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More stuff from bygone Mays.

These excerpts are longer. Lots of angst. Two dreams–one of which is awesome, the other…creepy. Also includes a rant about misuse of a certain word that takes your saddest blog posts and makes them ludicrous.

Tomorrow I might write something new, since I’ve been stewing for 6 days without a voice. It’s fine though. Not like I needed it or anything. *eye roll*


Now and then, I will read a post where you write about something emotional that happened—deaths of pets or loved ones, or personal breakdowns and tragedies that happen either to you or to others that you know, and I’ll be feeling very sympathetic and wonder if there’s anything nice I could say to you that you might find meaningful or acceptable (or if it didn’t happen to you, I’ll just be feeling sorry), and then I’ll get to a sentence like this and all sensible and sympathetic notions fly out of my head:

“I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there, practically balling my eyes out…”

Do you see the problem? Balling. That’s what you said you were doing in your moment of emotional anguish. I have very serious doubts about this, however, and am convinced that you who are usually so intelligent and have a fairly decent vocabulary just don’t know that what you say is wrong. Very wrong indeed…

This word you use—have you never seen it written down? You must have. I don’t think anyone says that sort of thing in movies or shows, or in conversation…so you must’ve seen it in a book and the word caught on in your mind, but the spelling did not.

If you’re crying out loudly and unrestrainedly, or wailing in grief (which incidentally is something you cannot do to or with your eyes, making your emotional statements even more incorrect), then the word you should have used was BAWLING.

That’s right. Bawling, not balling.

I hope very much that my online acquaintances and correspondents will take heed of this post and cease to be “balling their eyes out” when they are beset with misfortune…and, you know, it’s not that I cease to sympathize with the post content when you write that way…it’s just that I know the word is wrong, and since I am a being that (unfortunately) delights in puns and word games, your writings on your emotionally vulnerable moments become temporarily hilarious to me because I automatically take you at your word…and…therefore…in the midst of feeling sad about what’s happened to you, I have this flash of contemplation about what on earth it would mean to ball one’s eyes out.

I don’t want to pursue that line of thought any further, so all I can do is hope that you will stop writing that incorrectly so that I can take you seriously in your serious moments, and also so that I will not have sudden horrifying thoughts on what must be happening to your poor eyes.

(I still can’t stand it when I see people make this mistake.)

How horrible to realize how many things you have become on someone’s behalf or as a result of someone’s influence (if you are the sort of person who does these things) and then realize that they don’t know that you’ve done these things. Not that I am just now realizing this. I have known…but instead of shocking me now I feel a surge of anger that I allowed it and that these things that I am and that I value (to value is not to take pleasure in, but to acknowledge that they have significance) about myself are not things that I might have chosen (if I indeed chose them to begin with) to become if things had happened differently.

I am angry that I even bring it up with myself, because I’m…what? I feel…what is it that I think I feel? Embarrassed? Ashamed? I don’t know, but I think it’s something related to those feelings, if not the feelings themselves. But why do I feel that way? I think there’s only one person that I’ve told in so many words about these stupid things that I’ve done and felt, and I don’t feel embarrassed to have said these things to said person after the letter I was charged with writing for them…

So then why would I feel so strongly negative when I remember these things?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m ashamed of myself and can be ashamed even when nobody else really knows of what I am ashamed. Maybe, after all this attempting to come to grips with the things I feel deep down, I still haven’t done it. I haven’t done as good a job as I thought I had. I need to do better.

But how? What more can I do? (Good God, no…I wish I hadn’t asked myself that, since the first thing that popped into my head is a terrible idea.)

I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I know that life consists of concrete things like eating and drinking and sleeping and playing with puppies and paying bills…but there is this titanic problem of my internal life that is always looming over me, and even though I can forget about it while I am doing concrete things, it does not go away. When I go for long enough without remembering it, I turn around and suddenly find it consuming me all over again…

“Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
In one self place, for where we
are is hell,
And where hell is must we ever be.”

Thanks, Mephistopheles, I’ll keep that in mind, I will…
That’s how I feel about this. I can forget it, but it never goes away. I can think of two ways to possibly rid myself of it, but I have no assurance that I would be rid of it. I’d be rid of it’s external source, but what good would that do me if it turns out that I am not keeping that source just to reminisce, but that my attachment indeed runs as deeply as I’d worried it did? That would be horrible, and then I would find out that what Marlowe wrote is true.

(Look at that. All that perfectly good angst, wasted. *shakes head*)

I was doing pretty well until I was on the way home, and for some reason, instead of hissing a word or two through my teeth, or repeating the same line over and again in my head, my Wolf decided to get very interested in comparing verb forms.

:     singular simple present indicative form of the verb be. unfortunately, it’s indicative of some certainty over a state of being, so, reluctantly, he had to abandon it

might be
:     decided this form of be, combined with an auxiliary that indicates seeking permission, or acknowledging that something is possible or has potential, is a pansy form that didn’t suit his sense of determination

should be
:     decided this was kind of accurate, since the auxiliary indicates the subject is likely to do something, or under obligation to do it…but the words seemed too angsty…all dejected or indignant or idealistic at the same time, depending on how it’s said

will be
:     realized we should’ve skipped the other ones altogether and just gone for this one. presumptuous as it is, it indicates not only the attitude that my Wolf seems to have taken, but because when the be is removed, it also indicates intent and choice and desire, which are all things that Wolf is apparently trying to express…

Bloody verb forms.
I don’t understand why I resort to using things like that to reinforce my obsessing…   And, as it would happen, we took a different way home and passed that World Tree as I was thinking on these things.

I can’t wait for it to stop raining. Once everything dries out a bit, I have to find out a way to bribe someone to take me to see it. I have to touch it. The part of me that is a Wolf has been on about it since some time in fall, but every time it’s something else about that blasted tree…I could’ve done with just going and looking at it first, or even just visiting the park it was in, but now I have to touch it. And then maybe this bit of me that is obsessed with symbols and our personal mythology will be satisfied. (But I doubt it, somehow, as I’ll have to prevent him from really taking that blood oath.)

(Well. He wasn’t wrong.)

I feel like…with all this other stuff now out of the way for the moment, there are other things now that this part of me is working on. It’s like…my mind seems to work in two adjacent rooms, or rather…a room divided by a nearly-opaque curtain. I function primarily in one part, but there seems to be another me operating in the other half of the room, and whom I can only see dimly and only half guess what I’m doing…

It would almost be like being me and not-me, but that’s not the case. When I’m being really, really honest with myself, I can see it all, just for a moment. And I know what I’m doing and what the obscured portion of me is doing…but I can’t seem to focus on it long enough to really keep that curtain drawn aside…it falls back down and I can only see the outline of myself standing on the other side.

Of course, this way of describing how I feel is super creepy and now I wish I hadn’t thought of it like that at all. I much prefer when it’s my Wolf and I and we can see each other. Then it feels like whatever self-deception is going on here is less…I don’t know…malevolent?

There’s something about the image of myself through the curtain that gets distorted in ways that can never happen with the wolf. I mean, I know what a wolf is, no matter how distorted and monstrous it becomes, whereas the blurred image against the curtain…? I say it’s me, but how can I really know that? In the moments of understanding, when I feel sure I know what’s going on, I never remember the face I see. Maybe there isn’t one…but if there’s no face, I can hardly believe it’s myself.

I cannot imagine myself without a face.

I’d much rather have the image of the wolf, who is separate enough from me that I can touch it, and me enough that I can feel the fingers curling through my fur.

(You know you’re doing it right when you creep yourself out.)

In this giant room were rows and rows of beds, and in the beds were patients with their limbs or their faces disfigured by these horrible, lumpy growths. Some of them had faces where their mouths and noses were swallowed up by the growths, and they had tubes and all sorts of things disappearing into them so that they could get some air…and then there were patients that had normal faces, but their arms or legs or torsos were balloon-like and they couldn’t lie flat, but had to lie on the beds in these really contorted positions.

The patients were mostly quiet and didn’t seem to take notice of anything or anyone around them. Sometimes some of them would twitch or convulse, but that was it. And then there were the nurses and orderlies taking care of them…they mostly went around and checked charts, but some of them would have books and would be sitting by bedsides and reading to patients. I wondered a bit why they were bothering to read to these people when they seemed like they didn’t comprehend anything that was happening…but then I came to an isle where an orderly was marking a man’s chart, and another one came up the isle to him and said, “Spenser’s dead. I need a hand moving him.”

I assume that Spenser was another patient…but when the orderly said he was dead, the man whose chart was being marked seemed to snap out of whatever stupor he was in and started asking if Spenser had had any healthy organs left, because maybe he could use Spenser’s good organs and live a little longer…

The orderlies pretty much ignored the man, and I could kind of see why…his upper torso and shoulder were swollen up like the hunchback x2, and even if they could’ve reused bits of Spenser, it didn’t appear like there’d be any way to cut through all the growths on the still-living patient to transfer any organs over.

But…then the guy started crying and saying that if they wouldn’t do anything to help him, he wanted them to kill him…and they just walked off and left him crying there. And it occurred to me then that whatever was wrong with all these people, they weren’t insensible like I’d thought…they were all aware of their conditions and they were all suffering, and apparently there was nothing at all that could be done about it…

Possibly one of the worst realizations I’ve ever come to in a dream.

(Omg. That dream was awful.)

I was, I confess, seriously fascinated by the thought that, since deer are stupid and run out in front of moving objects (like cars), if you took two stupid deer and they were running at an equal speed and were going to cross the same spot at the same time, would each deer expect the other to give way so that they would crash into each other?

(What? You can’t tell me you don’t see the sense in this question.)

More and more I have moments where I remember things, and I know that what I remember happened, but the memories don’t feel real. They feel like things that happened to someone else, maybe (the moment I say this, I realise it doesn’t make sense), or the memories get the same quality that my memories of my dreams have; the quiet feeling that although I remember them, those things did not happen—couldn’t have happened, actually.

I’d almost say I’m used to it, but I’ll never get used to feeling uneasily like things I remember didn’t really happen.
I’m not used to it being my Wolf that tells me about it.

I looked at myself and could see him today. I usually never see him. But there he was, looking baffled.
He keeps bringing me a memory, carrying it with his head awkwardly high and to one side, like it is the entire leg of some antlered creature, and dropping it at my feet. But what am I going to do with it?

“Wait,” he keeps saying to me. “I don’t understand—did this happen? I
don’t understand.”
And he starts to get wild-eyed and pants and cries like a frightened dog. But I don’t know what to answer him.

Yes, obviously. I know in my mind that he memory is real…but I can’t explain why it feels like it’s not. I can’t explain that.

It distresses me.

(I don’t recall what it was that was so upsetting me at the time. Hopefully that means I got over it.)

In this dream, there was a war going on. People on our side were dying left and right, and we knew we were going to run out of troops if something didn’t drastically change. Our commander was very anti-magick, but we had a nurse who was a witch and could heal people. She had been ordered not to use magick, but at that point, our commander was at his wits’ end, so he said she could do whatever she liked if it would help us win. So she started healing our people.
I don’t know what I was supposed to have been doing, but apparently this was a multi-dimensional war, so while there were people dying on the battlefield in our own dimension, there was also a small portal that had opened inside our commend center, and creatures were coming through there and killing us from that point as well.

Now, I guess a “small” portal is still a big deal when big things can fit through it and kill you, but it was a lesser priority, apparently, because they sent the me that is Wolf to deal with the portal by myself. So…I went to the portal, and there were dead everyones imaginable lying on the metal floor on our side of the portal, and also on the log ramp that had been built up from the desert-looking ground on the other side.

At first it didn’t look like anything was going to come up from the desert and attack, but then I saw the minotaur. He was red-faced (but definitely more bovine than Darkness in the Legend movie) with a shaggy black coat and black leather armour, and an axe, and he roared and came charging up the ramp…and I smashed him in the head with a giant sledgehammer, and sent him sprawling back into the sand, dead.

There were a load of malnourished, raggedy people who had apparently been holding back, out of my sight, waiting for the minotaur to lead them in the attack, but when they saw he was dead, the looked like they didn’t know what to do anymore…some of them looked like they wanted to murder me, and some of them were looking at me like I was a hero…and my dream told me (in those bursts of ridiculous, psychic knowledge that you get in dreams) that the minotaur had been a sort of tyrant-god to these people. I told them that without him, they had no more cause to attack us, and they were free now…but I felt oddly like I was not doing the right thing.

I wish I did not have a dream-self that feels guilty about killing gods and telling the worshippers they are free. That seems like something you shouldn’t worry about in the dream world.

(Look at me, still being awesome…)