The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper

• And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
• And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
• Came people singing, dancing,
• To drive the dark away.
• They lighted candles in the winter trees;
• They hung their homes with evergreen;
• They burned beseeching fires all night long
• To keep the year alive.
• And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
• They shouted, reveling.
• Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
• Echoing behind us—listen!
• All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
• This Shortest Day,
• As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
• They carol, feast, give thanks,
• And dearly love their friends,
• And hope for peace.
• And now so do we, here, now,
• This year and every year.
• Welcome, Yule!

My Absence

Dear readers,

The last couple of months have not been pleasant for me.  I had some medical issues crop up that waylaid me and I'm only now beginning to feel even remotely normal.  

That said, I'm hoping to return to the world of Lux Tenebrous soon.

Actually, I'm hoping to return to any kind of writing soon.

Until then, thank you for your forebearance.

Autumn

Happy Autumn, gentle readers. I hope that, at this time, you all find the balance you need to live a healthy and happy life. 

Break the Wheel

Break the wheel

dance the dance

in silvered light

on dew-wet grass.

Naked skin,

a testament to sin,

to the beast with two backs,

endlessly entwined.

Feel the rhythm

of your heart,

pounding through veins,

the music of your life.

Raise the knife high,

admire its shine,

in the cold moon's light,

then stab your shadow to death.

Break the wheel,

dance the dance,

in silvered light

on dew-wet grass.

The UPS Song

Inspired by my recent experience dealing with UPS

Oh UPS driver,

the man in the van,

where did my package go?

Oh UPS driver,

the man in the van,

you say that you don't know.

Oh UPS driver,

the man in the van,

I think that you're telling a lie.

Oh UPS driver,

the man in the van,

I sort of want you to die.

Oh UPS rep,

the voice on the phone,

where did my package go?

Oh UPS rep,

the voice on the phone,

you say that you don't know.

Oh UPS rep,

the voice on the phone,

you seem so nice 

and distinguished.

Oh UPS rep,

the voice on the phone,

I'm not sure you understood English.

Oh UPS manager,

in your office,

where did my package go?

Oh UPS manager,

in your office,

you say that you don't know.

Oh UPS manager,

in your office,

I'm getting the run-around.

Oh UPS manager,

in your officer,

I'd bury you in the ground.

Oh UPS company,

big and rich,

where did my package go?

Oh UPS company,

big and rich,

no one there seems to know.

Oh UPS company,

big and rich,

I shouldn't expect any less.

Oh UPS company,

big and rich,

I hope you go out 

of business!

The Carousel Horse

I have a song stuck in my head

it goes round and round

like a carousel horse.

A pretty pink pony

with dead, lifeless eyes

riding the music

inside of my mind.

I have a song, stuck in my head

it goes round and round

like a carousel horse.

It goes up and down

as the carousel turns

its dead lifeless eyes

blind to delight.

I have a song, stuck in my head

it goes round and round

like a carousel horse.

Its pretty pink hide

is starting to crack

as it rises and falls

moving forwards and back.

I have a song, stuck in my head

it goes round and round

like a carousel horse.

A pretty pink pony,

breaking apart,

filling the air with

glitter and death.

I had a song, stuck in my head

it went round and round

like a carousel horse.

Now the pretty pink pony

with dead lifeless eyes

lies shattered and still,

the music is gone.

The Toy Collector

You have a collection,

a box full of toys,

conquests of affection,

you mostly ignore.

But every once in a while,

when the stars are just right,

you open the box,

bring the toys to the light.

Do you remember their names?

Their stories? Their dreams?

You played games with their hearts,

that left them on their knees.

Some begged for mercy, for love,

for release. But you never give,

you just take, like a thief.

You're grasping and greedy,

thoughless to the bone,

a charming psychopath

with a heart like a stone.

I pity your toys, 

your girls and your boys,

but don't hold my breath, 

hoping you will get yours.

The light starts to fade,

the moon drops in the west,

you put your toys away,

and go seek your rest.

You have a collection,

a box full of toys,

conquests of affection,

you mostly ignore.

BURN, BABY, BURN

Saturday night and I'm all alone,

nothing to do but remember and burn,

thinking of you, and glad that we're done

you were heaven and hell rolled into one.

I'm glad that we're done.

I'll be glad when you're dead.

Because maybe that day,

you'll stop haunting my head!

Burn, baby, burn!

I listen to music, I think of you,

regretting my choices, but what could I do?

I thought you were perfect, a total ten.

What can I say? I was stupid back then.

I'm glad that we're done.

I'll be glad when you're dead.

Because maybe that day,

you'll stop haunting my head!

Burn, baby, burn!

I only think of you, when I'm on the drink,

the rest of the time, you're not worth the think.

I am not bitter and I'm rarely sad,

when I remember dumping you, I'm just glad.

I'm glad that we're done.

I'll be glad when you're dead.

Because maybe that day,

you'll stop haunting my head!

Burn, baby, burn!

WE'RE LIKE LIGHTNING

Storm clouds gather on the horizon!

The wind blows hot and cold!

Don't cover your eyes! Don't lower your head!

Quit actin' like you're fuckin old!

We're like lightning!

Burning through the sky!

Hotter than the fuckin' sun!

We're like lightning!

Gone in a flash! 

So come along 'n have some fun!

Burn down ya job! Kick ya boss's ass!

Ditch the kids 'n get in your car!

Looking' for lust, in all the wrong places?

Well, baby, you ain't gotta look hard!

We're like lightning!

Burning through the sky!

Hotter than the fuckin' sun!

We're like lightning!

Gone in a flash!

So come along 'n have some fun!

Ignore the cops! Pull out all the stops!

Put your foot down on the gas!

Hit I-95! Don't you feel alive?

Get ready to kick some ass!

We're like lightning!

Burning through the sky!

Hotter than the fuckin' sun!

We're like lightning!

Gone in a flash!

So come along 'n have some fun!

Your heart's in your throat? You think its a stroke?

Oh baby, don't you worry!

Just put down the top, turn up the rock,

'n go out in a blaze of glory!

We're like lightning!

Burning through the sky!

Hotter than the fuckin' sun!

We're like lightning!

Gone in a flash!

So come along n' have some fun!

We're like lightning!

Gone in a flash!

So come along 'n have some fun!

We're like lightning!

Burning through the sky!

Hotter than the fuckin' sun!

BREAK THE WORLD

Sometimes, I wanna break the world

like the way you broke my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

Time has passed, but the wounds still fresh,

scraped raw by the lonely nights.

When I can't help but remember the good times,

before all we did was fight.

Sometimes, I wanna break the world

like the way you broke my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

My life's a picture, a frozen photo,

just fading in the sun.

I can't move forward, I'm losing ground,

even though I know we're done.

Sometimes, I wanna break the world,

like the way you broke my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

Now the light is dying as the memories fade.

Is that kind? Or is it cruel?

Did you ever love me? Were we ever real?

Or was I just your fool?

Sometimes, I wanna break the world,

like the way you broke my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

Writing is Hard

 Tales from the Red did not go as I planned.

When I first came up with the idea for the stories, the setting was much bleaker.  The Red is a virus, similar to our own Covid-19, but with a 98% mortality rate and only a 2% survival rate. The world I envisioned was one where many people were housebound, working at home, having items delivered from stores and warehouses. Its a world where the police patrol the streets using remote controlled drones. Where people are desperate for contact beyond their bubbles, but are too afraid to reach out and make those contacts in the current situation.

That wasn't conveyed in the stories. They turned into a trio of interconnected personal pieces focusing on a group of people: friends, lovers, estranged family. Just people watching their world tilt and flay from the relative, presumed safety of their homes, scattered across the nation.

There might be pathos there, but it's also a bit dull.  And that's all on me. 

I'm not happy with Tales from the Red. I've thought about continuing the stories, and going darker and bloodier, but I don't really want to write horror stories. The real world has enough horrors in it, the world of fiction doesn't need to add to that, in my personal opinion.

But I wanted to give an idea as to what I was aiming for with the pieces. And how I feel like I've missed the mark.

Like the title of this post reads, 'Writing is hard.'

Tales from the Red: Evening

Boston was on fire. There were riots in New York. A peaceful protest outside the White House had exploded into violence.

Branson watched the newscast until he couldn't take it any more. He switched off the television and wandered outside, onto the small balcony of his small apartment. The night air was muggy and still. He leaned against the iron railing and stared into the east, toward the distant city of Washington.

There was a sunrise curfew in effect, but his neighbors didn't seem to care. They were gathered around one of the apartment complex's picnic tables, staring into their phones. Young people without masks, absurdly confident that they wouldn't catch the red.

Idiots, thought Branson. Young people didn't think they would get it and old people didn't believe it was real. How their stupidity could continue to thrive in the reality of thirty-two million deaths was beyond him.

Sometimes, the cynic in Branson made him wish ill on the young and the old. Sometimes, he wished they would get the red. It was a kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out mindset that was starting to feel less shameful and more pragmatic.

He lit a cigarette and stood there, in the dark, smoking. A police drone buzzed down the street and the youths below him scattered like leaves in the wind. Fines for public gatherings were up to a thousand dollars per violator.

As he watched the youth scatter, Branson wondered.  How many of the rioters and protesters would catch the red? How many of them would be asymptomatic? How many would spread the damn plague before succumbing to it themselves, coughing out their lives in some FEMA tent hospital?

He wondered if Annie was okay. Branson hadn't thought of his sister in ages. Not since she'd walked out on the family, after mom's funeral. He'd heard from friends of friends that she was living in the Midwest. Indiana? Idaho? He didn't remember.

Maybe I aught to look her up, thought Branson. 

She was the only family he had left. Mom was dead. Dad was dead. The world was undergoing a kind of slow motion apocalypse. It might be a good thing to reconnect with Annie, to let bygones be bygones and make some peace.

He went inside and pulled out his laptop. One Facebook search later and he was staring at his sister's face. Older. More weatherbeaten. But definitely Annie.

Shit, thought Branson. When did we all get so old?

Annie looked like their dad. Same wide forehead. Same toothy grin.

"Jesus," Branson muttered. "Am I really gonna do this?"

His fingers floated above the keyboard. 

Fuck it, he thought, and sent her a friend request. He'd made the first step. It was up to Annie to make the second. And if she didn't? Well, then, it probably wasn't meant to happen.

He shut off the laptop and sat on his couch. After a moment, he flicked on the television, his stomach full of nervous butterflies.

Tales from the Red: Afternoon

             "Did you see the news?"

            Annie looked up from the kitchen counter and the magazine she'd been reading. Her roommate, Jen, had come out of her bedroom.

            "Nope," said Annie. She glanced down at an article, something about how the Red was being politicized by the Demorats and Republicraps.

            "There's riots on the East Coast," said Jen, practically bouncing with ghoulish excitement. "They've called out the National Guard in New York and Massachusetts."

            "It's probably fake news," said Annie, giving a careless shrug.

            "Don't you have family in Boston?" asked Jen.

            "None I give a damn about."

            Annie's disinterest seemed to deflate Jen's mood. She sighed and flopped down on their threadbare couch. She picked up the television remote and flipped through the channels until she came to one of the newscasts.

            "Don't," said Annie. "Please. I am so sick of the news."

            "There might be some news about a vaccine," said Jen, teasingly. "I read Dolly Parton just donated a million bucks towards research."

            "Like the government's not already pouring money into research?"

            "Please." Jen waved a hand, dismissively. "Like politicians give a damn about the people dying."

            "They better. It's mostly old people. By the time the Red's through, the whole political landscape in the country could change."

            "I doubt it," said Jen. "People are stupid. They'll keep voting for the same stupid ass parties they've always voted for."

            "Yeah, but the people they're gonna be voting for will be different," said Annie. "How many senators and congressmen have died from the Red? All those old farts who refused to wear a mask or social distance are toes up in the grave. And it was mostly Republicraps."

            "So you think the Democrats are gonna come into power?"

            "I don't know," said Annie. "And I don't really care. I just want the fucking plague to be over with already. I want a week to go by without hearing that someone I know either has the Red or has died from it. And I want you to turn off the fucking news because if you don't I'm going to smash the fucking t.v., Jennifer."

            Annie's flat, cold delivery of the last few lines made Jen stare at her. She picked up the remote and switched to some telenovela.

            "Christ. Who pissed in your Wheaties?"

            "Look, it's just been a rough morning. Okay? I heard they've got rolling blackouts in California and I can't get in touch with Evita and I'm worried. Okay?"

            "It's cool," said Jen. "I'm sorry," she added, almost as an afterthought. "I'm sure Evita's fine. She's tough as leather."

            "Yeah, probably, but I'm still worried. What if there're riots on the West Coast? People are losing their shit, Jen."

            "It'll be okay. Cali people are more laid back than those numbnuts in the Northeast. They'll probably just sit back and smoke a joint or something."

            Annie snorted.  "Can you picture Evita sparking up a joint?"

            "No," admitted Jen. "I figured she'd be more into coke."

            Annie laughed.

Tales from the Red: Morning

            Evita Gerard woke to a hot, dark bedroom. The power had gone out. Again. She picked up her phone and glanced at the screen. Almost ten in the morning.

            She threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed. Her joints cracked and ached. She twisted her torso, right and left, then did a series of gentle knee-bends before walking to the bedroom window and opening the heavy curtains. Bright, hot sunlight flooded into the room, temporarily dazzling Evita.

            Outside the window, Walden Street was quiet and still. As Evita watched, a police drone buzzed down the street. When they'd first started deploying the drones, a few months back, they had been an odd sight. Now, they were just part of the new reality.

            Evita walked downstairs, not bothering to get dressed. What was the point? She was stuck at home, unable to work, until the power was fixed. The blackouts were becoming more common as the summer went on and housebound power consumption skyrocketed.

            Evita grabbed a bottle of KoffiWater from the fridge and stepped outside, onto her deck. She checked her phone for signal, but had no reception. The towers were down, which suggested the blackout was widespread. She could hear Mr. Yugo's generator purring softly down the street, and, once again, Evita thought about buying one of her own. Or maybe getting some solar panels. Lots of people were getting solar these days.

            She leaned against the deck railing and sipped her KoffiWater.

            "Hey, Vita."

            Wincing, Evita turned and saw her next door neighbor, Janice, standing on her own deck. They were separated by small yards and a head high wooden fence, but Janice had the kind of voice that carried.  She was dressed, as always, in gray slacks and a white blouse, as if she was about to rush out the door to work.

            "Good morning, Janice."

            "Did you hear about the Muncies?"

            Damnit, thought Evita. "No. What about them?"

            "They died," said Janice. "DOH carted them off this morning."

            "Was it the red?" asked Evita.

            "I think so. DOH has the whole house taped up."

            "Damn."

            "I know," said Janice. "It's so sad." Sympathy expressed, she segued into irritation. "Evelynn borrowed some Christmas decorations from me last year. How am I going to get them back?"

            "Do you really want them back?" asked Evita.

            "They were nice."

            "Just go online and buy some nice, new ones. Treat yourself, Jan."

            The light above her back door bloomed into life and Evita gave a quiet sigh of relief.

            "The power's back on," she called to her neighbor. "I've gotta go charge up my phone. See you later, Jan."

            She stepped inside before her neighbor could respond. Her phone trilled. Evita glanced down, saw a text from the government. Given the stress on the state's power grid, they were instigating rolling blackouts after sunset. More info would follow.

            Fuck, thought Evita and made a mental note to call Jerry Yugo and find out where he had bought his generator.

Abigail

I wrote this the other night, trying to write something more realistic than I usually do, something without violence or 'action.'  I don't think it's a bad character piece, but my biggest complaint is that the story doesn't really GO anywhere. 

Anyway, I thought I would share it here, with all of you, warts and all.  

The long dusty road seemed to stretch out forever before Abigail Hunter. The summer sun beat down on her thin, white hair but its heat didn't reach Abigail's bones. She pulled her sweater tighter around her thin shoulders, adjusted the canvas bag hanging over her back, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of another.

 Cherokee was at least two hours away by foot, and that was if she had stuck to the main roads. Taking these backroads, frequently crossing through pine forest, using the sun to guide her, was only adding more time to the journey.

Abigail had passed a few rural homes, eyed cars parked in dusty drives and in concrete carparks, but she had resisted the urge to check for keys. The police would already be looking for her. Why take unnecessary risks?

She'd taken a big enough risk filching a change of clothes from a wash line. If the laundress had come out and caught her, Abigail didn't like to think about what she'd have had to do.  Thankfully, that hadn't happened. She'd grabbed the clothes - ragged jeans and a weatherworn cotton shirt - stuffed them in the canvas garbage bag she'd walked off with, and walked into the nearest woods.

The house she'd stolen the clothes from had been isolated and there hadn't been any sign of a car, but the theft had set Abigail's heart to pounding in her chest. Adrenaline had surged through her veins, just like it had in the old days, and her hands had shook with excitement.  There had been no fear.

Abigail had changed clothes in the woods. She'd kept the crap shoes the prison had given her, although she swore if she found a decent pair of shoes just lying around, she'd take them at the first opportunity. She'd kept the underwear too, and her sweater, but she'd shucked out of the Day-Glo orange shirt and pants and stuffed them beneath a blackberry bush.

For a minute, she'd stood in the forest, the clear sky above her, blue as a robin's egg, the sun beating down, bright and hot. She'd felt as if she was reborn. Then she'd pulled on her stolen clothes and walked deeper into the woods.

As Abigail walked through the pines, she upended the canvas garbage sack they'd given her when they'd put her on trash detail. She had thought about throwing the sack away, but a good sack could be useful. Stuff it full of paper or leaves and it could be a pillow. Fill it with rocks and you could bludgeon somebody to death with it. So, she kept the sack.

She trudged on, putting one foot in front of the other. She left the forest and found herself on a back road. The road was old and cracked, filled with pot holes. It didn't look like it had been maintained in a long while and Abigail took that as a good sign.

Not many folks lived in this part of the county. The land was mostly pine forest with the occasional old house every few miles. Most of the houses weren't in any better shape than the road, and some were in worse. She passed one old house, sagging and dark, slowly being devoured by kudzu, that pernicious vine that Abigail's father had hated with a passion.

Abigail didn't like to think about her father. It put her in a bad mood. Made her feel all tight and queer inside, like a jack-in-the-box with a broken spring. There hadn't been much love between Abigail and her father, even before she had left home. Afterwards, whatever soft sentiments she'd had toward the man had evaporated.

A few years ago, the prison chaplain had asked to speak with Abigail. When she was sitting in his office, the chaplain had told her that her father had died. Passed on, as the chaplain had put it. Abigail had thought the expression made her father sound like a kidney stone and, behind her eyes, she had chuckled at the thought.

The chaplain had asked her if she wanted to talk. Abigail had said no, and she had gone back to work in the laundry. Afterwards, stuffing wet sheets into the big industrial dryers, Abigail had regretted not talking to the chaplain.  It would have gotten her out of work for at least a couple of hours.  Maybe the rest of the afternoon if she could have mustered up some crocodile tears.

The sky was darkening now, clouds drifting across the sun's face and a chill wind blowing from the east.  That wind smelt wet and Abigail didn't look forward to the thought of walking in a downpour.

The first cold drop of rain hitting her face made her shudder. She stepped off the road, back into the pine forest, looking for a tree to shelter under.

The sky was black now, filled with rain clouds. The few errant raindrops was turning into a steady curtain of cold water.  Abigail swore as she huddled beneath a tree. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.

She abandoned the tree and resumed walking, shoulders hunched against the rain and the wind.  Unexpectedly, she came across the ruins of a mobile home, abandoned in an overgrown lot, just off the worn road.

The door was open. The interior was dark and smelt of mold, but it had a roof that would keep the rain off of her. Abigail stepped inside and sat down on mouldering shag carpeting. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the interior of the trailer. It was a deceptively big space with a few old bean bag chairs kicked into one corner. The light gleamed off of empty beer cans and an abandoned box of condoms.

High school kids, thought Abigail. Probably used this place to party on the weekends, back in the day.

The rain pounded on the ceiling so loudly Abigail could hardly hear herself think. She stood and wandered around the trailer. In the tiny kitchen, she rattled empty drawers and opened dusty cabinets. She found a box of matches and thrust it into her pocket.

Part of the trailer's flooring had collapsed at the far end, where the bedrooms and bathroom had been. She didn't want to risk falling through the floor, or twisting an ankle, so Abigail returned to the front door. She sat and watched the rain fall in thick gray sheets. It didn't look like it would let up any time soon. Setteling in, to wait out the storm, she wondered where the police were looking for her.

Abigail knew she wasn't the only prisoner who had made a break for it when Fat Albert, their guard, had collapsed by the roadside.  She had seen a couple of the younger women high tail it down the road, as she stepped into the pine woods. Some of the other prisoners, the short-timers mostly, had clustered around the fallen man. Maybe they thought if they helped him, they'd get sprung early. That wasn't an option for Abigail.

The police would probably go after the younger women first. They'd probably think they were more dangerous. Probably.

But they were stupid. If they had vanished into the trees, like Abigail had, their escapes might have lasted longer. But three women running down the side of the road in Day-Glo orange prison work suits? They were probably already back in jail.

Which meant that the police would be focusing their attention on finding Abigail. They were probably underestimating her. After all, she was close to sixty years old. The cops probably thought she was a frail old lady. And, true, Abigail might not have been as strong as she was in her youth, but she was tough as old shoe leather. You couldn't last in the box if you weren't tough.

Abigail estimated that she'd probably covered about twenty miles before the rain had started. Even if the cops had brought in tracker dogs, her meanderings through the woods, along the edge of back yards and across highways and streams, would make tracking her harder. The rain would be a big help, washing away her scent.

All she had to do now was be smart. Avoid unnecessary risks until she reached Cherokee. There was a train yard in Cherokee. If she was careful, she could hop a freight train and put more distance between herself and the prison. And the longer she was free, the better her chances of getting away and not dying inside that damned box.

At some point during the storm, Abigail drifted into sleep, lulled by the drumming of the rain on the roof. When the rain stopped, the sudden silence woke her. She blinked, stared out the trailer's door, at a damp, moonlit world. She had no idea how long she had been asleep or what time it was. Her body was stiff and ached from the day's exertions, but Abigail ignored the small aches and pains.  She stood, stiffly, and stepped out of the trailer.

Cherokee was still a ways away, and traveling by night was no more dangerous to her than traveling by day. Slinging her canvas bag over her shoulder, Abigail resumed her journey westward by moonlight.

 

What Scares Me the Most

Tonight, I forgot the password to this blog.

I suppose I could blame it on the glass of wine I'm drinking. Or the general sense of fatigue I've been experiencing for the last two days.

Or perhaps, it's just because I'm getting older. My brain isn't functioning as efficiently as it used to do.

That scares me, gentle reader. Not the spectre of death. Dying happens. It will happen to you. It will happen to me.

No, what scares me is losing who I am. Losing my memories. Becoming some pathetic thing curled up on his side in a state hospital wearing adult diapers and not knowing what's going on from one moment to another.

Losing myself is what scares me the most. Not dying.W

Like the Best Songs Do

It's almost 7PM and I'm sitting at the kitchen table, listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees', Cities in the Dust. It's my favorite song of theirs and it takes me back to earlier days. Not necessarily better days, just earlier.

Honestly, I look back at myself in my twenties and just shake my head. I never got into Trouble (with a capital 'T'), but I did take part in some Shennanigans that I probably shouldn't talk about here, even a billion years later. Those were fun times and this song just takes me back, makes me want to dance around the kitchen table and remember old friends, like the very best song do. 

Sometimes I Fly

Sometimes, I fly

climbing into the sky

on jets of dreams

and pillars of smoky

imagination.

And that sky

that I fly to

is a wonder:

full of stars

and moons

and ringed planets,

like something from

a classic Smashing Pumpkins'

video.

And there are others there,

other dreamers,

other flyers,

riding winged giraffes

and pink zeppelins

and roaring, smoky rockets.

And we fly together,

throught that other sky,

starteling flights of 

neon birds and 

disapproving angels,

until dawn beckons

us home.

Gone but not forgotten

There's been no sign of the rodent in 24 hours, so I'm pretty sure he's gone. There aren't a lot of places he could be hiding in my bedroom, unless he's chewed his way into the sofa and is in Stealth mode inside the frame. And I think that's unlikely, because he probably would have emerged some time during the night to look for food or water. And the other doors that lead to the outside, the closet and the bath are all closed. I'm pretty sure he's gone.

But he is not forgotten. My roommate has placed a sinister looking rat trap in my closet. So, if the rodent, or, God forbid, any of his pals appear in there again, they will hopefully come to a fatal end.  

In any event, I slept in the room last night and things seemed normal. However, I didn't sleep all that well. I kept having odd dreams, waking up and going 'Huh?' or 'What the hell is that about?' all night.  As a result, I am a bit tired and grumpy today and my legs ache. I'm not sure what's going on with that.

And now, I'm going to get dressed and get on with my day.

Rat

 Last night, I was woken from my sleep by the sound of 'something.'  At first, I thought it was just the squirrels playing on the roof. But then the sounds persisted and they sounded like they were coming from inside my bedroom.

I got up and turned on the light, then proceeded to check out my room. Nothing. On a hunch, I opened my bedroom closet door and a goddamn RAT burst out of the corner. It ran through my bare feet and tried to hide in my bedroom. I pulled on some boots, grabbed a broom and hunted for the little bastard for 30 minutes. I couldn't get close enough to whack him (the little fucker was quick!), but I think I put the fear of god into him.

I popped upstairs to get the dog, and when we came back there was no sign of the rat. I did leave the bedroom door open so the little bastard might have escaped the room. But I was so damn twitchy, after hunting the thing for 30 minutes, that there was no way I was going to be able to sleep in that room that night.  I would think every sound I heard would be the rat, moving about, and I kept envisioning it climbing my bedclothes to exact its revenge. Ridiculous, I know, but I went upstairs with the dog and slept on the couch for the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told my roommate what happened. He was very blase about the whole thing. "I'll pick up some traps tonight." Afterwards, I searched the room again but still no sign of the rat. So, I'm pretty sure it made its escape when the door was open. (Hopefully.) 

I eventually crawled into bed again, and tried to get some more sleep with very mixed results.

When I come home tonight, if I hear or see the rat, I'm going to go sleep in the back of my car. And maybe start looking for a new place to live.

Sick Day

Bit sick today. A touch of stomach flu I think. Stayed home from work because I was up this morning puking my guts out. Lovely. 

Feeling a lot better now. Been drinking water as if it's about to run out and just finished some saltines and pedialyte.  Think I'm good enough to go to work tomorrow.

*fingers crossed*

What do you want? What do you need?

When we're children, we're often asked by adults what we want to be when we're grown up? The usual answer is some kind of profession. Fireman. Policeman. Soldier. Doctor. Dancer.

If someone asked me that question today, I don't know how I would answer it.

What do you want to be?

I don't know. Rich? Happy? Powerful? Younger? Healthier? Slimmer? Hairier?

You'll note that no profession entered into my answer. Because a job is not a goal. A job is a means to a goal. And I think everyone's goal should be something more intangible than physical.

I would like to be rich. A million dollars would suit me just fine.

I would like to be happy. Sometimes, I don't feel like I'm happy, just 'content.' Not the same thing.

I would like to be powerful. As in, I would like my voice to carry real weight with the world at large.

I would like to be younger. If I could turn back my personal odometer, I'd set it so my body is 23 and my mind is unaffected. (Oh the trouble I could get into!)

I would like to be healtheir. I'm doing okay, but there's always room for improvement en regards to health. Right?

I would like to be slimmer. Because I'm a bit vain and I think it would be nice not to have to struggle to find clothes that fit. I've come a long way in the last few years, but my weird girth can still be challenging.

I would like to have more hair. Again, this is all about vanity. I started to lose my hair when I was in my teens and now, well, throw me in a cassock and I could probably pass for a monk of some type. At least, in appearance. So it would be lovely to have a full head of thick, black hair again.

But, these are just things that I want. They aren't things that I actually need.

So, what do you need?

That's a good question and, beyond the obvious stuff like food, shelter, etc. I don't really know.

I suppose I should give it some thought.

The Perils of Tsundoku

The problem, when you finish reading one book, is that you must choose a new one to start. For most people that isn't a problem, but I, alas, am a victim/practicioner of tsundoku.  For those of you who don't know what that is, it's the practice of acquiring and stacking books that you intend to read at some future point.

I have several stacks of books, scattered about my bedroom. And I have absolutely no idea what to read next.

The current candidates are:

Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior by Chogyam Trungpa

The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi

and Magic Lessons by Alice Hoffman.

Any suggestions as to which to read next?

Nomadlife

 I just finished reading Nomadland by Jessica Bruder. I tried watching the movie, but the pace was fucking glacial and I got bored. So, while I was out the other day, I bought a copy of the book.

And you know what?  The book is better.

Shocker! Right?

Heh.

Anyway, the book is very interesting. In case you don't know, Jessica Bruder is a journalist who reports on the various subcultures in American society. In Nomadlife she focuses on the vanlifers, people who have chosen to live in vans and cars, to escape the crushing debt of 21st century life. Most of the people that Bruder interviewed and focused on were senior citizens, who seem to have lost everything through bad luck and the accumulation of debt. She focuses predominantly on the story of a woman named Linda May, who is in her sixties, when she becomes a vandweller.

I'll admit that this wasn't my first exposure to the whole vanlife experience. I know who Bill Wells is and I've seen younger vanlifers posting trendy videos on YouTube. Also, vanlife videos tend to get lumped in with the 'tiny house dwellers' in YouTube algorithm. Start looking at tiny houses and you'll eventually come across a video of someone living in their van.

Bruder's book, however, is a lot more honest than most of the videos. You get a strong sense that the people she's interviewed don't see themselves as victims. They see themselves as hacking the system, getting out of a rigged game that they just don't want to play any more. The vanlifers on YT are younge people who seem less genuine, in comparison, and more slick with their sponsored ads and curated content. More affected. Less real.

Overall, I'd recommend Nomadlife. It was a good read and I learned things that I did not know before I picked it up. It's scraped away a lot of the romanticism of living life in a vehicle, while portraying its interviewees, not as victims, but matter-of-fact pragmatists.

God Smiling

Sun shining so bright,

it was like God was smiling.

More days like this, please.

Books & Movies & Writing, oh my!

 I slept in today and it was nice. Because when I finally got up, the sky was gray and it was drizzling rain. Again. 

I am so tired of rain.

Thank heavens it eventually cleared up and the sun came out. It was the sun that drew me out of the house and along the streets, to one of the few bookstores left in my city. There, I bought a copy of Nomadland, the book that the recent movie is based upon. I tried watching the movie, mainly because I think Frances McDormand is an excellent actress, but found it far too slow and boring. I'm hoping that the book will be more engaging.

And, speaking of book, I have the urge to write something for the first time in ages. I've had incomplete works flitting about my head for a while, but I feel like I can maybe get something short down on paper. (Well, on screen. I haven't written anything on paper since my old electric typewriter packed it in, ages and ages ago.) So, I may have something new showing up on my Amazon Page in the future. *fingers crossed*

Less a Pleasure, More an Obligation

On Sunday evenings, I get together with a group of friends. We play games: tabletop RPGs, cards, board games.  It's generally a nice time and I usually look forward to it.

But today, the sun was out and the sky was clear and the thought of gaming just didn't inspire excitement or joy. Perhaps, because of the weather, game night felt less like a pleasure and more like an obligation.

And then, game night was cancelled. Two of the group weren't able to attend and our host wasn't feeling well. It was probably something he ate. So, all of a sudden, I have the night to myself.

And what do I do with this wonderful free time? I drive. I drive out to the overpriced book store in the fancy schmancy mall on the northeast side of town. I drive to a cool little gas station I know of that has the BEST hamburgers. And then, I drive home.

And now I'm sitting in my bedroom, on a second-hand couch that is super-comfy. I've showered and my scalp is still a bit damp. The lights are off and I have a couple of candles burning, as well as some lotus incense.

And I'm sitting here, typing this, feeling cozy and warm and generally content.

There are worse ways to spend a Sunday night.

Sunny and clear and DRY!

 I'm writing this at work, which is weird and I feel like I should be hurrying even though I'm actually a partner in the business and not an actual employee. But it's been a pretty good day so far, even if I am doing a water fast. Plus, the weather is nice (sunny and clear and DRY!) which is a nice bonus.

Hope y'all are having a good day!

Tired

 It's been a long, tiring day.  So y'all will please excuse me for not writing anything tonight? I just want to take a shower and maybe go to bed early. 

A Sad Day :(

Today is a sad day for me.  This morning, I received word that my friend, J. Tuberski, had passed away. I am not entirely surprised by this news as Tuberski had a history of heart/circulatory problems. He was about 7 feet tall and I'm told that very tall people often have similar issues. I know that he was on a plethora of blood pressure related medications.

It's been a while since we spoke, but we would email quite a bit.

I'm sad, but I'm doing okay. I'm sitting here, thinking about my friend and remembering his life. I think he had a good one. I think he enjoyed his life. I think that the one thing that would have made his life better is if he could have found a quality lady to share it with. I think he would have liked to have been a husband and father.

My friend is gone now and I will miss him. But I take comfort in the fact that he had a good life that he seemed to enjoy. I hope his passing was gentle.

Goodbye, Tuberski.

Boozy Writers Withering Away in Unheated Garrets

It occurs to me that when I write poetry, I am seldom inspired by anything 'bright' and 'good.' I usually write when I'm feeling down or angry. Negative emotions seem to fuel those particular creative fires, and so I wonder if I need a more stressed and negative environment to write anything at all?  It's an interesting question, at least from my point of view. And if it's true, it might explain that old trope of the boozy writer whithering away in an unheated garret.

If there is any truth to it then I'm afraid I won't ever be a successful write. I enjoy comfort far too much to sacrifice it for 'art.'

Does that make me weak? Or sensible?

Apple Whiskey and Nina Simone

 I'm sitting here this evening sipping apple whiskey and listening to Nina Simone.  I should feel very chill right now but I don't. I feel restless, like I should get up and go run around the neighborhood. Or get in my car and just drive into the night and see where the road takes me.

It's not a great feeling.

Annie Lennox was too right....

The rain never ends.

It falls in sheets of gray doom.

I'm ready for sun.

Yes. In case you can't tell, it's been raining cats and dogs here for the last three days and I am sooooo over it. I'm more over the rain than I am of the pandemic. 

Still, it could be worse.

At least, I don't live in Texas.

Valentine's Day

I don't like Valentine's Day.

I don't think I ever really did.

Even back in grade school, it felt like a chore, like a lie. You had to get a valentine card for everyone in the class, even the kids that you didn't like.

As time went by, thankfully, that ridiculous ritual came to an end. You could pick and choose who you showed your affections to on the day.

And that's my biggest problem with it. A lot of people wait until Valentine's Day to show the person they care about that they care in a deliberate, meaningful way.

There are 364 other days of the year when you could give someone flowers, or candy, or take them out for a nice dinner.

Valentine's Day is kind of a day for thoughless assholes making a token gesture of affection.

February 12

 I hate February 12th. It's always been a bad day for me and today doesn't look like it's going to be any better this year.

Over Time

Over time

grief cracks,

like ice,

like glass.

Over time,

memories fade,

like a painting

left in the sun.

But we cling

to the grief,

to the memory,

because the heart

is treasonous

and wants

what it wants.

Over time,

the traitor heart

looses its grip,

memories fade,

grief slips away,

and we are left

with only the

vague impression

of loss.

Over time,

things get better,

even if the end of grieving,

feels like betrayal,

and tastes of ash.

Vampire Dreams

Last night, under the influence of either vodka or fruit, I dreamed of vampires. The dream was set in Washington D.C., during the 1990s, and the vampires were mainly hotel staff, concierges and the like. They were established and friendly, and a bit put out by the arrival of a new group of vampires that called themselves the Golden Mob.

Honestly, I would try to write this down as a story, but I don't think I could do it justice. The dream felt like it wasn't mine, as if I had somehow tapped into something dreamed by Hunter S. Thompson or Terry Pratchett. It was very peculiar and I woke up this morning feeling unsatisfied that I never learned the resolution of the conflict with the Golden Mob.

(I must admit that I LOVE the name Golden Mob for a group of vampires.)

Drunk

 So, I have had a bottle of vodka and some lemonade and I am quite drunk as I write this. Please forgive any mispellings because, well, I'm smashed off my tits.

I suppose that I shouldn't be writing at all, but I have said I 'm going to write something here every day for a year. So, this is what I'm writing. If you don't like it, go read someone else's blog. Ha!

Why do I drink? Well, why shouldn't I drink? Why shouldn't we all have a drink? It can be relaxing and it can release our inhibitions so tha we say what's on our minds without that pesky editor in the way. Honestly, when I drink, I think I become more truthful. Also, horny. Booze just seems to set off my libido in a way that wine does not.

Sadly, I am meant to get up tomorow and take my friend out to do his laundry. Thank God we have scheduled this for later in the afternoon, because the morning is going to be completely out of the question. Honestly, 2PM might be too fucking early. Ha!

Anyway, here is today's entry. Enjoy. If you have some booze in your house, pour yourself a glass and join me in a virtual slug. 

I shall talk with you all tomorrow.

Rodentia

 I'm sitting in the living room, which I normally don't do, writing this. Normally, I stay downstairs in my bedroom because it's cozy and private. But today the house is empty and my room feels weirdly oppressive.

As I sit here, I can hear some critter running around in the attic above my head. We have rats up there, according to my roommate/landlord, and he is currently waging a protracted war upon them. He has used traps that snap and has advanced to poison. (Obviously, the poison isn't working because I can hear the critters scampering about. But then, I don't think the traps have been very effective either.)

There's supposedly a mouse in the kitchen as well, but he thinks he got that one. (I didn't have the heart to tell him that where there's one mouse, there's bound to be others.)

So far I haven't seen any sign of rodents downstairs. If they do invade my little area of the house, I may have to take steps of my own to knock off the little buggers.

But for now, I'm content to let J handle the matter.

For now.

Thoughts on Overindulging

 I ate to excess last night and I deeply, DEEPLY regret it this morning.  Which makes one wonder why we do it in the first place? I'm sure I'm not the only person in the world who knows they're having too much, that they should stop, but they just keep on going.  Is there some neural circuit in our brain that doesn't close? Are we, on some level, petty masochists? It makes one wonder.

Getting Older is Weird

Getting older is weird.

Last night it was 34 degrees outside. Rainy. Windy.

Inside, I was sweating beneath my blankets, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable.

Apparently, I have reached that stage of life where my body temperature becomes somewhat erratic. It is most irritating at night, as I'm trying to sleep.

I've learned to go to bed wearing layers. And if I get hot, I take something off until I'm comfy.

Of course, inevitably, I get chilly but I don't put layers back on. I refuse to do that. Don't ask me why. Call it willfullness or capriciousness on my part. I don't know. But instead of putting clothes back on, I'll just huddle beneath the blankets until I go back to sleep.

Getting older is weird.

Prayers

Who do you pray to?

Whoever will listen.

What do you pray for?

Whatever I want.

What if you don't get what you ask for?

Then I don't get it.

What if you do get what you ask for?

Then the world changes.

Worse Ways to Spend Ones Time

This evening I finished reading Sir Terry Pratchett's Guards! Guards!

I've read it before, more than once, as with most of the Discworld books, but this time I reread it as a reaction to having watched the terrible BBC America show The Watch.  It's a fantasy show 'based' upon Sir Terry's books and focusing on the characters from the Ank-Morpork City Watch.  Sadly, the only thing the show has in common with the books, are names. Everything else is different and just bad. (You know something is Truly Awful when a word is not only italicized but italicized in BOLD.)

After watching The Watch I wanted to cleanse my mental palate. So I've reread Guards!Guards! and enjoyed it immensely. That's the nice thing about good books that bear up over time. When you return to them, as you inevitably do, reading them is like visiting with beloved old friends. It was nice to meet Captain Vimes, Sgt. Colon, Nobby, Carrot and Lady Sybil again for the first time. And I had completely forgotten about Lord Vetinari and the rats. (I don't believe Sir Terry ever did anything else with that in other books. Did he?)

The only problem is that, now I have the horrible urge to go and reread all the other Discworld books. Including the later ones where Sir Terry got a bit preachy and heavy-handed.

I suppose there are worse ways to spend ones time.

Nothing to see here...

 I have no idea what to write today so I shall not write anything. :P

The Girl in the Ashes

I built a shrine to you,

to praise you,

to raise you up,

and you ignored it.

Until I set it afire,

catching your eye,

your pyromaniac's heart.

You wanted to know,

"What will you do next?"

But I just walked away,

leaving you with nothing

but ashes.

Making the best of what I've got.

Today is Candlemass. 

Or Imbolc. 

Or St. Brigid's Day. 

Or the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple.

Or the Festival of Torches.

Whatever you want to call it.

At the moment, we're in a liminal space, the dreamtime between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. 

Once upon a time, people would use the weather on this day to predict the coming of spring. If the day was clear and sunny, winter would linger. However, if the day was overcast and rainy, it meant that spring was on the way.

If that's the case, then spring is definitely on the way for me.  It's been pissing down rain here all day. The back yard is drenched.

No worries, though. I have sequestered myself in my bedroom with a bottle of Italian sparkling wine, some lit candles, fragrant incense and good music.

So, even if the weather outside is crappy, the environment inside is quite lovely.

I'm making the best of what I've got.

I suppose there are worse lessons to take away from this particular day.

One step forward, two steps back.

I'm sitting here, watching Classic Doctor Who, and feeling like I'm twelve.  When I was twelve, Saturday nights usually consisted of soda, chips and watching Doctor Who and Blake's 7 on my local PBS channel. Back then, PBS didn't censor the shows. I saw my first boobs while watching Riley: Ace of Spies.  Nowadays, whoever's running my local PBS channel pixelates risque pictures in the background. The less said about how they edit some of the shows the better.

To me, it seems stupid and wasteful. It costs money to edit content. Money that I'm sure could be put toward better things than protecting the ridiculous oversensitivies of a bunch of prudes. I could understand if the nudity and language were tasteless, but we're talking PBS here, not Cinemax.

It just seems to me, lately, that, as our society takes a tentative step forward, we're then forced to take two steps back.

It's all very frustrating.

Sleep like the proverbial dead...

 I think I'm coming down with a cold. And since you're supposed to feed a cold and starve a fever, I have bought a box of crackers and a bottle of wine and will feed my cold into the ground. Also, I have a nice scented candle burning and some incense, so my bedroom smells wonderfully relaxing, of coconut and lavender.  I imagine between the scents and the wine, I shall sleep like the proverbial dead tonight.

Gluttony

The chips were tempting.

I have no one else to blame.

The bag is empty.

Happiness

Happiness 

Is a bird in a cage,

Built in the darkest

Chamber of 

The heart,

Beating its wings,

Desperate to escape

Into the light.

Wavering between visibility and invisibility.

I spent part of today wandering around a lake, and the other part reading The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.  It was a good day. 

I have scrambled out of the weeds, mostly, and feel more like my ordinary self. Fresh air and good books can do that.

Sometimes, I feel like the main character in The Invisible Life....  Sometimes, I feel like I'm passing through the world, not leaving any evidence of my existence, not even an impression in the minds of the people I interact with. Sometimes, I feel like I'm unseen and unheard, unrecognized and forgotten. 

I used to think, sometimes, that it would be nice to live apart from the rest of the world. To live alone, just enough out of phase with the rest of reality, that I was able to interact with it, but not be a part of it. A solid ghost, haunting empty hotel rooms, helping myself to whatever I wanted with no thought of the consequences. 

There are some days that I still imagine that existence, but they are few and far between. I don't want to be invisible any longer.

I don't want to be apart from the world.

But I don't know, truthfully, if I want to be a part of the world either.

So I think I exist, sort of, in the twilight spaces between those two. A perceptible phantom, wavering between visibility and invisibility.

Unnoticed until I speak in a voice like thunder.

In the Weeds...

I have Seasonal Affective Disorder. November and December were not great months, but then things got better. Yesterday and today, however, I've found myself 'in the weeds.' 

I don't want to be around anyone. I don't want to do anything. I just want to lie in bed, in a dark room, and eat cake.

So, naturally, I'm going to get in my car and hit the road for a couple of days.

No destination in mind.

Nothing planned.

Maybe I'll just find a nice, quiet hotel and hold up for a couple of days in the dark.

STORY: Estelle Begins Her Day

 Estelle gets on the train, with earbuds firmly in place, gripping her pad in gloved hands. The train has been uncomfortably chilly lately. No one seems to know why, but the people in charge promise that they're looking into it.

She takes a seat, next to a window, and settles in for the ride to City Center.  This morning her earbuds are playing something soothing and classical. It doesn't do much to improve her mood, but the music is like a cacoon, protecting Estelle from interaction with her fellow passengers.  

The screen of her pad glows and she taps at its interface with gloved fingers. She reads the headlines, letting the words wash over her, not really caring about what happens a million miles away. Unrest in Russia. Famine in Africa. Sexual shennanigans involving politicians and celebrities. None of it matters to her, not directly.

As the train approaches City Center, the car fills. A man sits next to Estelle. He's wearing a bright, puffy coat and fuzzy orange gloves that match his hat. He smells like citrus. Like Estelle, he is armored against the crowd with earbuds and a pad. Estelle glances at his screen, like you do, and sees that he's reading some kind of manga. 

The car is quiet. No one talks to anyone else. Somewhere in the back someone is using old-fashioned headphones and their music-of-choice is leaking into the surrounding air.  Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper. Estelle adjusts the volume of her earbuds to drown it out.

Close to City Center, you get more foreigners boarding the train. You can always spot them. They're so short. There's more of them every year. Sometimes, in her darker moments, Estelle feels like they're being invaded. Sometimes, she wishes they'd stay at home, but then she remembers the news of unrest and famine and general stupidity and realizes these people are probably trying to get the hell away from all of that. 

She still doesn't like them.

Finally, the train arrives at City Center. Estelle rises and departs. The train station is crowded. People flow like water around ticket kiosks and hot food machines. Estelle never buys food in the station.  A friend told her the stuff in the machines is close to expiration, so unless she wants to risk food poisoning, its best to avoid it.  Most people either don't know this or don't care. The line for hot food is long.

Estelle takes the escalator up from the depths. The station is chilly. The surface is warm. At the gates to the station, Estelle always pauses to take a deep breath and open her coat. The city sprawls around her, beneath the Dome. Through its transparent material, Estelle can see the familiar red skies of Mars. 

She draws a deep breath, inhaling the complex aroma of the enclosed city. A mix of ozone, body stink, spices and incense. The streets are crowded. Estelle slips into the flow, already planning to grab a coffee from the Starbucks down the street.  It might make her late opening, but she decides she doesn't care. What's the point of being your own boss, if you can't do what you want?

Her earbuds pick up on the change in her mood. They switch from soothing classical to poppy jazz, and Estelle begins her day.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

Sunday morning. 

Sun shining.

Aretha singing.

RESPECT.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

There's a lesson there.

Learn it.

The Needs of the Many Outweigh the Needs of the Few

I am so fucking tired of masks and mask policies and the pandemic and virus-deniers and just the general tomfoolery and stupidity that have been demonstrated during the past year. It does not give me hope for the future of our species and just makes me glad that I've never had children. Honestly, I think I would just be worried and furious all the time if I did have kids. 

People just seem to have lost the most basic vestiges of common decency and courtesy. Everyone wants to do their own thing and damn the consequences to others. I think they're calling this mindset 'toxic individualism.' 

I've never heard a description that was so apt and true.

Sometimes, I get tired.

Sometimes, I get tired.  I get tired of everything. My job. My friends. My family. My life.

Sometimes, I just want to climb into my car and ride off into the sunset. More importantly, I want to drive away from my life. From the weariness of it all.

But I know that it's just the tiredness making me think that way. 

And I have to remind myself that tiredness passes.

I'm tired of being tired.

Like a parent's harsh word...

Fatigue.

It sinks into your bones,

like a brick,

like all the weight of the world.

Like a parent's harsh word,

or a friend's condemnation.

Fatigue.

It weighs us down,

like lead,

like false gold,

like the thought of death.

Fatigue.

Thoughts on the Future

Today, here in the United States,we have a new President. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a bit relieved. I sincerely hope that, as of tomorrow, all the disparate factions within our country can begin to search for common ground and come together in a spirit of reconcilliation. 

I hope so.

Somehow, though, I doubt it will happen. At least, not for a time. 

The Breakup

Blows striking like raindrops.

Words cutting like swords.

Hearts beating.

Hearts breaking.

What the hell's it for?

Sun vs. Moon

I never write about the Sun. I just prefer the Moon. It's probably because I've always been more a night person than a day person. And I am NEVER, by any stretch of the imagination, a morning person! (Unless I'm reaching the morning because I've been up all night.)

Also, I'm fairly pale and whenever I spend time in the sun I burn. I have never managed to get a suntan in my entire life. Actually, I've never understood people who want to get suntanned. Why not just say, "Hey, I wanna get skin cancer! And look like an alligator bag when I'm older!"

No. You can keep the Sun. You can keep the day. I'll stay with the Moon and the night. And when we meet, it can be at dusk and dawn. 

The Red King & The Cheshire Cat

The Red King ran around the room,

his manner all aflutter.

His servants and advisors,

clearly heard him utter:

"The day is long,

the night is cold,

where is the fun in that?

Let's turn the night

and day around,

and seek the Cheshire Cat!"

So the court gathered,

and searched the castle,

seeking the Cheshire Cat,

but all they found was

a note inside a strangely-striped

top-hat.

"The Red King's mad,

and that's too bad,

for all your kith and kin.

You should be mad,

'cause you've been had,

you imbecilic men!"

That's when the people knew,

the Cat was right,

and the Red King was insane,

but better to humor 

the mad king's whims,

than try to take the reigns.

So they ignored the Cat,

and served their king,

with loyalty and zeal,

and when he had their heads

lopped off,

not a one of them 

could squeal.

The Dark of My Soul

Tonight, there's no moon.

The sky is as black as pitch.

and so is my mood.

I do not know why.

This mood just takes me sometimes,

and I am helpless.

It just pulls me down,

into the depths of my soul.

A poisonous place.

Lack of Inspiration

Today has been long and tiring and I cannot think of anything to write about. Inspiration refuses to come and my efforts to produce something for this blank, white screen have come to naught.

This is, too often, a significant portion of a writer's life.

Or, at least, a significant portion of my writing life.

So I'm not even going to try tonight, I'm just going to write this and then go watch something vapid and brain-deadening on one of the 3 billion streaming services that have replaced cable t.v.

Here's hoping tomorrow's post will be more interesting.

Trinkets

When I was younger, I never wore jewelry. No rings or necklaces or bracelets. I've never really worn a watch consistantly, and, in fact, have only owned one timepiece in my entire life.

So it is a little amusing that I have now begun to accumulate ncklaces and bracelets. I'm not sure why I've suddenly taken to them at this point in my life. Maybe because I don't tend to think of them as decoration. I don't wear them where people can see them. I wear the bracelets and the pendants for myself, as reminders of whatever mood or strength that I feel I'll need that day.

If I think I'm going to need to maintain my calm, I'll wear my ohm pendant. If I wake up and I'm striving for balance, internal and/or external, I'll wear my ying-yang pendant.  The pentacle and the ankh I wear when I'm feeling spiritual or a need to connect with something bigger and higher than myself. I wear the nordic serpent pendant when I feel I'll need my wits about me.

Some days, I don't feel the need to wear any of them. I just sail out the door, confident in myself and my abilities. Other days, I stand by the bedside table and dither over which pendant is the right one to wear today? Sometimes, I think I'd like to get a chain with empty hooks that I can attach multiple symbols to, as needed. Feeling spiritual but unbalanced? Fasten the anke and the ying-yang symbol to the chain and maybe wear the Buddha bracelet.

The bracelet I wear, when I wear any, depends on my instincts. I'll usually pair the Buddha beads with the ohm pendant.  The shiny black hematite usually goes along with the pentacle and the ankh. The green bead bracelet (whose name completely escapes me) is generally worn by itself.

In a way, I suppose my jewelry has become a bit like invisible armor. Some days, I just feel more secure when I'm wearing them.

Don't ask me why? I don't have any idea why I feel like that. Maybe it has something to do with getting older? The realization that these pendants are functioning more like amulets or talismans, evoking parts of myself that I haven't really needed to draw upon, until now?

I don't know. All I know is that I feel better when I wear my trinkets.

All that said, I'm still not into rings.

Or watches.

World Media Fast

Sometimes, I think the world would be a better place if all the screens in the world went dark for three days. Not forever, mind you (because I am addicted to YouTube as everyone else), but just long enough for everyone to take a deep breath and relax. Just long enough for the noise we are constantly surrounded by, generated by social media and cable news networks,  to die down and let us hear ourselves and, perhaps more importantly, the people around us.

I think that might be a good thing.

Thoughts on Death

Death is not proud.

Death does not hesitate because the ground is muddy or the weather is bad.

Death, like the mail, serves in all weathers and climes and circumstances.

Death is not cruel.

Death is not kind.

Death just is.

Death is the door that we all must walk through some day.

Death is the partner we all must dance with at the end of the evening.

Death is waiting for us all, at the crossroads, to take our arm and show us the way.

Death doesn't frighten me, not really, because I believe there is something beyond this Life.

Dying frightens me, sometimes, and I hope my passing is not filled with pain or confusion.

I hope that, when I die, I slip gently from this existence into the other, passing with a sigh and not a whimper.

And when I do, Death will be there, and we'll link our arms, perhaps, and wander down a midnight road into a moonlit garden, where all my loved ones wait for me.

And I will be at peace.

Bread & Circuses

Bread and circuses.

That is what they offer us.

We starve for the truth.

Thoughts on a Life

In case you couldn't tell from yesterday's post, I have had a birthday.  Today, I am in my fifties.

But what does that mean? I read somewhere that entering one's fifties is akin to entering one's twenties, only with less time ahead of you to correct the mistakes you're bound to make.

That's not a comforting thought, gentle readers.

It really isn't.

Although, looking back, I have to admit that my life in my twenties was actually quite good. A fair number of formative experiences occurred for me during my twenties. Perhaps, chief among them, my resolution to never fall in love again.

But that's a post for another time. A time involving a great deal of liquor and digging up some old, private and terribly unpleasant memories.

Today, I'm thinking about the future. Or my present, if you like.

What does it mean to be in your fifties? What milestones should a person have reached by this age?

I don't know. 

I've owned a home and sold it off because it wasn't for me.

I've sat down and thrown my hat into the world of competative independant authorship. 

I've changed careers and invested in a business that, I feel, brings people not only great joy, but also can help establish the moral centers of young readers.

I've traveled back and forth across the nation, from Alaska to Florida, from the West Coast to the East Coast and into Canada. (Lovely people, Canadians. So very nice, and I don't mean that in any kind of pejorative or dismissive sense.)

So, I've done all those things and more. Am I stepping into my fifties with a lot of spaces marked off on my Life Bingo card? I don't know.  I've done things other people haven't, just as others have done things I haven't.

I guess the big question is, do I feel as if I've had a fulfilling life? 

I'd say, for the most part, about 99%, that I have.

I am content with my lot. Perhaps too content.

Am I ready for the future?

I don't know.

I suppose we'll just have to wait and see what's next. :)

Birthday Wishes

Candles on a cake,

flickering against the dark

and holding wishes.

You draw a deep breath,

then exhale like a dragon,

snuffing out the flames.

The wishes blossom,

unspoken so they might work

their special magic.

All it costs is time

and your continued silence

regarding your wish.

The birthday magic

runs strange and strong, deep and true.

Don't speak. Don't spoil it.

Charitable Thoughs

This evening, as I was leaving the grocery store, a woman seated on an electric scooter outside the exit asked if I could help her. Normally, I would have shaken my head and kept on walking to my car. Tonight, I stopped and spoke to this woman.

She told me a story. About how she and her family had come down from Virginia and lost everything in a house fire, and the only thing keeping them going was prayer and the kindness of strangers.

Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it was the truth.

I don't know.

I gave her five dollars, and walked to my car, wondering if I had been fooled. And then I started to wonder why I was thinking like that.

Regardless of the truth, whatever it may be, that woman was sitting outside in the cold, rainy night asking for help. 

So I helped her.

Call me a fool if you want, or an enabler, or whatever. I gave someone in the cold a little bit of cash. Maybe she'll spend it on booze, or maybe she'll spend it on food or rent.

Maybe what I should have been wondering, as I drove home, is why we live in a world where people who need help have to beg?

Shame

The Moon hides her face,

ashamed by our spectacle.

I cannot fault her.

The Ordinary

It feels odd to write about normal things. I'm so used to digging for the fantastic and the bizarre that I sometimes overlook the common things that lie around me. Like the afghan on my bed. It's all brown and cream zigzags, made by my grandfather. He took up crochet after my grandmother passed away, I think as a way to just fill the time.

I tend to gloss over the ordinary stuff, because some part of me always things that normal = dull. And I don't want my writing to be dull. So I wind up writing about things that aren't ordinary. I write about girls who fall through mirrors into strange wonderlands or boys who walk through enchanted doors into whole, other lives.  I don't write about the postal worker, so tired after a shift that all he wants to do is go home, have a beer and hang out with his bulldog on the couch while watching Antiques Roadshow. I don't generally write about the retail clerk or the auto mechanic or the retiree who are just living quiet, ordinary lives because to me they just don't spark my imagination.

It doesn't mean that oridinary people aren't worth writing about. It's just that I don't like writing about ordinary stuff because I think I'm bad at it.

And we are our own worst critics. Aren't we?

But who knows? Maybe this year, I'll write about someone or something ordinary. Stranger things have happened.

Nomads

Sometimes, there would be gatherings. A camp would spring up, in the desert, at the base of a mountain, along a stretch of rocky river. For some reason, they seldom happened in forests. 

The nomads would arrive. Some came on foot, others arrived in dusty cars or rebuilt vans. 

They would come from places as mundane sounding as Springfield, and from places as exotic as Sault Ste. Marie.

Sometimes, nomads would come from places further away. The Hollow Earth. Ancient Mu. Arcturus. These nomads would stand out in the crowd, at least at first. But after everyone sat around the fire and traded a few stories, maybe shared out some beers, they would just be ordinary folks.

And no one cared, really, if the person sitting next to  you wore a dinosaur-leather jacket, or wore a cloak of dusty feathers or had a third eye. Everybody was just folks. Everybody was just drawn in by the road, by that unnameable wanderlust all the nomads shared.

For a day or three the camp would exist. The gathering would metamorphoze into something akin to a community.

It would not last. Everyone knew it wouldn't. No one ever expected it to last. But for the time that it did, it gave the nomads a strange sense of belonging, of having found their tribe as they wandered.

And, eventually, the gathering would end. The pull of the road would become too strong and the nomads would pack up their belongings and be on their way to the next destination. Maybe Salt Lake City or Miami or the Gates of Paradise.

And the last person to leave, the lingering soul, might stand by the remnants of their campfire, looking toward the horizon and feeling something throb in their chest, in their souls. And they would smile and gather their things and answer the siren-song of the road, looking for adventure or peace or something only they could name.

Cleanliness

They say that cleanliness is next to godliness, but I've been cleaning all morning and don't feel particularly deified. I just feel a bit drained. And relaxed. And pleased with myself. My bathroom has never looked cleaner (as long as you don't examine the corners too closely).  

And a bit repulsed, if I'm honest, at the sheer amount of dust and hair that seems to accumulate in a month. I only clean once a month. What? Any more often just feels ridiculous to me. And this is an improvement. When I lived alone, in Alaska, I only cleaned three times a year, with the changing of the seasons: Autumn, Winter and Construction. There's no such thing as Spring and Summer in Anchorage, Alaska, only Construction, when the roads are clear enough, and thawed enough, to tear up in prepartion of new potholes.

But I clean more regularly now, and, I enjoy it. I'm one of those weirdos who actually doesn't mind scrubbing down a toilet or a shower. I feel, in a small way, as if I'm putting the world to rights. And when I'm done, I'm done for a month.

Probably the worst thing about cleaning today was the amount of spiders that I've encountered. Is there some Great Spider Migration that I'm unaware of, because I kept running across the buggers as I cleaned. Small ones. Tiny ones. One scary looking one that I immediately squashed. (I have a very firm rule re the wildlife in my bedroom; if I don't see them, they get to live, but if I see them, THEY DIE.) 

But now the cleaning is done. The bathroom smells of glass cleaner, Formula 409 and Oxi-Clean. Astringent, comforting smells.

I'm sat on the couch in my bedroom, with a stick of sweet smelling incense burning, and all seems right with the world.

No, I don't feel very deified, at the moment, but I do feel comfy and content. I suppose that's just as good, if not better.

First Light

The first light arrives,

the herald of a new day,

bringing new choices.

The Moon

The silver Moon glowed with light

as it sailed across the Sea of Night.

Her sails were cobwebs, fine and gray,

her passengers and crew all drunk and gay.

Happy New Year

 Happy New Year, gentle readers.

I have a confession to make.  I've been feeling a bit blah lately about writing anything. Because of that, I haven't posted anything to the blog in ages. The things I have posted were prepped a while ago or were previously posted.

I'm not satisfied with that, which is why I am going to try and write something for this blog every day for the next year. 365 days.

Please, don't expect epic stories or anything like that. This is me trying to get my creative juices flowing again. You can probably expect blog posts about my day, what's going on in my life, perhaps some short fictions, probably some poetry. At some point, I will be writing more Lux Tenebrous write-ups, and maybe some more short fiction set in that world.

But, for the moment, right now, you can probably expect stuff like this.

So, what's next?

I suppose we'll have to wait and see. But I hope you'll come along for the ride.