I’m having a really bad day today.

A really, really bad day.

This whole weekend has been for shit.  I should have hospitalized myself for the weekend via horrific ramen-cooking “accident” rather than be at home and online and available by cell phone for all the bogodish drama, extremely out-of-control disagreements-cum-arguments, and just generally ridiculous fucking crap that I have been subjected to (though I must say that I gave out a fair amount of it myself, once I let other people stress me out too much and over-frustrate me) this weekend.

Why I am even writing here?  Nobody reads this and nobody fucking cares.  Not anymore.

Back in the box with me; it was nice to try and reach out and not be lonely, but ultimately, it only leads to more pain.

I’m going to tell you a story.

Here’s the first part, as I wrote it years ago:

Americana.

Fifty-two.

She’s his dream.
Her unbelievably long legs,
shallow-sea blue eyes,
luscious lips. . .
yes, she is his dream;
tonight,
he will have her again.

He was the first
to feel her inside;
she’d been saving herself
for whoever she married,
but he’d changed that.
Besides,
no matter how much he dreamed,
they could never marry.
The age difference
was far too great,
and the administration frowned
(a big pink-slipped frown)
on security guards
being intimate with students.
Plus,
his wife might object.

She jumps when she sees him
patrolling the campus,
and usually runs away. . .
she’s so shy.
He had to help her
overcome her shyness
when they were first together.
He’d had to take control
and give her
what she knew
she wanted,
but would never, never,
let herself have.
That first time had been so good,
so hot,
that her sweaty, struggling,
beautiful body
had been all he could want,
could think of, could dream about.
He’d called her last night,
to let her know
he’d be working tonight
and that he’d come by her dorm
so that they
could be together again.
He remembered
the quiver of joy in her voice;
soon, he’d have
his longtime dream again.

Near midnight,
the campus is dead,
so he gudies the patrol car
towards her dorm.
There she is,
his dream woman,
standing outside,
looking as beautiful. . .
wait.
She’s talking to someone.
Who is that?
That’s, oh,
that’s what’s-his-name.
Psych student,
just like she is.
Are they friends?
Are they. . .more?
He drives by
with just a nod and wave;
he smiles a little
when she jumps.
But that other guy. . .
What’s that look
on his prettyboy face?
He drives on, undaunted.
He can come back later.

Two hours later,
he comes back.
She isn’t outside,
but something in his mind
makes him drive around the building
just to be sure
that what’s-his-name is gone.
Looks pretty clear. . .
hold on,
what’s that?
Someone’s under her window,
hidden in the shadows. . .
Wait, he thinks,
that’s. . .I know him.
That guy is well-known
to campus security;
hell, that guy
works for them sometimes.
That guy jokes sometimes
that he’s better armed
than the security people;
he’s sometimes seen walking
carrying a real katana.
Beats hell out of a Mag-Lite.
But what’s he doing there?
Does he know. . .
Oh shit.
Does that guy know
about him and his lover?
That guy would make trouble.
That guy knows
the administration well.
It can’t be. . .
but what if it is?

He drives on,
not knowing what to do.
Finally, it becomes clear:
he has to give her up.
He has to let his dream go,
and hope his secret love
is not made public.
He feels fear,
but tries to hide it
as he does his job.

By the end of the semester,
she is gone,
transferred to another school.
He is gone as well,
on to another town,
another job.
He works, eats, sleeps,
lives with his wife,
and moves on
from that hidden dream.
Not one single time
does he think of himself
as a rapist.

©PCB 2001

So, now the second part.

After I found out what had been going on (the young lady in question didn’t tell me why she wanted me there at the time), I felt, well, pretty damn good about being able to help her and keep that bastard away from her.  I felt good about that for a while. . .

. . .until I told my mother.

She admonished me for getting involved, for putting myself at risk, for not just minding my own business and getting involved in other people’s problems.  It was stupid and dangerous of me, she said, and I shouldn’t do anything like that ever again, I should always just stay out of other people’s problems and not get involved like that.

Despite being poor, unfavorably compared to other students by her, and my being largely unhappy growing up, I had never, until that moment, been actually ashamed of my mother.  But right then, I was.  I wondered how we could even be related, the differences between us felt so great.  I resolved then and there to never tell her again of any good deeds that I did, and I’ve kept that promise so far.

I do wonder sometimes what it for my mother to ever tell me that she is proud of me. . .other than making six figures, which isn’t likely anytime soon.  The things I am proudest of about myself, that I am generous and giving and helpful whenever and whereever I can be, are the very things that she, by her strong reaction that night, has insured she will never know about.

And she’ll never know the real me.

SK

So, I’m back from my trip to the Primeval Woods of Northern Mississippi.

The trip was okay. It was good to see family and it was bad to see family. . .but then again, that’s how Greenville’s always been: never entirely good, never entirely bad.

One thing that I can say for certain about Greenville: it’s not home anymore.

But I knew that already. To be honest, the Sotto Voce Woods Of Western Arkansas have felt more like home since I started calling myself Pandemaelion, and I’m okay with that. I suppose that I will eventually find a place here in Seattle that I can make into a home for myself and daughter and (hopefully) wife, and I’m okay with that too.

I got to at least feel like I was talking to my grandmother, which was good. I’ve always told my grandmother everything, and been able to talk with her about anything; her death hasn’t ended that.

I did indeed get my wish for a thunderstorm; in fact, it rained every single day that I was there, and every day that I was in Memphis, and every single day since I got back here, and I’m about sick of the rain now. The sun appears to have come out now, though, so maybe my monsoon season is over now.

I said earlier that Greenville isn’t home anymore, and it isn’t. It’s where I came from, and always will be, and I’ll remember it in my own way (I know now that “remember where you came from” means different things to different people), but it’s not home and it’s not where I belong. For that matter, western Arkansas may not be where I belong, either. I only know of two places where I might possibly belong, and of them, one may not even exist (I’ve only seen it once, in a dream) and the other I can’t get to right now, and very possibly won’t ever get to be there. Maybe one day I’ll actually tell somebody what those places are, and they’ll help me find them. . .but not today.

So that’s me right now: homeless and looking for a place to belong.

SK

Goodnight, goodnight,
my sweetness and light;
heart of my heart, soul of mine,
sleep well in this evening-time,
dream the dreams of joy and peace,
dream of pleasures that never cease
and know that when you wake again
I will be waiting with a grin
for, after my dreamless sleep is through,
I wake to the dream that is you.
Goodnight, goodnight,
my sweetness and light.

March 26, 2008

Somewhere, very far from me, there is thunder.

I miss thunder so.  There is very rarely thunder here. There is no rumble of the coming storm, no auditory equilavence of Nature’s fury, no trembling air that makes the body shudder with that display of Gaea’s power.  There’s no lightning, leaping and dancing from cloud to cloud to earth.  No flashes in the sky, no scorching of the earth, no gasping “how close was that?” and counting seconds till the booming roll.

I miss thunder.

I miss lightning.

I always felt safe in storms, somehow; like whatever mean and terrible things were in the world couldn’t hear me in the pouring rain, couldn’t see me in the flashes of lightning.  And sometimes, when I wanted to cry and couldn’t, I felt the clouds cried for me, cried with my heart, in the downpours, and the rain running down my face was a more than suitable actualization of the tears streaming down my soul.  Flights of fancy, perhaps.

Funny how, much of the time, my desire to cry coincided with the appearance of rain, there.  Here, not so much.

There is an equalization, in storms:  everybody gets rained on.

I liked the sudden downpours that sneak up from nowhere, rain big thick heavy drops for half an hour, and move on as quickly as they appeared.   There was a lesson in them, that storms are temporary and can be weathered.  They reminded me of that, in times when it seems as though the storms in my life would never pass.  I wonder if I have forgotten that lesson, or at least not held it as close to my heart as I used to.

I miss warm rain that felt like it was washing away troubles from the skin.

I miss storms, and I shall to content myself, for the nonce, with living them vicariously.

I’m gonna be pissed if there’s no storms while I’m down there.

SK

I’ve been inundating this blog with quotes lately, I know.  But I read one this morning that, well, that spoke something of my heart.

The book I was reading is Sethra Lavode, by Stephen Brust.  One of the main characters, Khaarven, is talking with the Empress, trying to get her to change her mind about dismissing her Discreet (the person chosen by the Empress to confide in), which he knows was done based on fraudulent information and, besides, the Discreet is a close friend of his.  However, changing the mind of an Empress (or Emperor, for that matter) is regarded socially as being unwise, as the necessity of arguing with them may lead one to distressing circumstances of their own, and practically impossible.  Nevertheless, Khaarven makes the attempt, and when pressed as to why he does so, he responds with this quote:

“That a task is impossible is no excuse for not attempting it, not when my heart tells me it must be done.”

Khaarven succeeds and his friend regains his position.

As for me. . .

I follow my heart.

SK

These are some of my favourite quotes from the TWRP calendar; some of them, of course, have to do with writing, but in general I think they are inspirational, especially when life gets you down.  On a special day to such an inspirational person to me, it seemed fitting to post these.

“Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” - Winston Churchill

“If you find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn’t lead anywhere.”  - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“To avoid criticism, say nothing, do nothing, be nothing.” - Elbert Hubbard

“To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.” - William Shakespeare

“A dream is a reality which has yet to materialize.” - Dave McDaniels

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” - Eleanor Roosevelt

“Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes.  Art is knowing which ones to keep.” - Scott Adams

“Obstacles are placed in our way to determine whether we really wanted something or just thought we did.” - Dr. Harold Smith

“Sail away from the safe harbor.  Catch the trade winds in your sails.  Explore.  Dream.  Discover.” - Mark Twain

“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.”  - William Wordsworth

“Do not go where the path may lead; instead, go where there is no path and leave a trail.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.” - John Wayne

“When you’re going through Hell, keep going.” - Winston Churchill

“Believing in yourself is an endless destination.  Believing you have failed is journey’s end.” - uncredited

“Metaphors have a way of holding the most truth in the least space.” - Orson Scott Card

“Be the change you want to see in the world.” - Ghandi

“The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer someone else up.”  - Mark Twain

“You have to find something that you love enough to be able to take risks, jump over the hurdles, and break through the brick walls that are always going to be placed in front of you.  If you don’t have that kind of feeling for what you’re doing, you’ll stop at the first hurdle.” - George Lucas

i thought i was rid of the ache, and then
it returned twice as big as the world
hungrier than before and it seemed almost
angry that i had rejected it

so now we sit, me and the ache
that has consumed me head-to-toe
we sit, and wait, and cry from hunger
maybe one day we’ll be fed

March 10, 2008
©PCB 2008

I like old words, that aren’t in use any more. They have a certain “unearthed treasure” feel about them, like finding artifacts left behind by a bygone civilization, like a hand from the past reaching to the future, which, I suppose, they are.

I have a book, titled The Word Museum, by Jeffrey Kacirk, which is a glossary of archaic words. Here are a few I liked:

sandillions - numbers like the sand on the seashore.

offmagandy - the best and choicest of delicacies. Rich, stiff cream would be described as “real offmagandy.”

latitudinarian - one who allows himself great liberties in religious matters.

buzznack - An old organ, out of order and playing badly. (from the days beforeViagra, obviously *s*)

abracadabrant - marvelous or stunning.

aflunters - in a state of disorder.

climacterian - one who is fond of a climax. (And who isn’t?) (God, my mind is so in the gutter today. . .)

haggersnash - a spiteful person. (Why did that word ever fall out of use? I love it *s*)

noctuary - an account of what passes in the night; the converse of a diary. (Which makes all my journals actually noctuaries. . cool, huh?)

quother - to talk in a low and confidential tone. (”He quothered sweet nothings into her ear. . .” That sounds much better and much dirtier than “whispered.”)

scandal-broth - tea. The reference is to the gossip held by some of the womenkind over their cups, which cheer but not inebriate. Also called chatter-broth.

That’s enough for now, I think. . .more vocabulary retro-expansion coming soon!

I have more than a few quotes that I am fond of.  Here’s some of my favourites; where possible, I have credited them.  Where not, if anyone can credit them for me, please do so.

(By the way, if you’re looking for deep, philosphically meaningful quotes, look elsewhere.  I’m not in that kind of mood today.)

“It’s scarier than a psychopathic greased gerbil with a miner’s helmet and a flashlight and your bare asshole in sight.”  - Joe R. Lansdale from his introduction to Preacher: Gone To Texas

“Son of all things considered to be a fuck!” - Ray Minchong

“If God is will, and will is well, then what is ill?  God still?  Do tell. . .” - Archibald MacLeish, J.B.

“If anyone in this city gave two tugs of a dead dog’s cock about Truth, this wouldn’t be happening.”  -Spider Jerusalem, Transmetropolitan: Back On The Streets

“You haven’t inspired anybody since you died.”  - Batman to Superman, Infinite Crisis #1

“They will always be there, as long as magic lives, and magic has a strong, strong heart.” - Robert R. McCammon, Boy’s Life

“My friend Paul in Seattle works and fucks, works and fucks.” - Thomas Aiello, Womb Of Monsters

“I will always be King of Pain. . .” - The Police, “King Of Pain”

“Write what you know.”

“Not enough gun.”  - the just-nuked-and-completely-unscathed Saint Of Killers, Preacher: War In The Sun

“I have seen some fucked-up things in my time, but this takes the fucked-up cookie.” - Jesse Custer, Preacher: Salvation

“And the number one threat facing America. . .bears!” - Stephen Colbert. The Colbert Report

That’s all that are coming to mind right now. . .more later, maybe.