Goodnight

As I'm falling asleep on a kitchen table, it occurs to me that maybe I'm not entirely normal. This isn't a troubling thought, except that perhaps sometime in the future I'll probably feel the urge to remark on the behaviors of others, to classify them as odd, and then I'll come back to this moment. 

It's quite cozy. 

And I'm not sleeping on a bare kitchen table; it's the kitchen table I had cut the legs down to make it a giant coffee and/or gaming table. It's a really nice, sturdy table. At least it was. 

It's about a foot and a half high now. It was always cumbersome as a table in my not-very-large house, but it turns out it's the exact right size for a twin mattress. 

The table is 37.5x78 and a twin mattress is 38x74, so almost the exact right size. Very nearly perfect. 

And the queen-sized bed in the next room sits empty. 

My plan for slipping into an austere lifestyle is progressing quite nicely. At this rate, I expect to be insufferable by March, and completely impossible to be around by mid-summer. 

It's cold enough to wear my big grey coat and mope around. 

Finally!

note to self

Something I wrote to a friend who's dog died and I wanted to remember it.

I'm so sorry about you losing your dog. When you wrote that he was like your soul, that resonated deeply with me. It hurts the most, in my experience, and when that pain lessens, you may find, like I did, that it feels like their soul never leaves your side. A little velcro spirit of joy. 

what

Oh drat it's tomorrow already. 

I'm just going to sleep so well it won't matter that it's not enough. 

I've got a new comforter. It's lavender. Because they didn't have a proper purple, and I wanted something different from the dark reds I'm generally fond of. 

again

Here we are again. I meant to get to bed at a more reasonable hour. Not quite midnight; got a whole 25 minutes to go. I'm listening to the rain that isn't really rain (just dark jazz and rain noises on my phone) and imagining a slightly different world. 

It's fun. 

To the casual observer, I may seem dour, brooding, even a little dangerous, but I assure you, I am actually quite silly. 

Sometimes the rain is louder, and other times the music is louder, that's all. 

Having time off was not as productive as I hoped, but I did do enough to reach a kind of tipping point. 

I'm really enjoying having a mostly clear kitchen counter and dinner table. 

It feels like I can be more with less. And yet, that also is a fallacy because humans our tools, yes, but we also need art, decorations, frivolous stuff. Can't always be in survival mode; that's not a sustainable way to live. 

The stars gather planets to their orbit; so we gather loved ones and beautiful things. 

At least we should. 

Another midnight

And another nightmare. Everyone was wearing masks. 

I've accomplished almost everything I meant to today. Accomplished is probably the wrong word. Small goals were achieved, two days in a row. Creating a sense of consistency. 

It's a beautiful night. 

I don't have traditional nightmares anymore. I used to wake up afraid of things I'd been dreaming. I don't remember when that changed. A few nights ago, I dreamt there was something creeping around the house. I woke myself up because I was making a low, gutteral growl in the back of my throat. 

I don't know what that means. 

Fog

The fog writhed grey in the darkness, twisting coils choking the streetlights. The sidewalk was slick, and I picked my way carefully home. I knew the path from my door to the pub very well, although I confess the way back was harder to remember. After a few pints, the cobweb pattern of streets and alleys were harder to navigate, especially in the dark. 

I usually make it home eventually. 

Scraps from a journal

It's one of those times when I know I'm strong but I need to be stronger, I know I'm smart but I need to be smarter, I've got a hundred big ideas but I need to just pick one and run with it. 

Waiting for signs, like a fool. Everything's a sign...just pick one and run with it. 

Decluttering has gone okay. It's difficult; that's no surprise. It's hard to admit that what you really need isn't very much. 

The urge to withdraw is strong. Like a hermit crab retreating into its shell, or a hamster hiding in a toilet paper tube. 

Still, I have the threads of a plan, I think. Mostly involves working really hard. Diligence. And a consistent sleep schedule. 

Goodnight!

"When she remembers me, I'll be alive again."

"If she remembers you."

Good Habits

For the most part, trying to master any skill starts with carving out time to practice. On top of that, it's about finding slivers of opportunity in which to practice even more. 

Waiting in line at the grocery store? Discreetly check for security cameras. Most big stores have them everywhere, but what you want to do is learn to spot them without looking like you're trying to find them. 

If you're waiting for the barista to call your name for your coffee, scan the other customers as they go up ahead of you. You're looking for any obvious weak points. A limp. A cast on an arm or a wrist. Hearing aids or glasses with the thick, convex lenses that indicate farsightedness. A lot of people hold their car keys while they wait so you can get an idea of the make of their vehicle. With practice, you may even learn to tell what model. Again, discretion is key. Don't try to look like you're not looking. It's normal for people to look up at a loud noise, sudden movement, or someone shouting a name. Glance over like a normal human being, than return to what you were doing. Hold that image in your mind, that snapshot, and run your scan. 

And don't ever pretend to do something else while you look at the person. If you ever see someone looking at you while they're simultaneously doing something else, they're either a cop or a serial killer. Best to just pretend you didn't notice them surveiling you and proceed as normal until you can get out of their line of sight. Corners are good. Get around the corner, and then walk briskly, like you're an important person and you're late for a meeting. Do not run. Running is suspicious. Do not look back to see how close a pursuer might be. If they catch you, you'll know. 

Nowadays, it's suspicious to not have a cell phone, so bring a phone that isn't activated anymore, (maybe purchased with cash at a pawn shop) and fiddle with that while you hunt. 

Don't bring your actual phone; it will ping your location when it connects to cell phone towers. If the police try to connect you to the last known location of the trophy, that's the first thing they'll check. It'll show you were home, and if they're typicals, they'll just move on to the next suspect. Might be tricky if somebody calls or texts during that time and you didn't respond. But it's probably fine. Nobody ever calls you anyway. 

Fortune favors the prepared, and good luck is the residue of good planning. Remember, wherever there are people, there is the potential to be practicing. 

Happy Hunting. 

THE END

little curses

Welcome to my magic shop! Now, I imagine that like every new customer, you would like to jump right to the big stuff, and want to look at the spells that will summon tornadoes of living flame, pull the moon down from the sky, or sink entire continents into the sea.  

There is rarely a practical reason to do any of those things, and even if there were, I've met very few who could actually afford it. 

I would direct you, instead, to our fine selection of curses. Surely there is someone who has wronged you and who, while perhaps not deserving of death, needs a little less happiness in their life. 

Allow me to show you a few of them, to give you a general idea. Yes, they all have "official" names, but they're stupid and only hint at what they do. I prefer to list the descriptions.

Every sound they hear will be either too loud or too quiet, whichever is most inconvenient.

Every shower or bath feels freezing. (If it's hot enough to burn them, they will feel that so they can avoid injury; we're not monsters.)

Their breath will smell like a rotting yak, but only to themselves. They will always smell it when they open their mouth, and other people won't notice at all but they will feel like there's no way they don't and think they're just too nice to say that they reek.

Every stoplight they approach will be red. 

Whenever they are out alone at night, they will see an ominous moose in the distance, heading slowly in their direction. 

Their shoes will be always feel too big. 

Oh, and here's one of the cruelest ones, in my opinion:

All animals will dislike them, even their own pets. 

We can also customize them! One devilish girl was in yesterday and who wanted a curse that would make someone's boss be an incessant micro-manager, while ensuring the boss would never actually understand the tasks themselves. That was a tricky one, and it will only work while the person is under that specific boss, but honestly it is deliciously fiendish and I'm rather ashamed we didn't think of it ourselves. 

Now, what can I get you? 

THE END

The Fishing Hamlet

He was the only one left in his tiny fishing village that was still human. He had been away, over at one of the much larger, more prosperous towns scattered across the countryside, attempting to sell his meager catch of some herring and a few small cod, and by the time he returned home the next day, at dawn, everyone in the tiny fishing village had disappeared. 

The dozen little homes built around the small inlet were still, lifeless. The shutters were all fastened. The fishing boats were still tied to the docks, and despite the light dusting of snow on the ground, no smoke rose from any the chimneys. 

He had entered his home in a daze. His wife and child were gone. There were no signs of violence. 

He had checked the rest of the houses. All the same. Nothing out of place. It's as if everyone had just walked into the ocean. 

He had fallen asleep that night, somehow. When he awoke, there was a piece of paper on his chest. It read: "Sell the fish. Return with the money." It was in his wife's handwriting. 

He stepped outside and his horse was waiting there, hitched to the wagon. In the back of the wagon was a large crate. He looked inside, and there, packed in snow, was a massive bluefin tuna. 

Not knowing what else to do, he did as he was instructed, and went to nearest town. 

That single fish sold for more than he usually made in a year. He brought all the money back, and left it on the kitchen table. 

And so it went. Every morning, he would awaken to find valuable and exotic fish packed neatly in his wagon, and he would sell them and return with the money. Every night, he was coming back with wealth beyond his wildest dreams, but he only felt the numb confusion and terror one feels only in nightmares. 

The notes, still in his wife's handwriting, would occasionally instruct other things.

He purchased land, and over time, built a grand estate on it. The agents who came to update him on the progress were baffled by this rough, sullen man in simple clothes who lived in a weathered cottage being the one in charge of and financing such a grand project. 

He had tried to leave, once. He had awoken at dawn, and ridden his horse until it collapsed from exhaustion, and then he ran and ran until his legs gave out. He fell asleep under a little copse of trees. 

When he awoke, he was back in the fishing hsmlet, in his own bed, There was another note. It read: "No."

Last I heard, the man was still working to maintain and expand that incredible mansion that he'll never actually see. And that's just one of the ways vampires make their money. Perhaps you're working for one, too. There may be no way to know for sure, anymore. You could try running away, if there's still anywhere left to run to. 

The End

Note: I was literally falling asleep at the end at I threw on this ending so that I would be furious enough to change it later. It was either this ending or "it was all a dream" but even I'm not that cruel. 

Lurking

I keep seeing something in the dark. Something tall, and thin, that has arms at long they almost touch the ground. It usually walks, slowly, gingerly stepping over houses, lurching across the barren orchards and fields. Sometimes it drops to all fours, its head bent down to the ground like it's following the scent of prey. 

I don't think it has eyes. 

I don't think it needs them. 

No one else seems to have seen it, and I'm not stupid enough to bring it up. If I have lost my mind, why is it only this one thing? I can still do my boring office job, and my friends and family haven't said anything, other than some gentle teasing when I want to get home early; that I'm getting too old. 

I tried driving away, once. After hours of driving, just before dawn, there it was, loping towards me from the opposite direction. I broke down and wept. Finally I turned around and went home. 

What's been nagging me lately is why it has never done anything to me. It lurks, it stalks, it won't leave me alone, but it only ever watches. 

What if it's keeping something away? Protecting me from something even more horrifying. Or maybe I'm just bait, and it's waiting for something else. 

I'm going to find out. I'll go out into the fields tonight, alone, unarmed, and I'll wait. 

This torment demands an ending. 

THE END

Binary Blues

I had a quarter-tank of gas, more than enough to get me through the week. The night was cooler than it had been in weeks; finally felt a little like October. I sighed. I didn't want to get gas now, and I sure as hell won't want to get gas later. When nothing you do matters, then you are truly free. I grabbed my keys and put on my lobster sandals. 

The mutts wanted to come along, so I let them in the backseat of the car and rolled down the windows. The autoplay on the stereo connected to my phone and started playing dark jazz; the kind of music that sounds like it's punching you in the gut while it smothers you with a pillow. 

I don't remember selecting that music. 

The intersection is down to one lane, but it's late and not busy. In the orange streetlights, I see a man and a woman sitting on the sidewalk and chatting, their bags scattered around them. They seem resigned but not unhappy. It's dark and I can't be sure. There is a god of pain, I think, and they must have eluded him today. I can't be sure. It's late and dark. 

I remember the terror of uncertainty. I think I liked it. 

I tell myself that now, but I can't be sure. Whatever it is I'm doing now feels like mimicry. A pantomime of solitude. 

Moving slowly, like a shark, just fast enough to live, but not fast enough to get anywhere.

The gas station attendant is nowhere to be seen. I use the self-fill station. As I press the buttons on the keypad, it beeps at me and adds zeros and ones and zeros and ones in a repeating pattern. Some binary message, probably. But I don't know binary, so I ignore it. 

My tank is full, and my car says I can now go 500 miles, if I drive conservatively. I feel a little better. 

the pig men were becoming a real problem

The hybrids had escaped from the lab and were eating all the crops and generally wreaking havoc. They were only 33.3 percent human, to get around the 29th Amendment to the US Constitution, that had decreed a minimum threshold of 40 percent DNA of human origin was enough to grant human rights. (And yes, we know how genes work and that we share DNA with many creatures, all living things are made up of the same basic building blocks, but this specifically refers to the source, not just the sequence.). 

They were more like pig centaurs, I guess, but without a clear delineation between the pig part and the human part. Imagine a regular pig; now stretch out just the neck, up and out like a horse's, but about twice as long. More like a llama. Then give it the oval shape of a human head, but much larger, with small, deep-set eyes, a pig snout, triangular ears, and bristles poking out all over. Many of the males will grow tusks. 

And right underneath the head, jutting out from under the chin, are a pair of small arms and hands. They look like someone stuck the arms of a five-year-old kid on them as a joke. They have five fingers, but no fingernails. 

It's the most unsettling thing about them. They are mostly active at night, but sometimes during the day you can see them resting under a shade tree, eyes closed, with those little arms folded underneath. 

Or the way they drink water by dipping their whole heads just above the surface of the river or pond and the little hands will scoop up the water and they'll slurp it up. 

Once, as I stood on my porch with the sun setting behind me, I saw one shading its eyes with its hands as it crept up to the edge of my vegetable garden. 

It's hard to keep them out. With those damn hands, they can open gates and latches. Even doorknobs. 

Someone really outta do something about those pig-men.

the end? 

Not really because this was/is a draft, one of many where I start jotting stuff down, and it's not even what I would call a story because nothing happens. Describing odd stuff is not a story. There are threads there, at least. There are definitely lots of opportunities for creepy hand things. Picking their teeth. Digging. Greeting each other by touching each other's faces. Or maybe face-holding. Pigs are omnivores and will eat any meat they can get so it seems natural that eventually these pig-men will try to eat someone. We'll see. 

Need Nothing

He was trying to get to bed early tonight. He'd felt off all week, and knew that it usually meant he hadn't been getting enough sleep. He wasn't tired yet, so he put on some instrumental music and stared at the wall. Off-white, knockdown-textured drywall. He would imagine shapes in the ridges and plateaus of the paint. A skyscraper. The head of a horse. A clawed hand reaching down. 

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Except... He could still see the wall. He opened and closed his eyes again. Still, the wall was there. He pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids. 

He was wondering if he was dreaming when the clawed hand he has seen in the texture of the paint began peeling itself away from the wall towards him. 

Towards his face. Towards his eyes. 

He froze in terror. 

A searing pain, and then he saw nothing. 

The End

Author's Note: This was going to be about the mental strain of not being able to close your eyes and enjoy peaceful darkness once in a while but I quickly realized that being able to see clearly at all times is kind of a superpower and would become a whole thing and I didn't want to deal with the logistics of that right now. Goodnight!

*Note to self: it's twenty minutes later but why you don't you have him only see the image of the last thing he saw clearly? That could work. 

A Time Machine

You can travel to the past, if you really want to, but no one is there anymore. It's just an empty shell, a scaffolding holding nothing up anymore. In a past life, we met for the last time and hugged until we cried. I went back, once, and saw the tear drops on the ground and our footprints in the dust. 

You can go forward, too, but nobody is there yet. You can see amazing new places, cities and mountains and towns and architecture that means nothing to you, nothing to anyone, not yet. 

If I were trying to warn you against it, I would say "Time is like a river, and you can only step into a moment once" or something quasi-profound like that. 

But I'm not going to stop you. You've already gone, and I've already gone, but we didn't go at the same time. And we missed each other again. 

And I can go as many times as I like, for as long as I like, just hoping. But time moves on without us, unwavering, resolute. It will take longer and longer to get back to the present. Until one day, when you just won't make it. 

This isn't a warning. You've already done it. You already know this. 

Because you're the one who told me this. I read the message you left, written in the dust. 

The End

Author's Note: I was thinking about a story about a werewolf but then this happened. Goodnight!

Care To Go Around Again?

Shit. I'm finishing my second glass of Macallan 12 year single malt scotch when I realize that its September 30th. Nothing special about today, except that it usually means tomorrow is October 1st. That's the day I have a problem with. 

Exactly a dozen Octobers ago, I got a doppelganger. A double, almost an exact duplicate. I don't know how it happened. I was torn, I guess, wanting to be in two places at once. Then, I was. Staring directly at myself, like looking into a mirror. I had attacked him immediately. He had hesitated, I remember, which makes me suspect that even then, we weren't exactly the same. 

Other Me got in a lucky kick to my knee and I fell, and he ran. 

Haven't seen him since. 

But I know that he's still out there. I also know, somehow, that I'm completely safe for eleven months out of the year, but every October, for those 31 days, he gets a chance to destroy me. 

It's been so long now, and I haven't seen him at all. 

I stretch half-heartedly. I've been exercising, mostly. Partly. I'm ready for another physical fight anyway. My knee still bothers me, but I've got a brace for it. 

It's getting late, and I'm drowsy. He wouldn't attack right at midnight. That is, we wouldn't. It's too obvious. Plus, the dogs would bark. The dogs are the reason I don't just put booby traps all over the place. Also because, statistically, your booby traps are more likely to harm you than the actual intruder. Most major accidents happen in the home anyway. 

I hope we get to talk a little before we do battle. I have so many questions. Presumably, we have now had the chance to learn from double the amount of mistakes, so why not share that hard-earned wisdom with whoever wins? 

Whomever wins?

I'll also have to thank him, I suppose. These 13 years have been a lot of things, including a huge pain in my ass, but they haven't been boring. 

And I've got a good feeling about this October. 

The End? 

Well it begins. I'm going to attempt to write something fictional and spooky (or at least autobiographical and horror-adjacent) every day this month. Since I don't do NaNoWriMo. This one isn't that. Spooky, I mean. This isn't really writing; this is merely swirling the water a bit, as they say. 

I don't know, I don't like doppelgangers. We might be friends and I guess clothes shopping would be fun because we could share a closet. Still, imagine the pointless arguments. Everyone around us would probably kill us first. 

Goodnight!

The Oldest Story

A ringing bell, elsewhere in the house. Never seems to be at the same time of day. Or night. I've chased it deeper and deeper. 

Some music has lyrics we don't understand until it's too late. 

I don't have time for that kind of music. 

who took the sun

This is a draft, I think. Some story idea, or a fragment of something already written,  temporarily separated from the pack. 

Through the haze comes enough light for lichen and moss. The whole world in the crepuscular zone. Everywhere though, there is no nightfall. 

How

The only way for that to work... The world would have to be a hollow sphere around a star, like a Dyson sphere. Would that work? With gravity and all that, because the star would pull them toward the center. The sphere could spin. But no, it wouldn't be uniform. Centrifugal force acting as gravity would push everything to the "equator", I think, so a person walking towards the north or south "poles" would start to get pulled backwards, headfirst. 

I think. 

I'm at the point where I'm not sure I know what I'm imagining. 

No wonder these types of stories always have some kind of artificial gravity generator. Who needs physics when you've for science magic. 

Seven hours

Seven hours and 34 minutes until I get up tomorrow morning to take Ender to work. We have been practicing parallel parking, the section he failed on his driving test last week. He did mostly keep pretty well, although the recycling bin might have some complaints. 

My father wanted to teach him by finding parking spots in the wild. Fortunately they didn't find any during their attempt. I measured out an area of about 20 feet and placed the garbage bin and the recycling bin at each end, sticking out into the street about as far as a car might. (One of the advantages of living in this neighborhood; nobody really cares and they're mostly used to our shenanigans.)

Ender was able to park successfully most of the time. One time he got too excited and backed up far enough to hit the back trash can, but it's big and plastic and it was fine. Didn't even fall over. 

I think he has a decent shot at passing. The strategy is to undershoot it a little and then wiggling into place. He has gotten it perfectly lined up several times, but I think if you hit the curb it's an automatic fail. 

We'll see. I won't mind terribly if he doesn't pass for another week (I think) because I do enjoy talking to him about stuff in the morning. 

He doesn't seem bored of me, which is nice. I think he will be much happier when he's a little more independent. And heck, he'll be able to sleep an extra 45 minutes. I work in the exact opposite direction so I have to take him much earlier than he needs to be there. 

Seven hours and 19 minutes. 

The Temporary Strand

Passing shipwrecks on my way to work. The salty smell of the sea lingers as I take my seat and boot up my computer. I live in a desert valley, and I should not be carefully maneuvering my car around sunken ships and wringing brine from my coat. 

A garden of seaweed is growing up from the rocks of my xeriscaped yard. It sways as if underwater, independent of the breeze. 

The sky begins to shimmer. A glittering skin above me, as if I'm underwater. 

Maybe it will be gone tomorrow. 

Alone, not listless

It occurs to me that I've never lived alone before. Took me a few weeks to realize. Sometimes I'm a little slow to figure things out. 

I will have a roommate, eventually. For the moment, it's just me and the mutts. 

I don't...feel alone. Probably having the dogs helps.

I do like having an idea of how I want things and just...putting them that way. 

I haven't changed too much yet. I've got some ideas about custom bookshelves. I spent a few hours setting up my writing desk. It's a legit letter-writing desk. It's not great as a computer desk but that's what it is now; get with the times, desk. My handwriting is terrible anyway. 

I'm not writing at the desk now. Because that would make sense and well, that's just not where we're at right now. 

Probably the reason I don't feel too different is because most of my family is still on this block. I should go visit my younger brother. Yell at him for not selling me his Toyota 4Runner. 

It's for the best. I'm happy with my hybrid. I forget that I always wanted a hybrid. It seems strange that I finally have one. Maybe I should go up North and visit friends. Flagstaff is probably not too cold, yet. 

I don't like the cold very much. Well, it's not my preference. 

Most of the ocean is cold, I think. 

Not so hot

It's not so hot today. The temperature dipped below 80 degrees and I put on a long-sleeved shirt. Maroon. And grey pants. Boots. Clomped down the avenue.

The house is so quiet without Bun. I never considered her the loud one. Maybe it's because she was always up to something. It was a different kind of quiet. 

I plugged in a dusty old bluetooth speaker and I've been playing music. I'm sure there's some ambient background animal sounds I could run continuously, but we're not there yet. Music is fine. 

There's a hook on the wall. I should hang a picture on it. What's the last thing I want to see before I fall asleep? An octopus wearing a top hat? An owl perched on a typewriter? A raccoon raiding a dumpster? A deep-sea diver in an old brass diving suit leaking glowing fluid from his helmet? 

I've got some odd pictures. 

I'll leave it for now. 

Bun-Bun

Bernadette L. Dog, better known as Bun-Bun, always stood out from the crowd. Last night, despite the valiant efforts of her surgical team and a 3-hour operation in the morning, she was unable to recover. She died peacefully in her sleep in the evening. Bun was the reason we had to have child-proof door latches, and couldn't leave socks on the floor. Well, it looks like she just broke into dog heaven and she's eating the socks of the angels now. I hope they're prepared for her epic side-eye when she's had enough of your nonsense. Goodnight sweet pup. 

She is survived by her biological sister, Mabel, who has requested treats in lieu of flowers. 

cardinal directions

For years, I've slept with my head pointed North. Now, my head is pointing East. What does it mean? Nothing, probably. Cows like to sleep lined up North-South. It's referred to as magnetic alignment. Therefore... I was a cow. And now I'm not. The science is clear. 

I could be again. 

I'm probably not magnetically aligned. I used to get hopelessly lost before I started taking my medication. This means it's most likely that I was just bad at paying attention to where I was going. 

So far I don't feel any different. Except this bed feels too big for me. Maybe I'll get the cot out of the shed. Rugged canvas on a narrow metal frame. Barely enough room for my stuffed animals. 

I am weary.  

Not being a cow is surprisingly tiring. 

Its udderly exhausting 

Pups

Bun-Bun isn't feeling well. The medication for her condition usually makes her more hungry, except for the occasional waves of nausea, during which she refuses to eat anything. 

It's pretty rare these days. Still, it troubles me. This dog loves food as much as I do, so I know she's gotta be feeling pretty crummy to not even eat treats. I did get her to eat a little peanut butter. 

I also gave her some Pepto Bismol (the secret ingredient is bismuth, atomic number 83, a post-transition metal! It's also got some hydrogen-oxygen-carbon slapped on there, but we all know who the star is.)

Holy hell it's late. I moved a bunch of stuff today. Helped some people. Helped my mom with her speech, and I wished her a happy birthday. 

I am ready for bed. 

Maybe I'll dream of my loved ones. 

days go by

Every day I see beautiful things. 

Every night I dream of them. 

It's why I stay awake so late. 

It's why I oversleep. 

Another One Skates The Dust

Years ago, the twins went to Skateland and Ender broke his wrist. Tonight, Skateland got the other one. Remy broke his fibia. He's feeling okay, and is home with a splint. They'll slap a cast on him later. No surgery needed, which is nice. Them leg bones are tricksy. 

I'm ready for bed. Not sure why I end up in bed at a reasonable time on the weekends, then stay up too late during the work week. 

I'll put on an audiobook and drift off. Let the words mix into my own thoughts until that's all I can taste, like too much banana in a smoothie. 

Goodnight. 

Hilltop

Perched precarious, on the only hill in this town

Ask me to come down 

As if I had a choice 

Shooting stars are space debris 

Mostly falls into the ocean

That's where most Earth trash ends up too 

A composition of detritus and coincidence 

Some interstellar lazy art project

Perched precarious, craning to see further 

Allowing myself to enjoy every sunset 

With no expectations 

It's not hope, exactly 

It's not as if I had a choice

Except, if I did, I suspect I'd be perched here anyway 

Shooting stars strike the Earth every day

Seems like nobody ever gets hit 

Okay maybe a couple people have

But it's not us 

Jaded Noir Detective Chronicles: Extended Analogies

Sometimes I feel like God's unwanted pet hamster, waiting in my cage and hoping for him to toss in a cardboard toilet paper tube once in a while. Sometimes, maybe even a paper towel tube. 

He hasn't cleaned out our cage in a long time. The hanging water bottle is too close to the food bowl, and some of the seeds from the medley have started to sprout. It's nice to see something growing in this place. 

The paper-based bedding has no nutrients, and the seedlings will die once their energy reserves are used up. 

Only mushrooms thrive in corpses.

The metal ball inside goes clack-clack-clack as I sip from my hanging whiskey bottle. I only drink a little. I've got a case to work on. Somebody lost an entire week. 

This could be a tough one. Better have another sip. 

haunted houses

Haunted houses were more common, back then. I think it was because in the generation before electric lighting, houses used gas. 

Burning gas gives off waste products. Most importantly, carbon monoxide. This stuff can make you lethargic, paranoid, and can even cause hallucinations of voices and visions. 

Also, ghosts love the stuff. If you've got a carbon monoxide leak, that's like putting out catnip, but for ghosts. 

Jaded Noir Detective Chronicles: The Chihuahua Chase

As I was driving home yesterday, a Chihuahua was running back and forth across the street. I sighed, stopped the car, and started to step out. Another car also stopped and a woman got out. I felt a little bit of hope. 

Working together, we tried to corral the dog. He darted down the easement, a wide dirt access road that runs beneath the massive steel power lines bisect my neighborhood. 

I jumped back into my car and sped around to cut the dog off. Opal (the woman's name turned out to be Opal) chased the dog on foot. 

The dog cut across the street and into the next part of the easement before I got there. Opal jumped into my car and we raced to the next one. This time I jumped out and cornered the dog. He juked past me and I gave chase. I yelled at Opal to take my car and meet me at the end of the alley. She did, and I chased the dog this time. At the end of the alley was a dead-end, and we were sure we had him now. But no, as we pincered him into a corner, he slipped through this tiny space where a block wall met a wooden fence, and he was gone into someone's back yard. That person had metal fencing on the other side and the Chihuahua easily slipped through and was gone. 

Opal and I trudged back through the dusty alley back to my car and I drove her back to her car. I thanked her for her help, we introduced ourselves, and then said goodbye. We hadn't succeeded but at least we tried. 

My house is on the corner, and this morning as I pulled out to work, that Chihuahua was lying there on the opposite corner by the stop sign. Looks like he'd been hit by a car. My sister had already called Animal Control so there was nothing else I could do for the dog. He was running through traffic in heaven now, being chased by a choir of angels.

She practiced a sort of manic, extrovertive, non-theistic, panenhenic mysticism. It was frustrating and hilarious 

You'd be struggling with some dire situation or moral dilemma, and then she'd appear out of nowhere, holding out a heavy ceramic plate with a huge chunk of honeycomb for your morning tea, or a slice of quiche delicately wrapped in waxed paper origami, beautiful and needlessly elaborate. 

Conversation would come easily, until she said some odd phrase that completely caught you off-guard because it was the answer to a question you hadn't thought to ask 

And it would be the solution to what had been vexing your soul when you had first put the kettle on for tea, or your stomach had begun to growl.  

She was frustrating in the way it might feel if you somehow were to suddenly realize you were just a character in someone else's funny story. Playing your part, only existing during the telling, fading away with the laughter. 

Which is ridiculous, because of course you're real; you're right here reading/writing this. 

Still, to know that the answers existed, and that someone could reach them, but that someone wasn't you....

Frustrating and hilarious. 

But damn that's good quiche. 

Happy Anniversary Remembrance Day, Blog

I forget how far back this goes. Has it been twenty years? Maybe. I'm...too lazy to look it up right now. 

Okay I'm lazy but also curious. February 22nd, 2003 was my first post. So... The blog is 21. Hmm. I guess I do feel a little old now. You couldn't just post a picture! I would have to upload it to a web hosting service, then tinker with the HTML to display the image from that link. 

I don't remember how to do that anymore. Now I just hit the little button that means "picture" and it yoinks it from my phone and sticks it in the post. I'm certain it's doing essentially the same thing as before, but it feels less futuristic somehow. 

Perhaps if I were better about anniversaries I would have thought to say something profound. Perhaps if I were better at life I would have kept a list of profound things to say at anniversaries. They happen all the time, after all. 

I should sleep.

I'm going to sleep. 

It's 85 degrees outside, Fahrenheit. I shiver and grab an extra blanket. I get a minus 5 to my constitution stat when the temperature drops below 90. 

Wait does constitution even work that way? It's been so long. 

Dungeons & Dragons is fifty years old. I should know this by now. 

Watching stylized Westerns and 19th Century Arctic expeditions. The century nomenclature has always bothered me, although it does make sense if you were there from the very beginning. 

The Franklin Expedition departed England in the year 1845... Which is in the 19th Century. 

I hate it. 

I'll probably never see the Northwest Passage in person. I'm okay with that. The Artic tundra is not my domain. 

I dwell in deserts, in the dust and the heat and the carrion birds circling over head as I pretend to lie dead; only to spring to my feet when they finally land, and laugh and laugh and laugh. 

Arms slender and strong 

Bamboo shoots 

Burst up at acute angles 

They are social but like to clump 

Soon they'll be big enough to shade themselves from the brutal desert sun

Until then I'll fly shade sails 

To buy them time

There is only one left

Out of the seven

A package arrived in the mail today. It was a chrome license plate frame. In black lettering it says "For Hire: Jaded Noir Detective".

That's kind of a long walk for that small of a joke, I thought, as I was attaching it to my car. 

I don't think I'm jaded. Not yet. It's pretty close but there's still some heart left. 

Now to slap some narwhal bumper stickers on there and my work will be done. 

So much driving today. Had to return some auto parts. Picked up a friend to check out a worm farm and then get lunch. 

Lunch was worms. No! It was bean burritos. 

Also trying to help a friend with some Medicaid stuff. Navigating the labyrinth of forms. Making sure that the application for permission to apply for an application is filled out properly, lest the actual application be rejected. 

It's maddening. 

I'm getting up early tomorrow to help a friend move some stuff. Moving during the summer is a terrible idea and yet we as a culture have decided that's what we're all gonna do. 

At least I'll die doing what I hate: moving heavy objects and sweating. 

Sometimes the future just...looms.

I notice it mostly when I'm up late, like tonight. It's creeping over the horizon, like it can't wait for the dawn. 

Like a jungle cat; you can't turn your back on it.

Brick by brick, it will grow a tower around you, if you let it

tephra in common

the volcanic fire was impressive 

plumes of ash and all 

slow settling pyroclasts

how you knew the true names of everything 

The hymns of their bodies 

their heartbeats little drums 

lapilii falling back to Earth 

sighing sleepy nestled home

Pillow talk

I'm tired but this is becoming something of a habit. There's an instinct, or rather, a compulsion, to be eloquent, profound, to peel away the skin of the world and examine the capillaries and bones. 

To sound smart, basically. 

Fortunately, I noticed that compulsion creeping up on me as I lay here on my bed, and I'm currently smothering it under my pregnancy pillow. 

Okay it's not a pregnancy pillow, but I have spent probably too much time online shopping for them. 

I like to sleep on my stomach, but kind of at an upward sloping angle. It's not a normal way for humans to sleep, it seems. 

I've got two long pillows that I arrange into an upside-down "V" and my head is lying on the point where they meet, and then I'm sort of hugging the arms. 

There are pregnancy pillows that have belly cutouts for the gravid, and might work, but I'm not currently obese so it might be too much at the moment. 

I was just thinking it might be nice to sleep in zero gravity, except I think I remember hearing that trying to sleep in zero gravity is terrible. Like you never feel like you're actually lying down, and your limbs float around so your hand might whack you in the face. You have to swaddle yourself up. 

Which would be a nightmare for me because I sprawl out like the chalk outline of a murder victim. 

I'd hate to be the guy that has to draw the chalk outlines for space murders. That would be a real nightmare. 

But I'm sure like most things, it gets easierwith practice. 

Reminder to change Your air Filters

That's it. Remember to change them. Everywhere you find them. Air conditioning units. Cabin air filters in your car. Ummm...HEPA.... filters. 

I failed to change mine in a timely fashion and there's ice buildup on the evaporator coil. Hopefully it was just the dirty air filter slowing airflow enough to cause it to freeze up. Because that's cheap and easy to fix; just turn it off and wait. (Yes, I'm running the fan to run uncooled air through the system to speed up the process, but doing nothing works, too.)

This happened back when we first bought the house. We had purchased these ultra super biofllter air filters that worked by blocking all particles, including nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide...basically all gases.

So now it's eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit, which is certainly not cold. I feel okay though. Getting ready to go to sleep right now. I'll set an alarm and try the AC in a few hours. 

I'm in my underwear, as usual, and a single piece of body armor that covers my one weak spot... But I'm not going to say where that is. 

A smarter man would probably not even have mentioned they have a weak spot. 

Well good for them. The rest of us do what we can with what we have. Like multiple obvious weak spots. 

*I don't know why I capitalized certain words in the title of the post. Sometimes if I've used a word to start a sentence before, it pops up in my autofill capitalized. 

Or it could have some deep hidden meaning that I myself am barely cognizant of. 

Probably not. It's usually pretty obvious when I'm trying to be subtle. 

This blog does this thing sometimes where it says I have a draft with unsaved changes, but when I open the draft, it's blank. 

What does it mean? 

Have I been attempting to write in my sleep? Well I got bad news, Subconscious Self, we're not that good a writer when we're awake either. 

shuffle

Hit shuffle on the music player

So we can like what everyone else likes

Is what I started to say

But it sounded condescending

Some things are just good

And of course lots of people will like them

I think of music all the time

And how there must be songs 

That I'm not ready for

Because I don't have the vocabulary 

(the musical equivalent of vocabulary)

To hear what I'm listening to

It takes time

So give me a few moments

To decide if you are real

Favorite Genre

I've been watching Pluto on Netflix. It's got an android detective investigating the assassinations of other robots. 

The other robots are mostly humanoid, although their forms vary by function and quality. Some look entirely human, and others look like enlarged versions of kid's toys. 

It's one of my personal favorite things in sci-fi, when there is a spectrum of technology. Just like how when I drive to the grocery store, I might see a futurist-looking electric car right next to a rusted-out truck, belching black smoke from its exhaust.

Technology creates inequality. It's inherent. 

Humans are pretty amazing. Then we create these tools to make our lives easier. And we use them to make each other's lives harder. 

The world is this way because we believe it has to be. 

What if we're wrong?

Now, to go drink robot whiskey and smoke robot cigarettes. And walk in the robot rain. 

Another mostly lazy day. There's certainly plenty I could do: laundry, dropping off the pile of clothing donations, washing the dogs. 

Of course, the never-ending need to vacuum the dog hair. Fur tumbleweeds roll by, as a red-tailed hawk crys overhead to punctuate my solitude. 

It is also time to go through my tech and cull what I don't use anymore. 

Everything is the latest and greatest until the next thing comes out. 

After car-shopping for my sister, my nephew, and most recently, myself, it's become clear that the seller's strategy is to dazzle us with more than we need. And why not, I think, don't I deserve it? I feel like I've been deprived of something before, even though I didn't know it even existed until they try to sell it to me. 

I feel like I've realized this before, probably many times. 

I'm still stuck in the cycle. 

It's time for the hard choices.

Do I get rid of my collection of superhero statuettes? The comic books? The tiki mugs?

Probably don't need the kayak. We had a good run back when I lived by the lake, but I haven't used it since. 

I feel like a sea turtle covered in barnacles. The drag of possessions that I've accumulated because of the dopamine release when purchasing them, and because I probably view them as little extensions of myself as I think I am. Right? I struggle with that. What if I'm trying to remind myself to be something I never was?

Even though I do appreciate many of my possessions as art, it's still worth reassessing once in a while. "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful," is something someone said. I modify the first part to "immediately useful" when I'm shopping. 

Lots of stuff that could be useful, but I don't need to purchase. 

Aside from safety stuff. First aid kits, fire extinguishers. Those are good things to have. 

I don't know. 

Maybe I'll give a bunch of it away. Keep only my very favorite stuff. 

I suppose I better go reassess. 

movies and car repair

Just got back from Alien: Romulus. I enjoyed it. I do love a good space station. The sets were really cool, and I wanted to hang out or climb around in most of those places. Except without the aliens. They're definitely still the perfect jerks. 

They built full-size animatronics of the aliens and I am hunting eBay now to see if maybe a disgruntled crew member stole one and is selling it. Probably not, but if they do I'll be ready. 

There were some lovely shots of space stuff. Flying through dense atmospheres, debris, and planetary rings. Except there's a part where they're all worried about crashing into the rings, which is not how that works at all. 

Other than that, the science was spot-on. The facehuggers, acid for blood, gravity generators, all perfect. 

Looking forward to the weekend. More driving lessons for Ender, and we can replace the stripping on the Yaris windows. 

I bought original manufacturer parts for it that cost about 45 bucks each, but that was before I sold it to him and maybe I'll just use the cheap stuff that works almost as well that is roughly ten dollars for a roll that can cover a football field. 

I'm a bit of a snob when it's parts for my car, but he's a teenager and this is his first car; almost literally since he's been riding in it since he was a baby. 

Yeah as long as it keeps the water away from the electronics, I'm sure it will be fine. 

Crooked Names

I've been battling witches all night. 

Mostly rap battles; some breakdance fighting. A little Sudoku. 

They could just use their magics, of course, and destroy me in a thousand different ways. 

That doesn't interest them. We're not really even enemies. They're just bored, and awake. And so am I. 

They can fly, but I've never seen it. They're never in a hurry. They're not immortal, I don't think, and they live longer than us, but not that much longer. They move through time differently, it seems. Sometimes, (lots of times,) they'll answer a question before I even ask it. Like, days before. I'll ask them something, and they'll turn to me with their large yellow eyes, (flecked with silver,) and do that unsettling blink they can do (where the lower eyelid moves from the bottom up, like a chicken) and I'll flip though my notepad of all their puzzling sayings, until I find one that fits. 

There's usually one that fits, and I check it off and add a number from 1 to 10, a score of how certain I am. Sometimes more than one fits; those I draw a little star next to. 

They are beautiful, in their way. Their proportions are subtly different, and not fixed. Limbs shorten and lengthen with the breeze. They will stand ramrod-straight when alert, or scoliosis-slither like a sidewinder when annoyed., 

It's unsettling. Still, it's like any other body language. They remind me more of exotic animals that people think they can keep as pets.

They're not tame; they're not afraid of you; and they might not even look you. 

You're safe because you're not their preferred prey. 

And they're ruthless when we play Sudoku. I actually don't even know how to play, but I'm afraid to ask so I just put with random numbers. 

It amuses them to no end; sometimes games end with them convulsing work laughter, like little bells, their arms and legs becoming rubbery and bending until they collapse into tinkling piles. 

Sometimes they are solemn. 

I think I may be some kind of oracle to them, when I attempt to play. 

I'll have to ask. Or maybe they've already told me. I'll have to check my notepad. 

But it's late, and they want to play again. 

Holy Hell it worked! 

Kind of. 

I dreamed of a massive cheeseburger. It was as big around as a dinner plate, and eight inches high. 

Sadly, I did not eat it. In my dream, I picked it up (barely able to, even with both hands,) looked at it, and then set it back down. 

I wonder if that signifies anything. I used to have a book of dream symbol interpretations, but it seemed like anything could mean anything. 

I slept pretty well. Woke up kinda hungry. 

We took the mutts with us in the new car to go get burritos today. They loved it. I'd been hesitant, because it's a new car and it was nice having one thing in my life that wasn't covered in dog hair. Even my office has dog hair in it, somehow. 

The back seat is big enough for all three of them to fit comfortably. Bun-Bun and Marceline were each sticking their snoots out of opposition windows, their nostrils flaring wildly as they sampled the night air. 

Marceline is slowing down quite a bit. She laid down in the middle and just tried to snooze. She isn't that old, really. She was a pup when we bought the house, we guessed probably almost a year old at the time, although the shelter said she was three. 

I guess she's 9 now? She still likes to romp and wrestle the other two every now and then, but it's not often. 

I don't know. She's got a cozy life. When I'm eating, she doesn't sit at my feet and beg like Mabel and Bun. Still, when I do inevitably give in and give them a bite of whatever I'm eating, I will take a piece and go find her, usually resting on our bed, and I'll give it to her. 

I feel different today. Today I helped a person who is a quadriplegic, and on a ventilator. Tracheostomy and all that. Can't move their limbs. Can't breathe on their own power. 

So what the hell am I so mopey about? I can...walk. Breathe. Go out for burritos.

I helped this person, in a small way, to hopefully make their life a little better, and they won't ever know I did it. Maybe it was that; I guess I felt better because I wasn't thinking about myself for a whole twenty minutes. 

I don't know. But I feel different today. 

And maybe I'll be able to get over myself and just get out there and help some more people tomorrow. 

Hopefully. I do have a habit of wallowing. 

The burritos were good. Beans and rice only. No cheese; I'm still doing the no meat no dairy thing. I forget why. Oh yeah, it was mostly spite. 

Hey, there's a reason to keep moving forward, and a reason to stop being hung up on what I can't change: Pure spite. 

That'll show....them. I'm not sure who they are exactly, but I can't wait to see their faces when I...keep not eating meat? 

Hmmm I may have gotten a little off-track here. Clearly it's time for bed. I bet I won't even dream of carne asada burritos hardly at all. 

pocket universe

my job is to be your pocket universe 

as you told me one mellow strange evening

to keep and tend all your stars and planets 

And keep track

of all the constellations you invented 

and all the names you gave me 

that have never left your mouth

And your vast collection of books and music

Two sections compete constantly to be the largest:

Your Favorite Books

and

Perfect Last Songs 

Integument Number 42

These scars are a gift

(yes it's maybe not completely healthy

to mix injury as optimism)

I leave my left side unmarked 

Awaiting your next creation. 

I will remain off-balance 

Asymmetrical 

Until then 

(which is not my preference but it's what I'm choosing)

My skin is a canvas of maybes 

A thrill of delight 

There's still so much of me

left for you

The Garden Of Forking Drafts

I imagine the conversation was pretty straightforward. An ultimatum. I don't begrudge you your choice. It's the correct one. 

And then, perhaps, some simple instructions. Something like: No warnings. No clues. No goodbyes. Cut him loose. 

However it happened, it happened quickly. I felt my lifeline go slack, and I tumbled into the void. 

Fortunately, I am naturally pessimistic. In case something went wrong, I had packed a solar-sail, a portable de-aetherization still to make more oxygen, and tucked a multi-tool into my boot. 

I imagine you knew I'd be okay. 

Well, not okay, but that I'd survive. I'm not activating the distress beacon; that might give away your position. 

I always have a plan. Although I admit, this plan is pretty straightforward.

Stay alive, until you can find me. 

Every ending

"If this is an ending, it's a better one," I'd said on the last day I saw you. 

If we'd left it there, maybe it would have been. 

But I don't think so. 

"Endings are foretold by beginnings," I've said several times

To no one

To hear how it sounds when it lives in the air

It sounds profound

Which is why I mistrust it. 

Sometimes a story takes on a life of its own.

And we have to decide to persist 

Or rather, insist,

That this is not Our last page. 

relics

Scouring the globe 

Ocean to desert

For trinkets, charms, amulets, fetishes, talismans, minkisi

Whatever bits of captured magics that have survived 

Pool them together 

in a forest glen 

next to a moonlit lake

Chained with copper wire

plates of hammered zinc

Voltaic piles

under the right Star Signs

ancillary

perfunctory 

futile 

probably 

still, it's something to try

I've tried doing nothing

and that didn't work 

All that's left

is everything else

pain goes somewhere

Surely it goes somewhere

playlist

I made a playlist for when you end it

Wean you off me like a drug

Our suns will set in separate valleys

And we'll pretend it's just begun 

You let me go, once, when I asked you

Now we're even

Carouse

I was not prepared for the loss of you. It's been 48 hours without your voice in my head. I'm happy you're on vacation and I'm also not happy without you. 

Fearful also, maybe. That a few days without me will feel like you're free of the shackles of my attention. 

Not that I don't think you love me. You do. It's the difficulty of the thing. The hyper-vigilance and the distance and needing your touch. 

I suppose we're both familiar with these things. It still feels different now. 

Before, I think, we didn't have clear boundaries. There was a lot of me hiding my feelings for you. It's a cruelty I've regretted. 

Writing Learnins Notes

"I thought I was looking for someone who was like you. Turns out I was just looking for you."

1757. Thursday. Airport security was easy. I'm at that point where I'm in between a 36 and a 34 waist so my pants are a little loose but good for traveling. In case I gotta do a jump kick. 

My flight is delayed a bit. There's a large fire at some part of the US and I assume that's why. Everything's connected. 

I smell food. It's dinner time around here and there are plastic containers of pastas, salads, french fries, and chicken strips. Not all together. Although that would be awesome. Wrap it all in a tortilla. 

The Nashville flight is boarding. It's completely full. I am not going to Nashville. But it's so popular. 

No. My writing conference is not in Nashville. 

I've filled my water bottle. That's important to me. If the plane crashes I'll at least be hydrated. 

I didn't bring a pen or a laptop to write with. I may look pretentious writing on my phone. But it's practical, dammit. My hands are clumsy and I really dislike typing on my compact laptop. I use an external keyboard at home. But it's longer than the laptop and it defeats the point. 

And I'm not sure if this matters but writing like this is mostly silent. TV shows always make the tic-tic-tic noise, but I can't recall the last time I heard someone around me texting. 

I'm starting to think TV is not like the real world. 

I ate my usual bowl of oatmeal after work. I also had some toast. I can go a full day without eating with no ill effects, but it's not my preference.

1612

1636. A woman weeps in the corner of the terminal. She is sitting on the ground, against a kiosk, and has draped her coat over the handle of an upright roller suitcase. A fabric shield against the world. I wonder why she weeps. 

The flight to St. Louis is missing three people. Where are they? I should take the case. They must be somewhere in this city. But no. I have a writing conference to go to. It might change my life. Or my life's already changed and this is just locking it in. 

The fight is boarding. I'm in the middle group. I am prepared. I also have a coat to tent my emotions. And a neck pillow. And a seat cushion. That's new for the trip. My butt gets sore now that it's more muscular. That's what I tell myself. Maybe I just don't know how to sit right. 

2024-03-01. 0722. Free breakfast at the hotel. Hungry writers descend like locusts. Which I call grasshoppers. Cuter, not as biblical. 

1039. The conference is fascinating. Many writers with no marketing understanding asking all the questions I didn't know I had. It's similar to what I say about doctors: they know medicine, and I know everything else. How to get the treatment, I mean, to the patient. We can write? Great. Do that. Here's how to help the people who want to make money off your writing do that, because they get more money by getting your book sold to more people. 

It's pretty similar to any other business-building. The similarities to the movie industry is striking. 

1226. I'm enjoying it. The guy leading the conference is very good at cutting through our writerly nonsense. We can all ask questions but much like a comic convention panel, most questions start with a rambling backstory about the person asking. He's quick to ask 'What's your question?" Professional and direct, with a subtle acerbic edge where you notice it but yes, you're wasting everyone's time and you should stop thinking about yourself and ask your question. 

I'm learning a lot. Or at least the shape of the challenge. It's not as hard as I expected. That is, it's much like any job interview process. Write a bunch, and make it good, and then condense it in a way that an agent (who sees thousands of these) will be able to identify the elements that resonate with them. Or at least sell it. 

I feel a great deal of relief, really. The writing is hard... But this? Selling the books? That's a technical skill, and learnable. 

The person at my table has been gone for a while. Hope they're okay. 

They're back! They're from Missoula. There's a writing thing there too, and also the Sibbits. 

Except I have to actually write a manuscript. 

I suppose I better get on that. 

Wow I am just falling apart.

Oh drat

Sleep: Part 37

There was a lot of not sleeping happening last night. I woke up every hour, like a military-style punishment. At 4 am, I contemplated going into work, you know, really get a head-start on my day. 

That's how insane from weariness I was. 

I focused on enjoying being cozy. Lots of people are miserable. But how many of those are miserable AND have a teddy bear and two body pillows? Not nearly as many, is what I choose to believe. 

I'll try again now. 

I've got a pretty good feeling about it. 

cars

I purchased a used car

It's dark dark blue

Almost purple

Look a new bruise on an old

It's larger though

Than my bright yellow hatchback 

And it is good for traveling long distances

With all my things in the back

When it became time to negotiate 

I would not give up my little yellow car 

In exchange for percentage Discount Over Time (DOTS)

Where I held you once 

Where I can still imagine the scent of you 

keepsake

She promised she would tell me 

If she was going to leave me forever 

Although now that I recall that moment

(as I can recall every moment spent with her) 

She never specified exactly how

Puffy white cumulonimbus shaped like an anatomically-correct shattering heart?

Sliver of moonlight breaking through a blackout curtain? 

A recall on my exact prescription of antidepressants?

Clever girl

She must have known I'd know her anywhere

And march on

Despair sucking my boots into the mud

Can't stop moving

In case I'm wrong

(as I've been wrong so many times before) 

And she's still there, somewhere, waiting

the deja vu

In stress awakens deja vu

The illusion that I've already lived this

Perhaps it provides a sense of control

Defense Mechanism 

Or it's torture

Meeting the same fate every time

a Merry Go Round 

into a brick wall 

That would work

At least, that's what I would do

If I were trying to torment me

A future of aphthous ulcers

I heard the cure for canker sores

is to grind salt into them

I've got salt

And a lot of time

At least twice as much

If this deja vu means I'm going around again

My lovely caldera 

almost tomorrow

Just kidding; it's never tomorrow. It's only always today. 

That isn't true. Time zones exist and so for some people it is tomorrow. Not for me. 

Wait that might not be true either. 

I'm in somebody's tomorrow, today. 

At least I hope I am. 

It's a good thing time is made-up or this could get pretty confusing. 

That isn't true. Time is real, it's just probably not exactly what we think it is. 

I can close my eyes and travel through time. 

Speed ahead to where I'm with you again. Oh wait, no. Then what would we talk about? Time travel? No thank you. I better proceed the regular way. 

If we could fast-forward through all the hard parts in life, what would even be left?

haunted houses

They exist, I'm sure, and will exist

Not that it matters much

What is time, to a ghost 

Nature will reclaim all houses eventually

And ghosts don't seem to haunt glen or vale as often

Property perhaps 

An imaginary bond

Spectral fingers clutching phantom deeds

Signatures binding fates 

Absurd 

That death would shackle us so uncreatively 

Crater

Meteor strikes leave lakes

After their impacts cool and enough rain falls 

Life returns

most scary

The most scary thing to me is snow. It falls silently from the sky, saps the heat of your body, and can bury you completely. 

Second most scary thing is moose. They can often be found hiding in the snow, waiting to pounce. 

The third most scary thing would be moose falling like snow, silent and cold, upon the unsuspecting landscape. 

We'd never see it coming. Well, I might because I think about stuff like this. But ultimately it wouldn't matter; I too would be buried under hooves, antlers, and their ridiculous tiny tails. 

Forewarned is not forearmed; I will meet my moosey fate. 

Never too late

I'm up too late. Today I was stressed. Work was very busy and I may have not had all my wits about me. When it's dark and everything is quiet and the AC kicks on to 76 degrees Fahrenheit (my preferred sleeping temperature) I like to putter around this admittedly not-very-large house and tinker. 

Or just think about tinkering. Looking at my bookshelves and mentally culling them because it's easier than boxing them up and donating them. 

Oh I'm taking Ender to work tomorrow morning and they have one of those free library things. I could drop some books in there. A little Batman, a little Catch-22, maybe some Dante. 

Because I have multiple copies of those. I don't know why. 

So I'll rest now, finally. 

Talk to you tomorrow. 

fascinating

It's like I'm outside my body watching me fall apart.

The edges of my vision get hazy and darken with every beat of my heart.

I've heard of panic attacks; maybe this is one.

Are they normally this...long?

It's different than it was last time. Different than before. That one was my fault. 

It hurts more when I feel like I was trying to do everything right this time. I'm better, damn it. I worked so hard to be better. 

Yes, the odds of success were nearly zero but I wasn't doing it because I thought I would get some reward; I'm doing this because it's what I chose to do. And still choose. 

I'm not good enough. Okay. That's probably always been true; so I'm familiar with this. 

I'll be better. I'll be patient. I'll be stubborn. I'll be accepting of where I am. I'll be smart. 

That last one is where I struggle. 

But it's different now. Because it's probably not smart to keep trying when the situation is hopeless. 

Okay, well, good thing I have all this charm.

Drowsing Rod

Sleep came in fits and starts. Terror and calm, twin rivers winding through every realm of consciousness. Mixing in places, brackish, salt and freshwater, you're my estuary 

Alert, alert, decoding the susurrus wind and lapping waters

Uncertainty plods closer, hidden in riparian shadow. I can't set it, only the rustling as its bulk pushes through the vegetation. 

It was always here, just sleeping 

I cannot outrun it. So I wait. 

Return

To trying to be more open, more thoughtful, and maybe more introspective while avoiding the pitfall of self-aggrandizement. That small step and one giant leap from "I should be better" to just...trying to be better. 

"He prayeth best, who loveth best, all things both great and small" -Coleridge, Sammy T.

I'll tell you what I do love: the bidet I just installed. No more jumping into the shower immediately after every poop. 

I'm just kidding; I don't do that. 

I bet I could install one at work. A bidet, not a shower. Although a shower would be nice. 

Wait wait wait... self-improvement, not home improvement. Except where there's overlap. From what I understand, the self and the home are never really done. 

I should sleep. 

Goodnight!

Dinner is green beans with margarine and garlic salt. 

There isn't a local noodle stand run by an old man who speaks a language I don't understand that I can go to. 

That I'm aware of. 

It's a big world. And I've been... distancing myself from it. 

I'm okay with this. 

better

And I'm running around like I'm the main character. Staying up too late every night. Training and planning and eating right. Duat storms batter the city and every morning I wake to a world coated in a fine orange grit. 

And I try to remember who stole our nights away.

I'm stronger now, and better, arguably, in many ways. It probably won't ever be enough. It's the nature of things. 

I don't want another. 

A cool breeze, a warm shadow, and the memory of you.  

The sky is red, and I'm running around like I'm the main character. 

This story where I lose everything. And I'm okay. Because maybe nothing ever ends. I can keep going. Stubbornness, spite, and genuine curiosity. I am dead set. 

Because you're even better than I remember.

And I've stayed up too late again. 

Fourth of July, 2024

I'm afraid to download Steam again. I have an account, somewhere, from years ago. My memories from that time are a bit hazy. There may have been one specific game I wanted to play when I installed it, but I was soon lost in a sea of sci-fi space shooters and tower defense games. 

I was staying up way too late and devoting all my free time to the games. I loved them. 

But as I struggle with moderation, I had to uninstall it and my life returned to normal. I was blowing up no more space ships, and erecting no more defensive towers. Oh yeah there was this word game my friend made that was really fun; I played the hell out of that. 

I may have to install Steam again. I hear good things about this Stardew Valley game. 

I've still been playing games, just while walking on the treadmill. Come to think of it, I've been walking a whole lot lately. Like three hours a day. 

I have trouble with moderation. 

One day I'm gonna need to walk really far, and I'm gonna be ready. 

Today is the Fourth of July, a holiday I don't really celebrate. I'm not Patriotic; I'm not sure what I am. I was in the Army. I don't care if people don't stand for the Pledge of Allegiance, and I generally don't. I also don't wear any kind of American Flag clothing. Because I don't view the flag as a decoration. I also don't care if people burn the flag. 

Again, I'm not sure what I am. 

The fireworks have mostly subsided. People in the neighborhood began setting them off before the sun went all the way down. Also a lot of us have to work tomorrow, I imagine. When the holiday is on a weekend, those things go off all night. 

I'm gonna go to bed and do what I always do. Put on my sleepy-time headband headphones, put on a classic scary story, and think of you until I fall asleep. 

Goodnight!

the tree

The tree in the backyard

Flourished like death

Blossoms all fallen

Bare branches Reaching upwards 

A reminder that the more beautiful the life

The fewer can have it

integument

"Integument" means my skin

It's hard to imagine a worse-sounding word for what it is 

My outer layers 

Adorned but unarmored 

Mostly soft but rough in parts

Poets yammer on about the feelings deep inside

But what about the middle feelings

Brackish, where rivers meet oceans

And the fish that can live in both

Their integument grew scales 

arid

In the desert, he survived on the dew of her memory 

and crushed dried mesquite seed pods

He knew where she was

To go to her unbidden would be...uncouth 

and he loved her too much to do that

He walked along the ancient crumbling brick canals

His third-favorite sound was clattering masonry

Someday he'd have a yard of 

cobblestone

red brick 

and walls of gabion

un-mortared so the grass could grow through the cracks

If it ever rained again

Soldier Once

i was a soldier once 

and War is mostly waiting

i saw lots of sunrises and sunsets 

and blocks of midnight hours 

a marathon of intermittent sleeps

dreaming and waking can blend into each other

if you're not careful

i didn't want to be a soldier after all

it turned out

but the training has been useful to me

there will be doubt and despair 

and hours lying in the freezing muck 

of a hastily-dug fighting position

fear is learned and maybe it can be unlearned 

it probably won't be though

the panic will push out reason

when the training isn't there

every army sleepwalks

bulwarks and rubbish heaps 

but War is mostly waiting 

over mountains, under hills

you're out there somewhere waiting too 

and I am a soldier still

Attic Library

Assume an archaic, dreamlike repose

Old bookshelves with grooves in the grain

Favored volumes wearing runners into the wood 

If every tome were taken

boxed and bound and bonded

The shelves would keep their memory

In the Morse and Braille of cell walls

A map or star chart

Leading back to you

Lessons From Cartoons

"Neutral jing" is a concept I first encountered in a cartoon about martial arts and elemental magic. When entering a battle, there is offense, defense, and also... doing nothing.

But it's not really doing nothing. Neutral jing involves listening, observing, presenting the outward appearance of inaction, all while waiting for the right moment to strike.

You might even have to take some hits until the optimal moment presents itself. Suffer a few slings and arrows. 

It's a risk, certainly. It's certainly not the default stance to take. 

It's been useful to me to understand that I don't have to know how to fix it. Yet. Hold on to the idea. Stay clever. Stay strong. Stay stubborn. Stay kind. Work hard. Build bridges. Make connections. 

Everything's connected, I think. So find the connections. Find the path. Grow towards home. 

Temporal anamoly

Has it been an entire season? You were my lighthouse, a burning sphere of prisms illuminating the shore after a dozen lifetimes of darkness, and I can begin to swim back. 

And then time changes too, to conspire against us.

Nothing new. Those ocean is vast, but every ocean has a shore. 

oh yeah

I used to write in this. When was that? Seems so long ago. 

I forget this world is frozen when I'm gone. I suppose one day I'll never come back. What will happen, I wonder. Better not blow up or something. I'd rather it didn't make a mess. 

It's Friday night and I'm not out partying. I'm usually not. I'm thinking of all the decluttering I'd like to do but probably won't. 

I probably will a little. It feels like it's time.