March madness is apparently a thing with me. Not basketball of course, since I fail at both playing sports and knowing things about sports, but even in spite of all the weird stuff I pulled from my old January/February posts, March is pretty bad. I get sick a lot and have lots of trippy dreams about dragons. And turn all disassociative and freak out because I have bones and things like that.
So…yeah. More excerpts, and then I will log out and go to sleep because I can’t figure out what on earth is going on with the web site I am trying to purchase my wedding dress from, and apparently I am going to have to go to my bank and get it figured out that way. Tomorrow is work and me trying to make headway through a ton of filing and audits, and triple checking schedules for our staff this weekend…I already feel defeated because I know I won’t get it all done, and then I won’t get time to get back to it until Tuesday. Bah.
Cheers for now.
I’m afraid that I’m progressing to a third stage of monsters.
First, the monster was an outside force that had to be killed. Next, I became the monster and had to avoid being killed. And now…what? I think it’s your turn to be the monster. But do I (figuratively) kill you? I can’t. I couldn’t kill the first monster, or give myself up when I knew it was me, so chances are I can’t kill you either. I think I’ve grown to love monsters too much to do that. Plus, I don’t understand…I don’t know what’s happening to you, and maybe you really are just totally thoughtless after all.
That’s the thing I’ve always hated most about you, you know. Not that you’re thoughtless…but that I could never tell if you were either that or just acting like you were because you wanted me to think so. But why would you want me to think that? (I think I know.) It hurts me to think that you could just be kind of silly…I wanted you to be better than that…but what if that’s not it? It hurts me more to grant that you could have noticed that I always want to think the best of people…or that I always want to blame problems on myself so nobody else has to be responsible…and that you could have periodically exploited these traits for whatever reasons…
That would hurt.
But…now that you know (ha) this has crossed my mind, I have to tell you…I’ve thought for some time that this could be happening. I’m not an idiot. I’m just too afraid to be candid with you and ask about the whole situation. I’ve let it go for three years now, and that’s too long for me to bring it up now. If I did, we’d either find out that yes, this is what’s been going on and then we would have to figure out where to go from there…or you would know the extent of my paranoia and I would be utterly wretched about you knowing that. I feel like…my undead side would say things that would make it worse. At least the former situation would only end with Wolf smiling and showing off his fangs, impressed and disappointed that revenge is impractical.
Ugh…you know, I am awful.
You never did anything to me. It’s just all these things that I allow to get to me, plus my own idiot way of acting like I don’t care if we talk or not, when really I do. I care about that far more than I care about a lot of things. I just never know what to say to you anymore and it makes me feel sick with anxiety because even if we did talk, you probably get bored talking to me and would probably not be very inclined to take my calls then either… I can hardly blame you, since I have had precious little to contribute for such a long time now…although you haven’t made it easy for me, since you chatter on and on and never take a breath to let me respond.
(I’m glad we did finally sort that all out…right on both accounts.)
There is a great red dragon against the sun, and black and golden flowers. The metallic ones are catching the light at a bad angle and blinding me with neon orange so that there are pulsing blue and green marks on the inside of my eyelids.
And how did you become the scent of purple, anyway? It has no connection with you. It’s also unfair that you are sound waves. I think I should have the dragon roar and burst my eardrums. Then you couldn’t sneak up on me anymore (why didn’t I smell you first?). Too bad the dragon is going down with the sun…and why are your eyes so yellow? They aren’t yellow. I know that.
I swear…if I look again and you are a panther…
Stop it. Stop smiling at me. Just stop it. Wolf is shaking with rage and would like to tear out your still-beating heart and make sure you never smile again, and you knew he would feel that way…but I’m so tired. So, so tired.
You knew that, too.
(Ever doze off and have a really vivid, 10-second dream? This is what it looks like when I have them.)
I miss the trees and the water. Mostly the trees…I love the trees.
I miss the way it smelled and the air being warm in the evening. I miss the sand and the way there was nothing around and how blue the sky was. I almost miss the way my skin smells when it’s been burning…but not quite. Although I do miss being able to see the sun (why is it so awfully overcast in this state?) occasionally, and how everything across the water would be red and then blue, and how many stars you could see if you sat on the dock at night. I miss the white deer and the black squirrels and the horses running through the fir trees, and I miss all the tiny little fishes and hearing the loons at night. I miss the bats that inevitably got into the house. I miss the wetland and the dragonflies in blue and orange and gold and all the moss and the mushrooms and the half-decayed trees.
I miss when I was small and would watch cartoons and eat popcorn and go to bed with sandy feet from being in the water half the day. I miss making tape recordings on an old radio that had been my grandma’s, and pretending I was a radio announcer. I miss having to drive an hour away to get my birthday cake, and eating iced cream out of the little, jade green bowl. I miss biking through the woods and Katy almost getting me killed over and over again, and I miss telling stories with her and only finishing them because we were finally tired enough to sleep. I miss chasing rabbits and seagulls, and naming them all and coming up with stories about how they all knew each other. I miss playing sheepdog and Gargoyles and stomping on puffballs and seeing the little clouds of spores explode into the air.
I miss taking out the minty green rowboat and getting shouted at for rowing it into the middle of the lake, and I miss my fake German accent (I forgot I used to do that one). I miss eating out in those floating water things that I can’t think of the word for. I miss driving the blue boat before it died, and the brown one that we got later. I miss driving up through the river and seeing all the trees and flowers and half-dead plants and the turtles and fish and sometimes a muskrat or an otter. I miss catching pike and bluegill and throwing them back in the water. I miss all the sweet peas, and the way the pine needles smelled when you picked a few from the trees. I miss the hummingbirds that lived in the big maple tree.
I miss sitting on the dock at night and talking on the phone to Melody. I don’t miss sitting on the dock and feeling wretched when she couldn’t talk to me. I miss the way the house smelled when I would lie on my bed and talk to Chris and write and write and write in my journal or read and read and read Harry Potter. I miss the way it was dark at night and that almost every surface was wooden and I miss the fire pit and toasting marshmallows sometimes while trying to keep the smoke out of my eyes and the mosquitoes off my skin. I miss taking walks with my mum and talking to her about things, and I miss staying up to see the sun rise on the other side of the water.
I miss the last summer that I was there, when I would eventually go to bed and lie there, sweating to death because it was so hot out and I was wrapped up in a comforter, and listening to the songs and letting him talk me into believing I would be okay after all.
(Omg! I cannot wait for May! Imma go back!)
There were thousands of little grey-black, pulsing pustules on this person’s legs, which was pretty gross to begin with, but then I realized the pustules were climbing because they were actually these nasty little bugs that looked like charcoal dark, bloated ticks. And the giant person? He watched them with a mildly interested look on his face before pinching one up. The pulsing bug burst in this greasy, inky splatter, and I realized that the bugs weren’t bugs because they were us. Not “us” like me and you (although I have a notion that a whole bunch of people I know were there), but “us” as in people…
And the giant person? He was super white. All white. Blinding white. White skin, white hair, white irises with barely discernible grey pigment on the edges…and somehow I had the impression that this great white person was God…and he just held the little inky spattered bug person between his thumb and fingertip and watched it cower and cover its greasy eyes with greasy hands…and the white figure wasn’t trying to be scary and he didn’t look disgusted…he looked like he was just contemplating the little frightened person.
(More evidence that I should not doze off.)
We went to see a movie and we were driving back and it was dark and nearly one in the morning, and there weren’t too many cars out, even on the highway, and the air was kind of cool, even with the vents off, and I got to choose some music…and it was mostly okay, but briefly I wished I hadn’t because it made me feel sad to listen to the song and to be out driving at night and to have the air hovering on the edge of warm. It put me in mind of all the other nights and all the other times when I’ve sat in various passenger seats and watched out the window while I was between home and whatever destination…
I felt unreal. And when I thought about the few trips I’ve ever taken and thoroughly enjoyed, I wondered if any of them had ever really happened.
Now, I know they did. That’s silly to think not…but it’s hard to feel like they did. Like, did I ever go there and walk under those trees and sing to myself? Did I really go to the other side of the country and enjoy that salad so much that I tried to recreate it at home? Did I really let you fall asleep for so long with your head on my shoulder? (Good Lord…did I really let you carry me across that stream? No…nope…not me…) And what about the music? Was I ever at any of those shows? Did you really look so confused when I told you why I was there?
I know all of these things happened…but it’s like…I wasn’t paying attention when they happened. I can’t really remember what any of it was like. I don’t remember…was I really in those moments? I think I wasn’t. I think I knew they would be over too quickly, and I was already anticipating them moving into the past, so that when they were the present, I didn’t really experience them. I didn’t look properly at the green and grey of the trees or taste the little bits of pepperoni and goat cheese or feel your damp, tied up hair against my neck, or really look you in the eye when we shook hands. The moments were all already over when they happened, and now I’m getting afraid that I can never get back to any moments that will ever be like the ones I let slip by me and can now only remember if I’m really trying to…
I must be getting old…feeling my mortality, except that it’s not screaming and clawing at me this time, the way it usually claws at me when I am Wolf, and at my Lynx friend. Poor us.
But it was, I guess. It got close to that. I think.
See, earlier my head was hurting. It was on the right, just above my hairline…and it felt…bad. Not too painful, but really bad. I didn’t like it. Then it moved to my right eye, and it was a sharper pain. Then to behind my right ear…and then to the left, above my eye. I hated it. Like…I kid you not, all I could think for a moment was that I hated my bones. My skull, specifically…and then I got what I could term “the screaming willies” (you know, just because it’s not a phrase one hears a lot) about my body. Not the whining way people will get when they think they’re unattractive, but the horrified way that I guess I get sometimes (haven’t met anyone else yet) about this mass of bones and veins and meat and teeth and brains that is Reeser…and I have to try and not get too worked up because I’ll start feeling faint and that only makes me feel my pulse more clearly. I swear, I hate feeling my own pulse. It disgusts me for some reason…
I don’t understand why I sometimes feel that way. It’s not that I hate my body and think that it’s unattractive or worthless the way I’ve seen others talk about themselves…it’s more that sometimes I get to a place where I’m just shocked at the fact that I am a living, breathing creature. It creeps me out now and then…which is absurd, but apparently quite true.
Personally, I’d take the nostalgia and the sad feelings I’ve been getting over the skin-crawling realization that I have skin that’s crawling. Does that make sense?
(Yup. I’m a crazy.)
I am pretty sure that the last time I saw that dragon in a dream, I was not me in my dream, and I had desecrated a shrine, and he rescued me from the giant fungal puffballs that were the shrine guardians and were also trying to eat me. And then I realised he was made of white chocolate, so when he put me down, I promptly broke him up and ate him.
It was a very Wolf kind of dream, you know?
Desecrate shrine, check. Narrowly escape death, check. Eat a dragon, check.
(I note that it’s good we don’t live in the dreamworld, else I’d be a wolfcreature who kills and eats dragons: a force to be reckoned with. :P)
I slept for about 12 hours and dreamed about Cthulhu.
Except that unlike all the monsters in my dreams, he wasn’t trying to get at me or any of my pets or family or other assorted loved ones. No…instead of all that, I just had a vague sense of an image of him, and he was talking to me in my head.
That is probably a bad thing.
So now I keep thinking about that and dreading the possibility that I’m making myself that sick again, and I know I should drink things, but really…the idea of drinking anything—water, juice, soda, tea, broth, you name it—feels repulsive.
I want to drink something, but when I pick my cup up, I feel my throat closing up and put it down again.
It was that damned paper that’s got me agitated. I picked it up at the wrong moment, when all I wanted was to lessen my pile of scrap papers by one, and have a double-folded cheapy coaster so that I wouldn’t feel bad about setting my glass of water on my backgammon table (that was why they got it for me, right? because I used to like to play backgammon? who plays that anymore?).
It was from a story I wrote, and it was a bad page to be reading when the other me was already getting antsy and telling me again and again that we need to go away (we can’t, although we are interested to discover that it’s only a three and a half hour drive), and all wild-eyed and triumphant because he’s still got something of the vampire about him…needs blood and all of that, and is (I hope) done groveling at a pair of impassive marble feet now that he has it.
But that’s all a different thing. That was my own fault.
This, however, is the universe spitting in my face, as it is wont to do every single time I think I am done.
(Mmm. Maybe I am done now. For reals this time.)