Darren Endymion's Blog, page 8

A Dream of Hope…and Battle

I had a dream earlier this week on a terrible night when I couldn’t sleep well. It was one of those ¾ sleeping and ¼ awake dreams. In it I was on a road to somewhere, somewhere very important. I remember feeling that it was like a quest almost, and that happiness lay waiting at the end. However, the road was clouded in fog that changed scary colors, it was lined with barren trees, and you could hear things moving off in the distance. It was dark and sinister, with trees that looked more like skeletal hands waiting to pierce you, grab you, and keep you from moving on in your life, to hold you and crush you and instill despair and pain.

Very dramatically, this figure came out of the fog looking like armored Sauron-lite and started attacking me. Instead of fighting back, I had a shield (a really, really strong one) and I just cowered behind it and let Sauron-lite attack me. Finally, some woman (and I’m certain that she represented one of my dear friends, Merrot, whom I have written an entry about earlier) sprinted past, handed me a sword, and told me to fight back. I did eventually and won.

I kept traveling, shaken and upset and scared, but elated that I fought my first battle, slaughtered someone in my way…with the help of a faster, stronger friend. Then an even bigger, badder person came out of the fog, which was now tinted with tendrils of red, like small snakes slithering through the air, turning what was only obscuring into something poisoned and vicious. This guy was huge. This was Sauron’s big brother, and he was taking magickal steroids. He was made up of many parts, like a great golem or zombie, sewn together with some binding thread that gave it a deceptive cohesiveness and didn’t betray a single bit of its formidable strength. I saw parts of my ex, my job, my own stubbornness, and all these forces that are keeping me back from what is on the other side of that path. A huge amount of steel rose up in me and I threw down my shield (or it turned into a sword in that inexplicable way dreams have). I fought him with two swords and had to fight for a really, really long time, but hacked him to bits. I think I had to fight one more time against some dog-creature, but that was easy.

And suddenly I was in a fantasy wonderland when I got to the end of the road. And guess who was waiting there for me, scuffed but unbroken from her own fog-covered path? Why, it was Merrot, the Sprinting, Sword-Lending Hag. We walked on and suddenly were in a clean, quiet apartment unpacking boxes in the “real” world. It was raining (which I LOVE and get very little of in Southern California) and I threw open my blinds and grinned at the clouds. I think we went out to go grocery shopping…and a whirlwind came along and lifted us up, spinning and giggling. We kept going higher and higher and we essentially flew around, happier than idiots at an amusement park. I remember that we were so incredibly happy. We found what we had been looking for. We were happy in a way that I’ve almost given up on, wondering if it’s a myth.

Waking up the next day, I was shocked at how vivid the dream was (and remains). I told Merrot about it and we sort of sighed together. The dream was clearly metaphorical in a way I don’t normally experience. I blame it on being in a light sleep and think my conscious mind was holding the strings. Still, it gave hope to us both, and spurred me on. I’m on that road, fighting against the barriers the world has put in my way and that I have placed there myself. But I won. And the nightmare was conquered.

Hopefully, real life will follow suit.

The Movie in My Mind

Sometimes we see in people only what we want to see. Reality has no place in this state, only hopeful delusion.

One of my dearest friends, Beverly, is dating an absolute psychopath. Worst of all, he’s an attractive, manipulative psycho who, because of his job, knows how to use a gun. Sometimes Beverly sees this jealous, accusatory, pompous, controlling ass for what he is. Sometimes she knows that there is no future with him, and knows that she can’t lash herself to a dangerous, obstinate, un-medicated, bipolar person. Occasionally, she looks at all the heartache and fear and frustration involved and says to herself, “Jesus…I haven’t even been dating him for three months. GTFO, psycho!”

However, most of the time she sees him for what she wants him to be. She sees him for the attractive, charming, strong male who wants her and only her, who says nice things to her after they fight (which is often), who tells her that he accuses her of cheating because he cares so much for her and doesn’t want to lose her. Beverly got wise and all but totally extricated herself from the situation, but something in her — her tender heart, her desperation to be loved, her delusional ignoring of the facts, or her genuine kindness — didn’t sever everything. Not quite. Now, she’s going on dates with him. She’s spending the night at his place. He can’t come to her place, but everything else is on the table. It’s only a matter of time before she crumbles totally.

In a similar strain, my ex was once a kind, caring, sweet, somewhat stupid creature. He was weak and would resort to lies so he could cover his own ass, but overall he was a deeply flawed, not terribly bright, sweet, caring mamma’s boy prone to self-sabotage. We went to move in together and, rather than tell me he had lost his job, he lied and lied some more to cover it up. When the truth came out, our relationship ended, but a friendship remained.

After the breakup, he started drinking heavily, lied more, and eventually composed a huge lie that landed him living with three other people in a two bedroom apartment in San Francisco. In that time, his drinking morphed into the compulsive smoking of weed which turned into a crippling meth addiction. (This is the path he went down; I am not saying this is a logical or expected progression for anyone else). He spent the better part of a year being high and a slut (sometimes literally whoring himself out to people he normally wouldn’t touch just to get more meth). Eventually, he hit the bottom and moved back to his mother’s house. The lies, the drugs, the sex, and the diseases followed and continued until he hit the bottom again…and began scraping his face on the pavement there.

My roommate is a wonderfully kind, generous, older man I met through my ex when we were still dating. Since my apartment was getting too expensive and I planned to move out of state in less than a year (a random injury delayed that more than I ever could have expected), my ex suggested I move in and rent a room. When my drugged ex came back, he started hanging out here again. My roommate, who never wants to believe ill of almost anyone, doesn’t see the bad. He believes the lies. He pretends not to notice the weed and the chemical smell. He believes that my ex is really constantly borrowing his truck to go hiking…for seven hours. He believes that my ex is going to see his mother (with whom he has a love-hate relationship). He believes that my ex all but moving in here has nothing to do with getting away from someone who will question him and hold him accountable (mommy). He thinks the late nights are just insomnia. He thinks my ex is still the good person who occasionally lies about small things. Few people are sadder than me that this is not the case.

Tonight’s title is from my favorite song from Miss Saigon. It’s a sad song about hope and determination and leaving reality behind to live in a dream of fulfillment. As anyone familiar with the musical knows, it doesn’t end well. The movie in her mind is just that. A dream. A falsehood. Hope without substance. That is Beverly and my roommate. They pick and choose the good parts, what they want to see, and they ignore reality to their detriment, and the detriment of those around them. These toxic people take advantage of them because of their desperation or hope or kindness or determined blocking out of uncomfortable facts. I prefer Movie in My Mind without the context of the musical’s ending. Then it can just be sadness and determination to find that dream, to make that movie a reality.

This reality leaves me sad. I used to think that deliberate delusions were misty, easily blown away. This has shown me that there is nothing flimsy about them when life’s paths are traveled with eyes closed to reality and to those who would intrude on the delusional dream with some much needed objectivity.

“…so no one comes at night…to blow the dream away…dream…the dream I have to find…the movie in my mind…”

Progress, Goals, and Rapidity

I should have known that if one of my best friends, Merrot S. Faraday, got into the mix, things would change and fast. She is on a mission to GTFO of her situation just like I am trying to bail from mine. I am moving at a very good pace…for me. That is not a good pace for her, however, and she is launching forward to our common destination with me in tow.

She has done this, and she has done it several times before. She has the experience I lack, so whereas I was tiptoeing into the unfamiliar waters of change, this hag has been wading in the pool for decades and has dragged me into the shallows before I could blink. I haven’t screamed and jumped out of the water, but I’m just not as fast.

Why? Because I’m making progress in other areas and work FINALLY isn’t a cesspit of horror and iniquity. It won’t last; I know that. It’s exactly what I wanted — a free space clear of dramatics to get my feet under me and learn to stand again. *splash* Into the Waters of Change I go with Merrot bellowing back at me, “Keep up, bitchface!”

I’ve been writing again, finishing another project, organizing all the writing folders on all my devices, getting re-certified for my work stuff (the ongoing joke is that my day job entails pig-launching, so let’s say that you have to be re-certified every two years to gauge the proper projectiles for the Pork Catapulting), making a list of the stuff I need to do to get ready to move jobs and locations, completing the smaller tasks…and here is Merrot, finding potential apartments for us, scouting the areas around them for access to food and transportation, making sure they are cheap, in good areas, have A/C for the summer months we both hate, and have a washer and dryer in the unit. She’s also applying for several jobs a day.

One thing is clear: I need to be like Merrot. I’m doing good…for me. I need to do better. I’m meeting certain goals, but not some of the big ones. I can’t, in good conscience, stall her forward progress. Selfishly, this is an awesome opportunity. I went from plodding forward at a good pace to having to sprint to keep up with the expert. It’s time to leave the nursery, and I’ll never have a better chance.

So, I’m doing well, but there is work to do. And I’m scared, but excited.

Vicarious Sorrow

Have you ever had a moment of clarity during which all your problems seem petty and insignificant? The present is a very dark, trying time for me. I feel like I’m being assaulted from every side, making me able to do nothing but cower down and try to make my life better. When you are hunkered down against the rain and hail and horror of a difficult time, very little forward work is possible. I’ve been feeling torn every which way until very recently.

Alternatively, have you ever met someone whose genuine kindness, generosity, and unfaltering thoughtfulness makes you simultaneously believe in humanity again and want to be a better person? I have, and I have the fortune to work with her. We will call her Shannon. No matter the fuckery at work or at home, all one has to do it talk to Shannon — not about the problems, but just to have a conversation with her — and suddenly it’s like that light of kindness has touched you and makes you feel better. She is polite, sweet, kind, modest, never talks bad about anyone, doesn’t curse, always sees the best in people, and is unflinching in her attempts to always do right.

Shannon is the mother of three boys, two in college and one, we shall call him Kevin, just about to graduate from high school. Tragically, two weeks ago Kevin was hit by a car and dragged. That person sped off and he was hit at least one more time. This person also sped away. Last week, Kevin passed away from his injuries, having never regained consciousness. He was three days away from graduating from high school.

This would be tragic under any circumstances — any at all — but it’s all the more so because Shannon is who she is. A woman like her should have a life of rainbows, glitter, unicorns, and flowers. Not this. That’s not to say that someone hateful and horrible should have his/her child die so horribly, not at all, but you just want the best of things for someone like Shannon. You want the world to be as kind to her as she is to others.

My heart breaks for her. Our whole team is in agony for her, every last one of us, but especially the mothers. The same thoughts are going around: we can’t imagine what she’s feeling, we are full of vicarious sorrow for her, and we don’t know why someone so good can have so much tragedy in her life. It seems an insult to take a lesson from something so senseless and random and heartbreaking, but I can’t stop my mind from supplying me with one:

There’s always someone worse off. Shannon is coming back to work a week after Kevin’s death, whether because she needs the distraction, the escape, or just the paycheck. If she can do that, I can suck it up and deal with my stupid, petty, paltry, problems and my own blasé, whiny, procrastinating aversion to change that is holding me back. If someone so kind can also be so strong, then Shannon is indeed an example of human potential. She does make you want to be a better person. She restores your faith in humanity. And though my heart is shattered for her and her family, everything in life, everything that touches us is a lesson.

I think I’m trying to make sense of it, to force some selfish, 99 cent store generic morality out of a pointless, meaningless tragedy. There isn’t one. No amount of rationalizing will make this an After School Special, and it shouldn’t be anyway. This is life and death, and it’s sometimes terrible, but it’s often very great. If I indulge my penchant for procrastination and allow my life to fester in misery, then I am willingly inflicting a state of mind on myself that others would do anything to alleviate or avoid. And not only is that stupid, it’s practically unforgivable.

A Surprisingly Good Day

I have had a very lovely day, actually, and it was totally unexpected. I took the day off to go to a doctor appointment. Since my idiot, compulsive-liar, using/not using meth-addict ex is still lolling about the place, courtesy of my older roommate’s ill-advised, golden-hearted wishes, I decided to get the troglodyte ex drive me to the doctor’s office with the promise of lunch afterward.

The appointment was nothing, really. I just want a few vitamin levels checked out and I was in and out in about 20 minutes. The ex and I went to lunch and he bailed to L.A. — using my roommate’s truck — supposedly to go hiking and see an old friend who happens to have some things he needs for an important interview tomorrow. Regrettably, the interview is neither with a psychiatrist nor a rehab facility, but I digress.

My ex has been staying here because my roommate (who happens to be much, much older) was in poor health and needed a temporary caregiver and I have a job while my ex (through whom I met my incredibly kind and awesome roommate), has a drug habit and needs to be babysat. They could benefit from each other. (And I need to get the hell out of here, but we’ll address that later in this entry.)

After the ex bailed to L.A. (for whatever actual reasons), I decided to read and play a game (‘Salem’s Lot and Marvel Ultimate Alliance 2, if you’re curious). I also took a nap, and when I woke up, I decided to go see Captain America: Civil War which I had not yet seen. I walked in during the previews, loved every second of the movie, and left. I came home, made dinner, and watched Deadpool, which I have the Blu-ray for but didn’t get to see in the theater. Loved it. LOVED it.

I’ve been working on Saturdays, but with this being a three day weekend for the rest of my team, I then decided to take the time off.

Then I thought about some things. It was a really good day. No bullshit team at work, none of the sorrow going on at work assaulted me (I may tell about that later), the ex wasn’t moping around and lying about what he does when he supposedly goes and sees his mother (who he can’t stand) several times a week, I got to see two awesome super hero movies, I worked on my writing, I got the results of some health tests I took on Monday and am wonderfully healthy, and I am in a good place.

I have a checklist of things I need to do to get out of my horrid job and this horrid living situation and away to a good place with a good job and to, essentially, be happy (or at least give myself a chance). In the past two weeks, I have managed to whittle that list down considerably. There have been setbacks, but I have so much going on that I was able to focus on what to do next instead of what I lost. I have a long way to go — it’s why I was ranting earlier this week about beginnings being so hard — but I am at least halfway done. The rest takes time, honestly, and I have not yet mastered the alien technology needed to speed up time.

Overall, it was a good day and put me in a good place. Every step forward brings me closer to the finish line. I no longer think that it has to get darker before it gets lighter. I think that, with this amount of sustained effort, the light at the end of the forest is coming closer. Already the darkness is made lighter. And I think that there will be several more days like this — serene, happy moments on the pathway to ultimate happiness. And freedom.

What are a few rough patches compared to that amount of promise?

Humans, the Cosmic Joke

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if we are the butt of some great big cosmic joke. So much of what we intrinsically like and that is fun (or tastes good) is bad for us. As humans, we were made to like the taste of stuff that’s horrible for us, to want sex (which can kill us), to enjoy being sedentary, to do all sorts of things that are terrible for us. It’s only by force of will and an acquired taste that we train ourselves to do what we should. It’s like we were all terrible karmic assholes on some other planet who were so terrible that we eventually reborn on this planet where all things are backwards, where what feels good is awful and where things are harder to start than to finish.

Think of beginning something that we know to be good for us, like a workout regimen or eating better or writing more or running away to find work at a brothel. Whatever. Why is the beginning so hard? Why is it that we have a saying that anything worth having is worth fighting for? Is Fate so cruel here in Backwardsland, that it puts the greatest challenges and potential for failure at the beginning when we are most fragile?

We are like tender seeds in a field. Hell, all our beginnings are very much like this. These beginnings, these seeds require utmost care — too much water and they will die. Too much sun and they will die. Too much love and they will smother to death. Too much fertilizer and they overload and smell like shit. We have to be tender and gentle and do everything just so with little margin for error, or all our efforts fail and our houses of cards fall to so much disorganized trash.

We have to try and try and try again. Even the things that are good for us. Is it that our bodies are weak? Should we be like Kang from Ninja Turtles, just a brain in a body that we command utterly based on our higher will and knowing what’s good for us?

*sigh*

However, this is the world we live in, this is the plane of existence we have been born into, these are the cards we have been dealt. It is up to us to fight our natures, to strive up that hill, to plant those seeds, and to build that card house — again and again and again if necessary. And then we have to tend to them appropriately. From there, many will die. This is also the part we play in this Universe. We have to try and try and try again. Through this conditioning we become tough and strong…if the beginnings don’t kill us first, or make us give up.

And so I find myself beginning again. For the billionth time. I’m moving those boulders from their ruts. I’m plowing the fields for the seeds. I’m shuffling the cards. It’s hard; it’s difficult for all of us. We do it because we want better lives, we want better for ourselves. We want life to be good. And so we fight against the grain. All of us do.

May we all have good luck. May we all live with ease. May our beginnings be easy and may all our good and true endeavors be fruitful and attainable. We’ll show the Universe for making us a cosmic joke.

Coming Out of the Writer’s Closet

Very few people in my day-to-day life know that I’ve published so much as a sentence. It was something I started (or rather avoided) as a bit of a defense mechanism. Maybe it’s because I’m not at the level I want to be and am therefore not as proud as I could and should be, and maybe because I can handle strangers’ disapproval, but people I care about are different.

I’ve mentioned that several of my closest friends don’t know, and I recently realized that isn’t quite true. Certain of my close friends don’t know, and upon further reflection, I still stand by that decision. They are loved and loving in their own ways, but they are also total bitches. I’m on too shaky of ground to deal with all that, actually. I also have a feeling (and yes, I’m aware that this says things about my friendships) that they would be prone to criticize for the sake of doing so and having something to say. I think they would be honest and complimentary, but with an Edge of Bitch that I don’t need any more of in my life.

There are others who I wish I hadn’t told, mainly people at work (all two of them), sometimes my ex (though he was and remains supportive through the cloud of his weed smoke. Bless his addled brain.). It’s taught me to be secretive in a way…and who doesn’t like a secret identity?

However, I realized that there was one person who, if she didn’t exactly deserve to know, it was sort of an offensive omission to not tell her. The person is my cousin. We grew up more like brother and sister. She says that we should have been twins, but I’m a guy and wouldn’t ask for directions, and I was probably on the notoriously tardy Gay Time, so I ended up being born two years later and to Sister #2 instead of Sister #1. It sounds logical to me. *nod*

I finally told her a few days ago. Her reaction was to be happy for me and to not criticize or beat me for not telling her earlier. Her tact went further in that she asked if it was okay that she reads my novel. Of course I said yes. What she doesn’t know is that my short story, “The Snow Queen”, was dedicated to her. “For my cousin, who knows nothing, but means everything.” Since it’s now lamentably out of print (for now), I will send it to her. She offered to be my beta reader in the future, and since I have lost one or two, I plan to take her up on that. She will be absolutely honest but will be tactful about it, like she has been about everything else in my life, and those are qualities much revered in a human being and definitely in a beta reader.

The entire conversation was pure catharsis. She’s known me since birth and her whole demeanor was that this was something I should be doing. She gave me a pep talk and apparently has kept something I wrote like two years after high school. She was able to hold a mirror up to me and my journey thus far and let me know that, not only is it not over, it’s just beginning. I ran some of my better ideas past her and she was excited about them. She asked questions. She almost cussed me out when I told her that I had stopped writing them. “So, you’re telling me all these exciting things and then saying I’ll never be able to read them?” The tone was disapproving and very much saying, “This isn’t the person I know.” She said I sounded excited about them, even now. She understood putting these big ideas aside until I can do them justice, but said something I’ve told myself all along, “Well, how are you going to ever get that experience if you aren’t writing, and if you let life sap that part out of you?” Life intrudes, yes. But those intrusions should be something that inspires you, not stops you.

Get out of my head, woman.

It was invigorating in a way that I can’t describe. It was enlightening like a mental O. It was a gentle kick in the ass. It was a delicate motivation done in a way that said she simultaneously believed in me while being a little disappointed that I’m not doing more. I agree with her. And so, this coming out of the writer’s closet has been…moving. And I think it’s something I needed…and didn’t know I needed. Oy.

Prince Scientist: a Retrospective

I have kept a bit of a journal for as long as I can remember. It’s not quite like this blog, where I spill my stuff out in a formatted (if admittedly scattered) fashion. It’s full of stuff that inspires me, things that irritate me, instances that offend or anger me, motivational sayings and meditations, and a great many circumstances that, if not committed to journal and expiated from my conscious mind, would drive me to get liquored up and climb to the top of a building, removing jugulars with my teeth and flinging feces like a rabid rhesus monkey.

There are also stories of boys.

When reading May of last year, I came across the end of the Prince Scientist Saga. As a quick catch up, Prince Scientist was a young science professional who worked in my building. He was strikingly gorgeous. Beautiful. The first time I saw him was in the break room and I forgot how to eat. (Yes, I outright thieved this experience for my published short story, Threads of Discord). He smiled at me and, though I was sitting against the wall, I looked behind me to see who this gorgeous creature was looking at. *sigh*

As part of my job, I went with a coworker/friend to train all the scientists in my building about an aspect of the company they needed to know more about. While my friend was talking and everyone should have been looking at her, I looked around to sneak a peek at the beautiful Prince.

He was already looking at me.

Instead of looking away, Prince Scientist and I made that sort of heart-stopping eye contact that you read about in books. And kept looking. And looking. Finally, we turned away, but my friend saw it. She also saw him look at me over and over throughout the meeting when I wasn’t talking and he had no reason to glance my way (there was nobody behind or next to me). Every time I looked up, he looked away quickly. He asked questions, always staring at me. It kept happening, over and over.

Whatever. I rarely saw him, so I locked it away in my heart and felt good that someone who looked like that seemed to find me attractive. We didn’t even work on the same floor. Suddenly, he was everywhere. Then he was training in a room at the end of my aisle, and every time he passed me I would see him giving me side eye from one row over. Several of my friends noticed it, too. Being a scientist, you would expect him to be smart. And he was. Smart, nice, ambitious, and beautiful.

This went on for months. Though I’m 100% certain it had NOTHING to do with me, he transferred to my floor, and we saw each other almost every day. Side eyes, smiles, full on looks when the other was distracted, nervous chats (at least on my part — I was a babbling idiot), some joking, and more chatting (even one cute instance where we were passing each other, each with a place to be, and walked backwards so we could finish our conversation).

And then it ended. Ever the ambitious smarty, he left the company. He shook my hand goodbye…and held it just a little longer than you’d expect. And he didn’t squeeze. It was more of a caress and less of a weak handshake. More eye contact that even I didn’t break. And then we went our separate ways.

I haven’t seen him since.

I later found out that he had a girlfriend. I’m not going to be that annoying gay guy and say that she was a beard, a fake, a sham to show the public. I can see him as bisexual. Hell, I could see him as straight, evidence notwithstanding. Playing devil’s advocate, though, what if he is bi and was attracted to me but never made a move because he is loyal to the person he’s with? Yeah, that’s self-serving fantasy, but if it was true, his morals only make him more attractive.

Reading the entry in my year-ago journal in which I chronicled Prince Scientist’s last day, I decided to look him up on social media. There is exactly one picture of him and what I assume is his girlfriend. It’s not the best picture of him (he looks more like he’s grimacing than anything, but that’s possibly more projection). She is absolutely, strikingly beautiful. Lovely. I mean, she’s the type you look at and think, “Jesus, she’s HOT,” even as a gay man. I checked out her profile and there’s one tiny picture of him kissing her between her nose and mouth as she grins away.

I sincerely hope they are happy. I hope that, despite what others have suggested to me, she is not a beard or a cover up. I hope their relationship is true and beautiful and everything they need it to be. I hope he is happy.

Looking at that picture, thinking of a year ago, it honestly doesn’t matter what was actually between us. He had an impact on me, and a very positive one. There was enough evidence and corroborating stories to make me believe, even for a second, that someone smart and nice and achingly beautiful wanted me. On top of that, I was attracted to someone with all those qualities. I didn’t do my normal thing of, “Oh, he’s too successful and beautiful and smart. He’d never want me. I should just give up.” No. Instead, I looked forward to seeing him. I talked to him. I hoped.

More than anything, I hoped. He was the first big sign that I might be healing, that I might finally think I was worthy, and that I could accept good things into my life.

Even if I never see him again in all my life, which is probable; even if I and my friends imagined all the signs of attraction, which is possible; and even if I make some bad decisions in the future, which is inevitable; I will always remember that time as something that put me on the right track. I hoped, and from that hope sprang a thought that, just maybe, I can find someone like him, with those qualities I saw in him. In fact, I know I can. And that hope, that knowledge is invaluable.

So, in the end, he really was my Prince Charming Scientist.

 

Though I will probably never see him again, I hope he is deliriously happy and good and as wonderful as he seemed. I hope he’s happy, and I will treasure the hope and confidence he left behind.

Friday the 13th? Fabulous!

As anyone who has met me (or read here for any length of time) knows, I love horror movies. Therefore, Friday the 13th is like a damned holiday to me. Unfortunately, there is only one of them this year, so I plan to make the most of it.

It’s something I’ve done for a while and always enjoy, no matter my level of involvement with the actual movies. It involves food, drinks, movies, and just stupid fun. It’s a constant, and something my friends all know I do. I suspect that, if they talk about me tomorrow, they will say, “Oh. It’s Friday the 13th. I know what he’s doing.” I send out texts like it’s a genuine holiday. I’m a horror nerd and proud of it.

Usually, I watch a marathon of Friday the 13th, from the time it took itself seriously, to the comedic, to the huntsman style of the remake with a distressingly clothed Jared Padalecki (and the character of Trent, the inspiration for Tim in my novel Winter’s Trial). I have never made it through all the movies in one day, nor do I think I would wish to. I have work, nap time, meals to have, and, well, I’ve seen them all several times. Someday, I’m really going to go for it, take the day off, and try to get through them all. It would be nice to have someone to do it with, but I’m okay alone.

I try to do a themed menu. Bloody Marys are usually the drink of choice or essentially anything red. Since I’ve been working on Saturdays, I think I’ll go with strawberry soda this time, despite my inclination to get messed up and cackle at every bad line, every over acted scream, and every hilariously gory death scene. The food is usually harder to conceptualize (and chunky tomato soup is so…boring), and what I landed on this time is rice balls painted like eyes. I’ve just gifted myself with a rice cooker and it makes the best rice in creation, so I thought I would try to do it. The eye decoration fell by the wayside and I’ve just decided to make rice balls because they sound delicious. What I will put in the middle is beyond me at the moment, but I’ve several ideas. Something red? Like biting into some unnamed flesh ball? Who am I kidding? I just want a rice ball with chicken, salmon, or something fun in the middle. Any horror food ideas are more than welcome.

Usually, I do it alone. Nobody seems to want to do this with me, but all my friends know I do it. I made my ex suffer through the marathon with me once and he enjoyed it…but it’s not something he would care to repeat. Am I the only one who loves these movies like this? Am I the only one who does this to myself? I don’t watch them avidly, like I sit there and witness every second. Usually I tune out and sort of treat myself to a greatest hits (essentially amounting to Jason’s Best Kills). The sleeping bag death is, by far, my favorite.

So, tomorrow I will happily be watching the marathon, cooking, drinking overly sweetened bubbly stuff, and entertaining myself. Why not? I won’t have a reason to do this until next year. But…who needs a reason, really? Maybe I should make a day for Nightmare on Elm Street…what would be appropriate? Hmmmm…I’ll figure something out. *evil grin*

The Inertia of Change

Inertia. That’s how you could describe a great deal of my life up until now. I let things happen — constantly waiting for the tides to change, to bring me the things I need, rather than just setting sail on my own. I think things are never going to change…until they do.

My writing has faltered, and that shocks me utterly. When I’m on fire for something, it doesn’t get pushed back — it consumes me. However, when you’re hunkered down, dreading each day, it’s difficult to create anything that isn’t tainted by the darkness inside you. Some would say that pain can lead to great creations and can be a catharsis. I agree with this to an extent but there’s nothing more humiliating and saddening to go back and see the horrors of your day to day life put into your writing, something you might otherwise have enjoyed.

Work is a dire, evil place. The work itself isn’t bad at all — it’s the people and the incessant backbiting of my team. I’ve been at that place for many years and had many teams I’ve had to work with, and there has never been another group of people that even approaches this level of fuckery. The obvious solution is to get out, but having been there for so long, it has really become my entire horizon of work experience — all I see before me and all I see behind. Sailing beyond that horizon is a terrifying dream, a tantalizing sweetness fraught with danger and unknown promise.

Then there’s the living situation. Where I live is cheap, but…well, that’s a bit too much to go into and doesn’t really bear repeating. We can focus on the climate here in Southern California and the constant heat, the wretched Santa Ana winds, the dearth of trees and scenery that isn’t a crowded beach (still gorgeous) or desert-related. We can also focus on how much I hate it and want to get out.

When you are convinced that real happiness isn’t coming to you, when you are stuck in that cycle of doing things and being in places that make you profoundly unhappy, it’s hard to break free from it.

Until life gets sick of your shit.

Sometimes the Universe comes along and kicks you in the shins and makes you jump up and fix life…while pushing your ass into the deep end without water wings and telling you to swim to shore.

From making friends with my work arch-nemesis and talking things out in a way we haven’t done in years, to a friend being admitted to the hospital, to a nostalgic (not entirely unpleasant) hit in the face regarding a former crush, to learning the truth behind a lost romantic opportunity, to a glimpse of how the publishing world works a bit more, to receiving my novel sales receipt and realizing not all is lost, I have, in the past three days, come to appreciate a great deal that I wasn’t in a place to just last week.

I think of it as taking cover during a hailstorm. I’ve been moving forward slowly, as though I’m testing the road for pitfalls, when this great storm of fifteen different things storms down all at once. My travels are paused while I take cover. Now that the storm is getting lighter I can get my little ass on that road again.

Someday I’m gonna look back on all this and think that I didn’t do all that I could, that I prolonged the negative experience by coming in out of the hail, and that I allowed these issues to stop me from moving forward. However, I’m certain that I will look back on these last few days as when something changed. And I’ll always have compassion for what I went through, while being so very grateful that it’s over and wonder inwardly how I managed to keep it all together. Then I’ll toast to the journey…and being on the other side of it.