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.