And now, Part Two. Where I am destroyed by Cthulhu, think about pop-up books, and pretend to eat raw meat.
If January has always been a crazy month for me…it seems fair to say that February has always been that way too, expect in a deliberate kind of way. Like I am trying to take ontrol of the year’s weirdness before it gets too out of hand…
All those ridiculous applications on Facebook—you know the ones—well, there was this quiz one that I took waaaaay back over summer, and it was this silly thing titled “find out your unrealistic death! – it’s scary accurate!” or something to that effect. I seem to remember a friend being eaten by zombies, and both my sister and her boyfriend dying in guitar duels with that guy from Dragonforce, but me? The quiz said I would die from insanity brought on by Cthulhu’s haunting my dreams.
Why is it that my “scary accurate unrealistic” death is the only one of the options (that I knew about) that’s inevitable? I mean, if you’re up against zombies—run faster and hide better. Dragonforce? Play faster. Not necessarily better…just faster. But if Cthulhu is going to invade your dreams and talk to you until you start raving—what? Never sleep again? (He is the sort of thing I’d dream about, after all…)
How terribly unfair for me. Of course, here is where I make silly, consoling remarks to myself, like… “Reeser, just look at how awesome you are! The others are getting defeated by far lesser opponents, but for you they had to drag out the biggest and baddest monster they could think of.”
Seeing all the trees covered in snow was almost bad for us. There’s something about the low sky and the snow outlining all the branches in white that managed to be both ghastly and alluring at the same time. Like so many black, ice-glazed bones poking out of the white ground. Of course, there’s something almost irresistible about the trees no matter what time of year it is…like I should be there. The feeling might go away for a long time, but it inevitably sneaks up on me again. This is one thing I can’t even blame on Wolf, either, since it’s all of me that feels it. I don’t know why though…just…I always feel like I want to be out and look at the trees, and walk and walk and walk and look and look and look until my feet blister and bleed and my eyes fall out. No reason other than to see that ineffable something before I die.
Still, it was kind of him to bring me into a group of people who would sympathize. I just half hate this culture because you’re all over the place (maybe you’ve been torn to pieces, too) and I can’t get away from it. If you aren’t you, you’re inevitably someone else that I hear about. I begin to think that all of us have known one of your incarnations, we talk about it so much—even he does. I had almost hoped that we wouldn’t, but we do…and Rogue has lately been so unkind as to keep reminding me until I am stuck in Wolf mode for my frustrations. I’m trying to ignore it though, since he makes me feel decidedly Satanic. That’s what it feels like to be Wolf: Satanic.
I’m sure it would be better for me to stay like this than to take his advice and forcefully withdraw. That would be to die, and also to exclusively hate. On the other hand, to force the issue would be to frighten and to become utterly ridiculous and sentimental, even though my confessor has suggested it to me so that I can head off my own poetry. I’m relieved that the one I’m having published now doesn’t touch any of this. Yes, that narrator’s trappings and destination are all because of you, but who would know or care? Just me.
I told her not long ago (when I was briefly dead again) that it’s your fault that I’m on my way to becoming a poet. If my past self could have known, it would have laughed and disbelieved what I’m doing now. This is why I cannot feel very proud of my work. I feel it when I am a wolf, but even when he is relishing our accomplishment, if you happen to flit into our mind, even he becomes a wretched, snarling thing because he knows we would never have done any of this if we hadn’t been desperate for distraction and some way to validate (sublimate? That’s going too far…) our collective feelings about what happened.
I occasionally wonder why, when I was very small, we had a pop-up kids’s version of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. I sometimes take inventory of books I remember from my childhood…I remember Pokey Puppy, Corduroy Bear, Sleepy Squirrel, Goodnight Moon, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Pussywillow, Peter Rabbit…oh, and the pop-up Book of the Dead. 😛
Really annoying thing—
Now and then I have these moments where I suddenly understand something, but I hate them because they always get ruined. Today it was because I was in the shower when I got it, and so had no means of writing it down, and then by the time I could have done that, the understanding that had crystallized while I washed had already been dissolved by intense physical pain, and now I can’t remember what it was I understood.
I felt a flicker of rage and the phantom taste of blood when I heard that song the other day and thought of you. I feel ashamed to think of you as dead, knowing that might happen. But I can’t be responsible for everyone. I keep being told this, and I don’t want to feel responsible for you. But…I help but wonder. If something happened to you, I feel sure I would be told. I wouldn’t want to be told and surely people must know this, but it wouldn’t stop them telling me.Then how would I react? I don’t want to be sympathetic, but I would be too much of a monster if I didn’t react. Wouldn’t I? So even if I found I felt nothing toward that situation, I would still be required to weep for you in order to maintain that I am not a monster.
But we already know that I am.
And am not.
Like…the people that love me will shrink back and call me a vampire (and mean it), and then try to adopt me because they so want to look after me, or get all emotional about how sweet and caring I am, and in the next breath, acknowledge that they can see the beast looking out of my eyes and know that they don’t want it angry with them.
It’s what she saw and made her tell me I wasn’t the devil, because he couldn’t have that capacity for sympathy. And she’s right. But she’s not. If the sympathy makes me human, then this sympathy is tainted. I think I am wrong to be angry about some of the things I get angry about. I am wrong to want to save things. People. I feel like I have to since nobody else is doing it. And that’s the worst way I can put it (but I mean it so differently!), but I feel like this makes me a worse person. The desire to save isn’t bad…but when you feel anger at whomever you think is supposed to be doing it and isn’t…that’s where it goes wrong. And that’s me.
And…ah, ah…I almost forgot I had been angry, there. I let praise get the better of me…and then heard that my affinity with the dark was being called into question. Again. Do you know that I had tricked myself into thinking I could be a Goth in peace? How easily I forget that there are people who don’t really know me and might not understand…which is ASTONISHING, since I tell myself over and over that nobody will ever know me. Well, at least I know I’m a Goth now. I’m not going to pretend otherwise, or act like I don’t mean it when I do. If I am a vampire, I am still helpless enough that you’ll want to care for me. If I am a beast, I am still a very sweet and affectionate one. If I am a devil, I still have good intentions.
It’s a shame I don’t have any family or close friends who like poems. I would make a little booklet for them of all the decent stuff I’ve done. And it wouldn’t even be pretentious…it would be because I work hard on these things, and it saddens me to think I’m writing them for myself. I just want someone to enjoy what I did. That’s all I want.
Today I learned that if you are still for too long, apparently the blood in your body can start to congeal, and sudden movements may result in heart attacks.
Yesterday I bought a slice of red velvet cheesecake from the coffee shop in the mall. I was eating it in the office when Dusty came in and sat down. By then I’d already eaten all the icing’d parts, and it looked like a suspicious red lump of something.
I told him it was a hunk of raw meat, and for the briefest of moments, he believed me.
Funniest part of my day.