Ravings of a Paranoid Insomniac

Woke quite sudden in the still, dark hours of the morning, filled with terror, absolutely convinced the eery music in my head was real. After searching for its source for several minutes, however, I was forced to concede it was only the echoes of a dream.

If a dream is powerfully emotional, could it perhaps slip somewhat into being? Could it be that those after-images are not tricks of the mind, but things which almost exist? Things we feel so deeply we are half able to pull them through to this plane from another? After all, who's to say the dream world is not actually a reality we only catch glimpses of? An alternate reality. It is bizarre because it doesn't follow the rules of our world, but perhaps we are just as bizarre and impossible to them. Could there be a world of wild aspirations and what-ifs?

Perhaps in dreams we see our own heaven or hell. Sense does not come into it. But in reality do we ever experience such pure happiness or horror? An irrational emotion is the strongest kind.

Or perhaps the dream world is a sticky earth-ball, being made of bits of everybody's strangest, most gruesome, beautiful, delightful, mad imaginings - a glutinous, undulating world with rolling fat waves of bizarre. And by the nature of this dreamscape, we sometimes stumble into others' dreams. One's foot goes Sploosh! into the mud of someone else's strangest thoughts, and down one sinks, choking on someone else's most inhibited desires, until Pop! - one comes right out the other side, emerging from the clear pool of a child's pure fantasy.

Oh, but I'm merely torturing myself! I can only dream of dreaming - I am imprisoned in reality by vicious insomnia.

"And in my sleep
What dreams may come
Before I'm woken by alarms
Put on my riot gear"

Dreams, the Internet, Boys, and the MWE

Today (but this was actually written yesterday) - oh day, oh sun, oh waking hours, hours of operation, I cannot make heads nor tails of you - today, I really did absolutely nothing.

         Every day I set my alarm for nine or ten o' the a.m. and practically every day I fling out an arm in the intoxication of sleep and turn the alarm off.

         Round noon, I finally rise (wipe the sleep out of my eyes) and reprimand myself for the nth time.

"Self," I say, "you are sleeping away your life!"

"I like sleep," I respond. "There are so many things to dream."

"Dreams," argues the logical bit of my brain, "do not pay the bills. They are selfish deadbeats, just like their fathers. They will spend all 
your money and drink all the beer."

"Don't! Don't!" I cry. "I love them! At least they haven't sold out to the man!"

"Please to be quitting the nonsense, Cam. This is rubbish. You don't speak to yourself like this."

"Well, I might."

"But you don't. You've only just made it up, because you think it's funny. You can't go misleading kindly audience types into thinking you're that clever and spontaneous."

"I'm spontaneous."

"You are a writer. You're the opposite of spontaneous. You analyse and edit everything you do and say to death so that it's publish-perfect."

"That was well expressed. Publish-perfect. I'm making a note of that."

"My point exactly."

        The real point being that unless I've got work, I've no idea what to do with myself during the day. The hours of nine to five are so uninspired - so old hat - so - so nineties! I mean what stuffed suit thought of that anyway? Why should daytime mean awake-time?

Night is much lovelier and more exciting and generally makes everyone look better. And the moon is so much more inspiring, because you can actually look at it with your eyes - not like the sun, that big, bright braggadocio.

Though, admittedly, darkness presents quite a problem to photography. And people really are very fond of their own image. I have found it out, then. This is obviously the reason for the correlation between daytime and awake-time.

I, on the other hand, being not terribly fond of my own image, prefer the more creativity-rich Night. Or a brutish, brooding storm. I'll take a good storm over almost anything. I could move to England purely for the weather.

Which brings me back round to the actual subject matter on which I wished to enlarge.

Another day wasted in front of a stupid computer screen. I have a love/hate relationship with the internet. It is a truly fantastic place in that it is like a magical abandoned mansion on the edge of town. One can get in easily, but must be wary of the porch - it looks stable enough, but its wooden planks are completely rotten in places, and the inexperienced adventurer will fall straight through, to be bombarded forevermore by utter rubbish.

Once inside, however! Oh, there is simply no end to the secret wardrobes, crawl spaces, medieval passages, Underground Railroad tunnels, walled up corpses, and, if one is lucky, a leftover cask of Amantillado. Naturally there is the attic of lost treasures. And a dumbwaiter which leads somewhere else on Tuesdays.

On the other hand (I do always consult my left, because he is an idiot savant and sometimes comes out with the most astonishing pronouncements), the world wide web is also a great, gaping black hole which can swallow one up and spit one out three years later. And on the other side, one finds she is an uneducated, malnourished loser and wishes desperately that she could go back, but alas - it was not to be. She has become, irrevocably, a lamely emaciate nerd, with a useless hobby of anagramming.

As it turns out, it is a very happy happenstance for my writing that this laptop, on which my thrilling prose is composed, does not have the capacity to host that sometime black hole which is the death of productivity.

Round about seven, I began to be restless, and despondent over my lack of popularity and the non-fruition of my genius, so I hatched a plan to save either the world or my brain, but not both. (For if my brain begins again to work properly, the world is certainly doomed). Taking my poor, crippled laptop, I made away like a thief in the night!

To Sitwells! (A most excellent coffee joint). And there I sat, surrounded by surrealist art and strange-strumming instruments and very badass hipster youths, with a pumped-up drink to hand. And sat.

And sat.

And sat.

Staring at a screen, debating whether the words "writer's block" are more akin to Voldemort or MacBeth.

(Ala - "Fear of the words 'writer's block' only increases fear of the block itself," or "A terrible curse befall ye who speaketh aloud of the Scottish impediment!")

And after an hour and a half of sitting and staring and pondering and being distracted by cute boys, when the cafe was closing, I had written one paragraph.

But before they could turn me out onto the street, I had to pee and, oddly enough, this was the reason the evening turned out not to be a dead loss. For, at the back of the place, the talented young artist whose surrealist works had been displayed about the cafe was packing away his pieces. Seeing this, I paused on my way to the loo to tell him how very fantastic his art is, and his name is Donny, and you may view his art here: http://laskroto.deviantart.com/.

Another odd meeting took place as I was exiting Sitwells. I was hailed by a quite handsome fellow I had never met before, who turned out to be Michael McIntire, guitarist and singer of The Marmalade Brigade. He was enormously friendly and chatted me up for a bit, and I gave him my number, and I'm beginning to think Sitwells is the place, you know. To meet cute, artsy chaps.

Even if it is not the place to write a brilliant masterwork of sheer genius.

And now, since this has degenerated into utter frivolity, and it is four o' clock in the morning, and I've developed a powerful need for a spot of soothing tea, I bid you a very. Good. Night.

[Bows, with much flourishing of her plumed hat.]


And now about the very exciting today times!!! I have finished the first chapter of the Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma (MWE)! Oh, but there is still so much more to write! It is an exhausting thought!

Anyone care to guess what the MWE actually is based on my playlist? If you guess I shall give you ... something really great! Cross my heart and hope to die!

"What the F*** Was That!?" - Evil Dead the Musical
"Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" - Daft Punk
"Another One Bites the Dust" - Queen
"Smooth Criminal" - Michael Jackson
"Blood" - My Chemical Romance
"Beautiful" - Moby
"Battesimo del Fuoco" - The Dear Hunter
"Earth Died Screaming" - Tom Waits
"Mending of the Gown" - Sunset Rubdown
"Don't Make me a Target" - Spoon
"St. James Infirmary" - Louis Armstrong
"Double Trouble" - John Williams
"Climbing the Walls" - They Might be Giants
"Exterminate Regenerate" - Chameleon Circuit
"Supermassive Black Hole" - Muse
"Remains of the Day" - Danny Elfman (from the Corpse Bride)
"Hedwig's Theme" - John Williams

Haha! Stumped? Anyone care to hazard a guess?

IT'S HERE IT'S HERE IT'S HERE!!!

Today in the post, I received a package. Oh, dear, thought I, what have I accidentally ordered? The internet is entirely tooclickable.

But then I noticed that the package in question was from Amazon.

A book.

I rushed to the calendar. 2 June.

Not just any book. The book. Her book. It had finally come.

Sarah Rees Brennan's The Demon's Lexicon.

(If you do not know who Sarah Rees Brennan is, go here. She is beyond amazing.)

Then the ripping began, and the shrieking, and the petting, crooning softly to it, rubbing it to my cheek, and more shrieking. I am afraid the neighbors may be under the impression I was being brutally murdered. Meanwhile, I was dancing like a wild thing on the loose. Somehow the furniture survived my cartwheels of glee. I phoned Meg and shrieked at her a bit, as she is the only one who would understand what I was raving on about. As usual, she was calm and understanding. She is much like me, but without all the hyperventilating. To calm myself, I made a cup of strong tea. With the tea close to hand (but not so close as to be knocked over in one of my many fits), and under the mood-lighting of a stormy sky, I began to read.

Here, in my trembling hands, I held Nick and Alan and Mae and Jamie! As I read, the characters spun by Sarah's words lifted themselves from the ink, blossoming from the pages like shifting shadows to play their story in my sitting room. Everything I love about Sarah Rees Brennan's writing was here, especially her signature wit, which I cannot imagine her writing without. She combines a dark, sometimes terrifying, adventure with quirky, real characters, with real flaws (none of this sparkling perfection nonsense), who I instantly fell in love with, and adds to it moments to make you reel with laughter. These moments allow you to relax, while subtly tightening the strings of dramatic tension. Nothing could be more true to life. Who ever feels only one emotion? She confuses and dazzles you with comedy alongside the Very Serious, like writer Cassandra Clare and filmmaker Joss Whedon, until you are whipped into a whirlwind of emotions - pretty much the way you feel about life.

Now, I must confess, I have not finished it yet, but I have a very good reason! As you can see from the photo above, I do not read books. I devour them. I am a bibliophile. But I do not want to treat this book the way I treat Christmas chocolate - that is, I eat it all in one sitting, make myself sick, and the next day I have nothing but sweet-smelling wrappers. I want to enjoy it slowly, savouring every unique flavour. So I will wait. I will make myself wait.

I hope Nick does not mind being nibbled on. He is just so scrumdiddlyumptious.

I imagine I will be saying, "Many people think I'm a blueberry scone." for years to come. I immediately began quoting out bits of it to my confused, but tolerant, father, who chuckled and said it was just my kind of humour. I hope that Sarah Rees Brennan will agree someday. For, when I become a published author, I will beg my agent to arrange a play-date with her, and hopefully she will not say, "I thought I was a bit mad, but you, madam, are a true lunatic," and brandish something sharp at me.

In Which I Give Up a Little, You Heartless Jerkwads

Laziness triumphs! Oh, I am a ridiculous procrastinator. I even leave things I like till the last minute. But I did scribble some things down last night while watching The Mummy. So I shall just incorporate last night's scribblings into today's blog and voila! I am such a clever slacker.

I love The Mummy. It's the epitome of popcorn entertainment, combining elements of Evil Dead, Romancing the Stone, and Around the World in Eighty Days. It is so Action Perfect Get On, it makes me salivate.

The actiony bits are so delightful and gripping because we care about the characters, and their struggle seems real and vastly important.

Now, for all my obsession with philosophical discussions, subtext, metaphors, and so on, I like explosions an awful lot. And one day I am going to write the ultimate action thriller. Zombies are the obvious choice, possibly vampires. But a dream I have cherished since I was a small child enthralled by the comedic stylings of Robin Williams is to remake Jumanji in a more realistic vein - as a truly frightening experience.

The key to a great thriller is knowing when to flip the switch. The greatest thing about Evil Dead 2, one of my favourite films ever, is that the audience is laughing their collective ass off right before they jump outta their seats. The combination of comedy and action or horror makes the experience ten times more exciting, because if they're laughing their heads off, the switch is a shock, and therefore that much more thrilling (unlike my blogging, which seems to be terminally dull. I mean, really, who do you have to lay to get some attention on the internet? It's not like real life. You don't actually have to be talented. I'm missing something important. Yes. YES this is too self-aware. YES I know one needs to be likable, which I am not. YES I want attention. Look at me look at me look at me! I have a hole in my soul which needs to be filled by a multitude of adoring fans!).

Alright, look, I'm gonna level with you. I just ran out of steam and my sunburn is in the itchy stage. If you are reading my blog, you obviously need a life. Put on your leather trousers and set out to seek your fortune.

Last Night on Earth

i text a postcard sent to you did it go through...

We are in the car, the three of us, him and her and me, after another fruitless day of "work," which consists of handing out advertisements for some wannabe Facebook, but hey, it pays. Having been exposed to full sunlight two days now, I am secluded by my agony. I feel like the surface of the sun. I look as if I've been in a chemical fire. He and she only tan.

you are the moonlight of my life every night...

He is singing along to Green Day. They chat casually, flirtatiously. Everything is familiar. I roll down the window, lean back, close my eyes. Bursts of light are orange from behind my eyelids. Orange. Black. Orange. Black. The rushing air feels better than I thought possible on my burning skin.

my beating heart belongs to you...

He says something to me. I answer absentmindedly, barely aware I am moving my lips.

i walked for miles till i found you...

I open my eyes. The back of his neck is just a little pink. Hardly noticeable.

i'm here to honour you...

She has said something. I have turned the volume on the world down. He reaches over to take her hand.

if i lose everything in the fire i'm sending all my love to you...

They smile at each other fondly, briefly, as lovers do. It's the little things. That is sweet, I think.

That is sweet? I think. What is happening?

Could it be that I really meant what I said? Could it be I really want more than anything for him to be happy? After all that I've been through, all that I put myself through, could it be this simple?

My heart aches no less. The longing and sadness are not diminished. This is not about me.

After all, it turns out I have a modicum of goodness left.

if i lose everything in the fire did i ever make it through?

Afterglow

A word of advice: do not live in the past. "What if"s only incur agony.

A years-old poem:

It's funny only afterwards you turned out the lamp

I nuzzled my cheek against your burning neck

And traced lost words on your palm with my frozen fingers


And let them dance along your spine

"I want to sleep next to you," I breathed into your safe embrace

You covered me with the blanket, because I get so cold

(Even though you love to see me naked)


And clutched my hand and sang softly in my ear


While stroking the curly strands at the base of my neck

Moonlight and shadows


You opened the window and lit up


The ones you'd saved for tonight

In the density of the clutter of your minimalist bedroom

The glowing end of your cigarette was the only light

The World Imploded

Frustration is slowly eating me from the inside out.

I don't. Want. To think about my life - what it's going to be for the next twelve, fifteen months.

I thought I wouldn't be able to write tonight, but it's surprising what your habitual writing spot can do for you. I sit down at this computer and put on some music and Bam! I start typing. It's like magic!

Do forgive me, but me head's a little vague.

I know what I've got to do, and I've just got to grit my teeth and do it. And the actual day to day will not be hard. It will be easy, so easy.

For the next year, I have to continue to live with my parents. Get a regular job (well, the best paying job I can find) - two if I can manage it. And spend as few pesetas as possible.

Ha. This will be so easy it may kill me.

I don't know if you understand how much I can feel my brain already melting. I mean, I watch way too much Hulu, so I'm doomed anyway, but over a YEAR of a regular job and no intellectual stimulation.... !

BUT! But, I am going to grit my teeth and do this so that I can finally go back to school. Oh, Brain, my Brain, just you wait. Learning again! What a heaven that will be! Yes, the thought of it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside!

Alright. Now, I am very tired and rather ill and a wrackspurt's got my brain. To round the evening off nicely, here is a very, very, very short story.

            The world imploded.

            Hardly anyone knew it was going to happen. One earthling fortune teller had predicted it, but she had long ago given up on the idea of being believed, and so she had tucked herself away in a filthy corner of the planet and was never heard of.

            It was a rather sorry sight, all that glitter and dust and life folding in on itself, curling in like flaming parchment, and eventually becoming nothing but a tiny speck.

            Two systems over, on a planet whose name is irrelevant, a distinctly non-humanoid life form, with a very long telescope, entered the data into an impossibly vast network, and that was the last anyone, anywhere, ever thought of Earth.

Walrus Boy

"In the wee small hours of the morning,

When the whole wide world is fast asleep,

You lie awake, and you think about the girl,

And never, ever think of counting sheep."

I wrote last night, despite my very late hour of homecoming, which accounts for the dreadfulness of the writing. (That is the reason. Shut up.)

However, I had become a permanent installation on my bed by that time, so coming to the computer to type this up was definitely out of the question.

I could go on, but I know that I am now only stalling, because this stupid poem I have stupidly written is really very stupid. This post and the last may give out the false impression that I write a great deal about disappointed love, or romance, or that I am simply very emo, but this is not the case! Ok, I'm a little emo. But in all seriousness, I have experienced one great love in my life (am still experiencing it, will probably never get over it), and he. Well. You know how it goes.

He is back in town, and I saw him last night, and here is the result.

We madly raved of many things,

Of supers, sex, and Culper Rings.

You roller-skated up and down

The street, and then I pulled a frown.

"It's late," I said. "I have to go."

You never liked to be alone.

There's things I cannot say to you,

Like, "No, goodnight, I'm feeling blue."

You changed your clothes without a care,

Conversing wildly with the air:

Time traveling possibilities,

And alternate realities.

I could not find a thing to say -

My mind was very far away.

There's got to be a plane on which

There's been a mercy-driven switch,

Where love has swept up both of us -

A plane on which there is an us.

Feedback is appreciated, naturally. But, please, I am fully aware it's not very good. I'm not much for rhyming, really. I just thought of the first couplet and had to continue, as it made me think of a combination of "The Walrus and the Carpenter" and "Nature Boy." Does that need explaining?

"'The time has come,' the Walrus said,

'To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--'"

"And while we spoke of many things,

Fools and kings,

This he said to me,

'The greatest thing you'll ever learn

Is just to love, and be loved in return.'"

A Long Way to Go

The sky is heavy, so I am listening to Bach because it is appropriately moody.

Soon. Another end. Another beginning.

This is a cop out, since I didn't write this today, but here is the (very short) piece I shared with writer's group tonight:

            I’ve still got a long way to go, to get away from you.

(I love you).

            I ran to the opposite end of the space you occupied. (I’d measured only in cubic meters). But your face was still plastered all over my brain like someone had glued pictures of you there, so I never wanted to close my eyes. (I love you).

            I wanted to say that it wasn’t my fault – that you had led me on, but that would be to wrong us both. I know you too well. And you can’t change who you are. You’re so full of life, like a blazing fire, and I want to be burned by you. But I can’t get inside your circle of light and warmth. (I love you).

            We wrestled like children. (I love you). And when, under the curve of my arm, I thought I saw you smile (I love you), my breath caught in my chest, cause I thought for one silver-edged second that you might let me in.

            But you were miserable without her. (Still, I love you). And, How, I thought, How can she be so stupid? And all I wanted was for you to be happy, (I love you), no matter what happened to me.

            I thought my heart would burst – it’s so full of you.

            (I love you).

            When the words came they spilled out of my mouth too fast (IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou) and made me feel sick and I wanted to stuff them all back in and swallow them like I had a thousand times before. (uoy evol I)

             …

            But how pathetic – to be pitied by the one I love.

            The place on my cheek where you were gracious enough to lay your lips burned.

            (And still, I love you).

            And I ran. And I hid. And you didn’t try to find me.

            (And still, I love you).

            (And still, I love you).

 

            (And still.)

 

 

(I love you).

I’ve still got a long way to go, to get away from you.

Thoughts? Honesty is appreciated. Is this prose or poetry? It's like posetry. Well, that is the way this modern poetry seems to have turned.

And I've Found that Round Here, In this City

How pleasant life can be if you only put your mind to it!

Hardly any work today, and so I had the entire afternoon to do as I pleased with. Taking Dad to a movie for his birthday tonight - I Love You, Man. Very funny. Mother wouldn't enjoy it. She is elsewhere engaged anyhow - another interview for this one job. This could be crucial to my parents future. They're both unemployed currently. Dad has a grand scheme in the works for a Cincinnati-based film production company. I think it's actually going to fly.

How seriously people take themselves! And how silly, how bizarre we all are! Strutting around as we do like peacocks, proudly displaying our worth!

"Life is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think." (Horace Walpole)

With a kind of ridiculous expanse of time to fill, and the day turning out to be very sunny and generally lovely, I spurned public transportation, which can be a trying affair at the best of times, in favour of a walk up to Clifton (the university area). (This is where I now sit, in front of Starbucks, with iced coffee, pen, and smart red journal, all exceedingly nice things.)

There is a kind of flavour in downtown Cincinnati which I am not sure I can properly express. I recently took a mad, rash, sugar-fueled, one-night road trip to Indianapolis (about two hours from Cincinnati), accompanied by my long-suffering friend, Aaron. And what we found there was so ... unexpected! It was massive! It was clean and new and shiny! And the nightlife! The streets were overflowing with people at 1:00 a.m. on a Monday! All looking clean and new and shiny, going to clubs and pubs and having exciting, city fun times. I felt like a farm-raised child out past her bedtime. And I'm from L.A.

There was something odd, though, that I couldn't put my finger on, as though I'd stumbled into a Twilight Zone town. Aaron realised before I did - I being wide-eyedly distracted by the flashing lights and tall buildings (and there was, like, no gum on the sidewalk!).

It was too clean. Too new. Too shiny. It had no character. I mean, I knew there was something seriously wrong when I noticed there was no gum on the sidewalk. What kind of a city doesn't have gum on the sidewalk? Perhaps they do not chew gum there; it is not allowed. Perhaps the inhabitants of Indianapolis are not real, but spring into existence for visitors. Or they may be droids.

Cincinnati has many flaws, but it is beautiful. It has history and character. Hell, every street corner is loitered with characters! (That was a very bad joke). Downtown Cincinnati (for the most part) is not clean. It is not new. And it is certainly not shiny (except for the colourful shards of broken bottles). But you wanna know something crazy? I love it.

There are a lot of trees in Cincinnati. There are brick buildings painted yellow and green and purple. There are these gorgeous old churches all over the place. There's one on Race St. with this crazy wooden bell tower that looks like it's about to collapse. And there are paintings, I mean real works of art, on buildings, sometimes framed. "Keep Cincinnati Beautiful!" they say. And if you walk north from downtown, you climb uphill to Clifton, so you can see the sprawling city below, all misshapen, crooked like a set of broken teeth.

It looks prettiest in winter, of course, covered in snow. Years ago, in high school, I sat on the ledge of an open window on the fifth story - January, maybe. Freezing cold. Big snowstorm just settled. Oh, then it could have been Hogsmeade, or Dicken's London. I ditched my afternoon classes that day. I blame my incurably romantic disposition.

But the light and shadows are beautiful in summer. Very green. Slanting shade checkering the street. A slight tang in the air of kicked up dirt. Gigantic leafy things have burst through the cracks in the sidewalk. Nobody bothers to pull them up. The fountain in Fountain Square is shooting water into the air and it does not just fall, but creates a palpable mist around it. People pause next to it to stand in the spray, and sometimes they forget themselves for a moment and close their eyes. These moments I capture - moments of such decent, human weakness. These glimpses are so secret. They give their soul a walk once around the fountain, and then lock it up again, lest they should be found out.

How can I talk? My soul is hidden under my pillow. I only take it out at night, when I can be absolutely sure no one is looking. I do not even have the goodness to forget myself by the fountain in the square. And here am I, taking myself so very seriously! Ha ha! We never find hypocrisy in ourselves. That is for others to be guilty of.

Of Handmaids and of Hope

We interrupt our scheduled programming (On Zombie Invasions, part 3) to allow the author to wax eloquent about her "feelings" and so on. (This is inadvisable). The author wishes to make it known that you may allow your attention to wander freely, as she is not likely to say anything of interest or importance.

This is probably utterly incoherent, but, alas, that is the way in which I am wont to function. This evening I attended a staged reading of a new, one-woman adaptation of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. I have never read the novel, but I now feel a burning desire to do so. It's a dystopian near future (well, a possible near future of 1985, when it was published, though there is nothing in it to date it; it feels positively modern), in which women are second-class citizens under the new totalitarian theocracy. Our heroine, Offred ("of Fred," the commander to whom she belongs) is a "handmaid," a woman whose sole function is to (hopefully) be impregnated by the commander. If she cannot conceive, she will be shipped off to the colonies, where the "unwomen" are made to tidy up pollution problems for society, without any protection against even nuclear waste. Offred was separated from her husband and five-year-old daughter when the new regime was instigated.

So the reader, or audience member, expects Offred to play the hero - to escape or fight. Certainly, she feels the injustice. She knows it's wrong. It's all so horribly wrong. But as her tale goes on, she gradually becomes used to things as they are now. "Normal." There are some concessions. She becomes comfortable. She becomes complacent.

And I became frightened. Because I am a creature of comfort. I'm lazy. I binge for the comfort. I like warm, confined spaces, provided there are no other people invading my space. This is not only comfortable to me, but comforting. I keep trying to figure out why I am only truly at ease when I am totally isolated. I am, in general, not a terribly happy person. I'm not satisfied with where I am in life. I am not still striving toward a goal, yet I never reached one. I just got tired and sat down. I am not in the process of becoming. I have simply left myself unfinished.

Where am I going? I mean where the fuck am I going?

New York City. If I can put myself together enough to actually go through with it, I will be moving to NYC. To make a movie with some friends. This movie is not my passion. It is a half-mad attempt to make my life worth living. And I am so frightened and lonely and empty. I don't want to accept whatever falls into my lap. I want to want things! And have the guts to go after them!

This is a problem with me. Somewhere along the line, I got knocked down one too many times, and now I am almost too afraid to stand up.

So, if I hurtle myself as far as I can outside my comfort zone, I am hoping I will simply transform into an altogether different sort of human being.

Oh, but hope is a fickle friend.

On Zombie Invasions, part 2

In a war, nine times out of ten, zombies will overpower the living in terms of sheer force, much as it is in a struggle between a man and a woman - nine times out of ten, the man will overpower the woman physically (even though she be a warrior), and so the key to female victory is superior skill. The fact is that zombies have the upper hand.

What is the only thing that zombies desire?

Brains.

And why do zombies want, nay need, brains?

Because they haven't got any.

This proves greatly to their advantage. They've got the advantage of numbers, for they convert our fallen to their ranks, so that as the living weaken, the undead army grows stronger, the barrage of vile masses never ending. They never tire, never weaken, never falter in their attack, for their unquenchable thirst for brains drives them ever onward. Whereas the living have needs (other than brains, though these also are necessary), the undead have none.

They do not know the meaning of 'fear.' They do not know the meaning of any word, save 'brains.'

They are not soldiers. They are machines - weapons of mass consumption.

So it follows that it is not a simple matter of training in the art of combat. What we desperately need, faced with zombie invasion, are tactics. “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not your enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle” (Sun Tzu, The Art of War). What we need is an Ender to defeat those who refused to accept the end. To not merely defend ourselves, but to completely eliminate the zombies, wipe out every last one of them, so that they may never threaten our peace again, we must know the enemy, and use this knowledge.

What we know of the enemy is this: that they hunger, lust, for brains, and nothing else; and that this lust arises from their deficiency.

The zombies lack of brains is their greatest advantage, but it is also their greatest weakness. This is where we, as living, breathing, thinking creatures, must recognise, and seize, our opportunity! What use are all our weapons, our training, our experience, if we do not use them intelligently? We cannot hope to overpower them by numbers or brute strength. We must outwit them.

Why, a zombie may be more easily defeated by, instead of grappling futilely, gesturing to some point behind your enemy with a cry of, "Look over there! Brains!" The zombie will turn (every time - they are not learning machines), and from there the matter of dismembering is simple.

Unfortunately, once again I must interrupt myself. An engagement demands my attention, though I am loathe to leave for a moment the imperative subject I have been discussing. I beg of you, friends, do not allow your mind to dismiss this matter in favour of more agreeable contemplations. They are perhaps unpleasant thoughts (personally, I find them to be invigorating), but necessary if one wishes to retain one's brains. I shall again visit this subject tomorrow with renewed vigour!

On Zombie Invasions, part 1

Let us consider, friends, the teachings of zombie warfare: whacking, hacking, piercing, chopping, slicing, dicing, blowing away, etc. - all manner of slaughtering techniques one may employ by use of a knife, shotgun, longbow, axe, chainsaw - whatever sort of weapon you favour in defending yourself and loved ones from the living dead. The extermination of zombies is a simple matter if one is experienced in the deadly arts and the zombies are not too great in number. Sources are clear that one has merely to get them into bits small enough to no longer be a threat (the undead having no functioning organs, nor flowing blood - the destruction, or spilling, of which would otherwise be the most expedient means of discouraging their approach). But it is not the unmeditated destruction of a few undead by an individual which I propose to discuss. I wish to attack the issue of zombie invasion on a grander scale.

It is the possibility of a bona-fide zombie horde in a populous area that poses a real threat to society. I am speaking, fair citizens, of at least a few hundred undead, of a situation in which the danger is that they simply keep coming on, until our valiant living cannot hold up their weapons any longer. Then we will run and hide, disorganised in our exhaustion, scattering, wanting only to close our eyes for a few hours and regain our strength. And then, when we have put ourselves at the disadvantage, the horde will pick us off one by one!

But heavens, I am so unutterably tired that I fear this entry will quickly dissolve into meaningless meanderings, and you will get so little sense from me that upon next encountering a zombie you may attempt to bludgeon it with a codfish! So, I shall wish you a goodnight for now. I give you my word as a lady and a warrior that I shall quite thoroughly enlighten you on the morrow. Go in peace, friends, but be always on your guard! Constant vigilance!

Blog Binge

Finally getting down to brass tacks. Got to do this. Got to do this. Got to- I feel extremely clean. I am up in the booth, looking down on the toy people in their dollhouse. Trying not to look at the toy people - trying to ignore a whole little make-believe world. It's hard. Trying to write. Got to write. Got to write this before midnight, cause it starts today and I keep procrastinating. Oh, screw midnight. Whatever. My day's over when I go to bed. Mmmm. Bed. I could go for one of those right now...

No. Write. Blog Binge - a blog entry every day for a whole year. 365 entries (that's how many days are in a year, right?). I didn't do anything today, but it's opening night - Shaw's Arms and the Man - which gives my day the illusion of ...

The toy people are distracting. It's like a television right in front of my face. Except they're real, but they're not really any more real.

I shaved my legs today, which makes me very conscious of my skin as it shifts under my pant legs. I'm wearing pants because I'm in my blacks, I have to be covered in black for the show, but I'm really wearing a dress. I mean that my regular clothes-

I'm really no good at this. Ok, scratch that. Scratch out all that. Got some chocolate to get the creative juices flowing. What a weird, disgusting phrase. Ok, good. Chocolate. Good. Not good - chocolate making teeth hurt. I should see a dentist. I don't have money to see a dentist. I'll just let it melt in my mouth. Maybe I could hold it till it melted in the package and then squeeze it into my mouth. No, that's gross. Chocolate paste - only a fat kid would eat that.

This is bad. This is really bad. I've mastered the art of saying nothing very loudly.

Ok. Ok. Ok ok ok.

Found a little red journal in my desk I'd forgotten about (how could I forget about this journal? this is the one my friend that has issues stole for me as a birthday gift). Well, I opened the journal and it screamed at me. I mean that I read what I had written and it cried. I mean that everything I wrote in it was emo bullshit about how I'm so fat. And I'm not really fat. Really. I mean I'm the first one to condemn myself, but really, I'm just a little bit pudgy. Just a teensy bit.

But it's sick. It's just so sick how cause I'm not stick thin, I tear myself down, call myself fat. It's a big, sick carousel I keep hopping on and off of. But it's got worse, lately - my weight, that is, not the perception of my weight. Cause I've got into the habit of bingeing when I get home from work, because I work a lot, and stress a lot, and a lot of the stress isn't even about work. I come home and all I want to do is eat. I mean often I'm actually hungry, but it's not about that. I just want comfort. It's like there's a hole in me that I try to fill with food. But it just stretches the hole - and my pants. And I'm so fed up with it! (pun intended). I'm done with this pathetic slouch I've become! I slough off this comfort-seeking, flabby skin! I want things. I'm going after them. Even if they turn out not to be what I really want.

So instead of bingeing on foodstuffs, I will blog. I will blog to let go. And maybe I will have a nice cup of tea. I can have tea. There's no sin in tea. And exercising more than once a month wouldn't go amiss either.

It was actually Meg's idea (http://gardenmaiden.blogspot.com/) this Project 365, because she wants to be a better writer, which is a very good, respectable reason, and I am turning her lovely idea to my not-quite-so-respectable uses. I needed my own motivation. 365 days in my life. 365 opportunities ... for something, I don't know. For everything. 365 pieces of my soul.

And now I have gone too far. Goodnight.