some Lovecraft things


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This is awful.

I like books that tend to have footnotes, and recommendations for further reading on a subject…

I’ve been annoyed by S.T. Joshi’s The Dreams in the Witch House, which seemed to me to be composed of Lovecraft’s more inferior stories…but I was thinking about it wrong. I was thinking about monsters, rather than what dreams are like, or about the far more pronounced nihilism and paranoia of Ligotti’s stories. I should have been reading this book with those things in mind all along.

Because Lovecraft’s story-dreams are actually more like my own dreams than anything else I have encountered. And I say this meaning that, while they are completely unalike in content or theme, they’re very alike in the sense that they occur in seemingly cohesive “worlds”, and that they impart to the dreamer innate knowledge that the dreamer has no way of knowing, except that they do.

The only other dream story I can think of that felt like dreams I have was Karl Edward Wagner’s Endless Night…but I’ve never read anything else by him. (Yes I have…a short story called Sticks.)


There’s that problem I have with all these weird tales writers, though. A lot of them aren’t in print anymore. And that brings me around to what I was thinking about at the outset of this post: there is an essay I would like to read, but there’s about 0 chance of that happening.

L.D. Blackmore’s “Middle-Earth, Narnia and Loveraft’s Dream World: Comparative World-Views in Fantasy” was published over 30 years ago. In a magazine. Not a book. Not available through the library, and on Amazon…it’s there, but it’s not reasonable.

I’d still like to read it though. I’d like to see someone make those comparisons. It would be easier to take in, I think, than Ligotti’s The Conspiracy Against the Human Race was, especially following C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity. Those are some mightily disparate philosophies…

Moving away from philosophy though, I finally see how Brian Lumley’s Necroscope series fits in with more of Lovecraft’s writing…other than with Lumley’s vampire being a Lovecraftian-wannabe creature. Because I guess Lovecraft did write at least a few stories with math and interdimensional travel or time travel as major plot elements…I just didn’t know that yet at the time I was reading Lumley’s books. So I guess I can forgive Lumley a little more. Although I still think the way he brought the mathematician Mobius into the story was cheating. *shrug*

And…I should probably go to bed soon. But not before I leave you with one of our work conversations, because we like to talk about interdimensional travel, too. :P

Blair: I’m so tired. Wanna come in for me tomorrow?
Kurt: Um, no.
Tyler: If I could, I’d just rip open a hole in the space-time continuum, and bring other-dimensional Blair to this dimension. Then she could cover your shift and nobody would know.
Me: You’d use control of space-time for that?
Tyler: What? Are you upset that I wanna use my powers for good? For helping others?
Me: No, that’s not what I said. I was just thinking maybe there were better uses.
Tyler: Oh, trust me. I’ve thought about better uses. And you’d better believe that when my powers are strong enough, I’m gonna rip open a hole and put a bullet in Hitler’s head myself.
Me: Besides getting shifts covered, is that seriously the go-to thing for interdimensional travel?
Tyler: Naw. I’m just trying to get you riled. Because you’re a Nazi and all. It even says it on your cup–“mar Nazi”. Whatever that is.
Me: Well, mar is the Spanish word for sea.
Tyler: So, an undersea Nazi.
Me: It’s like being a mermaid.
Tyler: Now I have to rethink everything I ever believed about mermaids.



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I was getting to feeling sad about my dreams, because in the last several months, they haven’t been reaching the intense and fascinating kinds of levels I have grown accustomed to beginning near the end of my college years–the most recent good ones being the dream where my dream-self was inhabiting an injured person’s consciousness, and they/we decided to burn a house down around ourself rather than allow a vague group of “bad people” to capture us…and the one where I crashed my carriage on the way to what turned out to be St. Basil’s in Russia, and my talking horse insulted me the rest of the way there before bolting back the way we came and saving us when seemed likely that a menacing collective of Russian shadow-people was going to capture us…

My dreams are still weird and definitely me dreams…but not as detailed lately. It’s disappointing.

Still…there seems to be a theme somewhere. Themes.

Last night I slept badly, waking up because–again–the sounds in my dream are so unbearably LOUD!
This time it was explosions. Not sure what kind of weapons were in use, but there was a thick haze of smoke, and the only images I retained from the dream were of a bleak landscape…pitted and burned fields, and shadows moving through the smoke…

Shadows of armed and helmeted…

Wait for it…

Rubber ducks.


That was a development I hadn’t looked for. Although the explosions have been showing up in other dreams.

A few nights prior to this rubber ducky battle, I dreamt I was in a similarly destroyed field, and running from a large black bear (not a bear of that species, but…one that was black in colour) with foam running from it’s jaws and down its short black neck.

There were other people running, but I don’t know why they ran. The bear was pretty intent on coming for me, in that barreling way bears have of running…

And I ran and staggered and…suddenly corn was growing in the ruined field. And it wasn’t so ruined after all. But the corn was a maze, and now I couldn’t see if the bear was chasing me anymore and I didn’t know if I should keep running, or how I should exit the maze (imagine if the bear had taken a different route and we should suddenly burst into each other’s paths!).

It’s my favourite kind of dream, the “being chased” ones.
(In truth, they are terrifying because in every dream the primary feeling is that of the inevitable capture, which is a recurrent idea in all of my dreams, but in the ones where the enemy is actively chasing…they are always faster than I can ever hope to be, and it terrifies me.)

But, this dream quickly and unexpectedly stopped being a “chasing” dream. Because overhead flew a chorus of long whistles in varied tones…and mortar shells began falling on the corn maze.


I ragequit my dream because wtf else do you do at that point?
And I have gotten better at that. Quitting my dreams when they annoy me. (Maybe that’s why I dream less frequently? Or less memorably, at least. Perhaps the ability to ragequit isn’t a good thing.)

Did some thinking about these last two ridiculous ones and wondering where I got the initial ideas…usually I don’t feel like my dreams hinge too much on things that’ve got concrete ties to my waking life, but these have a bit of that.

I have a rubber duck collection, after all, so that’s not such a mystery. Even the explosions and mortar shells. Just ask Netflix about all my recent watches. Too much war movies, probably.

I was stumped about the bear though, and thought a conversational thought to myself, along the lines of, “wonder what the bear was supposed to be?”

My Wolf self immediately says, “Russia.”
To which the rest of me tells him to go die.

It’s probably the biggest anomaly in my trips to the various parts of dreamworld, if only because none of my waking reading or conversations or general interests had any ties at all to Russia as a theme when it introduced itself as a location in my dreamscapes, waaaaay back when I was in college and a winged creature that was part Nazgûl-bird and part wasp dropped me in a snowy wasteland because it refused to carry me the rest of the way to my destination, which turned out to be the Kremlin, although at that time I had no idea what the building was called and had to do some poking around to learn what it was, although I recognized the gold-domed towers right away…

Now I probably just think on it enough that it’s a permanent fixture.


And thinking about all of this, btw, makes me feel hypocritical.

I just read H.P. Lovecraft’s The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath, and was alternately attracted and repulsed by it. It’s a dream-story alright, with ridiculous stuff like being rescued by an army of cats, and having races of supposedly terrifying ghouls and night gaunts (which are described almost just like a type of creature that sometimes populates my mental narratives) as your allies while you try and try to reach the city of the gods who, unbeknownst to you, are stealing your best dreams for themselves…

It pretty well summed up how dreams are for me, I thought. And yet there was none of the creep or dread that I like in Lovecraft stories. Because all of the worst creatures are on your side, so any other terrifying creatures…well, they might just turn out to be misunderstood allies as well, right?

Ah well.

Time to sleep once more.

Perchance to dream.

my poor horse

Here is a better story about my last post:

Almost to work. Getting up near my exit, and I have between 5-10 minutes to get to my theatre. Perfect. I will get there in time for sure.

Exit is backed up and we are slowing down. Okay. Whatever. There are a lot of people in the morning. Slowing down kind of quickly because everyone in front of me is doing that. Person right in front of me swerves a bit to avoid the car in front of them. I think about how dumb they are for not leaving enough space between their car and the one in front, but it’s okay because I have enough–


–omg not going in the right direc–


–wtf i’m going to die–


–don’t want to look–


Ah. Uh…I’m kind of diagonal. Okay. Facing the grass. Let’s drive there.

Car scoots valiantly, but can’t quite make it all the way out of the freeway. Okay. I stop. Am I hurt? Not sure. Maybe? Wait…why are my sunglasses hanging out of the air vent? I take them out and look for my case. I should probably be doing something more important, but…

I look at some cars passing around me, since I couldn’t make it all the way off the road. They look annoyed and I feel mad at them. Did they not see what just happened? They have NO right to look like that.

Wait. Where is my phone?

Oh. Haha. My pocket. Right. I should call 911. I call them and it says all operators are busy. Wtf. I stay on the line and look around for my bag. On the floor. Right. My mirror is dangling weird. Should I put it back on? Mmm. Probably bigger problems to worry about. WAIT! I know!

I put my emergency flashers on.

911 is finally talking to me, and I tell them what I know. Or what I think I know. I think I hit the person in front of me–that was the second BAM, right? I look around and don’t see that silver car anywhere though. Weird…but I see the car who hit me. It’s all crumpled on the front. But the guy is outside, walking around. I tell 911 that he looks okay, but I think my head hurts. I think I hit it. They try to connect me with police, and we are on hold with them.

I look around for my iPod and can’t find it. It disconnected from my radio line, and I know it’s on the floor somewhere. One small relief, I suppose. I can’t think how to turn the radio off and it is buzzing loudly…but at least it’s not playing my wwii era, carousel sounding march music. That would be embarrassing. Because thinking about that is keeping me from wondering if I have brain damage. (And at the same time, making me pretty sure that I do. Because who would be thinking about that? Me.)

Still on the phone. 911 and the police are talking to each other and me. It’s a confusing conversation. Probably because they are both men with similar voices and I can’t tell who is talking at any given point.

Aaand now another man is at my door. He says I need to get out of the car because it isn’t safe. He’s probably right. I am sitting half in the freeway, I guess. I grab my bag and let him lead me away because I don’t know what else to do. 911 and the police finish their conversation and we all get off the phone. I think an ambulance is coming and I tell that to the man whose car I am now sitting in to wait. I’m shaking pretty badly. Drug addict shaking? Yeah, maybe. Like that.

I think I should call my boss so that someone shows up to open the theatre. I call and ask if he’s opening with me, and the conversation starts out with him sounding like he thinks I am kind of an idiot and wth is the matter with me because he expected better from me and I am disappointing him. I tell him my car is squished and I am waiting for an ambulance to come and get me
–Oh shit! are you okay?!
–I don’t know. That’s why I’m waiting for an ambulance.

We get off the phone. Good. Took care of work. Because I’m good at managering.

Maybe I should call my dad now? Idk. Another lady comes down to talk to us. I guess her SUV was the second BAM–what was the 3rd?–but she was not in front of me. I’m confused. She says I zoomed out in front of her when I got rear-ended by the crumply other car and she couldn’t keep from hitting me.

She keeps asking me if I’m okay, and says that she’s first-aid trained…but I don’t know if I need first aid. My head is starting to feel like one time when I was getting into my dad’s old van and banged it on the door frame–feels like little bits of glass are being ground into my skull…

A man in a truck pulls over and tosses a tire into the grass. They tell me it came off of my car. Now I know why he couldn’t do better than scoot mostly out of the road. Poor thing.

The man who hit me never comes to speak to me.

Finally, an ambulance comes and the man who got me out of my car talks to the paramedics. One comes to the car and asks me about the accident…I tell him what the others have told me, since I wasn’t looking when it happened. Like. At all. I remember slowing and seeing the back of that silver car, and then the BAMs started and I was looking at my knees, mostly. I told him I could only tell him what I’d been told.

They get my pulse and look at my eyes to see if they are wonky. Nope. But then they bring a collar for me. I cooperate, thinking I will take it off soon. And then they bring a gurney. Ah…

I didn’t think about that. Well. Okay. I don’t know. Maybe I’m bad hurt. But I hope not. Because I feel alright. Except for the (figurative) glass bring forced down through my scalp.

They wheel me into the ambulance, and buckle in the gurney. And they talk to the firefighters who moved my car the rest of the way off the road. I can tell a little better how badly damaged he is and I feel sorry. Like this is the old west or something and my horse has been shot from under me. Poor horse.

Still haven’t called my dad. I should do that. I wonder if the medics will stop me? I decide to just do it and not ask. I call and explain what happened…but for some reason my dad is not understanding that I’m not at the accident site anymore. I am getting annoyed because I have to go over it a few times and then finally he’s like,
–wait…where are they taking you?
I tell him.
–oh. did you call your insurance agent?
–no. I can’t really move to look up the number…
–i’ll call and get there as soon as I can.

It’s wretched. The collar hurts. But at least getting annoyed is helping me get hold of my drug-addict-like shakes. No crying though. Huh. I thought if I was in an accident, I would cry. Guess not.

We get to the hospital and they wheel me into a room. It’s blue. So much blue. Yeah, okay. Trying to calm. Right.

I wait for a while, and then suddenly there are nurses and they are undressing me and I’m like wth?! and annoyed, but I have this collar on and I can’t really stop them, and they are blinding me really effectively by getting all my clothes caught on the collar. Thaaanks. Then I have a hospital gown. Aaand still have my wool pants and shoes? It’s weird.

And then a doctor comes in. And says,
–Hello. You are looking very Shakesperian in that collar!

The doctor is Russian. Because of course.

I note that down because it will be a good detail to tell my coworkers so that they can make their jokes about communists and Nazis and realize how glad they are that I did not die. Because who would they tell these jokes about then?

Comrade doctor checks my limbs for pain or damage, and advises scans and xrays of my head and neck. He is the first person who has shown concern over my confession that I don’t remember most of the accident and that I am repeating a lot of what I was told by others.

He wants to transfer me to a trauma center at a different hospital, and I want to argue and tell him that I wasn’t looking because I was busy thinking I was about to die and I’d rather not have looked…but I stop that me from talking because what if I really am hurt? I acquiesce.

They leave me to my own devices and I am replaying my questionable music in my head because carousels make me happy and I would like to stop shaking. It’s making my arms hurt. Then a police officer comes and talks to me and gives me a report number. And a nurse comes to get more of my personal information. And my dad arrives and tells me a little about my car’s location and what he was able to get out of it. Apparently there is glass everywhere and I no longer have a back windshield. I don’t remember that. in my head, a horse screams

We talk a bit and I apologise for not calling mom because I knew it would upset her. He says she is upset anyway. Naturally.

And then another nurse comes in and tells me they’re going to get the xrays and scans done before transferring me. And then the really traumatizing thing happens.

They need to start an IV and get blood drawn.

Aaand that is at about 1015…the rest of my day until 430 is one long panic attack in varying stages of intensity because I can’t deal with having a plastic tube in my arm.

On the upside, my scans were all normal and good. Everything they checked was normal. No brain damage. No skeletal damage. Good good.

Also, I did not attack any of the nurses or try to rip out my IV, and if there was a medal available for either of these things, I would recommend myself for it.

That does mean that I resorted to dramatizing my panic to get whatever extra sympathy I could…but that didn’t work on the last nurse at the trauma center. Probably because she knew I wasn’t that badly hurt. Or maybe because she is actually a bitch. I couldn’t tell. But being angry with her did give me something else to channel my thoughts.

And I also learned that when you panic and hyperventilate, you know in your mind that you are making a fist, but you can’t feel your hands anymore. And despite the medical staff assuring you that you can, you can’t open your fist because you can’t move your hand that you can’t feel. I couldn’t, at least.

But, yeah. Very exciting. I won’t be doing it again.

And I learnt two days ago that the third BAM was me hitting the center concrete divider. Because the rear-end propelled my car across four lanes of traffic to where I was facing the wrong way, hit the wall, and spun back around.

My poor horse…



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Wanna see something?

Of course you do! This is the internet, after all.

This was my car yesterday.

car1 car2 car3 car4

Needless to say, I didn’t go to work. Spent most of the day in the hospital, panicking because they require you to have an IV, even if you have literally no need for one at all.

Anyway. Guess I’m glad only my car got squished. Neck is sore, but that’s about it.


everyone’s favourite

This happened today.

Mike T comes in to talk to another manager about his schedule, sees me in the office and perks up.

Mike: Hey!
Me: Oh, hey.
Mike: I’m so glad I came in today. I was disappointed because I figured I wasn’t gonna see you, but here you are!
Me: So I am. *I am reading emails and only sort of paying attention*
Mike: I want you to know that I thought of you right away when I realized what day it was.
Me: *puzzled* That’s adorable. What day is it?
Mike: V-E day.
Me: Come again?
Mike: Yeah, V-E day. You know, when we finally beat the Nazis.
*I wheel my chair around and look at him.*
Mike: Except, I wanted you to know that you’re still our favourite; we don’t want to beat you.
Me: I…wait…what?

Blair has been standing nearby, listening to this exchange and she can’t hold in her laughter anymore. Mike starts laughing, too.

Me: Excuse me for a moment. I need to contemplate where exactly I went wrong. *I put my head down on the desk*
Blair: Oh, Khyati. If nothing else, we’ll always remember you for this.

monsters? unicorrrrrnsssss!


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I didn’t expect to agree about the sexism I kept hearing about in relation to this last Avengers movie. But I did. Because it–to me–seemed to be about what qualified one as a monster. (**Spoiler ahead, albeit a small one.**)

I like to think I know something about that.

About how one’s actions can make one monstrous.
Or how one’s demeanor can make one monstrous.

Or maybe, for fiction’s sake, one becomes a literal monster…a wolf, a vampire, a zombie…a giant, green ragecreature.

But Black Widow talks about being a monster. Not because she is an assassin and kills people, but because she is a woman and can’t have babies.

…does not having babies make a woman an unnatural monster? That’s absurd. Men aren’t monsters if they aren’t dads. They’re just monsters when they’re, you know…actually being monsters.

Idk. Whatever.

I’ll always know deep down that it’s my capacity for anger and cruelty–I’ve got that winning sort of personality, you know?–that can qualify me as a monster, regardless of my parental status.

(I say this, and another bit of me is facepalming and wondering why I would even share this line of thought…truthfully? I don’t know.)

This other thing, too:

I mentioned a while ago that Netflix had recommended a foreign language television show to me, and I almost removed it from my queue because I was like, “naw…I bet it’s dumb…”, but I started watching it last night and it’s pretty engrossing. Like all really engaging shows, I’ll be sad when I finish watching it tonight…

It’s kind of dumb, too, but I admit I am always pleased by those rare moments where characters in a thing have the surname Winter. Not exactly my own name, but it’s close enough for me to pretend stupidly about being a distant relative…
I have wondered if people with the last name Smith do things like that. They’d be connected to just about everything. *sigh* So jealous.

Oh, and on a slightly related note…I doubt anyone remembers way back when I was vaguely interested in whether my any of the various families my ancestors came from had crests or coats of arms–that is what I get for reading Game of Thrones, I guess–but I finally got around to asking what my mom’s mother’s maiden name was and finding out that three of four families–Parrish, Winters, and Müller–had a branch represented by unicorns.


Granted, the Müllers have a LOT of different branches, apparently…way more than the other names, and therefore there are different branches with multiple coats of arms…but still…the possibility of being 3/4 unicorn pleases me. :P
(Blaming my Irish ancestors for that fraction, btw…because they just couldn’t get on board with the whole unicorn thing for whatever reason. *sigh* Or…maybe I should just go ahead and blame the Scots for taking unicorns as their official animal and leaving the Irish with Leprechauns. Lame. :( )

Also, my grandma’s story about her older brother having to change his name makes a lot more sense now. :|

Maybe I will post something about that one of these days.



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After a fortnight of really shitty stuff happening (and that is probably the most aesthetically displeasing expletive, btw…) which I may relate at a later date when I don’t want to hurt things…today had me rushing around to leave work early so I could drive all the way across the city to my house (I have a pretty long commute) after I realised I didn’t have one of my various government-issued forms of ID that I NEEDED in order to get myself on this apartment lease so that my fiancé does not have to live with the wretchedness he’s been putting up with the past year and…a half? (I forget.) And also not be homeless…

So I drive all the way home. Right as rush hour is starting. And I sit in a lot of traffic. And slowly boil, as my own car is incapacitated atm (one of the many aesthetically displeasing things that happened) and I am driving my dad’s car which has no air conditioning. And black leather interior. And I am wearing black wool. And sitting in the sun.


And after I get home and frantically search for proof that I am a real person (my favourite bit, that), I realize I found a new hiding place for my important documents, and I forgot…which is why my mom couldn’t find it.

Card in hand, I drive ALL the way back across the city–in jeans this time, which is almost as bad, but not quite–and turn in my papers so that they can’t decide to retract their approval of us (since we didn’t have it in writing, I figured it was better to not take that chance…).

And then? Still rush hour (which, btw, is SEVERAL hours long, since this whole process took my from 340-615), and still no AC. And then…then this other thing happened.

I had the windows open. Not that I had much of a choice, since the temperature gauge inside the car was reading 95*F as I sat in the sun and cooked and my clothes got progressively more waterlogged…

But…yeah…so this other car was next to me. With its windows rolled down. And my teeth were vibrating while they serenaded me with some gangsta rap about making cash-moneys, getting bitches, and what the gangsta’s short-term goals were for each of these things.

So I did what seemed best in a situation where I am being forced to cook to death and listen to some expletive-laden gangsta hedonism.
Cranked up the volume in my dad’s car and…ah…introduced my neighbors to the Red Army Choir and the virtues of communism. In Russian.

I almost thought my plan wasn’t working, and I was being ridiculous and embarrassing myself, but then…we weren’t moving, so meh? I looked over to check on the effect I was having, and was the proud recipient of the evil eye (and also what looked like some aesthetically appalling words…although those may have been part of the song?), and the gangsta windows mercifully rolled up. My teeth were still rattling from the bass, but…one must pause to appreciate the small things.

…this anecdote is painfully ridiculous. And I realize that. But still.

Victory, comrades.



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I think I have to confess something.

I realise it’s a long time after the fact to be admitting this…but…I’ve been listening through a bunch of music I used to listen to in high school and college, and I don’t know why I listened to one particular genre…

I don’t think I ever actually liked metal.

There. I said it.

I listened to SO MUCH METAL between when I was 16-19…and I just don’t like it. I don’t have memories attached to a lot of these songs, and I don’t like them for their sound…so what then? No idea.

I think that when I was that age, I just hadn’t found a type of music that I really enjoyed listening to. And my favourite band had quit, at that point…

Why metal though?
Don’t know.

I think…I had an inkling of what I was looking for in music…but it wasn’t fully realised until I found Virgin Black (the first Doom band I ever listened to). It’s like the feeling I get from metal wasn’t…all-encompassing enough? I don’t know how to properly describe what I mean. Like…I wanted the violence (which doesn’t translate to actual physical violence, but a feeling of it), and the malevolence…but I wanted it to be darker and I wanted it to be sadder and just…bigger, overall. Hence the exponentially larger collection of music I have from the Goth spectrum.

Idk. What a stupid post.

This is what happens when I try to remember just what on earth high-school-aged me was aiming for.

infinity dreams award


I received this nomination from architarai, whose hope and vitality infused blog you can find here.

I am not entirely clear as to why I received this nomination, but I remain pleased that someone has thought of me :)

As a recipient, I am to tell you seven things about myself, and then pass the award along to new WP citizens.


1. Forget dragons. Unicorns are the best, imo. Because they are so beautiful, but can stab you with their faces.

2. I read a lot, but over the last few years I’ve come to the conclusion that my favourite genre is probably “weird tales”. I think I can safely attribute that to a childhood spent watching Unsolved Mysteries and reading Goosebumps books.

3. I work at a movie theatre, but the number of movies I haven’t seen and that people think I should see is fairly extensive…and yet nobody will watch The Last Unicorn with me!

4. Most of my clothes are black. Because of working in a theatre where the uniform is black, and also being a Goth-type. Yay Woolite for darks.

5. My musical preferences are an intolerable mixture of things…darkwave because I am a Goth who likes twinkly sounds, doom because I like the atmosphere of dramatic violence, an array of folk-influenced music–zydeco, celtic, cabaret–because I have an appalling attraction to the sound of the accordion…and most recently, German marches and folk music because they remind me of the music played by a certain carousel that featured prominently in my childhood summers. In short, you would not want to go on a road trip with me.

6. I’m very…upset by how the important things in my life are playing out right now. Being handed good things, only to have them snatched away again is unbearable. I am mostly posting this to channel some of my thoughts in a different direction, because if I think too intently on what has happened, I will become angry and irrational. Like. More than usual.

7. One of my friends and I used to go look around at graveyards. We would look for interesting headstones and names, and had a good time with those…but we would also go to the most obscured and old headstones, and try to pay respects to those most forgotten dead by reading their names and epitaphs. We visited a lot of child and infant graves.

Now, people I wish to confer an award on…

I feel like I scarcely know anyone here, but there are a few blogs I read where I get the sense that their creators are dreamers, dreaming infinitely. I name the following:

Jack Flacco

My apologies if the award seems silly…but, as I said…item 6.

bad things


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I suppose I ought to know by now that if things are going too well, it’s because something terrible is about to happen.

It has only almost happened though.

But almost is bad enough. They just want to give us a few days to really begin dreading the imminence of the terrible thing that is probably happening.

And then, once they tell us and give it an official announcement, I am not sure what to do. Because when you are close to a person, the bad things that have happened to them are really happening to you. But there is nothing you can do to stop it. It’s just different this time because I already know we are waiting for it to happen, rather than finding out so far after the fact.

I cannot tell what feeling is predominant right now. Self-pitying despair? Fiery, Wolfish rage? That cool, metallic emptiness that tries to pass itself off as calm so that we can think what to do next?

I don’t know what to do. Or how to feel. I just don’t. I can’t even think of who to tell.

I will never eat a cinnamon apple again.


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