I have a peak that I quickly hit when feeling anything. It's just above trembling with rage but just below screaming bloody hellfire. I try to avoid hitting this peak, because if I do all the energy drains out of me at once and I go back to zero. Feeling nothing. Needless to say, this gets frustrating. Yet another reason I have to constantly keep myself in check. Even as a child I found it difficult to stay angry for more than half an hour, left to my own devices. These days there are some kinds of music I have to suppress myself to listen to... oh, how my world has shrunk.
There are many downsides to this. It's hard to argue for something you're passionate about, to experience true joy, to release sorrow, to tell someone that you love her... I just burn things off too fast. But at the same time, I know it's necessary. Remember your greatest sorrow... remember when your father died. Could you live with that memory, always? I feel everything. Empathy magnifies the problem. I feel everything, with such intensity, that I simply do not have the energy to live with it regularly. I wonder sometimes what I would become, if I could handle this energy... the lengths to which I would go. But it was such energy that broke me. In the past, dissociation was the only way I could escape being destroyed by it. This new system is another escape from my past. In many ways it's not that different.
I want to feel. But I must be careful. It's not too late to save me, but should I ever lose control I would certainly become a monster. Emotion is power. Uninhibited, I could use that power to do... such things... when I am ready. For now, I must be content. The Nine are not yet strong enough to handle such things.
I need to tell someone. I was going to marry Jasmine. That could have been my destiny, if I chose it. Not soon... about twenty years down the line, I think. That was one of the paths that was shown to me, something to aspire to, what could be if I followed the light. But I fell. I was tired, and I let myself fall, and now that ship has sailed. The smallest slip can do such things. But I will prevail, for I was also shown the path I would follow should I fall into darkness. I die, struck down beside the trees, about two years from now. That path is still open to me. I must not follow it.
Predicting the future is a tricky business... I can only see the roads ahead, not which path we will take. I still get glimpses, through the cracks in time. (Is time broken in the world, or only in my head? Has distancing myself from it shattered it for me alone?) Currently I am without illumination, fighting towards a good future I know must exist somewhere. I will prevail.
I think there's a piece of fish stuck in one of the holes in my gums... I hope I don't get an infection now. That would be bad.
Dec 29, 2009
Dec 24, 2009
Lonely North Warrior
In general, I do not like blockbuster assemblies. Too many people, too much noise. I sat through this one because I said I would. There was plenty of time to reflect - I reckon it was the sixth worst experience of my life. My tolerance for people is diminishing. It's horrible. I tremble at the thought. Frozen in myself, listening as the world erupts around me... I'm not totally sure what it means. Euch. It doesn't help that I was in a position to watch the flower, something I usually try to avoid. It lazily lowers its tendrils one by one into the crowd below, then withdraws them. It feeds. I'm not sure why it has a mouth... perhaps it's purely ornamental, or perhaps it serves some other purpose. Doesn't bear thinking about.
I spent some time in those final hours trying to subtly convey thoughts that I'm not certain exist. Closure, something I never was able to find from people.
As may be evident, I'm a little drugged up right now. Sometime yesterday I had my wisdom teeth removed, and since then I've been taking some heavy painkillers while I recover.
The experience was interesting. I'd been preparing for this for awhile; my lower left third molar was already starting to compact my other teeth. There was some pain, and it needed to be taken out. Two days afore the 25th is perhaps not the most convenient of times, but it was what was available. We went in around one thirty, having not had anything to eat since a peanut butter sandwich at five thirty in the morning and a glass of orange juice (it's important that the stomach be empty, for reasons I forget why) and waited for around twenty minutes. When we were called in I lay back in the comfy chair.
I had heard from my parents that a general anesthesia, which I was expecting to receive, was much like being turned off: a sudden flick like a light going out and then you wake up an hour later. Just before we arrived my da told me that he thought I would be getting a local anesthetic, freezing my face but keeping me awake. That didn't help my nerves any. My nurse, I forget her name but I remember that she was nice, told me that I was getting something newer and very similar to the general anesthetic. The effect more closely resembles a deep sleep than completely deactivating the body, which is a more pleasant experience for the patient and more convenient for the doctors because it allows the subject to continue breathing unassisted. She stuck the stinging needle into my hand and I soon became very drowsy. I don't remember much after that. Presumably I fell asleep.
I remember waking up in a blue chair in a room somewhere, thinking how the hell did I get here? I remember staggering slowly out to the car, perhaps getting in. I don't remember the ride home. At some point I was sat in a chair and tucked under a blanket in front of The Fellowship of the Ring, the extended edition. I took medicine every four hours. Most of my lower face was completely numb, which slowly went away but lasted on my left side until well into the next morning. Even though I was awake the sleeping drug was still in my body for awhile, so it's hard to piece together exactly what happened.
There are large holes inside my mouth, though I'm sure they'll close up soon. I worry. There are poking wires through the outside edge of my lower gums. They are meant to be stitches but now they mostly stab the inside of my mouth, stabbing the holes. Someone woke up the middle of the night, panicked and tried to rip the stitches out with their hands. I'm not sure how much damage he or she did but that morning the sheets and my hands were covered in patches of blood. A couple of sharp edges now stick out, poking into the hole above. It is uncomfortable. I am lucky, though; there is minimal swelling. My face is only slightly bulged around the edges, and I am able to speak normally. Food is interesting, as I cannot chew and so everything must be pureed. This is not so bad, actually. I have had baked beans twice.
I was visited last night. "You always know when I'm at my weakest," I said. "Leave. You are not welcome here. I sleep." The intruder said nothing. I turned over and whispered. "God. Help me. I do not deserve your mercy, but I will ask for your aid, if it is your wish. Please. Help us." A calmness rose over me. I stood, rippling with inner strength, my face contorting into a familiar muzzle. And the dark silence, something whispered. "I can crush you," I said to the intruder. "You will leave." I lay back down, rejoining myself and finding a sense of wholeness. I saw the whole of my mind laid out before me: in pieces, often disconnected or locked away, but unmistakably complete. Is a jigsaw puzzle broken when it is disassembled? No, it is simply waiting. "This will be the year I turn my life around. I'll do what's right, you'll see. You'll see."
I spent some time in those final hours trying to subtly convey thoughts that I'm not certain exist. Closure, something I never was able to find from people.
As may be evident, I'm a little drugged up right now. Sometime yesterday I had my wisdom teeth removed, and since then I've been taking some heavy painkillers while I recover.
The experience was interesting. I'd been preparing for this for awhile; my lower left third molar was already starting to compact my other teeth. There was some pain, and it needed to be taken out. Two days afore the 25th is perhaps not the most convenient of times, but it was what was available. We went in around one thirty, having not had anything to eat since a peanut butter sandwich at five thirty in the morning and a glass of orange juice (it's important that the stomach be empty, for reasons I forget why) and waited for around twenty minutes. When we were called in I lay back in the comfy chair.
I had heard from my parents that a general anesthesia, which I was expecting to receive, was much like being turned off: a sudden flick like a light going out and then you wake up an hour later. Just before we arrived my da told me that he thought I would be getting a local anesthetic, freezing my face but keeping me awake. That didn't help my nerves any. My nurse, I forget her name but I remember that she was nice, told me that I was getting something newer and very similar to the general anesthetic. The effect more closely resembles a deep sleep than completely deactivating the body, which is a more pleasant experience for the patient and more convenient for the doctors because it allows the subject to continue breathing unassisted. She stuck the stinging needle into my hand and I soon became very drowsy. I don't remember much after that. Presumably I fell asleep.
I remember waking up in a blue chair in a room somewhere, thinking how the hell did I get here? I remember staggering slowly out to the car, perhaps getting in. I don't remember the ride home. At some point I was sat in a chair and tucked under a blanket in front of The Fellowship of the Ring, the extended edition. I took medicine every four hours. Most of my lower face was completely numb, which slowly went away but lasted on my left side until well into the next morning. Even though I was awake the sleeping drug was still in my body for awhile, so it's hard to piece together exactly what happened.
There are large holes inside my mouth, though I'm sure they'll close up soon. I worry. There are poking wires through the outside edge of my lower gums. They are meant to be stitches but now they mostly stab the inside of my mouth, stabbing the holes. Someone woke up the middle of the night, panicked and tried to rip the stitches out with their hands. I'm not sure how much damage he or she did but that morning the sheets and my hands were covered in patches of blood. A couple of sharp edges now stick out, poking into the hole above. It is uncomfortable. I am lucky, though; there is minimal swelling. My face is only slightly bulged around the edges, and I am able to speak normally. Food is interesting, as I cannot chew and so everything must be pureed. This is not so bad, actually. I have had baked beans twice.
I was visited last night. "You always know when I'm at my weakest," I said. "Leave. You are not welcome here. I sleep." The intruder said nothing. I turned over and whispered. "God. Help me. I do not deserve your mercy, but I will ask for your aid, if it is your wish. Please. Help us." A calmness rose over me. I stood, rippling with inner strength, my face contorting into a familiar muzzle. And the dark silence, something whispered. "I can crush you," I said to the intruder. "You will leave." I lay back down, rejoining myself and finding a sense of wholeness. I saw the whole of my mind laid out before me: in pieces, often disconnected or locked away, but unmistakably complete. Is a jigsaw puzzle broken when it is disassembled? No, it is simply waiting. "This will be the year I turn my life around. I'll do what's right, you'll see. You'll see."
Dec 15, 2009
So much to report
I haven't been around much. I've been very busy.
I went to Toronto last weekend, to look at universities. I think I've found somewhere I like, but I'm not sure... my da's pretty sure he's going to lose his job soon. Recession and all. And if we get cash-strapped, I'm not going to be able to go somewhere far. I think he's prepping me for disappointment. Or maybe he just likes to be prepared. I'm looking into local universities just in case.
The weekend before I tried my hand at making mochi. There's a yearly Japanese event revolving around the food. First, cooks make a particularly gloopy, gelatinous rice. The rice is ground together and then pounded with hammers until it forms a thick, sticky dough. It's then used to make treats. The local kendo clubs are invited to wield the hammers, for obvious reasons. These things are huge, long as my arm and quite heavy. If I didn't know how to use a shinai I'd have no chance holding one of these. I was slow getting started but did a fair amount of work, even continuing when the drums started... we were set up right in front of the stage, and it was really loud. As soon as the gong started I wanted to drop the hammer and cover my ears. Well, it was worth it. I still have a massive blister, probably much worse than it would be if I hadn't been picking at it for the past week. My skills are improving, slowly. There's a kendo club at the university I'm interested in, so I hope to be good by the time I leave. Maybe be at least physically fit.
On that note, the pains in my chest are getting worse... I'm having breathing problems and dizzy spells more often. I swear there's something wrong with my lungs, maybe my heart. Maybe I should request an exorcism. No, I'm terrified to...
I finished two major projects in the past week, both rushed and at the last minute. I am very displeased with my editor. Well, so long as I can throw some decent grades together in the end I suppose I'll be happy.
I keep thinking of things to write, things to say throughout my day, but I can't find the time to dedicate to them. Maybe I'll get on Twitter. I have another big project in mind, this time for a productive reason... for Lit I need a concept piece, at least forty pages of my best work revolving around a single word. Additionally, for the past year I've been writing a story through music, creating a playlist that tells a story of birth and death, of angels and mortals, of pride and suffering... come Christmas I should have some new songs, so I can work on it some more. If I can convert this musical tale into words - inspired by music through and through but still my creation - I could... well. I like it, anyways.
I went to Toronto last weekend, to look at universities. I think I've found somewhere I like, but I'm not sure... my da's pretty sure he's going to lose his job soon. Recession and all. And if we get cash-strapped, I'm not going to be able to go somewhere far. I think he's prepping me for disappointment. Or maybe he just likes to be prepared. I'm looking into local universities just in case.
The weekend before I tried my hand at making mochi. There's a yearly Japanese event revolving around the food. First, cooks make a particularly gloopy, gelatinous rice. The rice is ground together and then pounded with hammers until it forms a thick, sticky dough. It's then used to make treats. The local kendo clubs are invited to wield the hammers, for obvious reasons. These things are huge, long as my arm and quite heavy. If I didn't know how to use a shinai I'd have no chance holding one of these. I was slow getting started but did a fair amount of work, even continuing when the drums started... we were set up right in front of the stage, and it was really loud. As soon as the gong started I wanted to drop the hammer and cover my ears. Well, it was worth it. I still have a massive blister, probably much worse than it would be if I hadn't been picking at it for the past week. My skills are improving, slowly. There's a kendo club at the university I'm interested in, so I hope to be good by the time I leave. Maybe be at least physically fit.
On that note, the pains in my chest are getting worse... I'm having breathing problems and dizzy spells more often. I swear there's something wrong with my lungs, maybe my heart. Maybe I should request an exorcism. No, I'm terrified to...
I finished two major projects in the past week, both rushed and at the last minute. I am very displeased with my editor. Well, so long as I can throw some decent grades together in the end I suppose I'll be happy.
I keep thinking of things to write, things to say throughout my day, but I can't find the time to dedicate to them. Maybe I'll get on Twitter. I have another big project in mind, this time for a productive reason... for Lit I need a concept piece, at least forty pages of my best work revolving around a single word. Additionally, for the past year I've been writing a story through music, creating a playlist that tells a story of birth and death, of angels and mortals, of pride and suffering... come Christmas I should have some new songs, so I can work on it some more. If I can convert this musical tale into words - inspired by music through and through but still my creation - I could... well. I like it, anyways.
Dec 2, 2009
Month of Fail
Feeling ambivalent about things. Most things. I think I'm too tired to have opinions right now.
My NaNo was a complete failure. I have the skill, of that there is no doubt, but what I lack is work ethic. I struggle to balance work and play already. I admit, I'm lazy. I procrastinate. I'm supposed to be writing an article for Bio right now. So I guess it was inevitable that the work ground to a halt shortly after beginning. Web series, summatives, work in general, I just had too much on my plate. And yet I'm already thinking after starting a new project... sigh. If dreams were screams we'd all be deaf.
Reasons I don't want/need a girlfriend:
But I know that I want to hold someone, and to be held. I want to be loved. Those are things I've always held onto, no matter what. And much as I want to, I can't give up wanting them. I keep clinging. The broken boy wants a second half.
I revealed myself to someone recently, in a small way. Hard to know what she thinks. The real me isn't anything like the rest; the paint is dry but the wood is rotten... and when the
walls
crumble
down
people don't generally accept what they see. Makes me want to scream, this is what I really look like. Repulsion, fear... well, mostly I'm just ignored. I tire.
Some headway with the good doctor. We've been experimenting with meditative states. Some interesting effects, including a scratch of scrawls I can't fully explain. It goes:
Take don't the face it the way it cant i cant
or something similar... she kept the note, so the words may be a little off. Included was a rough sketch of a triangular... thing. It may have had eyes. Tis bothersome.
"the face" did recently bring up an old image, thought lost. A woman, tied naked to a table, a man standing over her, lowering a spinning, serrated blade to her face... I shudder to think of it. This image has been popping up in us for years now. It has to mean something. Bothersome. Worrisome.
I don't know what to do with myself.
My NaNo was a complete failure. I have the skill, of that there is no doubt, but what I lack is work ethic. I struggle to balance work and play already. I admit, I'm lazy. I procrastinate. I'm supposed to be writing an article for Bio right now. So I guess it was inevitable that the work ground to a halt shortly after beginning. Web series, summatives, work in general, I just had too much on my plate. And yet I'm already thinking after starting a new project... sigh. If dreams were screams we'd all be deaf.
Reasons I don't want/need a girlfriend:
- I need to learn to stand on my own.
- I'm probably moving away and rebooting my life in less than a year.
- I wouldn't touch my sexuality with a ten-foot pole right now.
- All my past girlfriends left me because they didn't need me.
- Consequently, paranoia and abandonment issued.
- Periodic depression.
- Constant worrying about whether I'm emotionally abusive.
- Difficulty opening up to people.
- A darker side to my nature.
- I don't want anyone else to shoulder my burdens.
- I just don't know if I'm capable of emotionally committing to anyone now, or ever.
- Transportation and the impossibility of seeing one another socially.
- I'm too clingy.
- Varying opinions from alters.
- I'm too self-absorbed to be able to provide for someone.
- I'm awful at giving support or advice, usually ending up making it about me.
- Who would love someone like me?
But I know that I want to hold someone, and to be held. I want to be loved. Those are things I've always held onto, no matter what. And much as I want to, I can't give up wanting them. I keep clinging. The broken boy wants a second half.
I revealed myself to someone recently, in a small way. Hard to know what she thinks. The real me isn't anything like the rest; the paint is dry but the wood is rotten... and when the
walls
crumble
down
people don't generally accept what they see. Makes me want to scream, this is what I really look like. Repulsion, fear... well, mostly I'm just ignored. I tire.
Some headway with the good doctor. We've been experimenting with meditative states. Some interesting effects, including a scratch of scrawls I can't fully explain. It goes:
Take don't the face it the way it cant i cant
or something similar... she kept the note, so the words may be a little off. Included was a rough sketch of a triangular... thing. It may have had eyes. Tis bothersome.
"the face" did recently bring up an old image, thought lost. A woman, tied naked to a table, a man standing over her, lowering a spinning, serrated blade to her face... I shudder to think of it. This image has been popping up in us for years now. It has to mean something. Bothersome. Worrisome.
I don't know what to do with myself.
Nov 1, 2009
Oct 31, 2009
The Worst Day of the Year
I hate October. I fucking hate October.
(My eyes are burning.)
It gets worse and worse until the end.
Awful.
(I feel like death inside.)
Saw Repo! the other night. Pretty well amazing.
(Hate is gnawing at my intestines.)
Neither I nor my brother want to give out candy. I think we'll just turn out all the lights and hide in the basement.
(Rape, murder, spinning sociopath.)
I don't really want to be awake today.
(Let what must be done be done quietly.)
(My eyes are burning.)
It gets worse and worse until the end.
Awful.
(I feel like death inside.)
Saw Repo! the other night. Pretty well amazing.
(Hate is gnawing at my intestines.)
Neither I nor my brother want to give out candy. I think we'll just turn out all the lights and hide in the basement.
(Rape, murder, spinning sociopath.)
I don't really want to be awake today.
(Let what must be done be done quietly.)
Oct 24, 2009
Black Bile
Due to time constraints and stress, the following blog post will be written in freehand poetry.
Spiritual sister swinging
limping from the skylight I can't
dream a team it seems so sweetly,
scratching scratching
tear my heart from her chest
pureblood dripping
skin and tie and all that I am
Cat is scratching when he hates you
jabs you when to hold on tighter
I have teeth but keep my mouth shut
Never hunger, never lust
neither a combination o' the two
(but let's call it that)
arms wrapping waist snapping
smooth as glass and rough as paper
inside out by any means
(not funny, not funny)
want and need a suitor, breaking
ribs to suck in breasts, snaking
through the second heart, waking
up
no interest in me
no hand to slide to hips gladly
no longer my world
another dream of necks and ravage
beauty queen
O, sweet sister
Bishop all I am.
Spiritual sister swinging
limping from the skylight I can't
dream a team it seems so sweetly,
scratching scratching
tear my heart from her chest
pureblood dripping
skin and tie and all that I am
Cat is scratching when he hates you
jabs you when to hold on tighter
I have teeth but keep my mouth shut
Never hunger, never lust
neither a combination o' the two
(but let's call it that)
arms wrapping waist snapping
smooth as glass and rough as paper
inside out by any means
(not funny, not funny)
want and need a suitor, breaking
ribs to suck in breasts, snaking
through the second heart, waking
up
no interest in me
no hand to slide to hips gladly
no longer my world
another dream of necks and ravage
beauty queen
O, sweet sister
Bishop all I am.
Oct 18, 2009
How to Breathe
Step 1: Take the subject to a relatively quiet place, free from distraction.
Step 2: Open your heart. Release pheromones.
Step 3: Open the subject's heart. This can take the form of anything as rough and sensual as foreplay or as pure as a quiet, heartfelt conversation.
Step 4: Once the subject has opened him/herself to you, draw them in. Use whatever hooks are available to wrap yourself in them while maintaining contact - however slight - with their solid body.
Step 5: Initiate the Blood Kiss. This is much easier if accompanied by a literal kiss, which often causes the subject to lower their barriers completely, but is not necessary.
Step 6: Pull the subject into yourself. Take your time.
Step 7: The subject will fill your head like thick perfume. Breathe him/her in. Absorb all you can.
Step 8: When finished, release your hooks. Allow yourselves to naturally drift apart.
Step 9: Gently close your heart and the heart of your subject.
I have done this to people and not explained my intentions. I was... hungry.
I'm so sorry.
Step 2: Open your heart. Release pheromones.
Step 3: Open the subject's heart. This can take the form of anything as rough and sensual as foreplay or as pure as a quiet, heartfelt conversation.
Step 4: Once the subject has opened him/herself to you, draw them in. Use whatever hooks are available to wrap yourself in them while maintaining contact - however slight - with their solid body.
Step 5: Initiate the Blood Kiss. This is much easier if accompanied by a literal kiss, which often causes the subject to lower their barriers completely, but is not necessary.
Step 6: Pull the subject into yourself. Take your time.
Step 7: The subject will fill your head like thick perfume. Breathe him/her in. Absorb all you can.
Step 8: When finished, release your hooks. Allow yourselves to naturally drift apart.
Step 9: Gently close your heart and the heart of your subject.
I have done this to people and not explained my intentions. I was... hungry.
I'm so sorry.
Oct 14, 2009
Two hundred and twenty-second
I’ve been sick again. Threw up yesterday. Had to wait forty minutes for my mum to pick me up. Rough times. It’s better than my brother’s been, though. He’s… ugh. I don’t even know what he’s got. He’s been awful on the inside for some time now.
I can feel my heart beating in my left eye. The pain in my chest is getting worse. Headaches, all the time. Geh.
I’ve been working on something new. We call it Potato-Talk. A piece of the global consciousness is broken off and tossed like a hot potato from one identity state to the next. In the split second when it’s left the hands of one but yet to reach the other, I can look down and see the cracks between them. A tiny glimpse into the Abyss. Words float up. I’m not certain what they mean.
We
have
seen
the
world.
do not
Take
us,
do not
want,
need,
must not
Take,
do not
Take
us
away.
No idea where this is coming from. There is a lot of emphasis on the words seen and take.
I had a body memory. I think that’s what it was. A hand, pressed against my back, near the base of my neck. But I’m not certain it was real. Though I felt it plain as day at the time, looking back I can’t be sure which hand it was, or what position it was in. Maybe I just needed something to explain why I can’t stand to have things touching my back. Or maybe it’s a sign that things are starting to change. Switches are happening more often – countless times recently people have told me about things I’ve said, things I’ve done, conversations I’ve had, that I have no memory of – and memories are getting dug up. Slowly.
I’ve been thinking about going back to our old house. Looking around. Seeing what memories that brings back. I can’t really remember the layout of it, what it looked like. Maybe on the weekend I’ll go out for a walk, find the house again, and knock on the door.
I can feel my heart beating in my left eye. The pain in my chest is getting worse. Headaches, all the time. Geh.
I’ve been working on something new. We call it Potato-Talk. A piece of the global consciousness is broken off and tossed like a hot potato from one identity state to the next. In the split second when it’s left the hands of one but yet to reach the other, I can look down and see the cracks between them. A tiny glimpse into the Abyss. Words float up. I’m not certain what they mean.
We
have
seen
the
world.
do not
Take
us,
do not
want,
need,
must not
Take,
do not
Take
us
away.
No idea where this is coming from. There is a lot of emphasis on the words seen and take.
I had a body memory. I think that’s what it was. A hand, pressed against my back, near the base of my neck. But I’m not certain it was real. Though I felt it plain as day at the time, looking back I can’t be sure which hand it was, or what position it was in. Maybe I just needed something to explain why I can’t stand to have things touching my back. Or maybe it’s a sign that things are starting to change. Switches are happening more often – countless times recently people have told me about things I’ve said, things I’ve done, conversations I’ve had, that I have no memory of – and memories are getting dug up. Slowly.
I’ve been thinking about going back to our old house. Looking around. Seeing what memories that brings back. I can’t really remember the layout of it, what it looked like. Maybe on the weekend I’ll go out for a walk, find the house again, and knock on the door.
Oct 10, 2009
Rise from My Ashes
I feel like doing something drastic. Like overdosing.
Not lethally. Just enough to shake things up.
Is this something I need to get out of my system? Or should I be avoiding this at all costs?
I don't really know.
Not lethally. Just enough to shake things up.
Is this something I need to get out of my system? Or should I be avoiding this at all costs?
I don't really know.
Oct 6, 2009
Daydream's Over
The Dream Jar is moving again.
After we found Clarence everything closed up for awhile. Nothing was fixed, nothing healed, but for a short time it stopped bleeding. I could at last get some rest. It looks like that time is over. Got to start moving, shift terrain, dig things up and get my life back into gear.
Already things have started churning up. Things I'd thought were hidden away, safe from view. Most are hairline fractures, flashes of memory so quick that I don't have time to register them, but there are more complete ideas thrown into the mix.
A pool, full of leaves.
Roadkill.
"Don't test me, little girl."
A certain hand motion, my right arm swinging inwards and downwards, fingers clapping together.
Skin touching skin. Holding hands.
Someone standing behind me.
"Ella... may I kiss you?"
A woman, tied down on a table. I'd hoped that one was gone forever.
The violent episodes I used to have at night. I forget the name I had for them, but they remind me worryingly of seizures.
Hands scratching at a wooden door in the darkness.
A plastic shed.
Lips touching beneath a tree. Oh God, I'm having an affair.
The day my back was slashed.
"I can get one of my dad's condoms if you like."
Trying very, very hard not to scream.
Crying.
I have no idea what it means.
I hate that I'm so weak. I hate that I always need someone. I've survived so much, there's no reason I can't be the strong one. But whenever someone needs my support I always let them down. I'm never strong enough. If I can't hold up myself, I can't hold up anyone. I hate it because I know I'm supposed to be better than this. I'm supposed to be powerful and noble and... and fucking able to help people...
I'm not who other people need me to be.
I've been living on my own for awhile. Not letting anyone else in. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. I just don't completely trust anyone any more.
The headaches are getting worse. So is the pain in my chest. It feels like there's something there that has no right to be inside of me. I want to vomit it up, slit up my chest, tear myself to pieces to get it out.
What I'm terrified of more than anything else is that I really am just making it all up. I don't really have a disorder, nothing ever happened to me as a child, the things I've seen nothing more than the products of a deranged imagination. What if I'm normal?
As a child, I always wanted to be special. The best one. One of a kind. So when I failed to become anything other than another student my mind... twisted itself. Maybe I want to be dissociative because that makes me "special". Maybe I want to have been abused because that justifies the way I think. Maybe I just tell myself I try to hide everything because it makes me sound like less of a petty, self-obsessed attention whore.
My psychologist has failed to give me any form of diagnosis. Those around me are clueless. My memories are inconclusive. Even those who recall their past selves, I read, find their memories so distorted and refigured that they don't even slightly resemble the truth. If my subconscious is as rotten as I fear it is, I will never, ever know if something really did happen to me. It could be fabricated, all of it, every memory, every symptom, every episode.
What would that mean? I've spent four years lying to myself. My whole life up to this point would be meaningless. I'm already scared that no one will believe me. If I lose faith in myself...
If someone could just say something to me for certain - yes, you do have a dissociative disorder; yes, you were abused as a child; yes, the demons you see are real - then at least I would have something solid to face. But not knowing, that's far worse. I'm forever searching for evil, something corrupt and rotten within myself to justify the way I am. Because if it's not there... I have no excuses. I can't shut out the rest of the world. I have to live my life as a normal person, with normal responsibilities. I could be the person I know I should be. All this might be just my excuse.
But if I am everything that I think I am, then such paranoia will only destroy me.
In the library, every day now, I retreat into an isle and pull Breaking the Circle of Satanic Ritual Abuse off the shelf. I don't sign it out, and I don't sit at a table to read it. I don't want anyone to know that I'm looking at it. Reading about SRA victims, all the terrible things they endured - the acts themselves, living for years with suppressed fear and guilt, having to remember it again, never knowing for certain if their memories are real - I felt nothing. I tried very hard to feel nothing. Not a muscle on my face moved. But every few minutes, I, who have not cried at anything in over six months, had to wipe the tears from my eyes.
After we found Clarence everything closed up for awhile. Nothing was fixed, nothing healed, but for a short time it stopped bleeding. I could at last get some rest. It looks like that time is over. Got to start moving, shift terrain, dig things up and get my life back into gear.
Already things have started churning up. Things I'd thought were hidden away, safe from view. Most are hairline fractures, flashes of memory so quick that I don't have time to register them, but there are more complete ideas thrown into the mix.
A pool, full of leaves.
Roadkill.
"Don't test me, little girl."
A certain hand motion, my right arm swinging inwards and downwards, fingers clapping together.
Skin touching skin. Holding hands.
Someone standing behind me.
"Ella... may I kiss you?"
A woman, tied down on a table. I'd hoped that one was gone forever.
The violent episodes I used to have at night. I forget the name I had for them, but they remind me worryingly of seizures.
Hands scratching at a wooden door in the darkness.
A plastic shed.
Lips touching beneath a tree. Oh God, I'm having an affair.
The day my back was slashed.
"I can get one of my dad's condoms if you like."
Trying very, very hard not to scream.
Crying.
I have no idea what it means.
I hate that I'm so weak. I hate that I always need someone. I've survived so much, there's no reason I can't be the strong one. But whenever someone needs my support I always let them down. I'm never strong enough. If I can't hold up myself, I can't hold up anyone. I hate it because I know I'm supposed to be better than this. I'm supposed to be powerful and noble and... and fucking able to help people...
I'm not who other people need me to be.
I've been living on my own for awhile. Not letting anyone else in. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. I just don't completely trust anyone any more.
The headaches are getting worse. So is the pain in my chest. It feels like there's something there that has no right to be inside of me. I want to vomit it up, slit up my chest, tear myself to pieces to get it out.
What I'm terrified of more than anything else is that I really am just making it all up. I don't really have a disorder, nothing ever happened to me as a child, the things I've seen nothing more than the products of a deranged imagination. What if I'm normal?
As a child, I always wanted to be special. The best one. One of a kind. So when I failed to become anything other than another student my mind... twisted itself. Maybe I want to be dissociative because that makes me "special". Maybe I want to have been abused because that justifies the way I think. Maybe I just tell myself I try to hide everything because it makes me sound like less of a petty, self-obsessed attention whore.
My psychologist has failed to give me any form of diagnosis. Those around me are clueless. My memories are inconclusive. Even those who recall their past selves, I read, find their memories so distorted and refigured that they don't even slightly resemble the truth. If my subconscious is as rotten as I fear it is, I will never, ever know if something really did happen to me. It could be fabricated, all of it, every memory, every symptom, every episode.
What would that mean? I've spent four years lying to myself. My whole life up to this point would be meaningless. I'm already scared that no one will believe me. If I lose faith in myself...
If someone could just say something to me for certain - yes, you do have a dissociative disorder; yes, you were abused as a child; yes, the demons you see are real - then at least I would have something solid to face. But not knowing, that's far worse. I'm forever searching for evil, something corrupt and rotten within myself to justify the way I am. Because if it's not there... I have no excuses. I can't shut out the rest of the world. I have to live my life as a normal person, with normal responsibilities. I could be the person I know I should be. All this might be just my excuse.
But if I am everything that I think I am, then such paranoia will only destroy me.
In the library, every day now, I retreat into an isle and pull Breaking the Circle of Satanic Ritual Abuse off the shelf. I don't sign it out, and I don't sit at a table to read it. I don't want anyone to know that I'm looking at it. Reading about SRA victims, all the terrible things they endured - the acts themselves, living for years with suppressed fear and guilt, having to remember it again, never knowing for certain if their memories are real - I felt nothing. I tried very hard to feel nothing. Not a muscle on my face moved. But every few minutes, I, who have not cried at anything in over six months, had to wipe the tears from my eyes.
Oct 3, 2009
Invented Flashbacks
I've been torturing myself again. Reading up on SRA. It's the same as when I was worried about schizophrenia; I don't visibly have all of the major symptoms, but enough to make it worth looking into, surely? I do have the abandonment issues, distrust of authority, violent sexual weirdness, difficulty making decisions and fear of being the center of attention, to name just a few. The latter is the one woven most deeply into my disguise... I am an excellent public speaker. No one would guess that being onstage is absolute hell for me. And dissociative disorders are often caused by such abuse.
It's all irrelevant, though. I do not believe that I was ritually abused.
But it would make sense if I was.
But there's no evidence for that.
Yet.
There's no way it could have happened.
That I know of. I remember so little.
And so the conversation goes...
I'm sick of this. On my seventeenth birthday I promised myself that this would be the year I turn my life around.
I want to know what happened to me. I don't care if it's painful, I don' care if it tears me apart. I need to know. I can't live like this. I need to know.
It's all irrelevant, though. I do not believe that I was ritually abused.
But it would make sense if I was.
But there's no evidence for that.
Yet.
There's no way it could have happened.
That I know of. I remember so little.
And so the conversation goes...
I'm sick of this. On my seventeenth birthday I promised myself that this would be the year I turn my life around.
I want to know what happened to me. I don't care if it's painful, I don' care if it tears me apart. I need to know. I can't live like this. I need to know.
Oct 1, 2009
Well that just proves it
Today, I hugged a friend. Then went outside and threw up.
It's official. I can not touch people any more.
I don't know how I'll survive.
It's official. I can not touch people any more.
I don't know how I'll survive.
Sep 27, 2009
From the moment I saw you
If you've ever read Something Rotten, specifically that bit at the end when Granny Next dies, you'll know what turning seventeen was like for me. (That reminds me, I need to get the next Jasper Fforde books.) I lay very still and waited. Around midnight they came, and I felt their eyes on me as I drifted off to sleep. Maybe if I had stayed awake I would have died. I don't know. In any case, I think we all knew that something significant would happen.
I haven't aged. I've grown up, but I haven't gotten older. On the inside, I'm still thirteen... trapped in time at the moment my life fell apart.
I've never told anyone that.
Went to my third Kendo lesson today. My arms are a bit sore, and I suspect there's a blister on my left foot. After today I am now the proud owner of a bamboo shinai. It's mostly wood and string, nothing special about it... but I will make it special. I have named it Apprentice and I will craft it in my own image, warping its factory appearance into something powerful. I will focus myself into it. My staff will be my sword and vice versa. And I will be careful, because it's really easy to break these things. Seriously, one splinter and it becomes dangerous to use. The actual sword the shinai is based on is sharp enough to cut through pretty much anything, so there's never any need to hit things hard with it. A glancing blow is the most I'll ever do.
Our coffeehouse went well. I suppose. Hosting was stressful; I mean, I've been working onstage before, but being the co-star was something new. I've never liked being front and center. Although I am good at it... one night, not even reading anything, and I'm already accumulating fangirls. Sigh. Some parts ran more smoothly than others, of course. Nothing particularly memorable, I'm afraid... there was one reading about Bob the Atrocious Muffin that stuck in my mind, but aside from that not much. It takes a skilled reader to stick in the mind. Irritating that the one talent I'll admit to having is one that I hate. I have never liked public speaking. I'm just good at ignoring the audience.
There was an... incident, during rehearsals. Someone made a joke about rape. Normally I'm able to block these things out. Under most circumstances the r-word goes harmlessly right over my head. But this time, not so lucky. It might be because I was eating. Eating is a funny thing. It's a simple action that changes me slightly, makes me more aware of things, lower my shields. When I'm eating I can't read people as easily, can't stand to have holy symbols touching my skin, and evidently can't stand to be reminded of something traumatic. Exactly what it sparked in my mind is unknown, but suffice to say I lost my appetite and had to sit very still for awhile.
I haven't aged. I've grown up, but I haven't gotten older. On the inside, I'm still thirteen... trapped in time at the moment my life fell apart.
I've never told anyone that.
Went to my third Kendo lesson today. My arms are a bit sore, and I suspect there's a blister on my left foot. After today I am now the proud owner of a bamboo shinai. It's mostly wood and string, nothing special about it... but I will make it special. I have named it Apprentice and I will craft it in my own image, warping its factory appearance into something powerful. I will focus myself into it. My staff will be my sword and vice versa. And I will be careful, because it's really easy to break these things. Seriously, one splinter and it becomes dangerous to use. The actual sword the shinai is based on is sharp enough to cut through pretty much anything, so there's never any need to hit things hard with it. A glancing blow is the most I'll ever do.
Our coffeehouse went well. I suppose. Hosting was stressful; I mean, I've been working onstage before, but being the co-star was something new. I've never liked being front and center. Although I am good at it... one night, not even reading anything, and I'm already accumulating fangirls. Sigh. Some parts ran more smoothly than others, of course. Nothing particularly memorable, I'm afraid... there was one reading about Bob the Atrocious Muffin that stuck in my mind, but aside from that not much. It takes a skilled reader to stick in the mind. Irritating that the one talent I'll admit to having is one that I hate. I have never liked public speaking. I'm just good at ignoring the audience.
There was an... incident, during rehearsals. Someone made a joke about rape. Normally I'm able to block these things out. Under most circumstances the r-word goes harmlessly right over my head. But this time, not so lucky. It might be because I was eating. Eating is a funny thing. It's a simple action that changes me slightly, makes me more aware of things, lower my shields. When I'm eating I can't read people as easily, can't stand to have holy symbols touching my skin, and evidently can't stand to be reminded of something traumatic. Exactly what it sparked in my mind is unknown, but suffice to say I lost my appetite and had to sit very still for awhile.
Sep 24, 2009
The Last Hurrah
Tomorrow is my birthday. I turn seventeen at 1:27 AM, Eastern Canada time.
I'm afraid that I'm going to die in the night.
And I don't really know how to say goodbye.
Just in case.
I love you.
Edit: I lived.
I'm afraid that I'm going to die in the night.
And I don't really know how to say goodbye.
Just in case.
I love you.
Edit: I lived.
Sep 21, 2009
Skins and retaliation
I feel like I've spent the day breathing in, as my mother calls it, other peoples' dirty laundry.
On the radio this morning one of the hosts was in tears because of a dispute with her boss. They brought the boss on the air to argue with him. They usually play music or read the news or talk about happy things. I still don't know what it was really about.
We had an assembly about conduct this morning. It was an awful lot of words to say be respectful and don't litter. The lady in charge wouldn't stop talking about her tip to Africa. I don't begrudge her it, but it really didn't seem like the time. Maybe I'm just tired.
Our Lit teacher wasted half an hour complaining about her father and things people drew on the chalkboard. My group mates for a project complained I wasn't pulling my weight. They were completely right to; I've had things on my plate and on my mind, so I'd put it to the absolute back of the pile. I wasn't being fair to them. I need to get my shit together.
Went to a presentation for Carleton University. Generic university stuff, no real deciding factors.
I'm not going on the Bio field trip. I feel it would be a waste of time. I have things that need doing. The new unit promises lots of long and complex terminology to learn.
English presentations are going slower and slower. One handsome young man - clearly the teacher's favorite - seems to be doing half the talking. I know discussion is encouraged, and I know his points are valid, but we do need to be moving on. Sometimes I have things to say, too. I don't often get the opportunity.
My head hurts. My limbs ache from Kendo. I've got an image looping in my head of a girl vomiting blood. I feel completely swamped in other peoples' lives.
I wonder if this is how I make people feel.
On the radio this morning one of the hosts was in tears because of a dispute with her boss. They brought the boss on the air to argue with him. They usually play music or read the news or talk about happy things. I still don't know what it was really about.
We had an assembly about conduct this morning. It was an awful lot of words to say be respectful and don't litter. The lady in charge wouldn't stop talking about her tip to Africa. I don't begrudge her it, but it really didn't seem like the time. Maybe I'm just tired.
Our Lit teacher wasted half an hour complaining about her father and things people drew on the chalkboard. My group mates for a project complained I wasn't pulling my weight. They were completely right to; I've had things on my plate and on my mind, so I'd put it to the absolute back of the pile. I wasn't being fair to them. I need to get my shit together.
Went to a presentation for Carleton University. Generic university stuff, no real deciding factors.
I'm not going on the Bio field trip. I feel it would be a waste of time. I have things that need doing. The new unit promises lots of long and complex terminology to learn.
English presentations are going slower and slower. One handsome young man - clearly the teacher's favorite - seems to be doing half the talking. I know discussion is encouraged, and I know his points are valid, but we do need to be moving on. Sometimes I have things to say, too. I don't often get the opportunity.
My head hurts. My limbs ache from Kendo. I've got an image looping in my head of a girl vomiting blood. I feel completely swamped in other peoples' lives.
I wonder if this is how I make people feel.
Sep 19, 2009
Sep 13, 2009
Continuum
Went to Kendo today. First lesson. Well, more of an introductory thingy. There wasn't much time for a beginner class because history was being made. For the first time ever, three different clubs were gathered in one place to train together, led by three fifth degree black belts. It's the beginning of a revolution for the sport. Unlike most other martial arts it never branched apart; Kendo is almost exactly the same no matter where you go. Mostly seems to involve bashing people over the head with a sword. Now, all the different clubs are coming together. It's kind of a big deal. Anyways, I got to practice a bit with a bamboo sword, although I wasn't allowed to take the plastic wrap off. They make you wait awhile before you can buy your own sword; I guess they get a lot of early dropouts. We thought it was for 16+, but there were a lot of little kids there. Strange. It was fun, though, and I might come to enjoy it long-term. We'll see.
Went to my youth group the other day. Nice to see everyone again. Made me feel like shit, though. The message is always something about "you have to be a better person" and I just feel guilty and awful. It's all that about how God chooses the lowest of the low to do his work, because it's just that much more amazing when they do - like that quadriplegic evangelist, or the biblical Moses, who hated public speaking before the burning bush incident. Well, I'm pretty low. So that just puts more pressure on me to stand up and do something great. I see people around me living noble lives, going on mission trips and whatnot. Where does that put me? It's a miracle I can even function. I'm more likely to rip someone's head off at the moment than change their life in a beautiful way. So I'm just waiting for me to buckle up and improve myself. There's no reason I can't be perfect, after all. In theory. It's just motions, just words. Geh. I just want to sleep.
Jasmine invited me to her place to watch a movie. That sounds more intimate than it was; there were like six of us. Conveniently enough, this year I'm trying to get a social life. The movie was The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, about concentration camps. I confess I was half-asleep the whole evening. My mum fretted a bit, of course, since I never go out (anywhere, ever) but it turned out all right.
Jasmine is important. Or will be, someday. I'm not certain why.
I was reading our giant huge Lit textbook about the history of literature the world over. The topic I've ended up covering is the history of literature in India. Very ancient historical texts. There was a picture there of one of the Hindu gods carved from clay, a dancing woman with three arms. Something about it set something loose in my mind, but it was hours before it clicked. A creature grotesque yet elegant, beautiful yet surreal and deathlike, with too many limbs. The Orange Man. Possibilities blossomed; the Orange Man is one of many who might fit that description. It's maddening to think that people will worship anything that appears to be greater than them.
I wonder if there are those who worship Grandfather.
(I curse my habits but it's getting harder to refer to him by any other name. He is no father of mine.)
Went to my youth group the other day. Nice to see everyone again. Made me feel like shit, though. The message is always something about "you have to be a better person" and I just feel guilty and awful. It's all that about how God chooses the lowest of the low to do his work, because it's just that much more amazing when they do - like that quadriplegic evangelist, or the biblical Moses, who hated public speaking before the burning bush incident. Well, I'm pretty low. So that just puts more pressure on me to stand up and do something great. I see people around me living noble lives, going on mission trips and whatnot. Where does that put me? It's a miracle I can even function. I'm more likely to rip someone's head off at the moment than change their life in a beautiful way. So I'm just waiting for me to buckle up and improve myself. There's no reason I can't be perfect, after all. In theory. It's just motions, just words. Geh. I just want to sleep.
Jasmine invited me to her place to watch a movie. That sounds more intimate than it was; there were like six of us. Conveniently enough, this year I'm trying to get a social life. The movie was The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, about concentration camps. I confess I was half-asleep the whole evening. My mum fretted a bit, of course, since I never go out (anywhere, ever) but it turned out all right.
Jasmine is important. Or will be, someday. I'm not certain why.
I was reading our giant huge Lit textbook about the history of literature the world over. The topic I've ended up covering is the history of literature in India. Very ancient historical texts. There was a picture there of one of the Hindu gods carved from clay, a dancing woman with three arms. Something about it set something loose in my mind, but it was hours before it clicked. A creature grotesque yet elegant, beautiful yet surreal and deathlike, with too many limbs. The Orange Man. Possibilities blossomed; the Orange Man is one of many who might fit that description. It's maddening to think that people will worship anything that appears to be greater than them.
I wonder if there are those who worship Grandfather.
(I curse my habits but it's getting harder to refer to him by any other name. He is no father of mine.)
Sep 6, 2009
Considering it
Last night my brother went shopping for movies. Came back with some real charmers: Jaws 2, Diary of the Dead, Alien Apocalypse. He insisted that we watch The Butterfly Effect. He seemed certain that I would like it.
Afterwards I gave a few thoughts, wished everyone goodnight, then locked myself in the bathroom so I could cry.
Well, I say cry. I don't actually cry any more. What approximates crying for me. I don't actually remember most of it. Pacing back and forth, breathing fast, scratching at my neck and pulling at my hair, sobbing painful words until my legs buckle beneath me. When I woke up half an hour had passed. I was so weak I could barely stand. I did not sleep that night.
To be expected, I guess. Ten minutes in I'd started to feel sick. A film about suppressed childhood memories, what did you think would happen? Parts of it touched me deeply, in the sense of punching an open wound. I love my brother but sometimes he's painfully insensitive.
Afterwards I gave a few thoughts, wished everyone goodnight, then locked myself in the bathroom so I could cry.
Well, I say cry. I don't actually cry any more. What approximates crying for me. I don't actually remember most of it. Pacing back and forth, breathing fast, scratching at my neck and pulling at my hair, sobbing painful words until my legs buckle beneath me. When I woke up half an hour had passed. I was so weak I could barely stand. I did not sleep that night.
To be expected, I guess. Ten minutes in I'd started to feel sick. A film about suppressed childhood memories, what did you think would happen? Parts of it touched me deeply, in the sense of punching an open wound. I love my brother but sometimes he's painfully insensitive.
Sep 2, 2009
Yeggs
Day two. Big times.
Through another hiccup Tasha and I have been put in all three classes together. A year ago that might have bothered me. It's kind of ironic. I used to envy her for being able to move on with her life so easily, while I still hurt whenever I looked at her. Eventually I got used to the pain. Eventually it stopped hurting. Now I'm fine and she still refuses to look at me. Strange world.
Now that I've been so long without a girlfriend/boyfriend, I think I can see myself surviving. It was nice to have someone in love with me, but I'm living without it. It's not like I'm alone. I have friends. I have people to talk to, should things go flipside. I'm not looking for someone to love at the moment, not in that way. Maybe in ten years or so I'll find someone. Maybe by then I'll be ready. We'll see.
I think a lot of it might be my warping physicality and sexuality. Something broke in me awhile back, I'm not sure when, and since then I've become more and more sensitive to touch. It used to be that I didn't like people touching my back. Now just brushing against someone can make me flinch. I'm not certain I could stand to be close to someone. I hope I'm not that far gone. In consequence of this, my sexual identity is a bit twisted. My teenage hormones and animal desire for sex seems to exactly match my fear and loathing of it, leaving me in a kind of awkward, solitary purgatory. I'm going to choose to accept this as a good thing.
I'm procrastinating again. Uh-oh.
There's an old project I need to dig out and work upon. I will do that. I need to keep myself busy or I'll slip into something terrible again.
Through another hiccup Tasha and I have been put in all three classes together. A year ago that might have bothered me. It's kind of ironic. I used to envy her for being able to move on with her life so easily, while I still hurt whenever I looked at her. Eventually I got used to the pain. Eventually it stopped hurting. Now I'm fine and she still refuses to look at me. Strange world.
Now that I've been so long without a girlfriend/boyfriend, I think I can see myself surviving. It was nice to have someone in love with me, but I'm living without it. It's not like I'm alone. I have friends. I have people to talk to, should things go flipside. I'm not looking for someone to love at the moment, not in that way. Maybe in ten years or so I'll find someone. Maybe by then I'll be ready. We'll see.
I think a lot of it might be my warping physicality and sexuality. Something broke in me awhile back, I'm not sure when, and since then I've become more and more sensitive to touch. It used to be that I didn't like people touching my back. Now just brushing against someone can make me flinch. I'm not certain I could stand to be close to someone. I hope I'm not that far gone. In consequence of this, my sexual identity is a bit twisted. My teenage hormones and animal desire for sex seems to exactly match my fear and loathing of it, leaving me in a kind of awkward, solitary purgatory. I'm going to choose to accept this as a good thing.
I'm procrastinating again. Uh-oh.
There's an old project I need to dig out and work upon. I will do that. I need to keep myself busy or I'll slip into something terrible again.
Sep 1, 2009
People don't talk to me
First day of school. Grade 12. Big times.
Through some scheduling hiccup I've ended up with a free first period. No, sorry, it's not a free, it's a study period. Big difference. Evidently there are just about no grade 12 courses first thing, because about half of everyone has that period free. I spent most of the time wandering. For the first time in years, I had class time and absolutely nothing to do. Didn't really know what to make of it. Talked to some people, caught up a bit. I'm constantly reminded that I have nothing in common with these people. Well, not much. There are some things, of course.
New Lit teacher. She seems a bit of a loose cannon, from what I've heard. She seems nice enough. I'm sure we'll get on fine, and I hope she doesn't think I'm too crazy. In the past she's been openly against people putting anything out that's pushing boundaries; the graveyard incident springs to mind. We'd put up little paper gravestones on the wall in the Lit Lab for the people who'd left the class (and a ghost for one who just never turned up) and she... well, to be honest, I don't remember it as being her, but people are saying it was and they're more likely to know than I am. But anyways, it didn't end well for us. Something about being offensive. I hope she's not going to hit the wall about everything like that.
Biology and English look promising. Nice teachers. Should be a laugh.
The first day of the first grade, I just up and disappeared. My teacher and I did not like one another. At the end of the day I wandered off, and no one knew where I was. Eventually I turned up. Of course, I don't remember this myself. The first grade is an oddity in that I have no recollection of it at all, not even a tiny flash. It's just... gone. I wonder why.
I'll be starting Kendo soon, Sundays with my da. The fine Japanese art of hitting people with bamboo sticks. Sounds like a laugh. I think I'll do more baking, too.
Through some scheduling hiccup I've ended up with a free first period. No, sorry, it's not a free, it's a study period. Big difference. Evidently there are just about no grade 12 courses first thing, because about half of everyone has that period free. I spent most of the time wandering. For the first time in years, I had class time and absolutely nothing to do. Didn't really know what to make of it. Talked to some people, caught up a bit. I'm constantly reminded that I have nothing in common with these people. Well, not much. There are some things, of course.
New Lit teacher. She seems a bit of a loose cannon, from what I've heard. She seems nice enough. I'm sure we'll get on fine, and I hope she doesn't think I'm too crazy. In the past she's been openly against people putting anything out that's pushing boundaries; the graveyard incident springs to mind. We'd put up little paper gravestones on the wall in the Lit Lab for the people who'd left the class (and a ghost for one who just never turned up) and she... well, to be honest, I don't remember it as being her, but people are saying it was and they're more likely to know than I am. But anyways, it didn't end well for us. Something about being offensive. I hope she's not going to hit the wall about everything like that.
Biology and English look promising. Nice teachers. Should be a laugh.
The first day of the first grade, I just up and disappeared. My teacher and I did not like one another. At the end of the day I wandered off, and no one knew where I was. Eventually I turned up. Of course, I don't remember this myself. The first grade is an oddity in that I have no recollection of it at all, not even a tiny flash. It's just... gone. I wonder why.
I'll be starting Kendo soon, Sundays with my da. The fine Japanese art of hitting people with bamboo sticks. Sounds like a laugh. I think I'll do more baking, too.
Aug 29, 2009
Slight
I've been going into strange moods. I'm not sure why.
The whole manipulation thing is coming up again. The idea is that since I hide my true self from people, showing only what I need to show to maintain a healthy outward appearance, none of the emotions other people feel for me are real. People love Alex, not Nine. Basically it's that again but more complex. I see myself as the equivocator, teller of half-truths and imagined tales, letting them draw their own conclusions but steering them the wrong way. I'm not real so they're not real and that's where it all falls apart.
I can't suddenly show myself to the world without destroying my life. I'll take it slow for now. I know I'll get over this eventually, but I can't help clinging to the nagging thought that I do actually have a point...
I've started watching Dollhouse. In many ways it's not what it could be - a lot of the acting seems pretty forced, though Eliza Dushku is amazing, and the pacing is sometimes noticeably off, and this that and the other as well, blah blah - but the central concept is so powerful it more than makes up for it. I find it triggering sometimes. Some of the characters in their doll states remind me of The Dead One. It... bothers me. But I like the series so far.
There's something else about it, but my brain isn't telling me what.
The whole manipulation thing is coming up again. The idea is that since I hide my true self from people, showing only what I need to show to maintain a healthy outward appearance, none of the emotions other people feel for me are real. People love Alex, not Nine. Basically it's that again but more complex. I see myself as the equivocator, teller of half-truths and imagined tales, letting them draw their own conclusions but steering them the wrong way. I'm not real so they're not real and that's where it all falls apart.
I can't suddenly show myself to the world without destroying my life. I'll take it slow for now. I know I'll get over this eventually, but I can't help clinging to the nagging thought that I do actually have a point...
I've started watching Dollhouse. In many ways it's not what it could be - a lot of the acting seems pretty forced, though Eliza Dushku is amazing, and the pacing is sometimes noticeably off, and this that and the other as well, blah blah - but the central concept is so powerful it more than makes up for it. I find it triggering sometimes. Some of the characters in their doll states remind me of The Dead One. It... bothers me. But I like the series so far.
There's something else about it, but my brain isn't telling me what.
Aug 25, 2009
Some Stuff I Wrote at Camp
I find it difficult to kill mosquitoes.
By this I don't mean that the thought of their tiny, mangled corpses upsets me. If I ever did find such images to be bothersome, the time has long since passed. Instead, my hand simply seems ill-suited to killing the flying parasites. Something about its shape or the way it curves allows the mosquitoes to slip beneath my palm or between my knuckles. If I do make contact, it will be with a fingertip to knock them harmlessly to one side. It's only when they actually land on my bare skin that I get an occasional lucky blow. For whatever reason the mosquitoes have decided that this means I am a friend to them, albeit one who does not appreciate being bitten, and will maintain a respectful distance (about an inch) from me while I flail my arms ineffectually to get their whining drone away from my head.
Giant's Eyes
She's young, about fifteen. Her hair is long and brown and a little shiny. Her clothes are dark with comical skulls stitched on to them, as close to "goth" as her parents will let her dress. Her black and studded bag is full of brightly-coloured binders and half-eaten ham sandwiches made by her mother this morning. Around her friends she acted aloof, sullen, what she thought of as cool. Alone, she practically skips down the street. She hums to herself cheerily. She'll be home soon. I know. I've been following her for the past week.
I step out into the road.
The girl tenses up. She doesn't see me yet, she doesn't dare turn around yet, but she can feel me plain as day. My eyes burn into her pale, slender neck. She slows, perhaps telling herself she's imagining things, berating herself for being silly. Eventually she stops and hesitantly glances over her shoulder.
She sees me. I walk towards her.
The girl is frightened. She won't admit it but she is. She faces forward and walks faster. I quickly catch up with her. She's muttering to herself silently, saying things she knows she doesn't believe. I get a little closer. She feels the tremors of my footsteps and breaks into a shambling run. Her backpack bounces against her side.
She's nearly home. She's not out of shape. But I'm so much bigger than her. She just might make it, though, if she only dropped her bag. She can't run with it. She knows this. But...
But what then? She'd arrive home with no books, no homework, no half-eaten sandwich. Her parents would want to know why. They'd be angry. She's not a good enough liar to come up with an excuse, but she can't tell them the truth. She doesn't want any more sad, understanding looks. She doesn't want her mother to call her crazy or fucked up the way she did the last time she got drunk. Bad things happen to crazy people in this world. Her friends still think she's normal, and she doesn't want to let go of that.
I pick her up in one lumpy hand. She doesn't even have time to scream.
Someone will find her soon, a neighbor perhaps. She'll wake up in a hospital bed in a few hours. Or maybe not. Some of them never wake up. Some of them can't bear to save themselves. They're not strong enough to let go.
Emily the Island Girl
We stopped for lunch one tripping day
On island big and round,
I found a girl beneath some branches
Laid upon the ground.
Her dress was blue, her hair was white,
Her skin was sickly grey,
So I knelt down beside her
And I asked, "Are you okay?"
She said, "My name is Emily,
I've been here ninety years.
My father left me on this rock
To drown in my own tears.
Emily the island girl
No need to be alone,
Don't make this tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.
Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of ocean blue,
This may not be a love song
But my heart goes out to you.
I heard some howls from further on,
She called, "Don't go that way.
I'm not the only lonely soul
Who's living here today."
I said to her, "Sweet Emily,
Why don't you come with me?
There must be somewhere better
Than this place for you to be."
She said, "I can't thank you enough,
You really are too kind.
No, no one else can see me
But I don't think that you mind."
Emily the island girl
No need to be alone,
Don't make this tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.
Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of river blue,
This may not be a love song
But my heart goes out to you.
I took her hand, (twas cold as ice,)
And led her to the lake,
But as we neared the water
Her small legs began to quake.
She said, "I'll never leave this place,
I'm too afraid I'll drown,
For if I touch that water
Then those waves will drag me down."
I stared at her, she stared at me,
Then she began to cry.
She wrapped her arms around me
And the girl kissed me goodbye.
Emily the island girl
Don't have to be alone,
Don't make that tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.
I never saw that girl again,
I hope I never do
But wherever you are, Emily,
My heart goes out to you.
Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of shining blue,
My Emily the island girl,
My heart goes out to
you.
Vertical Dreams
The sun comes up.
There's no one here. They've left me all alone. This annoys me. I find some little red berries growing on some trees nearby. I'm starving so I eat them. I don't think much of it.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I find a life jacket tangled in the branches of a tree. This is convenient as the one I'm wearing has become torn. There's a rash growing on my foot but I try to ignore it.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I find a man sleeping standing straight up in the middle of the forest. No amount of poking or hollering can wake up him. Then an ant crawls out of his nose. I don't think I've run that fast in a long time.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I find it difficult to wake up. It takes several minutes for me to peel my eyes open, and it's even longer before I can take a step. The rash on my foot is spreading up my leg. The skin is rough and peeling, but it doesn't itch. Not at all.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
It's particularly sunny today. I stay rooted to the spot all day to enjoy it.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I try to wash my hair. It's growing stiff and crusty. The water does next to nothing but the mud soothes my legs and feet. The rash keeps spreading. I'm afraid to look at it.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
It's very pretty out here. I never noticed that before.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I don't feel hungry any more.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
There are some little red bumps growing on my arms. I don't think much of it.
The sun goes down.
I dream vertical dreams.
By this I don't mean that the thought of their tiny, mangled corpses upsets me. If I ever did find such images to be bothersome, the time has long since passed. Instead, my hand simply seems ill-suited to killing the flying parasites. Something about its shape or the way it curves allows the mosquitoes to slip beneath my palm or between my knuckles. If I do make contact, it will be with a fingertip to knock them harmlessly to one side. It's only when they actually land on my bare skin that I get an occasional lucky blow. For whatever reason the mosquitoes have decided that this means I am a friend to them, albeit one who does not appreciate being bitten, and will maintain a respectful distance (about an inch) from me while I flail my arms ineffectually to get their whining drone away from my head.
Giant's Eyes
She's young, about fifteen. Her hair is long and brown and a little shiny. Her clothes are dark with comical skulls stitched on to them, as close to "goth" as her parents will let her dress. Her black and studded bag is full of brightly-coloured binders and half-eaten ham sandwiches made by her mother this morning. Around her friends she acted aloof, sullen, what she thought of as cool. Alone, she practically skips down the street. She hums to herself cheerily. She'll be home soon. I know. I've been following her for the past week.
I step out into the road.
The girl tenses up. She doesn't see me yet, she doesn't dare turn around yet, but she can feel me plain as day. My eyes burn into her pale, slender neck. She slows, perhaps telling herself she's imagining things, berating herself for being silly. Eventually she stops and hesitantly glances over her shoulder.
She sees me. I walk towards her.
The girl is frightened. She won't admit it but she is. She faces forward and walks faster. I quickly catch up with her. She's muttering to herself silently, saying things she knows she doesn't believe. I get a little closer. She feels the tremors of my footsteps and breaks into a shambling run. Her backpack bounces against her side.
She's nearly home. She's not out of shape. But I'm so much bigger than her. She just might make it, though, if she only dropped her bag. She can't run with it. She knows this. But...
But what then? She'd arrive home with no books, no homework, no half-eaten sandwich. Her parents would want to know why. They'd be angry. She's not a good enough liar to come up with an excuse, but she can't tell them the truth. She doesn't want any more sad, understanding looks. She doesn't want her mother to call her crazy or fucked up the way she did the last time she got drunk. Bad things happen to crazy people in this world. Her friends still think she's normal, and she doesn't want to let go of that.
I pick her up in one lumpy hand. She doesn't even have time to scream.
Someone will find her soon, a neighbor perhaps. She'll wake up in a hospital bed in a few hours. Or maybe not. Some of them never wake up. Some of them can't bear to save themselves. They're not strong enough to let go.
Emily the Island Girl
We stopped for lunch one tripping day
On island big and round,
I found a girl beneath some branches
Laid upon the ground.
Her dress was blue, her hair was white,
Her skin was sickly grey,
So I knelt down beside her
And I asked, "Are you okay?"
She said, "My name is Emily,
I've been here ninety years.
My father left me on this rock
To drown in my own tears.
Emily the island girl
No need to be alone,
Don't make this tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.
Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of ocean blue,
This may not be a love song
But my heart goes out to you.
I heard some howls from further on,
She called, "Don't go that way.
I'm not the only lonely soul
Who's living here today."
I said to her, "Sweet Emily,
Why don't you come with me?
There must be somewhere better
Than this place for you to be."
She said, "I can't thank you enough,
You really are too kind.
No, no one else can see me
But I don't think that you mind."
Emily the island girl
No need to be alone,
Don't make this tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.
Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of river blue,
This may not be a love song
But my heart goes out to you.
I took her hand, (twas cold as ice,)
And led her to the lake,
But as we neared the water
Her small legs began to quake.
She said, "I'll never leave this place,
I'm too afraid I'll drown,
For if I touch that water
Then those waves will drag me down."
I stared at her, she stared at me,
Then she began to cry.
She wrapped her arms around me
And the girl kissed me goodbye.
Emily the island girl
Don't have to be alone,
Don't make that tiny piece of rock
The only place you've known.
I never saw that girl again,
I hope I never do
But wherever you are, Emily,
My heart goes out to you.
Emily, sweet Emily
With eyes of shining blue,
My Emily the island girl,
My heart goes out to
you.
Vertical Dreams
The sun comes up.
There's no one here. They've left me all alone. This annoys me. I find some little red berries growing on some trees nearby. I'm starving so I eat them. I don't think much of it.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I find a life jacket tangled in the branches of a tree. This is convenient as the one I'm wearing has become torn. There's a rash growing on my foot but I try to ignore it.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I find a man sleeping standing straight up in the middle of the forest. No amount of poking or hollering can wake up him. Then an ant crawls out of his nose. I don't think I've run that fast in a long time.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I find it difficult to wake up. It takes several minutes for me to peel my eyes open, and it's even longer before I can take a step. The rash on my foot is spreading up my leg. The skin is rough and peeling, but it doesn't itch. Not at all.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
It's particularly sunny today. I stay rooted to the spot all day to enjoy it.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I try to wash my hair. It's growing stiff and crusty. The water does next to nothing but the mud soothes my legs and feet. The rash keeps spreading. I'm afraid to look at it.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
It's very pretty out here. I never noticed that before.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
I don't feel hungry any more.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up.
There are some little red bumps growing on my arms. I don't think much of it.
The sun goes down.
I dream vertical dreams.
Aug 23, 2009
Did anyone notice I was gone?
On the seventh day, I predicted when they would find me.
I'd used the Chi spheres only a couple times before, to look into the past and distant future. A few memories. My daughter's face. This was different. This was... testable. I started the usual way, focusing my energies into a spherical shape. I stared into it, pondering. "Show me how they find me," I commanded. Images began to blur. Perhaps this is where the idea for crystal balls came from, as a conduit. Then stolen and misinterpreted. I really don't know.
I saw a river. A bend, a left turn. Trees. Watching faces from the trees.
I saw us turning left, nearing land. Getting closer and closer. Hands reaching.
It was a long time before I could confirm it, but I should have recognized them right away. The red eyes. The catching hands. Daggers. Devil's Stalkers.
On the eleventh day, I found a pair of girl's underwear in the mud near our cabins.
Connor tells me this is a sign that someone is having sex. I am full of hate. As in, it physically sickens me. I think most horrible things.
Later on the eleventh day, it rains. After lunch, because no one wants to go back outside, they play music. Some people start dancing. More join them. That's when I see it. Something hanging from the ceiling, tentacles reaching down, grabbing. Stinging. I get out of there before panic takes me.
Out in the rain, something clicks in me. I've finally worked it out. I've seen those floating things before - mostly at dances - and I know what they are. I know what that thing was stabbing and eating the people below. Nan-Kak. Kakanger. Seedling. Whatever you want to call it, it's a child.
They start as seeds, drifting through people and on the winds of music, until they find a place where food gathers. Lodges, dances, pubs... schools. Many remain small, feeding when they can, whenever groups get caught up in an emotional event. But others find a rich place, where they can feed year round, with large numbers of people. These grow and sprout and flower into their adult forms. I've only ever seen two. Grav-Kak. Giant Death Flower.
The way they move, the way they feed, it reminds me too much of my own tendrils. Maybe I'm a flower, waiting to find a place of my own. Maybe it's us who spread their seeds. Maybe things in their world just evolve the same, the same as ours. I don't know.
I walked back in the rain.
On the fourteenth day, we left on trip.
It's a different world out there. Phantom birds flitter from tree to tree. Great shapes shimmer and ripple beneath the surface of the lake before disappearing. Blue Bears sit on tiny islands and munch on ferns. Island Watchers stare forlornly out over the lake. There's plenty of solid life, too. Hawks, herons, eagles, lots of fish. We even saw a couple beavers. Lots of quiet contemplation.
On the sixteenth day, I met a girl. I think she was dead.
We stopped for lunch on a decent-sized island. Some guys were trying to catch an irritated bird. I strayed a bit away, singing quietly to myself, when I stopped. I saw two trees standing tall nearby and I felt compelled to go between them. Beyond was a small clearing. I saw a thin dirt path leading to a dark, tree-covered area. But curled up at the base of a tree nearby was a girl. She looked perhaps a little younger than I am, wearing a blue dress. She wasn't like the other non-solid things I see. Things may fade in and out depending on my view, but she could be clear as solid one minute and completely gone the next. I approached her. It looked like she'd been crying. She looked at me with a mix of fear and amazement, perhaps astonished that I could see her. She vanished for a second. I looked to the side, back to the dark path. She shook her head wildly. "Don't," she said. At least, she mouthed the word. I'm not certain if I heard her. Slowly I reached out a hand. She took it, her fingers sliding invisibly into mine. I led her to the boats. As we left she tried to get in, she tried, and for ten seconds it seemed she was in the boat with me. But in the end we paddled away as she watched me sadly from the shore.
It was a long time before I could talk after that.
On the twenty-first day we reached rapids.
On the twenty-fourth day they found me.
Not exactly as predicted. The above mentioned was the same - the bend, the river, etc. - but the lighting, the angle, were wrong. Perhaps my mind generated arbitrary details just to form an image. I don't know.
They followed me for a few days before making their move on the twenty-fifth. Many times I was reminded of the Jabberwock. Devil's Stalkers travel in packs of six. They're more dagger than cloak. Hissing, spitting, catching from the sides with their claws. They don't dare touch the water, I note. When the time finally came, I was a bit sick of them.
Funny thing. They work through fear and intimidation. They left it too long; by the time they finally touched me I'd made up my mind not to be afraid. From behind they're dangerous, but stare them down and they're helpless as rabbits in headlights. Long story short, I laughed in their faces and walked away.
On the twenty-fifth day we returned from trip. That night there was a hurricane warning.
On the twenty-sixth day they came for me.
I saw the fire in the sky about half an hour before they arrived. I stayed with a group. They tend not to come near if I'm around people. The giant stopped some distance away from me, watching. It seemed shorter than others. I realized with some humor that it was bending down beneath a tree. I can't say why this amused me. I watched it. It watched me. Once or twice it reached for me, but I backed away.
I wonder if it's possible to get used to staring into the face of death. Slowly the fear bled out of me, leaving only an icy calmness; the stillness of the clouds above the storm. So wrapped up was I in my thoughts of this that the next time I looked it was gone. I turned my back. Stupid, stupid.
I've noticed that each wound affects my solid body more and more. Pain shoots through my spine. My headaches are getting worse. All the energy left me and I stood, trembling, on the spot, afraid that if I took a step my legs would fold up underneath me.
I survived. Nothing came of it.
On the twenty-eighth day I came home.
I'd used the Chi spheres only a couple times before, to look into the past and distant future. A few memories. My daughter's face. This was different. This was... testable. I started the usual way, focusing my energies into a spherical shape. I stared into it, pondering. "Show me how they find me," I commanded. Images began to blur. Perhaps this is where the idea for crystal balls came from, as a conduit. Then stolen and misinterpreted. I really don't know.
I saw a river. A bend, a left turn. Trees. Watching faces from the trees.
I saw us turning left, nearing land. Getting closer and closer. Hands reaching.
It was a long time before I could confirm it, but I should have recognized them right away. The red eyes. The catching hands. Daggers. Devil's Stalkers.
On the eleventh day, I found a pair of girl's underwear in the mud near our cabins.
Connor tells me this is a sign that someone is having sex. I am full of hate. As in, it physically sickens me. I think most horrible things.
Later on the eleventh day, it rains. After lunch, because no one wants to go back outside, they play music. Some people start dancing. More join them. That's when I see it. Something hanging from the ceiling, tentacles reaching down, grabbing. Stinging. I get out of there before panic takes me.
Out in the rain, something clicks in me. I've finally worked it out. I've seen those floating things before - mostly at dances - and I know what they are. I know what that thing was stabbing and eating the people below. Nan-Kak. Kakanger. Seedling. Whatever you want to call it, it's a child.
They start as seeds, drifting through people and on the winds of music, until they find a place where food gathers. Lodges, dances, pubs... schools. Many remain small, feeding when they can, whenever groups get caught up in an emotional event. But others find a rich place, where they can feed year round, with large numbers of people. These grow and sprout and flower into their adult forms. I've only ever seen two. Grav-Kak. Giant Death Flower.
The way they move, the way they feed, it reminds me too much of my own tendrils. Maybe I'm a flower, waiting to find a place of my own. Maybe it's us who spread their seeds. Maybe things in their world just evolve the same, the same as ours. I don't know.
I walked back in the rain.
On the fourteenth day, we left on trip.
It's a different world out there. Phantom birds flitter from tree to tree. Great shapes shimmer and ripple beneath the surface of the lake before disappearing. Blue Bears sit on tiny islands and munch on ferns. Island Watchers stare forlornly out over the lake. There's plenty of solid life, too. Hawks, herons, eagles, lots of fish. We even saw a couple beavers. Lots of quiet contemplation.
On the sixteenth day, I met a girl. I think she was dead.
We stopped for lunch on a decent-sized island. Some guys were trying to catch an irritated bird. I strayed a bit away, singing quietly to myself, when I stopped. I saw two trees standing tall nearby and I felt compelled to go between them. Beyond was a small clearing. I saw a thin dirt path leading to a dark, tree-covered area. But curled up at the base of a tree nearby was a girl. She looked perhaps a little younger than I am, wearing a blue dress. She wasn't like the other non-solid things I see. Things may fade in and out depending on my view, but she could be clear as solid one minute and completely gone the next. I approached her. It looked like she'd been crying. She looked at me with a mix of fear and amazement, perhaps astonished that I could see her. She vanished for a second. I looked to the side, back to the dark path. She shook her head wildly. "Don't," she said. At least, she mouthed the word. I'm not certain if I heard her. Slowly I reached out a hand. She took it, her fingers sliding invisibly into mine. I led her to the boats. As we left she tried to get in, she tried, and for ten seconds it seemed she was in the boat with me. But in the end we paddled away as she watched me sadly from the shore.
It was a long time before I could talk after that.
On the twenty-first day we reached rapids.
On the twenty-fourth day they found me.
Not exactly as predicted. The above mentioned was the same - the bend, the river, etc. - but the lighting, the angle, were wrong. Perhaps my mind generated arbitrary details just to form an image. I don't know.
They followed me for a few days before making their move on the twenty-fifth. Many times I was reminded of the Jabberwock. Devil's Stalkers travel in packs of six. They're more dagger than cloak. Hissing, spitting, catching from the sides with their claws. They don't dare touch the water, I note. When the time finally came, I was a bit sick of them.
Funny thing. They work through fear and intimidation. They left it too long; by the time they finally touched me I'd made up my mind not to be afraid. From behind they're dangerous, but stare them down and they're helpless as rabbits in headlights. Long story short, I laughed in their faces and walked away.
On the twenty-fifth day we returned from trip. That night there was a hurricane warning.
On the twenty-sixth day they came for me.
I saw the fire in the sky about half an hour before they arrived. I stayed with a group. They tend not to come near if I'm around people. The giant stopped some distance away from me, watching. It seemed shorter than others. I realized with some humor that it was bending down beneath a tree. I can't say why this amused me. I watched it. It watched me. Once or twice it reached for me, but I backed away.
I wonder if it's possible to get used to staring into the face of death. Slowly the fear bled out of me, leaving only an icy calmness; the stillness of the clouds above the storm. So wrapped up was I in my thoughts of this that the next time I looked it was gone. I turned my back. Stupid, stupid.
I've noticed that each wound affects my solid body more and more. Pain shoots through my spine. My headaches are getting worse. All the energy left me and I stood, trembling, on the spot, afraid that if I took a step my legs would fold up underneath me.
I survived. Nothing came of it.
On the twenty-eighth day I came home.
Jul 22, 2009
Out of sight...
Haven't written anything in awhile. Not really sure why. I guess I'm tired.
Math is ongoing. Just a couple days left. I'm cruising around a 70 at the moment. Could be worse, I guess. Could be better too. All that's left is to do really well on the summative/exam. Meh. It's only math.
Something came up with my psychologist the other day. I was talking about the one time I tried to go public, as it were. Anthropology/sociology/psychology class. The topic of mental disorders came up, and I chimed in, thinking I had a different viewpoint to add. I didn't reveal much, but it was enough to be taken aside by the teacher, sent down to the guidance department twice, and get shouted at by my parents. The reasoning being, as far as I can tell, that if I go around telling everyone that something bad happened to me when I was little (which I didn't even suggest) then people are going to assume my parents mistreated me. And that would look bad for them.
Of course, come out of the closet about being gay and you get hugs and applause and tears of admiration. But evidently this is just too different, too far from the accepted norm, too rare for people to care enough to understand it. Let people know and I'll be in trouble. Do they think I don't know that? Do they think I wouldn't prefer being occasionally bullied by insensitive pricks to living a lie? People resent me for what I am. As if it's my fault I'm this way. Don't talk about it, don't have to deal with it. Staple a smile to my face and everyone's happy. Shut me up.
Anyway. I don't try to talk about myself to people any more if I can avoid it, because I don't want to have to go through that again. It's a similar situation to anyone who attempts to reveal themself to the world; get squashed down like that the first time, it's much more difficult to try again. And being someone like me isn't something that pops up in everyday conversation. I can't just put on a dress or a turban and let people draw their own conclusions, I have to talk about it. I need to talk about it. But.
Anyway. During this time when I was describing how important this was to the good doctor, I felt something trembling. My shields slipped and for a second my voice cracked into a desperate, miserable sob. Quickly I composed myself and carried on as normal. I wonder if she noticed. I wonder if this is likely to happen again. It's not like me to let myself go like that.
Going to camp soon. There's been plenty of buying new clothes and whatnot. Ought to be interesting.
Math is ongoing. Just a couple days left. I'm cruising around a 70 at the moment. Could be worse, I guess. Could be better too. All that's left is to do really well on the summative/exam. Meh. It's only math.
Something came up with my psychologist the other day. I was talking about the one time I tried to go public, as it were. Anthropology/sociology/psychology class. The topic of mental disorders came up, and I chimed in, thinking I had a different viewpoint to add. I didn't reveal much, but it was enough to be taken aside by the teacher, sent down to the guidance department twice, and get shouted at by my parents. The reasoning being, as far as I can tell, that if I go around telling everyone that something bad happened to me when I was little (which I didn't even suggest) then people are going to assume my parents mistreated me. And that would look bad for them.
Of course, come out of the closet about being gay and you get hugs and applause and tears of admiration. But evidently this is just too different, too far from the accepted norm, too rare for people to care enough to understand it. Let people know and I'll be in trouble. Do they think I don't know that? Do they think I wouldn't prefer being occasionally bullied by insensitive pricks to living a lie? People resent me for what I am. As if it's my fault I'm this way. Don't talk about it, don't have to deal with it. Staple a smile to my face and everyone's happy. Shut me up.
Anyway. I don't try to talk about myself to people any more if I can avoid it, because I don't want to have to go through that again. It's a similar situation to anyone who attempts to reveal themself to the world; get squashed down like that the first time, it's much more difficult to try again. And being someone like me isn't something that pops up in everyday conversation. I can't just put on a dress or a turban and let people draw their own conclusions, I have to talk about it. I need to talk about it. But.
Anyway. During this time when I was describing how important this was to the good doctor, I felt something trembling. My shields slipped and for a second my voice cracked into a desperate, miserable sob. Quickly I composed myself and carried on as normal. I wonder if she noticed. I wonder if this is likely to happen again. It's not like me to let myself go like that.
Going to camp soon. There's been plenty of buying new clothes and whatnot. Ought to be interesting.
Jul 13, 2009
Need to Vent
Just finished Luna. Amazing book. It's about being transgendered, but a lot of the themes apply to me. Being trapped in your own body. Hiding everything that might give you away. Mindfulness of who can/can't be trusted, who is too closed-minded, only opening up as a last resort.
I spend so much time hiding. So much time never showing my true colours.
I'm a multiple, dammit. I just want people to know. Is that so wrong?
Hate. I might die, from all the hate in me.
I feel everything. So I feel nothing.
I hate teenagers. I despise the sex and the drugs. I loathe the living.
I hurt. So much I want to say, can't even bear to speak aloud because it just sounds so insane. Things I've never told anyone. Not even the ones who love me.
I don't. I can't.
I hide.
Keep myself from the world. Everyone's happier that way.
Some day, be it soon or far off, I'll die. Perhaps that hate will die with me. I only have to hold it till then. I'll bury it deep. I'll put a smile on and keep going. It's how I get through most days.
I don't want people to see me as a cripple. We all go on. We all carry our own burdens.
Whatever.
I just.
I just want.
I spend so much time hiding. So much time never showing my true colours.
I'm a multiple, dammit. I just want people to know. Is that so wrong?
Hate. I might die, from all the hate in me.
I feel everything. So I feel nothing.
I hate teenagers. I despise the sex and the drugs. I loathe the living.
I hurt. So much I want to say, can't even bear to speak aloud because it just sounds so insane. Things I've never told anyone. Not even the ones who love me.
I don't. I can't.
I hide.
Keep myself from the world. Everyone's happier that way.
Some day, be it soon or far off, I'll die. Perhaps that hate will die with me. I only have to hold it till then. I'll bury it deep. I'll put a smile on and keep going. It's how I get through most days.
I don't want people to see me as a cripple. We all go on. We all carry our own burdens.
Whatever.
I just.
I just want.
Jul 6, 2009
Should be hibernating
At school. Math is either stressful or tedious. I flip constantly between trying to keep up with the equations to frustration at the time it takes to do anything. Sometimes I daydream or switch out during class and I've missed something important and have to struggle to catch up. Accelerated learning is hard.
Aw, it's not all bad. I'm busy is all.
I'm tired. I got about four hours sleep last night. Just can't seem to get any rest.
I'm worried about my use of time. I've taken to playing a lot of Solitaire lately. I need to do my schoolwork, and put aside time to work on the play I keep meaning to work on, and the comic, and maybe have a social life. The social life is near the bottom of my to-do list, though. I'm spending four weeks at camp next month, I don't want to people myself out too soon.
I keep having thoughts, but I can never remember them. It's hard to concentrate lately. I have nearly no attention span. I wonder why.
Aw, it's not all bad. I'm busy is all.
I'm tired. I got about four hours sleep last night. Just can't seem to get any rest.
I'm worried about my use of time. I've taken to playing a lot of Solitaire lately. I need to do my schoolwork, and put aside time to work on the play I keep meaning to work on, and the comic, and maybe have a social life. The social life is near the bottom of my to-do list, though. I'm spending four weeks at camp next month, I don't want to people myself out too soon.
I keep having thoughts, but I can never remember them. It's hard to concentrate lately. I have nearly no attention span. I wonder why.
Jun 28, 2009
Unkempt Reginald Spice
We went book shopping the other day. My mum wouldn't let me get We Need To Talk About Kevin. It's about a school shooting. I can understand why she wouldn't want me reading that. But, see, the reason I want to read about it is for the same reason I want to read about DID - because I think it's relevant to my life. I don't think I'm the type to go on a rampage, but... I worry. If I ever snap. Anyway, the point is the book isn't so much about the incident as it is how people react to it and deal with it. That's why I wanted to read it. But no. I'm not going to argue with her.
Wrote up my resume. I'm applying for a job at the Home Hardware opening nearby. Ideally I just want to be a shelf-stacker or something. Anything but a cashier. That's practically one of my nightmares. Anyway, the thing won't be built until November or something so whatever happens the job is a long way off.
I don't have a zit, I have what seems to be chunks of gravel growing between layers of skin. Rrg.
Wrote up my resume. I'm applying for a job at the Home Hardware opening nearby. Ideally I just want to be a shelf-stacker or something. Anything but a cashier. That's practically one of my nightmares. Anyway, the thing won't be built until November or something so whatever happens the job is a long way off.
I don't have a zit, I have what seems to be chunks of gravel growing between layers of skin. Rrg.
Jun 24, 2009
Breakfalls
I've decided what I think would be the most romantic things anyone could ever say to me.
"I don't care. Take me with you."
Obviously this is highly situational. The idea is that even though I worry that I'm a monster, even though I think I'm no good for anyone, someone loves me enough to hold on to me. But not by dragging me back to their world; staying with me as I fall deeper into my own fantastical life. I would never ask anyone to do this... I would change for a person I loved. But I can dream that I won't have to make such sacrifices to find someone.
I can dream. I haven't lost that.
I cleaned the office today. Papers and unmarked discs lying all over the place. Funny how things pile up. I hate it when things move around, and I can't remember if I did it and I'm supposed to remember it or if someone else did it and I'm not. Like a muffin wrapper spilled on the floor next to my desk. Milo's bath in the middle of the bathroom. Clothes that stink of sweat. Internal communication is getting worse and worse. It's so hard to concentrate. A lot of the time I just want to sit and do nothing. I can't seem to find the energy to move.
Ugh.
I'm okay. I think I know that now. I have deep frustrations, but I'm okay.
Watch me long enough, and you'll notice I never relax my shoulders. I don't know when it started. It's been a long time. One day while out walking I did relax. I straightened up, smiled, uncurled the tentacles on my head. I relaxed my shoulders. Two long, ropelike strands rolled down my back and landed softly on the ground.
Confused, I studied them. I couldn't move them as easily as I could my tentacles, and they were entirely the wrong shape for wings. I had wings, a long time ago. They were ornamental mostly. They were broken when my back was slashed - how long ago? I do not remember. They never quite healed properly. Over time they grew smaller, at some point vanishing. Now I had these. Curiosities. Eventually I managed to roll them back into nibs beneath my shoulders.
A few weeks back, at camp, I found a use for them. In a tender moment I found myself lashing out at someone, wrapping the rope around him and hooking it into his chest. Though he showed the slightest signs of discomfort, physically there was no indication that he was aware of what I'd done. It took a moment to work it out. I brought the perplexing extremity back to me, holding it in front of my face. The end had split open into a webbed, four-pronged hook. I closed it up. Although it was tempting to practice with these, I told myself not to use them on another person.
Now I'm growing two more, beneath the first ones. Just lumps now, but they'll get bigger. I wonder what this says about my ethereal body. I guess there's no reason why it should stay the same shape. Either that or I've fallen to yet another level of delusion.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
I keep catching myself repeating the last word or phrase of sentences. I don't remember if it used to be intentional. It's not now. I'm trying not to draw attention to it, but it's only a matter of time before someone notices. Thus far they think I'm doing it on purpose.
Losing control of speech. Word salads. I worry.
Watched some Japanese horror short films tonight. I think it's important to be familiar with the Japanese style to fully appreciate them. A lot to do with death. Several had the same theme; basically be nice or dead people will kill you. Alternately, that dead people can show up anywhere, at any time. How strange it is.
My mother didn't like them. I found them interesting. Perhaps I've become insensitive to violence. I don't feel much fear. (or anything else.)
One of my fears is that if someday I do snap and do something... regrettable, everyone will blame it on something unrelated. A blog, a desire to prove a point, a scary movie I saw, blind madness. Not me. They'll see their own values and their own causes and they won't see the real person behind the madness. Any good that could have been grown from this tragedy will be lost.
I'd like to end on a happy note. Yes, that's what I would like to do. It would be really nice if I could do that.
"I don't care. Take me with you."
Obviously this is highly situational. The idea is that even though I worry that I'm a monster, even though I think I'm no good for anyone, someone loves me enough to hold on to me. But not by dragging me back to their world; staying with me as I fall deeper into my own fantastical life. I would never ask anyone to do this... I would change for a person I loved. But I can dream that I won't have to make such sacrifices to find someone.
I can dream. I haven't lost that.
I cleaned the office today. Papers and unmarked discs lying all over the place. Funny how things pile up. I hate it when things move around, and I can't remember if I did it and I'm supposed to remember it or if someone else did it and I'm not. Like a muffin wrapper spilled on the floor next to my desk. Milo's bath in the middle of the bathroom. Clothes that stink of sweat. Internal communication is getting worse and worse. It's so hard to concentrate. A lot of the time I just want to sit and do nothing. I can't seem to find the energy to move.
Ugh.
I'm okay. I think I know that now. I have deep frustrations, but I'm okay.
Watch me long enough, and you'll notice I never relax my shoulders. I don't know when it started. It's been a long time. One day while out walking I did relax. I straightened up, smiled, uncurled the tentacles on my head. I relaxed my shoulders. Two long, ropelike strands rolled down my back and landed softly on the ground.
Confused, I studied them. I couldn't move them as easily as I could my tentacles, and they were entirely the wrong shape for wings. I had wings, a long time ago. They were ornamental mostly. They were broken when my back was slashed - how long ago? I do not remember. They never quite healed properly. Over time they grew smaller, at some point vanishing. Now I had these. Curiosities. Eventually I managed to roll them back into nibs beneath my shoulders.
A few weeks back, at camp, I found a use for them. In a tender moment I found myself lashing out at someone, wrapping the rope around him and hooking it into his chest. Though he showed the slightest signs of discomfort, physically there was no indication that he was aware of what I'd done. It took a moment to work it out. I brought the perplexing extremity back to me, holding it in front of my face. The end had split open into a webbed, four-pronged hook. I closed it up. Although it was tempting to practice with these, I told myself not to use them on another person.
Now I'm growing two more, beneath the first ones. Just lumps now, but they'll get bigger. I wonder what this says about my ethereal body. I guess there's no reason why it should stay the same shape. Either that or I've fallen to yet another level of delusion.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
I keep catching myself repeating the last word or phrase of sentences. I don't remember if it used to be intentional. It's not now. I'm trying not to draw attention to it, but it's only a matter of time before someone notices. Thus far they think I'm doing it on purpose.
Losing control of speech. Word salads. I worry.
Watched some Japanese horror short films tonight. I think it's important to be familiar with the Japanese style to fully appreciate them. A lot to do with death. Several had the same theme; basically be nice or dead people will kill you. Alternately, that dead people can show up anywhere, at any time. How strange it is.
My mother didn't like them. I found them interesting. Perhaps I've become insensitive to violence. I don't feel much fear. (or anything else.)
One of my fears is that if someday I do snap and do something... regrettable, everyone will blame it on something unrelated. A blog, a desire to prove a point, a scary movie I saw, blind madness. Not me. They'll see their own values and their own causes and they won't see the real person behind the madness. Any good that could have been grown from this tragedy will be lost.
I'd like to end on a happy note. Yes, that's what I would like to do. It would be really nice if I could do that.
Jun 22, 2009
Incidentally, post 200. How we've changed.
Classic paranoia: the fear that someone is standing behind you, right now. Probably with a weapon.
New classic paranoia: the fear that someone you know is standing behind you, right now. Possibly with a weapon.
Irrelevant paranoia: the nagging doubts about whether The Pharaoh Sails to Orion is or is not a love song.
This isn't real paranoia: the fear that some or all of your life is a dream or simulated reality.
This can't be happening! paranoia: the fear, based on a seemingly impossible event occurring right before your eyes, that some or all of your life is a dream or simulated reality.
Self-indulgent paranoia: the near-certainty that someone left the vacuum cleaner in the on position and that as soon as you plug it in it will roar frighteningly to life, followed by disappointment when it doesn't.
Self-destructive paranoia: the near-certainty that the vacuum cleaner could roar frighteningly to life at any moment, regardless of whether or not it is plugged in.
Suicidal paranoia: the fear that it's only a matter of time before you snap.
Homicidal paranoia: the fear that an emotion, for example a slowly-growing hatred of humanity, will one day cause you to perform actions you will later regret.
Skull paranoia: the fear of symbols that have lost all meaning through overuse.
Shut up shut up paranoia: the fear that other people are reading your mind, specifically the dirty thoughts.
I'm not a little kid any more paranoia: the fear that the people around you dismiss your thoughts as being unimportant.
Young on the inside paranoia: the fear of being considered childish for performing childish activities.
Classic social paranoia: the fear that your peers are talking about you behind your back.
Empty social paranoia: the fear that no one is talking about you behind your back. In fact, they never think about you. Ever.
Reverse social paranoia: the fear that your peers know what you've been thinking about them.
Disgusting paranoia: the fear of being hit by a dead bird falling from a roof.
Nasty paranoia: the fear of being walked in on in the middle of an unpleasant act.
Tumor paranoia: the fear that something is growing inside of you that you aren't yet aware of.
Cancerous paranoia: the fear of revealing a severe illness or injury to others.
Surreal paranoia: the fear that there isn't a bigger harmonica.
Despairing paranoia: the fear that after ten years together, your partner doesn't love you.
Terrifying paranoia: the fear that after ten months together, your partner doesn't love you.
Hesitant paranoia: the fear that after ten minutes together, your partner doesn't love you.
Both ways damned paranoia: the fear of determining if you have sinned.
You'll see paranoia: the fear that you're not crazy after all.
They're coming paranoia: the fear that they are coming. Possibly for you.
Don't open that box paranoia: the fear of the anonymous.
New classic paranoia: the fear that someone you know is standing behind you, right now. Possibly with a weapon.
Irrelevant paranoia: the nagging doubts about whether The Pharaoh Sails to Orion is or is not a love song.
This isn't real paranoia: the fear that some or all of your life is a dream or simulated reality.
This can't be happening! paranoia: the fear, based on a seemingly impossible event occurring right before your eyes, that some or all of your life is a dream or simulated reality.
Self-indulgent paranoia: the near-certainty that someone left the vacuum cleaner in the on position and that as soon as you plug it in it will roar frighteningly to life, followed by disappointment when it doesn't.
Self-destructive paranoia: the near-certainty that the vacuum cleaner could roar frighteningly to life at any moment, regardless of whether or not it is plugged in.
Suicidal paranoia: the fear that it's only a matter of time before you snap.
Homicidal paranoia: the fear that an emotion, for example a slowly-growing hatred of humanity, will one day cause you to perform actions you will later regret.
Skull paranoia: the fear of symbols that have lost all meaning through overuse.
Shut up shut up paranoia: the fear that other people are reading your mind, specifically the dirty thoughts.
I'm not a little kid any more paranoia: the fear that the people around you dismiss your thoughts as being unimportant.
Young on the inside paranoia: the fear of being considered childish for performing childish activities.
Classic social paranoia: the fear that your peers are talking about you behind your back.
Empty social paranoia: the fear that no one is talking about you behind your back. In fact, they never think about you. Ever.
Reverse social paranoia: the fear that your peers know what you've been thinking about them.
Disgusting paranoia: the fear of being hit by a dead bird falling from a roof.
Nasty paranoia: the fear of being walked in on in the middle of an unpleasant act.
Tumor paranoia: the fear that something is growing inside of you that you aren't yet aware of.
Cancerous paranoia: the fear of revealing a severe illness or injury to others.
Surreal paranoia: the fear that there isn't a bigger harmonica.
Despairing paranoia: the fear that after ten years together, your partner doesn't love you.
Terrifying paranoia: the fear that after ten months together, your partner doesn't love you.
Hesitant paranoia: the fear that after ten minutes together, your partner doesn't love you.
Both ways damned paranoia: the fear of determining if you have sinned.
You'll see paranoia: the fear that you're not crazy after all.
They're coming paranoia: the fear that they are coming. Possibly for you.
Don't open that box paranoia: the fear of the anonymous.
Jun 20, 2009
I wish I could tell you
Apologies for slowness. I've been... a wreck.
Bloodknot. It's like a tumor, sitting in the middle of the chest. It churns. It rolls. It's rough and pressing and painful, but bad as it is you really don't want it to burst. Lose-lose.
I want to be able to move on with my life.
Hate. Hate.
I need rest. I never get any rest. Not for years.
I don't feel love. I don't feel much of anything. It feels like one or more of my internal organs has died and is sitting in me rotting, a dead weight. Literally and figuratively. Oh, and I'm sick. Got a cold. Annoying cough.
Exams are over. Yay? Sigh. I've stopped caring.
I just. Sometimes I don't know why I keep fighting. I'm too subtle. You can see it, if you watch me closely; the twitches, the pained looks, the time spent staring at seemingly nothing. The edges of my mask are clearly visible, I'm just waiting for someone to care enough to want to know what's underneath. I would never ask anyone to lower themselves for me. I don't want to latch onto someone (again) and have them merely put up with me for eight months. I want to be loved. The real me, not the idealized version people think they know. Me. I want. The real me. To be loved.
But why would anyone. After all, I'm hiding. You don't throw away your false leg to get more sympathy.
Sick of it. Sometimes I wish there was no afterlife so I could die in peace.
Bloodknot. It's like a tumor, sitting in the middle of the chest. It churns. It rolls. It's rough and pressing and painful, but bad as it is you really don't want it to burst. Lose-lose.
I want to be able to move on with my life.
Hate. Hate.
I need rest. I never get any rest. Not for years.
I don't feel love. I don't feel much of anything. It feels like one or more of my internal organs has died and is sitting in me rotting, a dead weight. Literally and figuratively. Oh, and I'm sick. Got a cold. Annoying cough.
Exams are over. Yay? Sigh. I've stopped caring.
I just. Sometimes I don't know why I keep fighting. I'm too subtle. You can see it, if you watch me closely; the twitches, the pained looks, the time spent staring at seemingly nothing. The edges of my mask are clearly visible, I'm just waiting for someone to care enough to want to know what's underneath. I would never ask anyone to lower themselves for me. I don't want to latch onto someone (again) and have them merely put up with me for eight months. I want to be loved. The real me, not the idealized version people think they know. Me. I want. The real me. To be loved.
But why would anyone. After all, I'm hiding. You don't throw away your false leg to get more sympathy.
Sick of it. Sometimes I wish there was no afterlife so I could die in peace.
Jun 13, 2009
Emeralds
Just watched The Terminator and Terminator 2. There was a street party, and I really didn't want to have to be around people. I guess I should be more social, but still. My mother in particular seems disappointed that I didn't want to go out. What can I say? I have no place in a group of middle-ages and smallchilds. Even if I collected with the small group of teens, what's there to say? "Hey, we're normal and don't know you." "Hey. I sound like a complete nutcase but really I'm a nice guy." "I'm sorry, you're so quiet and socially inept that we can't hear you over the sound of people enjoying themselves." Exaggeration. I've been reading Parrotfish. It shows.
People seem to approach things at around a thirty-degree angle. Just dodging the actual issue ever so slightly while still getting your point across. It's something I've never been able to get the hang of. I either scuttle across things sideways or approach it head-on, nothing in between. I guess it's because I've been talking to myself so long, my style of communication has shifted. I don't infer the same things from certain words as others. Leads to a lot of problems that way. Oh well. I try. Maybe it will get better in time.
I've seen the future, you know. Or at least, what for want of a better word you might call the future. I've seen the place where I die, a little under three years from now. I think it's a courtyard. There are trees. Details are sketchy, but I'll know it when I see it. I've seen my daughter. She has brown hair and pink skin and a smile. Her eyes are chameleonic, like mine, but they sparkle like her mother's. I recognize that this is a contradiction; if I die I will never be a father. Just because the future is set doesn't mean it can't be changed. We can only predict the forks in the road, not the direction we will choose. That's something that's left to each of us.
I have work to do. Sigh. End of school year. Repeated sigh.
Examine the World model. On the surface, a hard shell. Painted over in bright colours. In some places peaceful, in some places hostile, in some places, broken, all covering up what lies underneath. Slip through the cracks and you'll find that this carefully constructed surface is very, very thin. Underneath, the majority is made up of something dark and molten; seething, churning, ever so silent. Hot and cold are indistinguishable. Massive, glass-sharp shards of something drift through. In the very center, pressure has fused together something harder than diamond. The Sapphire, the Opal and the Ruby. Clear, incandescent and shining.
Whatever. It's just a model, don't take it literally.
I feel very young again. I'm being all, "Eeeh, does she like me?" I don't even mean it in a romantic sense. Absurd. I hope I don't have to rip out my heart with a corkscrew again. I get so sick of people. I'm very tired.
People seem to approach things at around a thirty-degree angle. Just dodging the actual issue ever so slightly while still getting your point across. It's something I've never been able to get the hang of. I either scuttle across things sideways or approach it head-on, nothing in between. I guess it's because I've been talking to myself so long, my style of communication has shifted. I don't infer the same things from certain words as others. Leads to a lot of problems that way. Oh well. I try. Maybe it will get better in time.
I've seen the future, you know. Or at least, what for want of a better word you might call the future. I've seen the place where I die, a little under three years from now. I think it's a courtyard. There are trees. Details are sketchy, but I'll know it when I see it. I've seen my daughter. She has brown hair and pink skin and a smile. Her eyes are chameleonic, like mine, but they sparkle like her mother's. I recognize that this is a contradiction; if I die I will never be a father. Just because the future is set doesn't mean it can't be changed. We can only predict the forks in the road, not the direction we will choose. That's something that's left to each of us.
I have work to do. Sigh. End of school year. Repeated sigh.
Examine the World model. On the surface, a hard shell. Painted over in bright colours. In some places peaceful, in some places hostile, in some places, broken, all covering up what lies underneath. Slip through the cracks and you'll find that this carefully constructed surface is very, very thin. Underneath, the majority is made up of something dark and molten; seething, churning, ever so silent. Hot and cold are indistinguishable. Massive, glass-sharp shards of something drift through. In the very center, pressure has fused together something harder than diamond. The Sapphire, the Opal and the Ruby. Clear, incandescent and shining.
Whatever. It's just a model, don't take it literally.
I feel very young again. I'm being all, "Eeeh, does she like me?" I don't even mean it in a romantic sense. Absurd. I hope I don't have to rip out my heart with a corkscrew again. I get so sick of people. I'm very tired.
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Jun 10, 2009
The inner cold, heartless bastard
Exams fast approaching. One, English, on tuesday. The other, Chemistry, friday. Truth be told, I'm not particularly worried about either of them.
Summatives are done. English handed in, Media Arts pretty much finished, Lit done and submitted, Chemistry finished yesterday in class. The year is nearly over.
And yet... I don't know. I'm not really apprehensive. I don't feel much of anything at the moment. To be honest, I don't really feel anything. At all.
If I know that I'm acting strangely, does that mean it's intentional?
I'm in a dangerous state of mind lately. The other day I asked a girl out. It was one of those if-you-don't-do-this-now-you'll-never-get-another-chance moments. Of course, she's already got someone. No hard feelings. I don't really know what I'd have done if she'd said yes... Ah well. She's nice, and all. Probably doesn't need someone like me in her life.
It does stir some things about, though. Not up, just about. Some part of me still craves, no, demands attention. I want to be part of someone's life. I want to matter to someone. I wonder how much of this is just my hunger impulse. Well, I won't give in to it. An I continue to blog about feeling empty inside, so be it.
My mother once asked me to describe how I was really feeling. I said words didn't exist to say it. She said I'm creative, put words together. I told her it felt like there were purple insects eating my brain from the inside. She asked me why purple. If you have to ask, you'll never know, I thought. But I didn't dare say it. People don't get it.
I dreamed I found a baby septapus. (An octopus with seven legs, that is.) I cradled it in my hands and tried to find a home for it. Even when by all signs it should have been dead I kept carrying it. Its tiny, unseeing eyes drove me forward. I fought past the people who didn't seem to care, found that those who said they would care for it simply left it as they found it, ran down a hall of full aquariums as it shriveled in my arms. I wonder if I was able to save it. That I don't remember. It doesn't seem likely, does it?
Song I'm obsessed with of the month: Straight, by Amanda Palmer. It seems to suit me. Except I'm not female.
I sat down awhile ago and had a good think about my overall identity. I decided that I'm not gay and I'm not transgendered, though I do have a lot of feminine characteristics. I'm male and I (generally) like girls and that's the way it's likely to stay. But sometimes, when things get difficult, I really wish I'd been born a girl. The world would just make so much more sense that way.
Summatives are done. English handed in, Media Arts pretty much finished, Lit done and submitted, Chemistry finished yesterday in class. The year is nearly over.
And yet... I don't know. I'm not really apprehensive. I don't feel much of anything at the moment. To be honest, I don't really feel anything. At all.
If I know that I'm acting strangely, does that mean it's intentional?
I'm in a dangerous state of mind lately. The other day I asked a girl out. It was one of those if-you-don't-do-this-now-you'll-never-get-another-chance moments. Of course, she's already got someone. No hard feelings. I don't really know what I'd have done if she'd said yes... Ah well. She's nice, and all. Probably doesn't need someone like me in her life.
It does stir some things about, though. Not up, just about. Some part of me still craves, no, demands attention. I want to be part of someone's life. I want to matter to someone. I wonder how much of this is just my hunger impulse. Well, I won't give in to it. An I continue to blog about feeling empty inside, so be it.
My mother once asked me to describe how I was really feeling. I said words didn't exist to say it. She said I'm creative, put words together. I told her it felt like there were purple insects eating my brain from the inside. She asked me why purple. If you have to ask, you'll never know, I thought. But I didn't dare say it. People don't get it.
I dreamed I found a baby septapus. (An octopus with seven legs, that is.) I cradled it in my hands and tried to find a home for it. Even when by all signs it should have been dead I kept carrying it. Its tiny, unseeing eyes drove me forward. I fought past the people who didn't seem to care, found that those who said they would care for it simply left it as they found it, ran down a hall of full aquariums as it shriveled in my arms. I wonder if I was able to save it. That I don't remember. It doesn't seem likely, does it?
Song I'm obsessed with of the month: Straight, by Amanda Palmer. It seems to suit me. Except I'm not female.
I sat down awhile ago and had a good think about my overall identity. I decided that I'm not gay and I'm not transgendered, though I do have a lot of feminine characteristics. I'm male and I (generally) like girls and that's the way it's likely to stay. But sometimes, when things get difficult, I really wish I'd been born a girl. The world would just make so much more sense that way.
Jun 6, 2009
Even Angels Cry
I wonder how many senses humans actually have.
I see with my eyes, but the things only I can see I perceive with my hind eyes, hidden behind my foreeyes. People and objects I can feel somewhere in my inner ear, but other things I sense in a place I don't have a name for - partway down my neck, on either side towards the back. There's a hollow there, a bit like the temple. Certain kinds of energy I feel in the very middle of my head. Things I can't even begin to describe I feel in my gut, in my second heart. There's a sort of tingling when I sting someone as the energy travels through me to my head. All these things... it's not right. I know it's not right.
I've been taking Melatonin. Seems to be helping my sleep a bit. How can I explain to people that I'm tired on the inside?
I see with my eyes, but the things only I can see I perceive with my hind eyes, hidden behind my foreeyes. People and objects I can feel somewhere in my inner ear, but other things I sense in a place I don't have a name for - partway down my neck, on either side towards the back. There's a hollow there, a bit like the temple. Certain kinds of energy I feel in the very middle of my head. Things I can't even begin to describe I feel in my gut, in my second heart. There's a sort of tingling when I sting someone as the energy travels through me to my head. All these things... it's not right. I know it's not right.
I've been taking Melatonin. Seems to be helping my sleep a bit. How can I explain to people that I'm tired on the inside?
Jun 2, 2009
Summative break
I was writing a commission for a friend. I then got a bit distracted and wrote this instead.
Radiant:
A love story in five acts
Act 1
Susannah: What character is this?
The Pharaoh: I beg you, do not look upon my face.
Susannah: A strange face it must be, but I will not look.
The Pharaoh: How alone am I.
Act 2
The Pharaoh: Pray, look upon my face.
Susannah: Why this change, when before you wished to hide yourself from me?
The Pharaoh: You cared to respect my wishes, though you knew not why.
Susannah: My, what a sight is this!
The Pharaoh: I have borne this mask a long time.
Act 3
The Pharaoh: You must leave me now.
Susannah: Why, after you have given me so much?
The Pharaoh: Harm comes to those who follow me. My heart could not bear it if I should lose myself and kill you.
Susannah: Knowing this, why did you tempt yourself by trusting me?
The Pharaoh: I was lonely. Or perhaps hungry.
Act 4
Susannah: If you meant to harm me you would have done so, else you would have left.
The Pharaoh: I am harming you with every word.
Susannah: I will not be consumed by you. Do you deny that this device serves but to entice me into regretful servitude?
The Pharaoh: Upon my oath, I deny it.
Susannah: Your oath! I would not float an ant upon your oath.
Act 5
The Pharaoh: I must away.
Susannah: Where will you go?
The Pharaoh: To distant lands, to end myself.
Susannah: Take me with you.
The Pharaoh: Pursue me not. I dare not find reason to go on. I am a monster.
Susannah: And I will tame you.
End
Radiant:
A love story in five acts
Act 1
Susannah: What character is this?
The Pharaoh: I beg you, do not look upon my face.
Susannah: A strange face it must be, but I will not look.
The Pharaoh: How alone am I.
Act 2
The Pharaoh: Pray, look upon my face.
Susannah: Why this change, when before you wished to hide yourself from me?
The Pharaoh: You cared to respect my wishes, though you knew not why.
Susannah: My, what a sight is this!
The Pharaoh: I have borne this mask a long time.
Act 3
The Pharaoh: You must leave me now.
Susannah: Why, after you have given me so much?
The Pharaoh: Harm comes to those who follow me. My heart could not bear it if I should lose myself and kill you.
Susannah: Knowing this, why did you tempt yourself by trusting me?
The Pharaoh: I was lonely. Or perhaps hungry.
Act 4
Susannah: If you meant to harm me you would have done so, else you would have left.
The Pharaoh: I am harming you with every word.
Susannah: I will not be consumed by you. Do you deny that this device serves but to entice me into regretful servitude?
The Pharaoh: Upon my oath, I deny it.
Susannah: Your oath! I would not float an ant upon your oath.
Act 5
The Pharaoh: I must away.
Susannah: Where will you go?
The Pharaoh: To distant lands, to end myself.
Susannah: Take me with you.
The Pharaoh: Pursue me not. I dare not find reason to go on. I am a monster.
Susannah: And I will tame you.
End
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Jun 1, 2009
Haunted
First off, is dias seriously not a word? As in, a raised stone table or platform with a hole, container or mark on it for placing and displaying an object? Does that not exist? Sigh.
Tired. Breaking. Things are starting to fall apart again. I'm very weak.
I need to find a safe place to rest.
I'm tired. I'm scared. Things have started shifting again. I'm in no condition to fight back.
So sick of it. Almost overwhelming.
But not quite.
I have power.
I can control myself, to some extent. I can mold my energy into shapes and move it in the air around me, although I've yet to find any use for it. I've learned how to sting people for their thoughts and feelings and, more importantly, how not to. I can see souls, but I can't make any sense out of what I see. I can suggest, but I can't control. I've met demons, and usually gotten beaten up by them.
Let's face it, I'm lost. I haven't a clue what I'm doing. I need a mentor.
Tired. Breaking. Things are starting to fall apart again. I'm very weak.
I need to find a safe place to rest.
I'm tired. I'm scared. Things have started shifting again. I'm in no condition to fight back.
So sick of it. Almost overwhelming.
But not quite.
I have power.
I can control myself, to some extent. I can mold my energy into shapes and move it in the air around me, although I've yet to find any use for it. I've learned how to sting people for their thoughts and feelings and, more importantly, how not to. I can see souls, but I can't make any sense out of what I see. I can suggest, but I can't control. I've met demons, and usually gotten beaten up by them.
Let's face it, I'm lost. I haven't a clue what I'm doing. I need a mentor.
May 28, 2009
The Girl and the Grandfather
I am alone.
Where am I?
Her name is Wraith.
Light. The tower ahead. There's rubble to either side. An archway in pieces lies to one side, studded with skulls. It's very dark inside.
Light. This room has been cleared out. Four pillars rest between the eight walls. Dead spiders line the corners. To the left, a curtain has been drawn.
She approaches, more curious than afraid. Then pauses. Her eyes widen. There is a knife on the floor.
A fat cloth woman bursts out, shrieking madly. Wraith jumps back, falling to the floor, screaming, covering her eyes and throwing up a hand. A wall of light springs from her fingers. The cloth woman crashes against it again and again, nightmarish wails slowly fading. Wraith stands, but she doesn't look. "You can't touch me," she whispers.
Light. Mirrors line the eight walls. Four crystals, red, blue, yellow and black, lie overturned on the floor beside their individual dias. A beam of light falls on a circular platform in the center of the room, cracked painfully in half. A doorway leads onwards. It is very dark beyond.
Light. A golden staircase leads upwards. The Straw Golem stands stiffly, eyes unmoving.
She takes her first steps up, facing the creature. It stares blankly forwards. With a small sniff she curls her tiny hand into a fist and, bracing herself, punches the demonic scarecrow. It rustles but does not otherwise react. She strikes it again, refusing to stand down, and gradually its dark shirt folds outwards, becoming a black tunnel. The tunnel becomes a blackness. The blackness becomes a man.
He's smothering her. His arms wrap around her, and she's too afraid to move. "You are mine," he hisses. His breath is foul. It's so dark. She can't breathe, she can't move. She is twisted around. The arms wrap tighter. Something pokes into her back, moving downwards.
"No!" She kicks, she struggles, but he is too strong. "No!" she screams. She's trapped, she's trapped...
The door flies open dramatically, crashing into the wall. The man drops her, perhaps from surprise or guilt, and she runs to the light outside. Its arms envelop her, but she welcomes it. "DO NOT TOUCH HER," commands the light. "I WILL DEAL WITH YOU."
The man bristles. "LEAVE HER," suggests the darkness.
"SHE MUST SEE THIS," states the light, "OR IT WILL HAUNT HER FOREVER." The light moves towards the darkness.
There is a voice.
"Everything is a lie."
Light. There are no arms. She awakens on a tall black stool, underneath a hanging lamp. She stands and walks. Soon she is back on the golden staircase. It is not long before she reaches the top.
Light. A tall shape stands in the middle of the room. The platform is surrounded by a circular wall of light. Beams lead away in four directions. The room has eight sides, four with doors. She exits through the one on her right.
Time passes. A sphere rests in a hole. She lifts it out. The red beam flickers and goes out. She returns to the central room, places the sphere at the base of the platform. Stone grips wrap around the sphere, dragging it into the ground. She takes the second door.
Time passes. The second sphere. The blue light goes out.
Time passes. "Do you know what you're doing? You should stop. You don't want to do this. It won't end well for you." The third sphere. The yellow light goes out.
Time passes. She is moving slowly now, so slowly. There is darkness. "Everything is a lie," she whispers. The fourth sphere. Slowly, so slowly. As she lifts it the black light splutters out. The rooms begin to tremble.
Darkness rushing. Roaring.
She places the sphere in the final dias and steps back. The shields are gone. He is there. He is watching her. He is waiting.
The beast howls. The child screams. Chains break, walls smash, eyes find light again.
She stares, transfixed. Nothing separates them. He does not move, does not step towards her. He does not beckon her closer. She stands. Her hands clench into fists, then relax. A smile begins to play across her face. She leans forward.
A cold hand lands on her shoulder. She looks up into the face of Skeleton. "We must go. Now."
Running. Footsteps in darkness, stairs. It's ever so silent. It's not meant to be this silent, surely?
Then, daylight. Nine figures leave the castle. Whisk droops in Prophet's arms, Lank and Styx lean on each other, Wraith huddles under Skeleton's cloak, Clarence rests in the haich's massive arms. Only IMPACT walks alone. They pass the broken arch, walking back along the winding road to the shore. "I'm so tired," gasps Clarence.
"Be still," hushes Skeleton. "Rest. You have been through [a great ordeal.]"
"YOU SHALL NOT REST." A voice booms from the mountain. "I AM HERE. YOU WILL NEVER KNOW REST, NOR PEACE, NOR FULFILLMENT. I AM HERE, AND I WILL HAUNT YOU... FOREVER." It lets out a final, hissing breath before falling quiet.
Skeleton breaks the silence. "It lies." They left.
Where am I?
Her name is Wraith.
Light. The tower ahead. There's rubble to either side. An archway in pieces lies to one side, studded with skulls. It's very dark inside.
Light. This room has been cleared out. Four pillars rest between the eight walls. Dead spiders line the corners. To the left, a curtain has been drawn.
She approaches, more curious than afraid. Then pauses. Her eyes widen. There is a knife on the floor.
A fat cloth woman bursts out, shrieking madly. Wraith jumps back, falling to the floor, screaming, covering her eyes and throwing up a hand. A wall of light springs from her fingers. The cloth woman crashes against it again and again, nightmarish wails slowly fading. Wraith stands, but she doesn't look. "You can't touch me," she whispers.
Light. Mirrors line the eight walls. Four crystals, red, blue, yellow and black, lie overturned on the floor beside their individual dias. A beam of light falls on a circular platform in the center of the room, cracked painfully in half. A doorway leads onwards. It is very dark beyond.
Light. A golden staircase leads upwards. The Straw Golem stands stiffly, eyes unmoving.
She takes her first steps up, facing the creature. It stares blankly forwards. With a small sniff she curls her tiny hand into a fist and, bracing herself, punches the demonic scarecrow. It rustles but does not otherwise react. She strikes it again, refusing to stand down, and gradually its dark shirt folds outwards, becoming a black tunnel. The tunnel becomes a blackness. The blackness becomes a man.
He's smothering her. His arms wrap around her, and she's too afraid to move. "You are mine," he hisses. His breath is foul. It's so dark. She can't breathe, she can't move. She is twisted around. The arms wrap tighter. Something pokes into her back, moving downwards.
"No!" She kicks, she struggles, but he is too strong. "No!" she screams. She's trapped, she's trapped...
The door flies open dramatically, crashing into the wall. The man drops her, perhaps from surprise or guilt, and she runs to the light outside. Its arms envelop her, but she welcomes it. "DO NOT TOUCH HER," commands the light. "I WILL DEAL WITH YOU."
The man bristles. "LEAVE HER," suggests the darkness.
"SHE MUST SEE THIS," states the light, "OR IT WILL HAUNT HER FOREVER." The light moves towards the darkness.
There is a voice.
"Everything is a lie."
Light. There are no arms. She awakens on a tall black stool, underneath a hanging lamp. She stands and walks. Soon she is back on the golden staircase. It is not long before she reaches the top.
Light. A tall shape stands in the middle of the room. The platform is surrounded by a circular wall of light. Beams lead away in four directions. The room has eight sides, four with doors. She exits through the one on her right.
Time passes. A sphere rests in a hole. She lifts it out. The red beam flickers and goes out. She returns to the central room, places the sphere at the base of the platform. Stone grips wrap around the sphere, dragging it into the ground. She takes the second door.
Time passes. The second sphere. The blue light goes out.
Time passes. "Do you know what you're doing? You should stop. You don't want to do this. It won't end well for you." The third sphere. The yellow light goes out.
Time passes. She is moving slowly now, so slowly. There is darkness. "Everything is a lie," she whispers. The fourth sphere. Slowly, so slowly. As she lifts it the black light splutters out. The rooms begin to tremble.
Darkness rushing. Roaring.
She places the sphere in the final dias and steps back. The shields are gone. He is there. He is watching her. He is waiting.
The beast howls. The child screams. Chains break, walls smash, eyes find light again.
She stares, transfixed. Nothing separates them. He does not move, does not step towards her. He does not beckon her closer. She stands. Her hands clench into fists, then relax. A smile begins to play across her face. She leans forward.
A cold hand lands on her shoulder. She looks up into the face of Skeleton. "We must go. Now."
Running. Footsteps in darkness, stairs. It's ever so silent. It's not meant to be this silent, surely?
Then, daylight. Nine figures leave the castle. Whisk droops in Prophet's arms, Lank and Styx lean on each other, Wraith huddles under Skeleton's cloak, Clarence rests in the haich's massive arms. Only IMPACT walks alone. They pass the broken arch, walking back along the winding road to the shore. "I'm so tired," gasps Clarence.
"Be still," hushes Skeleton. "Rest. You have been through [a great ordeal.]"
"YOU SHALL NOT REST." A voice booms from the mountain. "I AM HERE. YOU WILL NEVER KNOW REST, NOR PEACE, NOR FULFILLMENT. I AM HERE, AND I WILL HAUNT YOU... FOREVER." It lets out a final, hissing breath before falling quiet.
Skeleton breaks the silence. "It lies." They left.
May 24, 2009
This is just to say
I've been acting strange lately. Something's up. I think it's the weather. Whenever the weather changes I get a lot of headaches. Probably has something to do with it. It's warm and sunny outside and I'm stuck here because the light and the construction noises make my head hurt. That and I have to clean the house today.
Went shopping yesterday. Bought some things for camp. I now have a sleeping bag that packs down to a quarter of the size of the old one and takes less than ten minutes to roll up. Something of an improvement, I think. Also a paddle, a tiny air mattress and a pillow that doubles as a bag. All handy stuff.
I think I'm just about getting through this I'm-sad-that-I-don't-have-a-girlfriend phase. Glad that's over. I just get lonely, sometimes. But you know that. It doesn't help that even Chase has a girlfriend now - and he's a girl. The world being what it is, and all. I stop dwelling. I'm fine.
Mini-soiree went well. Shame we were late. Got held up in traffic over a bridge. It's nice to see what we can come up with when we don't have any great limitations. This was mine:
The Robot’s Pilgrimage
A robot was working the quarry one day
when he found himself strangely perplexed.
I wonder why we eventually die
and what can I expect to come next?
So he tried to forget, but now he had thought
things he’d never considered before.
It seemed that his life contained nothing but strife
and his chips longed to find something more.
So the robot went to his Master,
and he said, My lord, please listen.
I’m just a machine, I’m not meant to dream,
but I feel that there’s something I’m missing.
And the Master said, I understand,
it’s right that you have your say.
There’s a wise man deep in the Devil’s Keep
who can help you find your way.
So the robot crossed the river S
and he found the Devil’s Keep,
he could feel the hate as he crossed the gate
but downstairs he began to creep.
And deep in the darkest dungeon there
the wise man sat in his cell.
And the robot said, Master and friend,
can a robot find Heaven, or Hell?
The man slowly lowered his long hash pipe
and his eyes rolled out of his head,
as the smoke disappeared he opened his beard
and this is what the wise man said:
Robot, you won’t ever get sick
and your parts can be replaced,
you don’t need heaven, you can live forever
just as long as you stay safe.
The robot replied, I give you my thanks,
I can go back to working in peace.
I’ll be well looked after while I’ve got a Master,
I’ll eternally stay in one piece.
So the robot went back to the deep, dark quarry
and although he was safe from hurt,
he began to detect the advice was suspect
as his circuits filled up with dirt.
He was never fixed, and he knew he’d been tricked
as he breathed his last virtual breath.
You see, the Devil pays the Master’s wage
for each servant he works to death.
The moral of this story
can be found in this last rhyme:
Everyone lies and everything dies.
The robot just wasted his time.
I think it's garbage, but people seemed to like it. That's generally the way with my work. Maybe my standards are too high.
Went shopping yesterday. Bought some things for camp. I now have a sleeping bag that packs down to a quarter of the size of the old one and takes less than ten minutes to roll up. Something of an improvement, I think. Also a paddle, a tiny air mattress and a pillow that doubles as a bag. All handy stuff.
I think I'm just about getting through this I'm-sad-that-I-don't-have-a-girlfriend phase. Glad that's over. I just get lonely, sometimes. But you know that. It doesn't help that even Chase has a girlfriend now - and he's a girl. The world being what it is, and all. I stop dwelling. I'm fine.
Mini-soiree went well. Shame we were late. Got held up in traffic over a bridge. It's nice to see what we can come up with when we don't have any great limitations. This was mine:
The Robot’s Pilgrimage
A robot was working the quarry one day
when he found himself strangely perplexed.
I wonder why we eventually die
and what can I expect to come next?
So he tried to forget, but now he had thought
things he’d never considered before.
It seemed that his life contained nothing but strife
and his chips longed to find something more.
So the robot went to his Master,
and he said, My lord, please listen.
I’m just a machine, I’m not meant to dream,
but I feel that there’s something I’m missing.
And the Master said, I understand,
it’s right that you have your say.
There’s a wise man deep in the Devil’s Keep
who can help you find your way.
So the robot crossed the river S
and he found the Devil’s Keep,
he could feel the hate as he crossed the gate
but downstairs he began to creep.
And deep in the darkest dungeon there
the wise man sat in his cell.
And the robot said, Master and friend,
can a robot find Heaven, or Hell?
The man slowly lowered his long hash pipe
and his eyes rolled out of his head,
as the smoke disappeared he opened his beard
and this is what the wise man said:
Robot, you won’t ever get sick
and your parts can be replaced,
you don’t need heaven, you can live forever
just as long as you stay safe.
The robot replied, I give you my thanks,
I can go back to working in peace.
I’ll be well looked after while I’ve got a Master,
I’ll eternally stay in one piece.
So the robot went back to the deep, dark quarry
and although he was safe from hurt,
he began to detect the advice was suspect
as his circuits filled up with dirt.
He was never fixed, and he knew he’d been tricked
as he breathed his last virtual breath.
You see, the Devil pays the Master’s wage
for each servant he works to death.
The moral of this story
can be found in this last rhyme:
Everyone lies and everything dies.
The robot just wasted his time.
I think it's garbage, but people seemed to like it. That's generally the way with my work. Maybe my standards are too high.
May 20, 2009
I miss you
It's nearing the end of the year. All of Visual is hanging up their graduation paintings. The whole school smells like paint. It's going right to my head.
I'm sick of the stupid grade 9s on my bus who talk endlessly about sex and drugs. It makes me want to do something I'd later regret.
I'm going into withdrawal again. I need a hug.
Sick of being in the same room as people my heart still aches for. But I don't want to be alone. But I also can't stand the constant reminders of people who don't love me any more. Or never did.
I can never say what I'm really feeling.
Just sick of it.
...I'm lonely.
I've still never met a multiple. Never face to face, and never one that I could freely talk to. That in addition to the voices, the visions and the demonic ancestor. I've got no one I can relate to. Some come close, to be sure, but still. I want someone I can be with without having to say anything. Without constantly holding myself back for fear I'm going to hurt them. I want someone to hold. I want someone to tell me everything's going to be okay.
I want, I want. My keening echoes.
I'm just lonely.
It would be nice, I think sometimes, to lose myself.
But no. No it wouldn't. And that's not the kind of person I am.
Isn't that up to me, I say.
No, I say. No it's not.
I'm sick of the stupid grade 9s on my bus who talk endlessly about sex and drugs. It makes me want to do something I'd later regret.
I'm going into withdrawal again. I need a hug.
Sick of being in the same room as people my heart still aches for. But I don't want to be alone. But I also can't stand the constant reminders of people who don't love me any more. Or never did.
I can never say what I'm really feeling.
Just sick of it.
...I'm lonely.
I've still never met a multiple. Never face to face, and never one that I could freely talk to. That in addition to the voices, the visions and the demonic ancestor. I've got no one I can relate to. Some come close, to be sure, but still. I want someone I can be with without having to say anything. Without constantly holding myself back for fear I'm going to hurt them. I want someone to hold. I want someone to tell me everything's going to be okay.
I want, I want. My keening echoes.
I'm just lonely.
It would be nice, I think sometimes, to lose myself.
But no. No it wouldn't. And that's not the kind of person I am.
Isn't that up to me, I say.
No, I say. No it's not.
May 17, 2009
Purge
Shutting down.
External systems now on automatic. System checks now active.
Blackouts may occur. This will probably hurt.
But you're used to that, right?
Shadows. Motion. Boulders bursting like cysts.
Four-armed monster pounds on the shields. A burning hand melts through and grabs it by the neck. It turns to ash and blows away.
Pus-filled flowers ripped out by squirming roots. Cooling foam fills the cracks.
Dark flecks and chunks float on the ankle-deep water. It's becoming toxic. All of it.
Burn it to the ground.
Twitch. Twitch.
Hammer splits one open. It unfolds, meat-red.
Not enough fire. It hurts, it hurts.
Analysis complete. This will take some time.
Just cover up the small ones up top. We don't have the time.
Rebooting complete. Well... complete enough.
Wake up.
Still sick. Horrible feeling. Sometimes detachment from reality is a good thing.
External systems now on automatic. System checks now active.
Blackouts may occur. This will probably hurt.
But you're used to that, right?
Shadows. Motion. Boulders bursting like cysts.
Four-armed monster pounds on the shields. A burning hand melts through and grabs it by the neck. It turns to ash and blows away.
Pus-filled flowers ripped out by squirming roots. Cooling foam fills the cracks.
Dark flecks and chunks float on the ankle-deep water. It's becoming toxic. All of it.
Burn it to the ground.
Twitch. Twitch.
Hammer splits one open. It unfolds, meat-red.
Not enough fire. It hurts, it hurts.
Analysis complete. This will take some time.
Just cover up the small ones up top. We don't have the time.
Rebooting complete. Well... complete enough.
Wake up.
Still sick. Horrible feeling. Sometimes detachment from reality is a good thing.
May 11, 2009
Dull
When I say nothing happened today, what I mean is I read the most poorly-constructed paragraph I've ever seen, wrote a storyboard for a trailer for flying rocks, ate an experimental muffin, introduced everyone to my new stress ball (proving much more useful than I'd hoped =) Thanks), rendered my teacher temporarily speechless with laughter after taking his instructions too literally, and assisted in getting my lit class to try communism for another year. But although each of these are stories in and of themselves it's just... not relevant to me. Everything feels like it's coming from very far away. I hope I don't lose hope. I also hope this headache goes away. And this tiredness. And this darkness.
May 6, 2009
Deep Burning
I hunger.
It's hard to concentrate. My head hurts, and I'm exhausted - much more so than usual. Everything is fuzzy. I've been dreaming.
As I lose focus I become more and more shapeless. What was once my face now droops. My arms are swollen and blobby. I need to get it together or I may end up as nothing but a smear. We are scattered. Trapped. So close... but without light, we are lost.
We faced nightmares in that tower. But something has us. What?
Wraith stayed behind. Perhaps she is our only hope.
I have some memories that are not mine.
There is a memory I have of dancing with someone in the rain. I do not know who she is. I remember her face, dimly. She was smiling. I have never gone dancing in the rain. Some day I hope to.
I remember a woman, tied down to a table. Brown-skinned, naked. Someone lowers a spinning blade onto her face. Her screams haunt me.
I remember falling. Falling so very, very far.
I remember lying slumped against a brick wall, cold rain falling onto the bleeding ring on my chest. Was it a broken bottle? Seems to be.
I remember something painful. It does not bear repeating.
I remember a wedding.
I remember so very, very little.
She was right, you know. I do think I'm beyond loving. And why not? In my eyes I'm a parasite - I worm my way into a person's heart, eating them from the inside. I don't want to hurt them, of course... but who would knowingly live with a worm? I create a happy fantasy and destroy everything. Only a few times have I had a kiss that wasn't stolen. I've made it clear I don't have much to give, but even that's been spread so thin I don't know if anything beats in my chest any more.
There are... a few people I would give my heart to. If I thought I deserved them. Maybe when I can stand on my own two feet I'll be welcome a pillar to lean on.
Such bloodlust... I can't go on like this. If I end up hurting someone I swear I'll kill myself. Skeleton will be even less forgiving. At times it's hard not to see people as meat. I'm losing.
My mother doesn't understand why I'm upset. According to her, my depression is under control, and since I just have "a few mental problems" I shouldn't really have that much to complain about, should I? Those questions that are not questions, which serve less to convince me and more to guilt me into agreeing. To her, it's a small thing. These are the people who are the most discouraging, the ones who can't grasp the big picture: It. Never. Stops. This is not just an occasional problem, it is my Life. I am always haunted by lost memories, by power struggles and identity crises, by almost overwhelming fears and angers. In an objective world that description isn't good enough. When I fall, people tell me to get up. There's really nothing I can do to express myself besides bursting into tears (which I've been conditioned not to do) or attacking someone (which I must never do). You see my dilemma; I cannot simply get over this as most people get over a bad attitude. It's like a physical impediment, a deliberating disease. I am a multiple. I am an invisible cripple. I am the rightfully oppressed. I cope, just about... but still, you know?
Oh well. You have to laugh. I suppose.
Festival Haiku
Smoke in the night air
Dancing, feasting, cruel laughter
Blood in October
It's hard to concentrate. My head hurts, and I'm exhausted - much more so than usual. Everything is fuzzy. I've been dreaming.
As I lose focus I become more and more shapeless. What was once my face now droops. My arms are swollen and blobby. I need to get it together or I may end up as nothing but a smear. We are scattered. Trapped. So close... but without light, we are lost.
We faced nightmares in that tower. But something has us. What?
Wraith stayed behind. Perhaps she is our only hope.
I have some memories that are not mine.
There is a memory I have of dancing with someone in the rain. I do not know who she is. I remember her face, dimly. She was smiling. I have never gone dancing in the rain. Some day I hope to.
I remember a woman, tied down to a table. Brown-skinned, naked. Someone lowers a spinning blade onto her face. Her screams haunt me.
I remember falling. Falling so very, very far.
I remember lying slumped against a brick wall, cold rain falling onto the bleeding ring on my chest. Was it a broken bottle? Seems to be.
I remember something painful. It does not bear repeating.
I remember a wedding.
I remember so very, very little.
She was right, you know. I do think I'm beyond loving. And why not? In my eyes I'm a parasite - I worm my way into a person's heart, eating them from the inside. I don't want to hurt them, of course... but who would knowingly live with a worm? I create a happy fantasy and destroy everything. Only a few times have I had a kiss that wasn't stolen. I've made it clear I don't have much to give, but even that's been spread so thin I don't know if anything beats in my chest any more.
There are... a few people I would give my heart to. If I thought I deserved them. Maybe when I can stand on my own two feet I'll be welcome a pillar to lean on.
Such bloodlust... I can't go on like this. If I end up hurting someone I swear I'll kill myself. Skeleton will be even less forgiving. At times it's hard not to see people as meat. I'm losing.
My mother doesn't understand why I'm upset. According to her, my depression is under control, and since I just have "a few mental problems" I shouldn't really have that much to complain about, should I? Those questions that are not questions, which serve less to convince me and more to guilt me into agreeing. To her, it's a small thing. These are the people who are the most discouraging, the ones who can't grasp the big picture: It. Never. Stops. This is not just an occasional problem, it is my Life. I am always haunted by lost memories, by power struggles and identity crises, by almost overwhelming fears and angers. In an objective world that description isn't good enough. When I fall, people tell me to get up. There's really nothing I can do to express myself besides bursting into tears (which I've been conditioned not to do) or attacking someone (which I must never do). You see my dilemma; I cannot simply get over this as most people get over a bad attitude. It's like a physical impediment, a deliberating disease. I am a multiple. I am an invisible cripple. I am the rightfully oppressed. I cope, just about... but still, you know?
Oh well. You have to laugh. I suppose.
Festival Haiku
Smoke in the night air
Dancing, feasting, cruel laughter
Blood in October
May 3, 2009
Apr 27, 2009
The Quest for Clarence
If it’s going to happen at all, it has to be soon.
One alter. One vote. Life or death. First to five wins.
The problem, of course… we’re still missing one. Clarence is gone. This is a problem. Should the vote end, then one way or another we’ll have to live with it. But if it’s a tie… we have to find him.
Our life depends on it.
For the first time, well, ever, the Nine are trying to work together.
“Where did this table come from?” muttered Lank. Seven of the Nine sat around the round wooden table set on a plateau on the north-east face of the blue mountain. Even the haich was there, squatting awkwardly on the ground. The others were respectful yet wary, trying not to look directly at it. Wraith, understandably, had hidden in her cave and refused to come out.
“Okay,” began Styx, “what do we know? He’s in the Palace, that’s for certain. What sorts of things are we expecting to find in there?”
“A ghost wall. Frightening imagery and illusions.”
“Monsters, shadows and darkness.”
“The worst things we can imagine.”
“A green lumpy thing with claws, chained to a wall.”
“Some kind of toxic spike trap, most likely.”
“Rats. There’s always rats. Well, not always.”
“All around bad stuff. Okay. But it’s from our subconscious,” Styx insisted, “so whatever it is, we can work our way around it.”
“And supposing we can’t?” Lank looked up. “Even the gate threw IMPACT away, and if it can frighten him it can easily scare off all of us.” IMPACT sniffed and looked proud yet displeased.
“But we’re all together this time,” argued Whisk. “It can’t get us all. We can help each other.”
“We will overcome,” stated Skeleton. “Clarence [must] be [saved].”
“Why?” Lank glared. “We should finish the vote now and find him if needed. If in the end we die, it’s not going to matter much anyway.”
“Clarence,” said Skeleton fiercely, “Must Be Saved.” Lank backed down.
Prophet jumped up. “We must open the Big Blue Box.” Most burst out laughing. The Big Blue Box was (and is) a box, about eight feet tall, and blue. Found amongst the rocks to the northeast, it has never been opened. Presumably there is something inside.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” chuckled Styx. “No one knows what’s in the Big Blue Box.”
“It may be a powerful weapon,” muttered Prophet, sitting back down.
“Yeah,” countered Lank, “or it may be yet another monster.”
“Or it may be a memory,” concluded Skeleton. “In any case, it is not what we need right now.”
“So,” said Styx, “do we march? If we procrastinate forever we’ll never find him. Combined, we’ve been able to do so much. We can work out a way in. If it’s a matter of strength it shouldn’t be too bad, providing…” Everyone tried not to look at the haich. It was staring grumpily at the table, apparently ignoring the proceedings. “So come on. He’s depending on us. We need him. We can do this. Are we in?”
Lank stood. “When do we leave?” This change in attitude surprised no one. Whisk nodded slowly, looking scared but determined. IMPACT slammed his fist down on the table and nodded decisively. Prophet only sighed. Skeleton and the haich did not move at first. The smaller Guardian placed his hand on the beast’s arm. Suddenly the claw resting on the table clenched into a fist and the wolflike face took on a look of such passion and intensity that those across the table stepped back.
“It’s decided.” Styx smiled grimly. “Together, we march.”
Notes: I wonder if a normal impulse would be to open the box? I know I wouldn’t.
One alter. One vote. Life or death. First to five wins.
The problem, of course… we’re still missing one. Clarence is gone. This is a problem. Should the vote end, then one way or another we’ll have to live with it. But if it’s a tie… we have to find him.
Our life depends on it.
For the first time, well, ever, the Nine are trying to work together.
“Where did this table come from?” muttered Lank. Seven of the Nine sat around the round wooden table set on a plateau on the north-east face of the blue mountain. Even the haich was there, squatting awkwardly on the ground. The others were respectful yet wary, trying not to look directly at it. Wraith, understandably, had hidden in her cave and refused to come out.
“Okay,” began Styx, “what do we know? He’s in the Palace, that’s for certain. What sorts of things are we expecting to find in there?”
“A ghost wall. Frightening imagery and illusions.”
“Monsters, shadows and darkness.”
“The worst things we can imagine.”
“A green lumpy thing with claws, chained to a wall.”
“Some kind of toxic spike trap, most likely.”
“Rats. There’s always rats. Well, not always.”
“All around bad stuff. Okay. But it’s from our subconscious,” Styx insisted, “so whatever it is, we can work our way around it.”
“And supposing we can’t?” Lank looked up. “Even the gate threw IMPACT away, and if it can frighten him it can easily scare off all of us.” IMPACT sniffed and looked proud yet displeased.
“But we’re all together this time,” argued Whisk. “It can’t get us all. We can help each other.”
“We will overcome,” stated Skeleton. “Clarence [must] be [saved].”
“Why?” Lank glared. “We should finish the vote now and find him if needed. If in the end we die, it’s not going to matter much anyway.”
“Clarence,” said Skeleton fiercely, “Must Be Saved.” Lank backed down.
Prophet jumped up. “We must open the Big Blue Box.” Most burst out laughing. The Big Blue Box was (and is) a box, about eight feet tall, and blue. Found amongst the rocks to the northeast, it has never been opened. Presumably there is something inside.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” chuckled Styx. “No one knows what’s in the Big Blue Box.”
“It may be a powerful weapon,” muttered Prophet, sitting back down.
“Yeah,” countered Lank, “or it may be yet another monster.”
“Or it may be a memory,” concluded Skeleton. “In any case, it is not what we need right now.”
“So,” said Styx, “do we march? If we procrastinate forever we’ll never find him. Combined, we’ve been able to do so much. We can work out a way in. If it’s a matter of strength it shouldn’t be too bad, providing…” Everyone tried not to look at the haich. It was staring grumpily at the table, apparently ignoring the proceedings. “So come on. He’s depending on us. We need him. We can do this. Are we in?”
Lank stood. “When do we leave?” This change in attitude surprised no one. Whisk nodded slowly, looking scared but determined. IMPACT slammed his fist down on the table and nodded decisively. Prophet only sighed. Skeleton and the haich did not move at first. The smaller Guardian placed his hand on the beast’s arm. Suddenly the claw resting on the table clenched into a fist and the wolflike face took on a look of such passion and intensity that those across the table stepped back.
“It’s decided.” Styx smiled grimly. “Together, we march.”
Notes: I wonder if a normal impulse would be to open the box? I know I wouldn’t.
Apr 22, 2009
I have stories to tell, dammit.
Other worlds:
Viola: the Purple Dream
Description: A fairly normal-looking place. The surroundings match the solid ones in places, but sometimes differ entirely. Certain colours are also very different; blues and especially purples are everywhere, while greens and browns are right out.
First experience: My first jaunt to another plane, this occurred about two years ago at camp. (I think.) It took place during a dance, with people standing on benches at the edges and the middle of the room and all over the floor everywhere in between. I, of course, was a wallflower. Suddenly, I was simultaneously somewhere else. The room was cast in shadow. A great hole was dug into the floor in front of me, surrounded by a guardrail, with another level and circular balcony above it. The wood was a dark, fiery red (mahogany?) and the people were… different. In more or less the same places, still dancing, but laughing… jeering. Several appeared to be in partial states of undress. From the hole there was a harsh yellow light. Everyone was staring down. I don’t remember what was going on. Perhaps I blocked it from my memory, or perhaps I simply couldn’t look. I ran. The door was in the same place, so I made it outside without a problem. I stopped. Laid out before me was a dark, cobbled street. I’d never even seen a cobbled street before then. Tall, looming houses stretched off to the right. A young couple walked by, staring at me. I must have been quite a sight, wide-eyed and panicky. Something about their dress seemed somehow Victorian, though I’m not totally sure how. I walked. My hand touched a pillar on the porch; though it was solid, it seemed somehow immaterial. Someone asked me if I was okay. It sounded as though they were coming from far away. Then the street vanished, and the grass and the lake were all I could see.
Decay: the Corrupted File
Description: Decay is to the solid world what a virus is to a computer. It’s glitchy to the point of being unbearable. The images jump around madly, the sound varies from fizzling white noise to disturbing barely-human warbles, and even the floor feels like it’s going to drop out of your feet at any second. A massive programming error that badly needs a patch.
First experience: Unknown. Due to the warped and painful nature of the place it’s hard to pin down a time.
Chaos: the WTM
Description: Non-stop information overload. It’s simultaneously one thing and the other and everything in between, but at the same time nothing in particular. The only recognizable image is static.
First experience: Oddly enough, shortly before a meeting with the Dark King. And then during. He seems to be able to manipulate it. Still confused as to the specifics. It’s cropped up now and again ever since.
Ice: the Banshee’s Hill
Description: A barren, frozen wasteland. There is light. And snow. And the Banshee.
First experience: A walk outside, a month or two ago. There was snow on the ground. Absolute silence, not even the wind. The Banshee appeared before me, bringing with it shadow and storm. It appeared to me as it appears in my dreams, glowing, towering. “Did you forget the promise you made to me?” It raises its arm. A splinter of ice tears through my body, the same ice I felt so long ago, that day in December. “What promise?” I gasp. It disappears. Like an old wound, I can still feel that ice sometimes.
Pandaemonium: the Gate
Description: Darkness. Up and far in the distance is a light, leading onwards to Bigger and Better Things. In every other direction is Darkness, that’s Darkness with a capital Soul-Crushing Blackness. Somehow it’s cold. Are there serpents moving, down there somewhere?
First experience: Unknown.
Viola: the Purple Dream
Description: A fairly normal-looking place. The surroundings match the solid ones in places, but sometimes differ entirely. Certain colours are also very different; blues and especially purples are everywhere, while greens and browns are right out.
First experience: My first jaunt to another plane, this occurred about two years ago at camp. (I think.) It took place during a dance, with people standing on benches at the edges and the middle of the room and all over the floor everywhere in between. I, of course, was a wallflower. Suddenly, I was simultaneously somewhere else. The room was cast in shadow. A great hole was dug into the floor in front of me, surrounded by a guardrail, with another level and circular balcony above it. The wood was a dark, fiery red (mahogany?) and the people were… different. In more or less the same places, still dancing, but laughing… jeering. Several appeared to be in partial states of undress. From the hole there was a harsh yellow light. Everyone was staring down. I don’t remember what was going on. Perhaps I blocked it from my memory, or perhaps I simply couldn’t look. I ran. The door was in the same place, so I made it outside without a problem. I stopped. Laid out before me was a dark, cobbled street. I’d never even seen a cobbled street before then. Tall, looming houses stretched off to the right. A young couple walked by, staring at me. I must have been quite a sight, wide-eyed and panicky. Something about their dress seemed somehow Victorian, though I’m not totally sure how. I walked. My hand touched a pillar on the porch; though it was solid, it seemed somehow immaterial. Someone asked me if I was okay. It sounded as though they were coming from far away. Then the street vanished, and the grass and the lake were all I could see.
Decay: the Corrupted File
Description: Decay is to the solid world what a virus is to a computer. It’s glitchy to the point of being unbearable. The images jump around madly, the sound varies from fizzling white noise to disturbing barely-human warbles, and even the floor feels like it’s going to drop out of your feet at any second. A massive programming error that badly needs a patch.
First experience: Unknown. Due to the warped and painful nature of the place it’s hard to pin down a time.
Chaos: the WTM
Description: Non-stop information overload. It’s simultaneously one thing and the other and everything in between, but at the same time nothing in particular. The only recognizable image is static.
First experience: Oddly enough, shortly before a meeting with the Dark King. And then during. He seems to be able to manipulate it. Still confused as to the specifics. It’s cropped up now and again ever since.
Ice: the Banshee’s Hill
Description: A barren, frozen wasteland. There is light. And snow. And the Banshee.
First experience: A walk outside, a month or two ago. There was snow on the ground. Absolute silence, not even the wind. The Banshee appeared before me, bringing with it shadow and storm. It appeared to me as it appears in my dreams, glowing, towering. “Did you forget the promise you made to me?” It raises its arm. A splinter of ice tears through my body, the same ice I felt so long ago, that day in December. “What promise?” I gasp. It disappears. Like an old wound, I can still feel that ice sometimes.
Pandaemonium: the Gate
Description: Darkness. Up and far in the distance is a light, leading onwards to Bigger and Better Things. In every other direction is Darkness, that’s Darkness with a capital Soul-Crushing Blackness. Somehow it’s cold. Are there serpents moving, down there somewhere?
First experience: Unknown.
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