Last Day

Of course, it would be the day before I am scheduled to return that I meet someone intriguing. Isn't that how it always goes.

His name is Ashley, though it's not. He is an article writer, although he isn't. He works for the police station, although he doesn't. He lives on the fifth floor of an abandoned military test facility, although he lives underground.

He is a traitor, a liar, and a ghost. He is the silent one of Le Resistance. His green eyes and white hair are striking, causing you to remember his face. His drugs cause you to forget everything else. From a distance, he appears slick and cool. Once you draw in close, you will find he is strong and bright, like a condensed star, a singularity pulling you in toward the crushing dark of non-existence.

You will never know it but he was the Hydrion strip. He was the Litmus test. He was the last step. Stagnation or resistance. Death or life. When you meet him, you will have to choose - whether you had planned on it or not.

And now, I will leave him to simmer in the background while I return to my world of lights and colors and sensations. To my doves and crows and columbines. To my black rimmed glasses and pillars of light. To my world that has begun to change.

One day the rest of this life is going to catch on.
I am only trying to set the spark.

This might be a fever rant.

It might just be a sick rant. Or, it might just be the product of having a headache for the last three... four? five days. Fuck if I know.

What happened was I ate a sandwich. No, that's not quite right. First, I drank a garbage-can style combination of various forms of hot infused beverage. None of them contained the plant Camelia Sinensis, none of them contained either caffeine or much sugar. But, what a couple of them did contain was some weird ass mint that we grabbed from a roadside planter, dried in a silver bowl, and drank approximately one year later. The others were of the rather normal sort, so they are probably little to blame.

Previous to this, we had been eating almost exclusively a diet of scones, other random pastries, and the occassional meal thrown in more for color and good taste than for nutritional value.

So, from there, we begin. The next morning was rather like a hang over. Of course, with all the herbals and the weird-ass mint in place of any form of alcoholic beverage. That morning consisted of more hot infused beverages, although containing both caffeine and the plant Camellia Sinensis, which by the way is a very difficult plant name to spell when you have, for years now, believed that the plant was, in fact, called Camellia Sinesis. I'm just saying...

Anyway, back to where we were. So, all the tea and blueberry essence that was, oh let's say five years for good measure, give or take a year, went down just fine with some milk. Although, headache still thumping. Friends left, we showered, we took a bus out to the bakery where free pie was to be had. Headache increasing in thump by now.

So much so that after a sandwich and salad, which was quite healthy to be honest, oh and a piece of pie - all that down and the headache was growing like a virus inside my head. So, I had to lay against the wall, which felt very festive on said 'holiday', and also very comforting and not exactly warm, but welcoming all the same. So, I attempted to sleep.

I was interrupted with aforementioned free pie and a need to deliver said pie to people who might actually eat it and not want to die. Sort of spread it out across several mouths instead of two. The two who at the moment were both very ill from just such a diet.

So, off on a bus with no address, seeking randomly for a house. Finding it and chickens to be seen. Then another couple busses until the bed was found. By that time - the virus of a headache had become a beast that was not to be rivaled. Sleep was all there was for it. Even that, barely an effect. Commence sleeping all day, a bit of movie, a bit of Asher-baked cookies (fully effective on doing nothing but tasting sort of good and furthering the sort of ill feeling already brewing). A half-attempted night. Random internet talking, roleplaying - to no effect.

More sleep. No effect. Awake at 11 o'clock at night, mumbled goodbyes. Hope you aren't sick. I think I still am. Shutting of door. More sleep. No effect. Awake to a lack of a message at 9:30 AM. Confusion, send a text. Nothing. Phone call, clear up confusion. Frustration and paying a bill. More headache, a bit more sleep. No effect.

Awake to get dressed, make bierenbrot - half whole wheat, very good for you. Eat soup. So nutritious. Stomach ache. No effect. Walk down to the tea shop. Drink a hot infused beverage called "Headache". No effect. More stomach ache. Sleep on a chair. Write this.

No effect.

Hopefully, more of the same will do the trick. Back home, more sleep, another shower. Go to work.

We'll see.

Something like a Rant

It has come to my attention that CfC officially looks kind of sloppy. It isn't so much the color or the layout of the thing. These forms were established long ago when CfC was still CfR ("Crying for Retribution" for those who haven't been with us since the beginning). The form will probably never change, because if it did, CfC just wouldn't exactly be CfC anymore.

It isn't so much a problem of content either. There is ample variation in content, intrigue, conflict, all that you need to keep a reader hooked. Or, so I hope. It may not be brick solid or anything, but then, I wouldn't deem it sloppy.

I suppose all that can be said then is that I as the author have become sloppy.
And yes, that would be a fair assessment.

Time away from a loved one is generally sloppy, or so I've come to find.

The brilliant, sunlit walks through arch-ways in high-ceilinged cathedrals only to come out of the cloisters just as the wind begins to blow your hair back, brining in the storm that will dump a soft sort of glowing rain upon your face, leaving you covered in shimmering little diamonds of water as you pulse with the beat of the earth back through the forest, down across the grey beach, watching a seagull or two dip in the air off in the distance or a pelican diving for a catch. Only to end up in the cozy within of your cottage where there will be a fire already lit and a meal already prepared and wine already poured into a single glass, set on a table prepared for one.
All of these- simply not real.

Instead, you grumble out of the bed around noon with your head feeling as though someone dumped oil down your ears and then stuffed cotton into them. You probably stub your toe on the bedside table because your eyes haven't come into focus. The morning light either is a haze that you muddle through or it blares into your eyes like a lazer, blinding you as you pick your way to the bathroom.

There, you try to take a shit, but feel too constipated from the latenight pizza you ate in a haste to get some food down your throat and try to stay awake while you tapped aimlessly at internet jokes and youtube videos on your netbook.

After the bathroom fiasco, you probably go for some eggs to settle your stomach, but you forget to put enough oil on the pan so they stick and burn and you have to try and scrape them off. You forget to put the toast down, so it's late, which means you burn it meanwhile attempting to eat the muddle of overcooked egg. The tea kettle already lost its whistle-top so you put the water on, leave it, it boils over, kills the fire on the gas, and sits there cold as your kitchen begins to reek with the beneficial rotten-egg smell of natural gas. You should be glad it smells of rotten eggs or else you would have, coming back in and seeing the pot not boiling and the gas off, simply tried to relight it, thereby blowing yourself up and ending this ridiculous little sample of "quality alone time".

Instead, you grumble into the kitchen, turn the burner knob off, open a window to air it out, get hit with a sickeningly cold and damp wind, shut the window, and bumble back into your living room where you will sadly delve into some rotten book written by some crummy classical author because, now alone, you do actually feel some modicum of guilt at never having read any of the classics you wrote all those papers off of.

Or, this is only me, others have spectacular alone time, and I am left with a sloppy writing style and a sloppy blog that I was hoping might, in the future, really go places.

The inevitability of my lack of ability to get myself in the right mode is painful at times.

Some Self Mockery

I had this posted on a blog I am now deleting. But the self mockery was such gold that I had to transfer it over here. Have a laugh, don't judge.
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Forward from "Trimble Hollow Junction", now gone.
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Here it is. A file from my high school pseudonym. It should be good for a few laughs. Especially if you note just how long it takes the police to find the murder. Although, for the very same reason, this is sadly probably not long enough for a good hearty one.
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BETRAYAL DEEP WITHIN
By: Valery Makenzy

The dark hallway seemed to grow darker as Halley awoke at the sound of Jordan crying. She was barely awake as she realized that the faint noise down the hall was surely her son. She got up and walked down the dark hall. The door to Jordan’s room was closed. Then how had she heard him. the noise came once again. This time she knew it hadn’t come form her son’s room but instead from the smaller back room. nobody had been in that room for years, ever since Fran had left home. As Halley got closer she noticed the noise not to be crying but a faint muffled choking and screaming. Halley, in fear for the life of both her and Jordan, backed away from the end of the hall. Then came the last few short screams and a faint gag. Then the shatter and all was silent again.

CHAPTER ONE

In the morning Halley had awoken to the sweet smell of the flowers and the soft glow of the morning sun. She had disregarded the last nights events as a nightmare and had gone on with the usual morning routine. When Halley had gone to get Jordan that morning she had walked down the hall and smelled something odd. She walked further down the hall and into the end room. As she got nearer to the end room the smell got stronger and the night events had come back so vividly. When Halley reached the door to the room she opened it. To fulfill her worst nightmare in the middle of the tiny room lay a lifeless little girl in a dull purple afternoon dress. On the floor there was no evident that someone had entered the room except for the shattered vase which had been given to her by her mother a few weeks before the tragic accident. There was not even evidence that the little girl was even dead except for the motionless body.

The police arrived a few minutes after the call was sent out. The little girl had been identified as Mary Harrisburg. The little girl who lived just across the field from them. The town was warned of the murder and the police put on alert. Halley had always wanted to get involved in a case but she never imagined that something like this would ever happen to her.

That week a new kid had arrived a few days after the murder. He was a handsome fellow and appeared to be single. He went by the name of Josh Critine. The town was in such an uproar when Josh arrived that he was barely noticed. There was only one girl who gave him any notice and that girl was Halley.

And the solution:

I have abandoned Fenny. I could not keep on.

Now, before passing judgement, you must understand one thing. I never loved Fenny. Not yet, anyway. I didn't know him. He and I were strangers when we met, we sat in a room at a coffee table together for a while, and then, we both realised that our awkward conversation had come to its inevitable end. And so, I left.

But not without a promise of sorts. Or, at least a passing thought. I would return. He understood. I haven't tossed out the idea of forming a friendship with this man. I merely threw out our first attempt at it.

You could say, I'm giving Fenny a fresh start. A new first impression. A clean slate. Tabula Rosa, so to speak.

I feel a need to apologise to a certain someone. He told me that Fenny and myself would get along fabulously. I never doubted him. I still don't. But, the situation to foster that connection was all wrong. The timing was off. The moon was in the wrong phase. The mode of the spirit wasn't aligned appropriately. My life was at the wrong angle at the time.
Whichever you like.

I just couldn't do it. The biggest problem, of course, had little to nothing to do with either Fenny or Brandon. It had just as little to do with the entire collection of Urban.

Instead, it was simply an error of concept. I was trying to waste time. I had set off intending to waste time. One should never attempt to connect with new individuals when the goal is to waste time. It simply doomed me. I wasn't interested. There was no intrigue. There was no spirit in the interaction. It was simply a lack of engagement. My mind was elsewhere, and yet I had thought that I could simply fake my way through it. I could pretend to be interested. And so long as I just kept my thoughts and hands moving, Fenugreek would come to me.

I'm quite sure I offended him. I offended the muse. I offended my craft. I offended, even, my own skill. All because I kept acting under this notion that all I had to do was pretend to be a writer, and eventually I would be one.

But I already was one, and Fenny knew it was a lie.

And so, I'm sorry. I was dishonest with myself, with the muse I've made a relationship with based on a connection it made with me, with the spirits I was attempting to contact. It has cost me much time and headache. Quite a bit of heartache too.

And so, I am doing what I should have done. Realising what I should have already known. I am going to take a break. Not from Urban, but from the line. I am going to put the receiver down and, instead, stare at pictures of others on receiving lines, listen in on conversations held on other lines, tap the line on other receivers and make sure they are still connected. This will, I hope, be the inspiration I was seeking. It will also be the break I was needing.

And when the sabbatical is over, I will return to Urban. Then, later, I will come back around to the room I was sitting in, knock on the door, and find Fenugreek Mason as he truly is inside. We'll shake hands as thought we've never met before, and we'll begin again.

I am excited, but I cannot rush the meeting.
So, wait for me Fenny. I'll be back.

Struggling

I am really trying to be creative without it turning into vomit. Trying to find a spirit out in the outside that will be able to communicate. Trying to construct a different story from an average world. Trying to get at the truth again.

It is not going well. I feel as though I am writing purely to keep my fingers moving. Purely to try and keep the line to the muse open. But the riverbed is dry and the only inlet that did exist, I cut off. Dammed up. Stopped from flowing.

I think this may be doing more damage than good.
But then, they say, "absence makes the heart grow fonder". Or, perhaps only more obsessed. Then again, perhaps a renewed obsession would be a good thing.

Anyway. I still have over half of this month to get through. It's like having a lover far away, in a place where you can't actually communicate. Then, trying to occupy your time by being interesting to people walking around in a shopping mall. Or, so it feels.

I suppose the month can only last so long.
Thanks NaNoWriMo for sort of making me really depressed and feel as though inspiration has been drained from me. I'll remember this for later.