure of the Dresden Dolls was the way that they could create something absolutely incredible using only a keyboard, drums and some incredible vocals. ("Sex Changes" springs to mind.) After that a fully orchestral album just feels over the top and unnecessary. The only instruments that I think have ever worked well with them are the strings, such as in "Runs in the Family" and that creepy version of "Missed Me" with the violin.
Now, what was point number 5... khe. I'm sure it will come back to me. I still love the album. The knowledge that I'll never top Amanda Palmer is what keeps me struggling to try.
I feel tired. Not physically tired, just exhausted all the way through. It's getting harder to hold my head up. Oh, how I long for solace... to be in the arms of my love. To finally find a happy place. To dream when I'm asleep but stop dreaming when I'm awake.
Oct 15, 2008
If wellness is this
I considered making a list of the webcomics and the like that I frequent, but the last time I made a list of actual things my blog got spammed. It was a horrible experience. Like finding a cockroach in your lunch; you know you could eat it if it came to it, or you could just take it out, but deep down you know that your food is ruined. It seriously bothered me. So none of that.
Chris and friend are making a movie downstairs. Or somewhere. It involves Batman, a princess, and the line "Holy distraction, Batman!" I've been offered a cameo as the princess. I just might have to take them up on that.
I'm waiting for an edited copy of my latest story to be returned. What to do, what to do... rrgh... I hate communications technology. It just complicates things. Stupid internets.
Lights up. Barren stage, old dusty floorboards. One large window hanging off the back wall, obviously fake. A cheap wooden desk to stage left, typewriter To stage right is a heavy wooden door. Two characters are sitting in chairs, staring intently at thick stacks of paper in their hands.
1: *reads* Lights up. Barren stage, old dusty floorboards. One large window hanging off the back wall, obviously fake. A cheap wooden desk to stage left, typewriter. To stage right is a heavy wooden door. Two characters are sitting in chairs, staring intently at thick stacks of paper in their hands.
2: *reads* Right.
1: *reads* First line. This is how it starts. We have these two characters sitting in this room, only it’s obviously just a set, reading from a script that describes everything they’re doing. They make references to understanding that they’re in a work of fiction, but never fully acknowledge it.
2: *looks up* This is stupid.
1: Please, just go with it. It’s a work in progress.
2: *reads* This is stupid.
1: *reads* Please, just go with it. It’s a work in progress.
2: *puts down papers* You know what, no. I refuse. This is just some elaborate joke. We both know it.
1: Oh, come on. It’s not as if we have anything better to do.
2 folds arms. Long silence.
That's as far as I got. Then I got stuck.
I call it The Fifth Wall.
Synopsis: Two nameless, faceless characters are locked in a room together. One writes scripts, while the other dreams of better times. They both know that they are fictional, though neither seems quite willing to accept it. Both with the constant feeling of being watched, they long to break past the suspension of disbelief and find the audience behind their audience; the man behind the fifth wall.
Confusing synopsis aside, basically it's about how compared to God we're just as fictional as any character. Just as we watch them from behind the fourth wall, He watches us from behind the fifth. So to break the fifth wall would be... ugh. It makes so much more sense in my head. Language is so inefficient.
I remember the gifted classes, back in grade eight. I remember it was difficult... but only partway through Gr.11 Functions I dream of a math class where things only have to be explained once, where we do only one or two examples instead of spending half the class talking about them, where people don't ask the teacher in utter confusion about a concept we've been using for the past month and a half. A science class where people can comprehend simple diagrams, where someone doesn't keep exclaiming "No, really!?" and the like as though the lesson was directed at him alone. An anthropology class where more than two people make frequent contributions. I'm sorry, I just get frustrated sometimes.
Click. Click. Crick. Crack. More things to complain about but never to deal with. Sigh.
Chris and friend are making a movie downstairs. Or somewhere. It involves Batman, a princess, and the line "Holy distraction, Batman!" I've been offered a cameo as the princess. I just might have to take them up on that.
I'm waiting for an edited copy of my latest story to be returned. What to do, what to do... rrgh... I hate communications technology. It just complicates things. Stupid internets.
Lights up. Barren stage, old dusty floorboards. One large window hanging off the back wall, obviously fake. A cheap wooden desk to stage left, typewriter To stage right is a heavy wooden door. Two characters are sitting in chairs, staring intently at thick stacks of paper in their hands.
1: *reads* Lights up. Barren stage, old dusty floorboards. One large window hanging off the back wall, obviously fake. A cheap wooden desk to stage left, typewriter. To stage right is a heavy wooden door. Two characters are sitting in chairs, staring intently at thick stacks of paper in their hands.
2: *reads* Right.
1: *reads* First line. This is how it starts. We have these two characters sitting in this room, only it’s obviously just a set, reading from a script that describes everything they’re doing. They make references to understanding that they’re in a work of fiction, but never fully acknowledge it.
2: *looks up* This is stupid.
1: Please, just go with it. It’s a work in progress.
2: *reads* This is stupid.
1: *reads* Please, just go with it. It’s a work in progress.
2: *puts down papers* You know what, no. I refuse. This is just some elaborate joke. We both know it.
1: Oh, come on. It’s not as if we have anything better to do.
2 folds arms. Long silence.
That's as far as I got. Then I got stuck.
I call it The Fifth Wall.
Synopsis: Two nameless, faceless characters are locked in a room together. One writes scripts, while the other dreams of better times. They both know that they are fictional, though neither seems quite willing to accept it. Both with the constant feeling of being watched, they long to break past the suspension of disbelief and find the audience behind their audience; the man behind the fifth wall.
Confusing synopsis aside, basically it's about how compared to God we're just as fictional as any character. Just as we watch them from behind the fourth wall, He watches us from behind the fifth. So to break the fifth wall would be... ugh. It makes so much more sense in my head. Language is so inefficient.
I remember the gifted classes, back in grade eight. I remember it was difficult... but only partway through Gr.11 Functions I dream of a math class where things only have to be explained once, where we do only one or two examples instead of spending half the class talking about them, where people don't ask the teacher in utter confusion about a concept we've been using for the past month and a half. A science class where people can comprehend simple diagrams, where someone doesn't keep exclaiming "No, really!?" and the like as though the lesson was directed at him alone. An anthropology class where more than two people make frequent contributions. I'm sorry, I just get frustrated sometimes.
Click. Click. Crick. Crack. More things to complain about but never to deal with. Sigh.
Oct 11, 2008
Back on the wagon
Took a pretty big hit last night. Fortunately I'm still standing.
The same thing that keeps me safe also keeps me isolated. The ultimate defense; nothing gets in, nothing gets out. Between us and God we're trying to find a way to dismantle it without killing everyone. It's not easy. The system is full of mazes, illusions, locks, traps, put together by some mad genius. It's not only difficult, it's dangerous, and extremely painful - like performing surgery on yourself from the inside out. I never know when we'll hit a new seam that turns out to be a crack, or a wall, or some strange secret. There's really no telling where this will go.
When we hit something bad, I'm in an extremely vulnerable state. It's like taking the antivirus software off your computer. Something you didn't expect is almost guaranteed to attack you. Suddenly everything has razor edges. I get cold, very cold. For days at a time everything tastes like blood. Ups and downs, and it's difficult to gauge how bad it is when I lose all sense of what's real and what's not. It's best not to trust my thoughts and feelings, since they've almost certainly been corrupted. Then I have to stay in this state for anywhere from an hour to days until we've finished clearing the area or sealing up something really nasty we've unlocked.
I don't like to talk much when this happens. If I try to describe it people will either not understand or think I'm exaggerating. After all, he's just a child; how could he possibly comprehend how his mind works? Must be an attention-seeker, just his imagination, he doesn't know what real pain feels like. Yeah. Of course. If anyone asks I just say I've been feeling tired lately, which is true, but not in the way they think. It's easier for everyone if no one takes me seriously.
Sigh. Overly negative as usual.
I know I'm nothing special... I'm just a very special nothing.
The same thing that keeps me safe also keeps me isolated. The ultimate defense; nothing gets in, nothing gets out. Between us and God we're trying to find a way to dismantle it without killing everyone. It's not easy. The system is full of mazes, illusions, locks, traps, put together by some mad genius. It's not only difficult, it's dangerous, and extremely painful - like performing surgery on yourself from the inside out. I never know when we'll hit a new seam that turns out to be a crack, or a wall, or some strange secret. There's really no telling where this will go.
When we hit something bad, I'm in an extremely vulnerable state. It's like taking the antivirus software off your computer. Something you didn't expect is almost guaranteed to attack you. Suddenly everything has razor edges. I get cold, very cold. For days at a time everything tastes like blood. Ups and downs, and it's difficult to gauge how bad it is when I lose all sense of what's real and what's not. It's best not to trust my thoughts and feelings, since they've almost certainly been corrupted. Then I have to stay in this state for anywhere from an hour to days until we've finished clearing the area or sealing up something really nasty we've unlocked.
I don't like to talk much when this happens. If I try to describe it people will either not understand or think I'm exaggerating. After all, he's just a child; how could he possibly comprehend how his mind works? Must be an attention-seeker, just his imagination, he doesn't know what real pain feels like. Yeah. Of course. If anyone asks I just say I've been feeling tired lately, which is true, but not in the way they think. It's easier for everyone if no one takes me seriously.
Sigh. Overly negative as usual.
I know I'm nothing special... I'm just a very special nothing.
Oct 7, 2008
right si gnihtemos
I feel awful...
Stumble
I'll always say that I'm a mutant
some call me a demigod
I don't much care what you may call me
I'll still blame it on my blood
We dreamed of love and angels once
and there was nothing we’d prefer
it’s high time that we realized
how petty all our worries were
and are
How long until we fly
But we crawl off the pavement
and pick at our scars and we
stretch out our hands to the unfeeling stars
and we
just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just
We've all long since accepted
that the world is never fair
if cyanide and happiness
and such things can't compare
The forests are all burning now
there’s fire in the skies
but not a drop to drink these days
they know the heat and burns are lies
like me
How long until we cry
How long until we cry
But we crawl off the pavement
and pick at our scars and we
stretch out our hands to the unfeeling stars
and we
just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just
don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop
don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop
don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop
don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop
don’t.
When you’ve grown tired of my whining
and being nothing but a leech
then you’ll regret you ever loved me
and have nothing left at all to preach
Can't you see that I'm not worth it
won't you cut this cursed rope
why can't you see how cruel I'm being
letting us think there's a hope
for me
How long until we die
How long until we die
How long until we die
But we crawl off the pavement
and pick at our scars and we
stretch out our hands to the unfeeling stars
and we
just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we’ll never stop walking
we’ll never stop falling
we
Stumble
I'll always say that I'm a mutant
some call me a demigod
I don't much care what you may call me
I'll still blame it on my blood
We dreamed of love and angels once
and there was nothing we’d prefer
it’s high time that we realized
how petty all our worries were
and are
How long until we fly
But we crawl off the pavement
and pick at our scars and we
stretch out our hands to the unfeeling stars
and we
just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just
We've all long since accepted
that the world is never fair
if cyanide and happiness
and such things can't compare
The forests are all burning now
there’s fire in the skies
but not a drop to drink these days
they know the heat and burns are lies
like me
How long until we cry
How long until we cry
But we crawl off the pavement
and pick at our scars and we
stretch out our hands to the unfeeling stars
and we
just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just
don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop
don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop
don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop
don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop
don’t.
When you’ve grown tired of my whining
and being nothing but a leech
then you’ll regret you ever loved me
and have nothing left at all to preach
Can't you see that I'm not worth it
won't you cut this cursed rope
why can't you see how cruel I'm being
letting us think there's a hope
for me
How long until we die
How long until we die
How long until we die
But we crawl off the pavement
and pick at our scars and we
stretch out our hands to the unfeeling stars
and we
just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we just keep on walking
we’ll never stop walking
we’ll never stop falling
we
Oct 5, 2008
Woo, whileness
There's an old saying about how kisses shouldn't have to be stolen. If only I could remember what it was. Kisses shouldn't have to be stolen. I dream of a day when they may be given freely... actually that sounds promiscuous and dystopian. Forget that. You know what I mean, though (I hope?).
I trimmed my beard. Not shaved, just trimmed. I don't know why. I got a beard trimmer for my birthday, subtle hint, and when I took it upstairs I just unpacked the scissors and started clipping. Then when I realized what I was doing I had to finish so it wouldn't look lopsided. It's still there, and I can still tug on it when I'm thinking, but it is shorter... itches a bit from time to time. It worries me for reasons I'm not convinced I understand or want to look too much into.
Time for a story.
FAZAM!
...that's not what it sounded like, but you get the idea. My eyes were closed. I was standing on a golden path, built of large squarish tiles with rounded corners. Walls sloped away to either side of me. The sky was golden, and in the distance there was light. I shrugged and started walking. After a minute or so (time passed strangely in this place) there was a trembling and the tile fell out from under my feet. I jumped back and looked down into an infinitely black pit. Oh yeah, these weren't just foot-sized tiles. They were big, covering the entire path. So there was a hole in front of me and no way around it.
This is one of those leap of faith things, isn't it? I said. Okay, here goes... so without really thinking about it I just walked out. Of course I fell. A blink and I was back on the path, facing the hole. Okay, I said, that doesn't work... it's got to be a leap, then. I sized up the hole, looked down at my feet, then ran and leaped. I managed to land half on the next tile and half off. With great effort I pulled myself up.
This isn't real, I said. This is in my head. I can leave here whenever I want. I just have to open my eyes. So I did. The real world clicked back into focus. Then Crik! Nak! FAZAM! My eyes clanged shut and I found myself back on the golden path again.
Okay... I thought. Then there was another tremor and the tile I was standing on started to drop. I jumped for the next one but it started to fall as well. So I ran, tiles shuddering under my feet and dropping away behind me. A shimmering, then a golden crystal ladder shot out of the path in front of me. I ran to it and started climbing just seconds before the last tile dropped. At this point I thought Oh, I get it... this is some sort of trial, isn't it? I reached the top. Then the ladder started to fall backwards, back the way I had come. It was a big ladder. At last it slammed down, leaving me dangling from it into the darkness. I crawled up the side painfully. The ladders flat back had become a new path. I sat up on it, but somehow couldn't get my feet up. I stayed like this for some time. At last; Oh, I see. This is holy ground. I have to take off my shoes, don't I? So I did. My feet came up. I stood and started walking.
I looked up. This is some sort of message, isn't it? The trial is metaphorical. When the obvious solution doesn't work, then look to Your answers... but the running and jumping thing is to tell me that I have to put my faith in myself before I leave everything to You.
Am I right? But my eyes opened.
Some time after there was a part two, but I won't talk about that right now.
I trimmed my beard. Not shaved, just trimmed. I don't know why. I got a beard trimmer for my birthday, subtle hint, and when I took it upstairs I just unpacked the scissors and started clipping. Then when I realized what I was doing I had to finish so it wouldn't look lopsided. It's still there, and I can still tug on it when I'm thinking, but it is shorter... itches a bit from time to time. It worries me for reasons I'm not convinced I understand or want to look too much into.
Time for a story.
FAZAM!
...that's not what it sounded like, but you get the idea. My eyes were closed. I was standing on a golden path, built of large squarish tiles with rounded corners. Walls sloped away to either side of me. The sky was golden, and in the distance there was light. I shrugged and started walking. After a minute or so (time passed strangely in this place) there was a trembling and the tile fell out from under my feet. I jumped back and looked down into an infinitely black pit. Oh yeah, these weren't just foot-sized tiles. They were big, covering the entire path. So there was a hole in front of me and no way around it.
This is one of those leap of faith things, isn't it? I said. Okay, here goes... so without really thinking about it I just walked out. Of course I fell. A blink and I was back on the path, facing the hole. Okay, I said, that doesn't work... it's got to be a leap, then. I sized up the hole, looked down at my feet, then ran and leaped. I managed to land half on the next tile and half off. With great effort I pulled myself up.
This isn't real, I said. This is in my head. I can leave here whenever I want. I just have to open my eyes. So I did. The real world clicked back into focus. Then Crik! Nak! FAZAM! My eyes clanged shut and I found myself back on the golden path again.
Okay... I thought. Then there was another tremor and the tile I was standing on started to drop. I jumped for the next one but it started to fall as well. So I ran, tiles shuddering under my feet and dropping away behind me. A shimmering, then a golden crystal ladder shot out of the path in front of me. I ran to it and started climbing just seconds before the last tile dropped. At this point I thought Oh, I get it... this is some sort of trial, isn't it? I reached the top. Then the ladder started to fall backwards, back the way I had come. It was a big ladder. At last it slammed down, leaving me dangling from it into the darkness. I crawled up the side painfully. The ladders flat back had become a new path. I sat up on it, but somehow couldn't get my feet up. I stayed like this for some time. At last; Oh, I see. This is holy ground. I have to take off my shoes, don't I? So I did. My feet came up. I stood and started walking.
I looked up. This is some sort of message, isn't it? The trial is metaphorical. When the obvious solution doesn't work, then look to Your answers... but the running and jumping thing is to tell me that I have to put my faith in myself before I leave everything to You.
Am I right? But my eyes opened.
Some time after there was a part two, but I won't talk about that right now.
Sep 27, 2008
Nonagonite
No Amazing Race for me... sad. At least I can say the weather wasn't right for it. Instead, we went mattress shopping today. I still say there is nothing wrong with my old mattress, even though it is nearly as old as I am. Sigh. What can you do, eh? Anyway, new one arrives tuesday, after which I won't be able to sleep for awhile.
The Zombie Survival Guide is interesting... despite what you may think explosives have very little effect on zombies. Machine guns are also bad choices, given that the odds of getting an accurate penetrative shot are slim. Fire is only good if you can apply it to a large group of zombies some distance away. Semiautomatic rifles are good, providing you restrain yourself from panicking and flipping it to fully automatic. Shotguns are good, but only at shorter range, and their ammo is bulky. Crowbars and the infamous Shaolin Spade are ideal hand-to-hand weapons, along with the trench spike for compactness. For blunt objects you must consider bulkiness and durability. Some edged weapons are much more practical than others. Handguns are for emergencies only. Shurikens and throwing knives are ideal so long as you really, really know how to use them. Bows and crossbows are sniper weapons only. Toxins and electric shocks have little or no effect. In short, if it can't take off a zombie's head or destroy their brain in a single shot or blow it's not worth it. Next time, body armor.
From the looks of it it's going to be awhile before we get Spore to work. Irritating, but I don't mind too much... too too much, anyway. It is going to be AWESOME.
Did I mention Chris is dating Megan now? Officially, at last. They're pretty much the male and female versions of each other. Whether that's a good thing is debatable. Kassee and Greg are still together, and so far as I know she hasn't given him a blow job like she threatened to. Me, I constantly thank God for Danica. And I mean that. I do get the feeling Mike doesn't trust us... but then who can blame him? I only 76% trust myself anyway. But oh, I know we'll be fine. I'm feeling positive. A good mood. Love to the world. Happy. =) Here's to us - all of us. May we live and love forever.
Although I've been told I'm very pale lately. I wonder why. Hm.
I really need to do some work. Sigh. Well, still happy.
The Zombie Survival Guide is interesting... despite what you may think explosives have very little effect on zombies. Machine guns are also bad choices, given that the odds of getting an accurate penetrative shot are slim. Fire is only good if you can apply it to a large group of zombies some distance away. Semiautomatic rifles are good, providing you restrain yourself from panicking and flipping it to fully automatic. Shotguns are good, but only at shorter range, and their ammo is bulky. Crowbars and the infamous Shaolin Spade are ideal hand-to-hand weapons, along with the trench spike for compactness. For blunt objects you must consider bulkiness and durability. Some edged weapons are much more practical than others. Handguns are for emergencies only. Shurikens and throwing knives are ideal so long as you really, really know how to use them. Bows and crossbows are sniper weapons only. Toxins and electric shocks have little or no effect. In short, if it can't take off a zombie's head or destroy their brain in a single shot or blow it's not worth it. Next time, body armor.
From the looks of it it's going to be awhile before we get Spore to work. Irritating, but I don't mind too much... too too much, anyway. It is going to be AWESOME.
Did I mention Chris is dating Megan now? Officially, at last. They're pretty much the male and female versions of each other. Whether that's a good thing is debatable. Kassee and Greg are still together, and so far as I know she hasn't given him a blow job like she threatened to. Me, I constantly thank God for Danica. And I mean that. I do get the feeling Mike doesn't trust us... but then who can blame him? I only 76% trust myself anyway. But oh, I know we'll be fine. I'm feeling positive. A good mood. Love to the world. Happy. =) Here's to us - all of us. May we live and love forever.
Although I've been told I'm very pale lately. I wonder why. Hm.
I really need to do some work. Sigh. Well, still happy.
Sep 25, 2008
It's nice to be wrong
I'm sixteen today. It's bittersweet. (Bittersweet sixteen... I'll have to remember that.)
No great fanfare. To be honest I don't want to draw too much attention to it. Carrie gave me a box of smarties this morning, along with a joke. What food makes you smarter? Well, she liked it. She said it was the thought that counted and she's right, it didn't matter what she'd given me because her thoughts then were beautiful. Two years ago Liz decorated my locker. Last year Tasha did. This year I just wrote "Birthday today" on a sticky note and stuck it to the door. Beautifully symbolic, I thought. The fire hazard tribe in the stairwell sang me happy birthday, but thankfully not in Lit. There's few things more depressing than hearing a room full of Litkids singing happy birthday. *shudders*
I hope Carrie doesn't love me. Call it a vibe. She thinks I'm lonely... which I won't deny, I do spend a lot of time alone. And of course there's the stress from the whole Saikely thing. But... sigh. Do I have to warn all my female friends not to love me? Stupid aura. At least Liz seems to have stopped giving me hopeful, meaningful looks. Frustration...
And the Saikely thing. I've been forbidden, both by my Anthro teacher and my parents, from discussing my multiplicity in public. Because obviously feeling safe and comfortable in my own body isn't important. Meh, gripe. Frustration. Of course, when I expressed such he sent me down to guidance, for fear that I might harm myself. Pish. He and I aren't going to get on well.
I got Spore! Only we don't know if it will work on my laptop, possibly only on my mum's, so I'll have to play it when she's not working... should be interesting. Still though! Interesting fact: each disc can only be downloaded three times onto a computer. So if it fails three times, doesn't work. This was implemented to prevent piracy, but it's caused such an outrage that the game has already become one of the most illegally downloaded games of all time. Also Who Killed Amanda Palmer and Yes, Virginia... along with a couple books about zombies. Chris is green with envy.
The best present, though, was a cake and a card. Ironic, since I've eaten a huge curry dinner (mmmmmmmmm, shrimp and nan bread and poppadoms etc.) and a teeny-tiny slice of ultra-rich cake, so I feel like if I eat another bite I'm going to be sick. But still... I'm happy. I'm easy to please, but it's difficult to make me happy. Truly, I'm touched, fully reminded of how little I deserve such a gift and how wonderful it is to be loved. Perhaps I was slightly worried... it's my nature. But now I'm at peace. I'd go on, but I have to stop thinking about cake or I seriously am going to be sick. I didn't even eat that much... hm.
I am loved. That's the most beautiful thing anyone could ever give me. Thank you...
And now I have work to do. Third draft of lit project, as well as entire project on stem cells. That will take all night. With a bit of luck and sleep I should be able to finish my Anthro in the morning before class and some of the math at lunch. I'm still catching up from the night I missed from the coffeehouse. Oh, the coffeehouse! Great. Perhaps not quite as well-organized as some in the past, but still great. Cameos by the Lit teachers, nice touch. Lists and small songs were popular. Our grade 12s continue to be charismatic and inspiring. I wasn't too pleased with the way mine turned out; honestly I only read it because I rejected all my other ideas. Well still, I always say that. I don't like reading first, though. I've already got an idea for next time... it involves walking onstage with a cucumber. Don't worry, that's just a red herring! Yeah... hehehehehe...
Too much blogging! To work! Now! Or there will be no sleep! This is how 16 begins...
672... what on earth does that confounded song mean?
I'm happy. Thank you, my love... you mean so much to me.
No great fanfare. To be honest I don't want to draw too much attention to it. Carrie gave me a box of smarties this morning, along with a joke. What food makes you smarter? Well, she liked it. She said it was the thought that counted and she's right, it didn't matter what she'd given me because her thoughts then were beautiful. Two years ago Liz decorated my locker. Last year Tasha did. This year I just wrote "Birthday today" on a sticky note and stuck it to the door. Beautifully symbolic, I thought. The fire hazard tribe in the stairwell sang me happy birthday, but thankfully not in Lit. There's few things more depressing than hearing a room full of Litkids singing happy birthday. *shudders*
I hope Carrie doesn't love me. Call it a vibe. She thinks I'm lonely... which I won't deny, I do spend a lot of time alone. And of course there's the stress from the whole Saikely thing. But... sigh. Do I have to warn all my female friends not to love me? Stupid aura. At least Liz seems to have stopped giving me hopeful, meaningful looks. Frustration...
And the Saikely thing. I've been forbidden, both by my Anthro teacher and my parents, from discussing my multiplicity in public. Because obviously feeling safe and comfortable in my own body isn't important. Meh, gripe. Frustration. Of course, when I expressed such he sent me down to guidance, for fear that I might harm myself. Pish. He and I aren't going to get on well.
I got Spore! Only we don't know if it will work on my laptop, possibly only on my mum's, so I'll have to play it when she's not working... should be interesting. Still though! Interesting fact: each disc can only be downloaded three times onto a computer. So if it fails three times, doesn't work. This was implemented to prevent piracy, but it's caused such an outrage that the game has already become one of the most illegally downloaded games of all time. Also Who Killed Amanda Palmer and Yes, Virginia... along with a couple books about zombies. Chris is green with envy.
The best present, though, was a cake and a card. Ironic, since I've eaten a huge curry dinner (mmmmmmmmm, shrimp and nan bread and poppadoms etc.) and a teeny-tiny slice of ultra-rich cake, so I feel like if I eat another bite I'm going to be sick. But still... I'm happy. I'm easy to please, but it's difficult to make me happy. Truly, I'm touched, fully reminded of how little I deserve such a gift and how wonderful it is to be loved. Perhaps I was slightly worried... it's my nature. But now I'm at peace. I'd go on, but I have to stop thinking about cake or I seriously am going to be sick. I didn't even eat that much... hm.
I am loved. That's the most beautiful thing anyone could ever give me. Thank you...
And now I have work to do. Third draft of lit project, as well as entire project on stem cells. That will take all night. With a bit of luck and sleep I should be able to finish my Anthro in the morning before class and some of the math at lunch. I'm still catching up from the night I missed from the coffeehouse. Oh, the coffeehouse! Great. Perhaps not quite as well-organized as some in the past, but still great. Cameos by the Lit teachers, nice touch. Lists and small songs were popular. Our grade 12s continue to be charismatic and inspiring. I wasn't too pleased with the way mine turned out; honestly I only read it because I rejected all my other ideas. Well still, I always say that. I don't like reading first, though. I've already got an idea for next time... it involves walking onstage with a cucumber. Don't worry, that's just a red herring! Yeah... hehehehehe...
Too much blogging! To work! Now! Or there will be no sleep! This is how 16 begins...
672... what on earth does that confounded song mean?
I'm happy. Thank you, my love... you mean so much to me.
Sep 21, 2008
Disgusting...
My name is Whisk. Im a girl trapped in a boys body.
I hate it.
I hate this hair. I hate this skin. I hate these thick arms and stubby fingers. I hate these stupid legs. I hate being heavy. I hate the way my head hangs. I hate this beard. I hate the way my chest is built. I hate the parts that I know Im not supposed to have and the parts I know I should but dont. I hate my voice. I hate my eyes. Such sad eyes... I hate them. I hate being big. I hate automatically being attracted to girls. I hate these headaches. I hate touching myself and looking at myself but I cant stop. I hate it. I hate it. I dont want to remind myself how I look. I dont want to remember that I look so wrong. I hate my nose. I hate my mouth. This isnt how I was meant to look. I hate it.
Im just trying to find myself. I just want to be me. I dont care what the others want from me. I just want to be free to by myself, think what I want, live my own life, no matter what. Im stuck with them. With these eight other freaks. In this one disgusting body. Theyre all idiots anyway. We have a GF? WTF?
I almost cried today, thinking about how wrong it is that Im stuck in here when I should be beautiful. I should be a girl. This isnt fair. I cant dance, I cant sing, I can barely talk at all. I sound awful. Like a... boy. Its disgusting.
I dont come out often. Im just stuck here. I dont get to live. I dont get to be free. I never get to think about friends or clothes or boys or any stuff girls are supposed to do. What kind of life is this?
I hate this.
I hate it.
I hate this hair. I hate this skin. I hate these thick arms and stubby fingers. I hate these stupid legs. I hate being heavy. I hate the way my head hangs. I hate this beard. I hate the way my chest is built. I hate the parts that I know Im not supposed to have and the parts I know I should but dont. I hate my voice. I hate my eyes. Such sad eyes... I hate them. I hate being big. I hate automatically being attracted to girls. I hate these headaches. I hate touching myself and looking at myself but I cant stop. I hate it. I hate it. I dont want to remind myself how I look. I dont want to remember that I look so wrong. I hate my nose. I hate my mouth. This isnt how I was meant to look. I hate it.
Im just trying to find myself. I just want to be me. I dont care what the others want from me. I just want to be free to by myself, think what I want, live my own life, no matter what. Im stuck with them. With these eight other freaks. In this one disgusting body. Theyre all idiots anyway. We have a GF? WTF?
I almost cried today, thinking about how wrong it is that Im stuck in here when I should be beautiful. I should be a girl. This isnt fair. I cant dance, I cant sing, I can barely talk at all. I sound awful. Like a... boy. Its disgusting.
I dont come out often. Im just stuck here. I dont get to live. I dont get to be free. I never get to think about friends or clothes or boys or any stuff girls are supposed to do. What kind of life is this?
I hate this.
Sep 17, 2008
The Dark Side of the Lawn
Things that annoyed me about the Matrix trilogy:
- Neo was supposed to become more and more mechanical and inhuman as the series went on, while Mr. Smith became more humanlike and viruslike. This is supposed to be ironic. No, that does not happen. Keanu Reeves speaks in a monotone for all three films, and Smith is angry and irrational right from the beginning. If they were going for the effect they should have put more consideration into their characters.
- The CGI was bad. Not only that, it was bad during the Smith brawl in the second movie, when it needed it the most. The robots were cool, though. Got to give them that.
- The robots use unnecessary, brutal force to deal with humans. In the third movie they launch a barrage of bombs across the horizon to take out a single ship. What kind of logical, impenetrable computer system does this?
- The fighting was good in the first film. By the second it was half a second too slow every time or simply uninspired. They just didn't put in as much effort to the choreography. In the third it was all superhuman megafistfights and bad CGI bullets.
- An attempt to squeeze in too much badassery. Serif should have had much more screen time. The Train Man had no purpose at all. The Twins, who were awesome, disappear right in the middle of an action sequence. Even the Agents inexplicably lose about 59% of their ass-kicking ability by film 2. If they'd just chosen someone to be a badass character and stuck with it, then maybe the whole thing wouldn't feel as though the writers were simply trying to squeeze in every character idea they had in the hope that something stuck.
- Over-the-top Christian imagery. Yeah, guys, we get it. You didn't have to draw a cross on Neo's chest. Do you think we don't know a sacrifice when we see one?
- The rave party. That entire scene. Enough said.
- The opportunity to imply that the "real world" was simply a backup program within the Matrix was sorely missed, except in those who weren't fully paying attention at the end. That really disappointed me.
- WHY DO THE ROBOTS FLY??? I mean, the hovercrafts obviously use the electromagnets on their hulls, but... so smoothly, so swiftly, so effortlessly? If the robots have such advanced technology as to be thousands of times better than the human machines, then why do they still resort to stabbing humans with their claws? If they have antigravity then why don't they have- oh wait, they do. Okay, why didn't they use their metal-piercing lasers during the dock battle? Amongst other things. And superweapons. Do robots have some kind of anti-nuke policy? Seriously, there are just so many problems with the robots.
And other things, but that's all I'm going into right now.
Why can I never find the right words when I need them most?
Word dancing
We met a raccoon today. Out in the back field, eating an apple core. Strange, we though, to see a raccoon out so exposed, during the day of all times. Raccoons look cuddly... except for the claws, and the long teeth, and the threat of rabies. But they look cuddly.
We solved that mystery later, when we found it asleep under the apple tree. Apparently that happens a lot. Raccoons find an apple tree, eat the rotten and fermented apples underneath it, and get blind drunk. That's why they stay up so long, not having realized that they should be asleep. Anyway, it's something of a problem to have a raccoon on school grounds. What with the aforementioned cuddliness and all, it's only a matter of time before someone tries to pick it up or something equally stupid and dangerous. You don't antagonize raccoons. Rule of the Universe. Did find a couple guys later, though, pointing their camera phones at it and screaming obscenities at it while it was trying to sleep... sigh. These are the kinds of people who inexplicably swear every other word. I just don't understand that kind of language.
I'm probably going to get more involved with Focus (the new name for our school Christian group) this year. Bruce has made it a lot more democratic, which makes sense since most of our charismatic leaders have moved on. Maybe it's just a feeling of obligation since our numbers have dwindled, but I feel I can make a genuine contribution. I don't really like public speaking, but I feel I might do a few talks this year. "If God exists then why-" would be my usual theme. I'm good at those questions. Pain and suffering is the obvious one, possibly followed by uncertainty, and then by a third which has somehow slipped my mind. I had it a second ago. Hm. Anyway, I think doing this could be a really positive experience for me. I might also see if Pastor Mike is free, they're always looking for new public speakers.
The problem with faith for me isn't that I doubt my faith in God, but that I have next to no faith in myself. Which is nice in a way, because with all my lack of faith concentrated in one area it allows me to find true peace in my beliefs. It's one of the few things that lets me completely shake off my fears and morbid obsessions, at least for awhile. So it's all good. Well. Obviously my personal issues can get in the way of that, but still. Apart from me it's all good.
I know she's thinking of me. I just get... lonely, sometimes. But I can't bring that up without feeling like I'm bringing it up too often. Hm. Well. Never mind then.
We solved that mystery later, when we found it asleep under the apple tree. Apparently that happens a lot. Raccoons find an apple tree, eat the rotten and fermented apples underneath it, and get blind drunk. That's why they stay up so long, not having realized that they should be asleep. Anyway, it's something of a problem to have a raccoon on school grounds. What with the aforementioned cuddliness and all, it's only a matter of time before someone tries to pick it up or something equally stupid and dangerous. You don't antagonize raccoons. Rule of the Universe. Did find a couple guys later, though, pointing their camera phones at it and screaming obscenities at it while it was trying to sleep... sigh. These are the kinds of people who inexplicably swear every other word. I just don't understand that kind of language.
I'm probably going to get more involved with Focus (the new name for our school Christian group) this year. Bruce has made it a lot more democratic, which makes sense since most of our charismatic leaders have moved on. Maybe it's just a feeling of obligation since our numbers have dwindled, but I feel I can make a genuine contribution. I don't really like public speaking, but I feel I might do a few talks this year. "If God exists then why-" would be my usual theme. I'm good at those questions. Pain and suffering is the obvious one, possibly followed by uncertainty, and then by a third which has somehow slipped my mind. I had it a second ago. Hm. Anyway, I think doing this could be a really positive experience for me. I might also see if Pastor Mike is free, they're always looking for new public speakers.
The problem with faith for me isn't that I doubt my faith in God, but that I have next to no faith in myself. Which is nice in a way, because with all my lack of faith concentrated in one area it allows me to find true peace in my beliefs. It's one of the few things that lets me completely shake off my fears and morbid obsessions, at least for awhile. So it's all good. Well. Obviously my personal issues can get in the way of that, but still. Apart from me it's all good.
I know she's thinking of me. I just get... lonely, sometimes. But I can't bring that up without feeling like I'm bringing it up too often. Hm. Well. Never mind then.
Sep 16, 2008
This bridge was written to make you feel smittener
Well. The haich is rising. This explains my erratic behavior lately.
It will pop up suddenly, for a few seconds at a time. Enough time to look around. Enough time to take control. Enough time to scare us. It wants us afraid. At some point it stopped being a dumb beast... it's part of me, after all. It's learning. It's changing. It's getting stronger. Strong enough to break the bonds holding it. Who wouldn't be afraid?
I doubt anyone will recognize the seriousness of this. Night and darkness is one thing... but then I showed it daylight. I showed it compassion. I taught it how to hunger. And should it break free, there's no telling what it will do. No doubt it will involve destruction.
Mostly I'm afraid for Tasha. Most people would be merely strangers, faces, unknowns, but it knows her. She is the only one who has held it, who has shown it kindness, who has looked into its eyes and not been afraid. Liz was the first human it saw, but Tasha... I don't know. It knows her face, her flesh, her, for want of a better word, scent, and if it finds her again I don't know what it will do... the haich is a beast. A monster. Locked away for so long, I doubt it will be kind.
Skeleton fought it once today, when it tried to break free. The battle tore through my mind. The pain was excruciating. But he won... this time. I hope this will end soon.
And... dammit, I miss Tasha. It's cruel to make me see her every day, hear her laughter. She deleted her blog. That hurt; in this subculture our blogs bind us together in a way. Maybe she didn't want to remember me. I wish I didn't want to remember her anymore. I know that she's happy and all I can think about is her tears, my blood, and all the times she told me that she loved me. It's not fair. I shouldn't have to relive memories like this. I hate memory. You always have to dig to find the good parts.
I wonder if she loves and hates me as I love and hate her... no. I doubt she loves me at all.
I don't move on. I just suck in someone new to hold and hurt me.
I blog more when I'm depressed. Hm.
"I used to worry about being consumed by the church of mediocrity the world keeps building around itself until I realized that the so-called experts they made me talk to were full of shit." That's the sentence I'm using in my latest Lit project. Interesting, at least. Still needs work.
I'm so tired. I haven't slept at all lately.
Oh, and I finally got round to changing my blogger name from Sevenfold to Nine. Should have done that ages ago.
I think my problem with dealing with my emotions might stem from the fact that I keep them so hidden. No one else seems to care so I tell myself I don't either. Then on the occasions I do open up I either make someone upset, or afraid for me, or more often than not told in one form or another to stop saying such things, we don't want to hear it. So I stay locked up so everyone can go on pretending I'm happy. No one who opens me up is prepared to accept what comes out. Maybe if I felt confident to act like myself, truly myself, and screw what other people think of me... but it's been made clear that's not acceptable. Being recognized for the way you think and feel is out of the question.
At this point, predictably, I'm going to say that I'm just moping and droning on about the same things without doing anything about it. Maybe the reason I keep bringing it up is because I want someone to take it seriously, maybe help me deal with it. Again predictably I'll call myself selfish, but seriously, I HAVE PROBLEMS. Why can't anyone recognize that these aren't just words?
Afraid of rejection. Afraid of people turning away. At least... those I care about.
Always afraid of scaring away the ones I love, dragging them down with me until they hurt me to get away. That's what I'm afraid of. That's why I insult myself every time I bring it up. Afraid that I won't feel wanted and helpful. Fear is always there. It's wrong to live in fear of love.
It will pop up suddenly, for a few seconds at a time. Enough time to look around. Enough time to take control. Enough time to scare us. It wants us afraid. At some point it stopped being a dumb beast... it's part of me, after all. It's learning. It's changing. It's getting stronger. Strong enough to break the bonds holding it. Who wouldn't be afraid?
I doubt anyone will recognize the seriousness of this. Night and darkness is one thing... but then I showed it daylight. I showed it compassion. I taught it how to hunger. And should it break free, there's no telling what it will do. No doubt it will involve destruction.
Mostly I'm afraid for Tasha. Most people would be merely strangers, faces, unknowns, but it knows her. She is the only one who has held it, who has shown it kindness, who has looked into its eyes and not been afraid. Liz was the first human it saw, but Tasha... I don't know. It knows her face, her flesh, her, for want of a better word, scent, and if it finds her again I don't know what it will do... the haich is a beast. A monster. Locked away for so long, I doubt it will be kind.
Skeleton fought it once today, when it tried to break free. The battle tore through my mind. The pain was excruciating. But he won... this time. I hope this will end soon.
And... dammit, I miss Tasha. It's cruel to make me see her every day, hear her laughter. She deleted her blog. That hurt; in this subculture our blogs bind us together in a way. Maybe she didn't want to remember me. I wish I didn't want to remember her anymore. I know that she's happy and all I can think about is her tears, my blood, and all the times she told me that she loved me. It's not fair. I shouldn't have to relive memories like this. I hate memory. You always have to dig to find the good parts.
I wonder if she loves and hates me as I love and hate her... no. I doubt she loves me at all.
I don't move on. I just suck in someone new to hold and hurt me.
I blog more when I'm depressed. Hm.
"I used to worry about being consumed by the church of mediocrity the world keeps building around itself until I realized that the so-called experts they made me talk to were full of shit." That's the sentence I'm using in my latest Lit project. Interesting, at least. Still needs work.
I'm so tired. I haven't slept at all lately.
Oh, and I finally got round to changing my blogger name from Sevenfold to Nine. Should have done that ages ago.
I think my problem with dealing with my emotions might stem from the fact that I keep them so hidden. No one else seems to care so I tell myself I don't either. Then on the occasions I do open up I either make someone upset, or afraid for me, or more often than not told in one form or another to stop saying such things, we don't want to hear it. So I stay locked up so everyone can go on pretending I'm happy. No one who opens me up is prepared to accept what comes out. Maybe if I felt confident to act like myself, truly myself, and screw what other people think of me... but it's been made clear that's not acceptable. Being recognized for the way you think and feel is out of the question.
At this point, predictably, I'm going to say that I'm just moping and droning on about the same things without doing anything about it. Maybe the reason I keep bringing it up is because I want someone to take it seriously, maybe help me deal with it. Again predictably I'll call myself selfish, but seriously, I HAVE PROBLEMS. Why can't anyone recognize that these aren't just words?
Afraid of rejection. Afraid of people turning away. At least... those I care about.
Always afraid of scaring away the ones I love, dragging them down with me until they hurt me to get away. That's what I'm afraid of. That's why I insult myself every time I bring it up. Afraid that I won't feel wanted and helpful. Fear is always there. It's wrong to live in fear of love.
Sep 15, 2008
Freud would have loved me
I've decided not to have thoughts or feelings any more. They've never been popular with anyone. I'm always scared or angry anyway, so it's not like I'm missing out on a lot. And my opinions never seem to improve anyone's life. So I'm just going to stop. Honestly I doubt anyone will notice.
It's tempting to pull a phantom: disappear, desperately reach for happiness, kill without mercy, destroy the world for showing no compassion to me. I couldn't do that, though. And death is, at the moment at least, unattainable. It's all locked up too tight, anyway. I can't even make myself bleed; it wouldn't help and people would only make a fuss. All I can do now is sit here and stew silently in this... hate.
And to think, all I really wanted was for someone to tell me, fully and in all honesty, that I was beautiful. I guess that was too much to ask.
It's tempting to pull a phantom: disappear, desperately reach for happiness, kill without mercy, destroy the world for showing no compassion to me. I couldn't do that, though. And death is, at the moment at least, unattainable. It's all locked up too tight, anyway. I can't even make myself bleed; it wouldn't help and people would only make a fuss. All I can do now is sit here and stew silently in this... hate.
And to think, all I really wanted was for someone to tell me, fully and in all honesty, that I was beautiful. I guess that was too much to ask.
Sep 11, 2008
Then, in a sudden gear shift,
Underwent a Reconstruction today. Confused, vision occasionally blurred, no sense of balance all morning, twitching, extreme paranoia and music galore, it's not the most pleasant of experiences but I'm somehow aware that it's much, much better than the alternative. Woke up for real sometime during math with a polished ego and a rubber bubble glurbing angrily in the back of my mind. The point is I'm feeling better.
Depression is something I do my best to keep to myself. I know full well that if I don't get better myself Skeleton will intervene before too long, so it's not worth dragging other people into. Life's too short to spend it miserable.
How am I doing? Anthropology is excruciatingly slow, biology not much better. Math is easy but tedious, at least for now. I handed in my second Lit project today. I'm still not writing to my fullest potential. Writing practice today:
6: An eye without a pupil, green as emeralds, dark and pure as sin itself, far from stupid but not quite understanding.
7: The ivory tower, golden brown as a field of wheat, flawed yet unbreakable, the idiot hero who somehow always wins.
9: A cube without a purpose, red as a robins bloodstained feather, innocent yet hated, the helpless bystander left holding the explosives.
4: A shadow in night, deep and merciful blue, inescapable as death, the only one who can wear a cape and mean it.
Actually that's not quite how 4 went, but I forget.
My. Fitzpatrick described me as "the really quiet one, the observer... he's got it all figured out." He likes me. He thinks I'm smart. That's going to be a boon for me.
I'm sorry... should have just kept quiet. Forget about it. It's over for now.
Depression is something I do my best to keep to myself. I know full well that if I don't get better myself Skeleton will intervene before too long, so it's not worth dragging other people into. Life's too short to spend it miserable.
How am I doing? Anthropology is excruciatingly slow, biology not much better. Math is easy but tedious, at least for now. I handed in my second Lit project today. I'm still not writing to my fullest potential. Writing practice today:
6: An eye without a pupil, green as emeralds, dark and pure as sin itself, far from stupid but not quite understanding.
7: The ivory tower, golden brown as a field of wheat, flawed yet unbreakable, the idiot hero who somehow always wins.
9: A cube without a purpose, red as a robins bloodstained feather, innocent yet hated, the helpless bystander left holding the explosives.
4: A shadow in night, deep and merciful blue, inescapable as death, the only one who can wear a cape and mean it.
Actually that's not quite how 4 went, but I forget.
My. Fitzpatrick described me as "the really quiet one, the observer... he's got it all figured out." He likes me. He thinks I'm smart. That's going to be a boon for me.
I'm sorry... should have just kept quiet. Forget about it. It's over for now.
Sep 10, 2008
This will never get old, ha ha.
The Large Hadron Collider didn't kill us all. I'm almost disappointed.
It just seems to me that every time I make a move towards being comfortable with myself and maybe, you know, happy, something comes up to point out that I'm incapable of relating to other people in any way. Someone shouts at me without shouting and pushes me down. Every time I try to do something just for me, to make myself feel better, maybe without having to justify myself. But no one seems to want me let to do that.
I was in a bad state this afternoon. Called myself a freak, over and over again. Threatened myself. Said I was nothing, scum, a murderer, that I was glad we were going to die. I almost cried. I can be most cruel sometimes.
But no one wants to hear it. I'm not going to try to hide behind a chemical imbalance; the depression is my fault. It's me that makes myself and everyone around me miserable. Happiness is a choice, not a reaction to stimulus, and I always choose wrong. I just make everything worse, drawing people further and further into my web, tightening the strings around them... I am a destroyer.
Why can people not acknowledge that I'm afraid? Afraid of the dark creatures, afraid that the monster is going to escape and kill someone, afraid that Skeleton or some other voice in my head is going to kill me. I don't expect a padded room (nice as that would be) but can't someone just tell me that they understand? Every time I bring up my problems I feel as though I'm forcing myself on people. Why don't they want to listen? Have they no pity? Failing that, can't someone abuse me, call me a freak, push me around for being different? All I ask is that someone, anyone, accept me for what I truly am, not just the parts of me that they choose to perceive. Can't someone care? Or must my uniqueness forever remain unaddressed, mocking me?
The voices, always singing songs in my head... the cruel, mocking laughter... the deathly silence. Will they follow me forever?
And I'm griping. Listen to me moan, this narrow-minded, self-obsessed child. Will he never cease his whining? He could pull himself out of this if he chose. he just chooses not to. Why? Must crave attention. Pathetic. Should lighten up. You said happiness is a choice. Why don't you just choose life, freak? Why?
It just seems to me that every time I make a move towards being comfortable with myself and maybe, you know, happy, something comes up to point out that I'm incapable of relating to other people in any way. Someone shouts at me without shouting and pushes me down. Every time I try to do something just for me, to make myself feel better, maybe without having to justify myself. But no one seems to want me let to do that.
I was in a bad state this afternoon. Called myself a freak, over and over again. Threatened myself. Said I was nothing, scum, a murderer, that I was glad we were going to die. I almost cried. I can be most cruel sometimes.
But no one wants to hear it. I'm not going to try to hide behind a chemical imbalance; the depression is my fault. It's me that makes myself and everyone around me miserable. Happiness is a choice, not a reaction to stimulus, and I always choose wrong. I just make everything worse, drawing people further and further into my web, tightening the strings around them... I am a destroyer.
Why can people not acknowledge that I'm afraid? Afraid of the dark creatures, afraid that the monster is going to escape and kill someone, afraid that Skeleton or some other voice in my head is going to kill me. I don't expect a padded room (nice as that would be) but can't someone just tell me that they understand? Every time I bring up my problems I feel as though I'm forcing myself on people. Why don't they want to listen? Have they no pity? Failing that, can't someone abuse me, call me a freak, push me around for being different? All I ask is that someone, anyone, accept me for what I truly am, not just the parts of me that they choose to perceive. Can't someone care? Or must my uniqueness forever remain unaddressed, mocking me?
The voices, always singing songs in my head... the cruel, mocking laughter... the deathly silence. Will they follow me forever?
And I'm griping. Listen to me moan, this narrow-minded, self-obsessed child. Will he never cease his whining? He could pull himself out of this if he chose. he just chooses not to. Why? Must crave attention. Pathetic. Should lighten up. You said happiness is a choice. Why don't you just choose life, freak? Why?
Sep 8, 2008
A different kind of drifting... narwhal?
I saw someone I never expected to see again today. All because of walls.
I sometimes sit on a wall at my school, in the mornings before classes and while eating lunch. It's a nice wall, long and flat, overlooking the plateau outside the cafeteria. A little path between the trees leads to an alcove and my perch, with a larger wall on one side and a web of branches on the other. I went there for peace, to think, and occasionally to frighten the grade nines walking below. The other day, however, one of the vice principals spotted me up there and asked me to come down for safety reasons. Fond as I was of the spot, it wasn't worth fighting for and I didn't really want to upset anyone. So I vowed to find a new spot to sit.
At the back of the school was another wall, a smaller one, separating the grass and concrete. It branches off another wall with a railing overlooking a sharp drop. It doesn't quite have the quality of location and the vegetation's somewhat different, but it's comfortable and the view is spectacular. I'm also more accessible to my fellow Litkids, who camp out under a tree nearby. So it's all good. In a way it's like being forcibly retired and moving out to a new home in the country.
Today I was on my new wall, enjoying the view and my lunch, when along comes a familiar face. We hugged. I stepped on her foot, just like old times. She said she wasn't angry anymore. I guess in a way everything worked out for the best. She lives in Montreal now, anyway.
Suddenly I've run out of words. I'm not certain why.
I sometimes sit on a wall at my school, in the mornings before classes and while eating lunch. It's a nice wall, long and flat, overlooking the plateau outside the cafeteria. A little path between the trees leads to an alcove and my perch, with a larger wall on one side and a web of branches on the other. I went there for peace, to think, and occasionally to frighten the grade nines walking below. The other day, however, one of the vice principals spotted me up there and asked me to come down for safety reasons. Fond as I was of the spot, it wasn't worth fighting for and I didn't really want to upset anyone. So I vowed to find a new spot to sit.
At the back of the school was another wall, a smaller one, separating the grass and concrete. It branches off another wall with a railing overlooking a sharp drop. It doesn't quite have the quality of location and the vegetation's somewhat different, but it's comfortable and the view is spectacular. I'm also more accessible to my fellow Litkids, who camp out under a tree nearby. So it's all good. In a way it's like being forcibly retired and moving out to a new home in the country.
Today I was on my new wall, enjoying the view and my lunch, when along comes a familiar face. We hugged. I stepped on her foot, just like old times. She said she wasn't angry anymore. I guess in a way everything worked out for the best. She lives in Montreal now, anyway.
Suddenly I've run out of words. I'm not certain why.
Sep 4, 2008
Mushrooms and Roses
I've got a pain in my chest. I've probably been too bent over, but sometimes I think I have a respiratory problem. I know it might be likely I've inherited my father's asthma, but that cleared up as soon as he came to Canada. So don't know, really.
One thing that bothers me about talking to people is that I keep assuming they can sense my emotions as easily as I can sense theirs. Online it's even worse, because I don't have that constant feeling telling me how they are. I often get confused, probably worse than most. So I don't know how certain people are feeling now. It makes me feel... helpless.
The other day we had to write something that implied a lot in very few words. I wrote this:
Like an angel cast from Heaven it fell towards us, making no attempt to stop itself, and just before the flash I told Erika that she was beautiful.
I'm becoming very concise.
Also I'm still sick. Possibly tetchy, but I hope not.
One thing that bothers me about talking to people is that I keep assuming they can sense my emotions as easily as I can sense theirs. Online it's even worse, because I don't have that constant feeling telling me how they are. I often get confused, probably worse than most. So I don't know how certain people are feeling now. It makes me feel... helpless.
The other day we had to write something that implied a lot in very few words. I wrote this:
Like an angel cast from Heaven it fell towards us, making no attempt to stop itself, and just before the flash I told Erika that she was beautiful.
I'm becoming very concise.
Also I'm still sick. Possibly tetchy, but I hope not.
Sep 3, 2008
Tasting blood
I've been back from camp for well over a week. School has started. And I am STILL BLOODY SICK. I'm coughing like mad, my throat is slimy, my nose is almost impenetrable, it hurts when I breathe in and I've got a headache that can only be described as stonking.
So I won't really talk about anything much, because I'm completely fed up and will only be miserable about it.
Instead, here's
A Quick Guide to My Mood as Determined by Music
When I'm listening to:
So I won't really talk about anything much, because I'm completely fed up and will only be miserable about it.
Instead, here's
A Quick Guide to My Mood as Determined by Music
When I'm listening to:
- Anything with a lively beat: I am perfectly content with the world at large.
- Loud power metal: Alive and full of energy.
- Panic at the Disco and similar: I am slightly pleased.
- Shuffle, game soundtrack or random techno: Average.
- Nightwish and similar: I am slightly depressed, but no need to worry.
- Matchbox Twenty and similar: I am sort of depressed. Cheer me up.
- Evanescence or Gordon Lightfoot: Girl trouble. It will be safe to talk to me in two days.
- The Used and similar: Keep me away from sharp objects.
- Lux Aeterna: Run. Just run and don't stop.
Aug 8, 2008
Aug 3, 2008
Can't stay mad at me forever
First off, a quick review of the fourth Mummy movie (although personally I think it should be called the third, since The Scorpion King was in fact telling a virtually unrelated story and should be considered a spinoff as opposed to part of the main series, but whatever) which I saw two days ago. It was... mediocre.
First off, the acting? Bad. The old characters obviously have no interest in this movie, while the new ones seem to have little or no talent whatsoever. It's generally agreed that the new Evie has no place in this movie and should have been killed off sometime earlier. Speaking of Evie, her relationship with her husband is monotonous and completely without chemistry. The same can be said for the pointless romantic subplot between the now inappropriately loud and clueless Alex and the gratuitous stock chinese girl. (Another complaint has been that he lost his english accent, but I personally found both versions of him to be annoying. Maybe it's just me.)
The movie starts off well with a fairly well-done segment of backstory, cutting to an idyllic scene of fly-fishing. It's a good start. It's also memorable as the only part of the film that's well-paced. Sadly it goes on this vein for much too long, dragging a peaceful image of retirement on for far too long. Yes, they're retired, and they're happy. We get it. Move on. Finally they do, only to shove more exposition down our throats. Then without warning we cut to a poorly-done action sequence.
The entire film goes on like this; scenes of romantic subplot totally without chemistry, clumsy expositional dialogue, and claustrophobic action sequences with far too many close-ups. Within a few minutes you'll be begging for a wide-angle shot. All of the above are far too long. This goes on for some time.
The plot is convoluted and unnecessary. It's a movie that tries very, very hard to be epic, which leads to throwing absolutely everything into it regardless of whether it's relevant or even makes any sense. The yetis, for instance, could easily have been left out. As could Jonathan, who makes no actual contributions to the plot and serves only as a poor comic relief. In fact, the entire "pool of immortality" storyline could and should have been cut out. We know right from the beginning that they're going to fail to stop the Emperor from reaching it, so there's really no point to that segment of the story at all. We feel no dramatic tension; in fact, we don't even care. The audience wishes they would just get to the point. On the other hand, the likable mad pilot thrown in more as a plot device than anything else gets no story whatsoever. The evil soldiers who resurrect the Emperor get no character motivation past being fascists. If they'd just stopped trying to cram everything in and just build on the good elements that they have... well.
What I couldn't help but notice was the tendency to rip off other movies, namely Indiana Jones. If the crystal lighting the way to the [insert valuable thing here] wasn't a giveaway already, there's also the father-being-almost-killed-and-only-the-[insert valuable thing here]-can-save-him twist. That and aside from the colour of their skin the evil chinese soldiers were indistinguishable from Nazis. Change the uniform and no one would have noticed. I'd go on, but seriously, I'm sick of this review. It can't even continue on properly from the previous Mummy films, because apart from reusing characters it has next to no continuity whatsoever.
Despite all the terrible things I've just said about it, the movie wasn't bad. Hole-ridden plot and poor acting aside, it was still enjoyable. Some parts were not as good as others, but there was nothing in it that I genuinely hated. Many thought the end was anticlimactic but you know what? I liked it. Say what you will, for all its faults Tomb of the Dragon Emperor is still a likable action film that I don't regret seeing. Three out of five stars.
...that went on a bit longer than expected.
We went to the Buskers Festival today. Lots of street performers doing acts that can't be done by anyone else in the world, all of which seem to involve balancing and juggling. One person juggled an apple, a knife and a flaming torch balanced on the shaft of a bicycle on top of a pole, another (who looked alarmingly like BenLoka, that Youtube guy) juggled a hat, a plunger and a rubber chicken while balanced on top of a ladder, one guy juggled three knives blindfolded while spinning around on top of an absurdly tall unicycle, and one guy balanced a whirling lawnmower on his chin while people threw lettuce into it. You have to question how people discover that they have these talents.
I've started writing the story of my life. It's august. I have to be prepared for december. Perhaps if I focus on the past I won't have to worry about the future. I've never been to good at living in the present... to be honest, I don't entirely understand the concept.
First off, the acting? Bad. The old characters obviously have no interest in this movie, while the new ones seem to have little or no talent whatsoever. It's generally agreed that the new Evie has no place in this movie and should have been killed off sometime earlier. Speaking of Evie, her relationship with her husband is monotonous and completely without chemistry. The same can be said for the pointless romantic subplot between the now inappropriately loud and clueless Alex and the gratuitous stock chinese girl. (Another complaint has been that he lost his english accent, but I personally found both versions of him to be annoying. Maybe it's just me.)
The movie starts off well with a fairly well-done segment of backstory, cutting to an idyllic scene of fly-fishing. It's a good start. It's also memorable as the only part of the film that's well-paced. Sadly it goes on this vein for much too long, dragging a peaceful image of retirement on for far too long. Yes, they're retired, and they're happy. We get it. Move on. Finally they do, only to shove more exposition down our throats. Then without warning we cut to a poorly-done action sequence.
The entire film goes on like this; scenes of romantic subplot totally without chemistry, clumsy expositional dialogue, and claustrophobic action sequences with far too many close-ups. Within a few minutes you'll be begging for a wide-angle shot. All of the above are far too long. This goes on for some time.
The plot is convoluted and unnecessary. It's a movie that tries very, very hard to be epic, which leads to throwing absolutely everything into it regardless of whether it's relevant or even makes any sense. The yetis, for instance, could easily have been left out. As could Jonathan, who makes no actual contributions to the plot and serves only as a poor comic relief. In fact, the entire "pool of immortality" storyline could and should have been cut out. We know right from the beginning that they're going to fail to stop the Emperor from reaching it, so there's really no point to that segment of the story at all. We feel no dramatic tension; in fact, we don't even care. The audience wishes they would just get to the point. On the other hand, the likable mad pilot thrown in more as a plot device than anything else gets no story whatsoever. The evil soldiers who resurrect the Emperor get no character motivation past being fascists. If they'd just stopped trying to cram everything in and just build on the good elements that they have... well.
What I couldn't help but notice was the tendency to rip off other movies, namely Indiana Jones. If the crystal lighting the way to the [insert valuable thing here] wasn't a giveaway already, there's also the father-being-almost-killed-and-only-the-[insert valuable thing here]-can-save-him twist. That and aside from the colour of their skin the evil chinese soldiers were indistinguishable from Nazis. Change the uniform and no one would have noticed. I'd go on, but seriously, I'm sick of this review. It can't even continue on properly from the previous Mummy films, because apart from reusing characters it has next to no continuity whatsoever.
Despite all the terrible things I've just said about it, the movie wasn't bad. Hole-ridden plot and poor acting aside, it was still enjoyable. Some parts were not as good as others, but there was nothing in it that I genuinely hated. Many thought the end was anticlimactic but you know what? I liked it. Say what you will, for all its faults Tomb of the Dragon Emperor is still a likable action film that I don't regret seeing. Three out of five stars.
...that went on a bit longer than expected.
We went to the Buskers Festival today. Lots of street performers doing acts that can't be done by anyone else in the world, all of which seem to involve balancing and juggling. One person juggled an apple, a knife and a flaming torch balanced on the shaft of a bicycle on top of a pole, another (who looked alarmingly like BenLoka, that Youtube guy) juggled a hat, a plunger and a rubber chicken while balanced on top of a ladder, one guy juggled three knives blindfolded while spinning around on top of an absurdly tall unicycle, and one guy balanced a whirling lawnmower on his chin while people threw lettuce into it. You have to question how people discover that they have these talents.
I've started writing the story of my life. It's august. I have to be prepared for december. Perhaps if I focus on the past I won't have to worry about the future. I've never been to good at living in the present... to be honest, I don't entirely understand the concept.
Jul 28, 2008
Flickering beneath the waves
I wonder when things stopped being simple.
I won't go into too much detail about that right at this very moment. What I do know is that I'm going through a bad time right now, I hope to work my way through it in a few days, so for awhile I'm just going to shut up.
I won't go into too much detail about that right at this very moment. What I do know is that I'm going through a bad time right now, I hope to work my way through it in a few days, so for awhile I'm just going to shut up.
Jul 27, 2008
Beauty of the Beast
It's a strange emotion. Anger. It creeps up on you, builds slowly, then springs a leak when you least expect it.
Do I have reason to be angry? I wonder. I always tell myself that my anger is unjustified, that it's just me losing myself over something stupid. But sometimes I wonder. Let's see... what am I angry about?
A stupid, arrogant, materialistic world that's doing everything in its power to destroy everything in it?
Money?
The general cruelties of humans?
The fact that I can't really relate to anyone?
My upcoming final trial - and the fact that I can't drive December from my mind?
The way everyone assumes that I don't know what I'm doing?
A girlfriend whose life is too busy for her to want or need me?
A friend I've never seen who can't understand why I'm not interested in her bondage obsession and strange sexual fantasies?
My own self-loathing?
Parents who don't understand me (and knowing how cliche that is)?
The fact that, no matter what I say now, I will later apoligize profusely and never let the thought cross my mind again that maybe I'm not really as "fine" as I tell myself that I am?
Whatever. If I keep going I'm just going to start ranting more than I already have. I'm wrong, aren't I? I always am.
Do I have reason to be angry? I wonder. I always tell myself that my anger is unjustified, that it's just me losing myself over something stupid. But sometimes I wonder. Let's see... what am I angry about?
A stupid, arrogant, materialistic world that's doing everything in its power to destroy everything in it?
Money?
The general cruelties of humans?
The fact that I can't really relate to anyone?
My upcoming final trial - and the fact that I can't drive December from my mind?
The way everyone assumes that I don't know what I'm doing?
A girlfriend whose life is too busy for her to want or need me?
A friend I've never seen who can't understand why I'm not interested in her bondage obsession and strange sexual fantasies?
My own self-loathing?
Parents who don't understand me (and knowing how cliche that is)?
The fact that, no matter what I say now, I will later apoligize profusely and never let the thought cross my mind again that maybe I'm not really as "fine" as I tell myself that I am?
Whatever. If I keep going I'm just going to start ranting more than I already have. I'm wrong, aren't I? I always am.
Jul 25, 2008
Break
Woo.
Chris has been humiliated. Him, the horror movie marathon veteran who's had the summer off, fell asleep during Scream 3. I, the one who'd just finished an exam at the end of a month of summer school, was able to sit through the entirety of the series. Three slasher movies. We went to bed at three in the morning. I got up at nearly eight, picked up my report card at eight thirty, then was back in bed by quarter to nine and didn't get up until one. Eleven past one, in fact. I got a 77, by the way. Quite a morning. Now I really, really need to shower. My hair is disgusting. Also I'm thirsty, but I can't be bothered to get anything to drink.
Perhaps I should lay a few things down...
A Short Guide to Being my Girlfriend
1. Be completely honest with me, even if it's something I don't want to hear. Especially if it's something I don't want to hear.
2. Let my know if I'm getting too clingy, but don't push me away altogether. I need physical contact.
3. Recognize when I'm hurt or upset. Don't let me hide it.
4. Sometimes I say or do things that are insensitive, hurtful or just plain stupid. Tell me when I don't seem to realize I've upset someone, but don't hate me because of my mistakes. I don't intend to hurt people.
5. Accept that however much you treat me as an individual, I will always be a multiple. Don't let it change how you feel towards me, just acknowledge it.
6. Tell me everything is going to be all right. Remind me I'm a good person. Don't let me fall into despair.
7. Don't try to protect my feelings. I can sense when I'm not being told something, and that makes it worse.
8. There are no relationship problems that we can't overcome. I won't give up on you if you won't give up on me.
9. Even though I can't prove any of the weird things that happen to me, please believe me. I don't care if you think I'm schizophrenic or if there's really something out there, just don't tell me I'm making it up. Calling me a liar is one of the most hurtful things anyone can do to me.
10. Just be there for me. That's all I can really ask for.
Chris has been humiliated. Him, the horror movie marathon veteran who's had the summer off, fell asleep during Scream 3. I, the one who'd just finished an exam at the end of a month of summer school, was able to sit through the entirety of the series. Three slasher movies. We went to bed at three in the morning. I got up at nearly eight, picked up my report card at eight thirty, then was back in bed by quarter to nine and didn't get up until one. Eleven past one, in fact. I got a 77, by the way. Quite a morning. Now I really, really need to shower. My hair is disgusting. Also I'm thirsty, but I can't be bothered to get anything to drink.
Perhaps I should lay a few things down...
A Short Guide to Being my Girlfriend
1. Be completely honest with me, even if it's something I don't want to hear. Especially if it's something I don't want to hear.
2. Let my know if I'm getting too clingy, but don't push me away altogether. I need physical contact.
3. Recognize when I'm hurt or upset. Don't let me hide it.
4. Sometimes I say or do things that are insensitive, hurtful or just plain stupid. Tell me when I don't seem to realize I've upset someone, but don't hate me because of my mistakes. I don't intend to hurt people.
5. Accept that however much you treat me as an individual, I will always be a multiple. Don't let it change how you feel towards me, just acknowledge it.
6. Tell me everything is going to be all right. Remind me I'm a good person. Don't let me fall into despair.
7. Don't try to protect my feelings. I can sense when I'm not being told something, and that makes it worse.
8. There are no relationship problems that we can't overcome. I won't give up on you if you won't give up on me.
9. Even though I can't prove any of the weird things that happen to me, please believe me. I don't care if you think I'm schizophrenic or if there's really something out there, just don't tell me I'm making it up. Calling me a liar is one of the most hurtful things anyone can do to me.
10. Just be there for me. That's all I can really ask for.
Jul 23, 2008
Quax?
Note to self.
Styx? Seriously, dude? SHUT. The HELL. UP. Everyone is sick of your whining.
Now that's out of the way...
Exam tomorrow. I should be studying. Instead lately I've been playing Dark Ages. Really old MMORPG, about 77 deochs or whatever that translates to in real-world time. The only players still around are the veterans who use it as more of a social networking service and the utter n00bs who plague it. I'm not registered, so while it's free for me I only get around half the content. It's okay, though. I'm not looking to master it or anything, it's just to pass the time. I guess I'm just the sort of person who can lose themself in pointless repetition. What can I say? I like RPGs. Also, I get to kill things with my level 28 warrior. It's strangely satisfying.
I think the amount of productive work done in any period of free time rises in proportion to the amount of free time available, and inversely proportional to the amount of work that needs to be done. I think.
I was challenged to write a very specific story on the spot. This is the result.
It was morning again. At least, it looked like morning. The sky was always red now. Vaguely Sam wondered why, but he didn't really care. He was hungry. With a small yawn he stood up and stretched.
The rest of the family was in the kitchen. Sam looked at their tired faces and wondered what the matter could be. He was sure it would be all right, though. Grown-ups could fix anything. "Mom?" he called out. "What's for breakfast?" His mother looked up, her face grey and haggard. She obviously hadn't slept in a long time.
"Nothing, Sam," she said softly. "There's nothing left."
"But I'm HUNGRY," whined Sam. Seeing as no reply was forthcoming he gave up and went outside. The heat was almost unbearable, but at least it was quiet. "Biff?" he called out. There was a quick scampering and a small, painfully thin dog crawled out from under the deck.
Sam jumped down and gave him a hug, careful not to touch where his ribs were showing. "There's nothing left to eat, Biff," whispered Sam. "What do you think we'll do now?" The dog stared, blinking stupidly.
The pair went back inside, cooling only slightly as the failing air conditioning hit them. Nobody looked up. They just sat, hunched over, staring at nothing.
Sam approached his mother, tugging softly at her sleeve. "Momma," he said, an edge of uneasiness creeping into his voice, "why is everyone so sad?" She only sighed softly and put a limp hand on his shoulder. Biff whined.
Uncle Max glanced over slowly. He nudged Frank. "The dog," he said simply. Frank hesitated, started to nod, then stopped. Everyone seemed to look sideways at Sam.
"No!" said his mother fiercely, suddenly angry. "We agreed. We can't do that."
"Why?!" Shouted Uncle Max back. Sam walked back and sat next to Biff, hands over his ears. "So we can die a little sooner? Why the hell not?"
"What does that make us?" screamed his mother. Tears started to well up in Sam's eyes. He didn't like it when people shouted, and they were shouting because of Biff, and he hadn't even done anything wrong!
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Yelled Uncle Max. Then he was out of his chair, and Frank was standing too, and then someone pushed Sam out of the way.
He screamed and closed his eyes, hands still over his ears. Biff let out a yelp. Sam's mother stood screaming at them to stop, and then she hit Frank, and Frank hit her back and she fell over. There were a few moments of silence, and when Sam opened his eyes Frank, Uncle Max and Biff were all gone.
His father still hadn't moved. Slowly he let out a sigh and put his head on the table.
"Momma?" Sam asked, tears beginning to run down his face. "What are they gonna do with Biff?"
She took Sam in her arms and held him tight. "It's gonna be okay, Sam. It's gonna be okay."
There was a tiny clunk and the air conditioning finally gave out, surrendering the house completely to the blood-red sun.
Also, they're making a movie of Watchmen. Very exciting. Apparently it struggled in developmental hell for the longest time because everyone said it was unfilmable. I hope they do a good job.
Styx? Seriously, dude? SHUT. The HELL. UP. Everyone is sick of your whining.
Now that's out of the way...
Exam tomorrow. I should be studying. Instead lately I've been playing Dark Ages. Really old MMORPG, about 77 deochs or whatever that translates to in real-world time. The only players still around are the veterans who use it as more of a social networking service and the utter n00bs who plague it. I'm not registered, so while it's free for me I only get around half the content. It's okay, though. I'm not looking to master it or anything, it's just to pass the time. I guess I'm just the sort of person who can lose themself in pointless repetition. What can I say? I like RPGs. Also, I get to kill things with my level 28 warrior. It's strangely satisfying.
I think the amount of productive work done in any period of free time rises in proportion to the amount of free time available, and inversely proportional to the amount of work that needs to be done. I think.
I was challenged to write a very specific story on the spot. This is the result.
It was morning again. At least, it looked like morning. The sky was always red now. Vaguely Sam wondered why, but he didn't really care. He was hungry. With a small yawn he stood up and stretched.
The rest of the family was in the kitchen. Sam looked at their tired faces and wondered what the matter could be. He was sure it would be all right, though. Grown-ups could fix anything. "Mom?" he called out. "What's for breakfast?" His mother looked up, her face grey and haggard. She obviously hadn't slept in a long time.
"Nothing, Sam," she said softly. "There's nothing left."
"But I'm HUNGRY," whined Sam. Seeing as no reply was forthcoming he gave up and went outside. The heat was almost unbearable, but at least it was quiet. "Biff?" he called out. There was a quick scampering and a small, painfully thin dog crawled out from under the deck.
Sam jumped down and gave him a hug, careful not to touch where his ribs were showing. "There's nothing left to eat, Biff," whispered Sam. "What do you think we'll do now?" The dog stared, blinking stupidly.
The pair went back inside, cooling only slightly as the failing air conditioning hit them. Nobody looked up. They just sat, hunched over, staring at nothing.
Sam approached his mother, tugging softly at her sleeve. "Momma," he said, an edge of uneasiness creeping into his voice, "why is everyone so sad?" She only sighed softly and put a limp hand on his shoulder. Biff whined.
Uncle Max glanced over slowly. He nudged Frank. "The dog," he said simply. Frank hesitated, started to nod, then stopped. Everyone seemed to look sideways at Sam.
"No!" said his mother fiercely, suddenly angry. "We agreed. We can't do that."
"Why?!" Shouted Uncle Max back. Sam walked back and sat next to Biff, hands over his ears. "So we can die a little sooner? Why the hell not?"
"What does that make us?" screamed his mother. Tears started to well up in Sam's eyes. He didn't like it when people shouted, and they were shouting because of Biff, and he hadn't even done anything wrong!
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Yelled Uncle Max. Then he was out of his chair, and Frank was standing too, and then someone pushed Sam out of the way.
He screamed and closed his eyes, hands still over his ears. Biff let out a yelp. Sam's mother stood screaming at them to stop, and then she hit Frank, and Frank hit her back and she fell over. There were a few moments of silence, and when Sam opened his eyes Frank, Uncle Max and Biff were all gone.
His father still hadn't moved. Slowly he let out a sigh and put his head on the table.
"Momma?" Sam asked, tears beginning to run down his face. "What are they gonna do with Biff?"
She took Sam in her arms and held him tight. "It's gonna be okay, Sam. It's gonna be okay."
There was a tiny clunk and the air conditioning finally gave out, surrendering the house completely to the blood-red sun.
Also, they're making a movie of Watchmen. Very exciting. Apparently it struggled in developmental hell for the longest time because everyone said it was unfilmable. I hope they do a good job.
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