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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.