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10 August 1998 |
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Hope Evan doesn't mind my saying so, but in a recent email he said that, being a writer, the words are flowing constantly through his head, a narration, really. Guess I'm a writer, too, then. The words flow and flow, and only a few get captured for later. The losses I truly regret are the rivers of words that on a few occasions have rushed through my mind on the very edge of sleep. I lay in my bed, almost dreaming, and the narrative comes, like a book on tape but three times as fast. Descriptions, conversations, everything, rushing through me at high speed. If they were original, oh how I wish I could have captured them and bound them to the page. But I knew at the time that if I rose, I would wake completely, and the spell would be broken, so I just let it happen. That's not the only funky weird shit that's happened to me in the middle of the night. The other thing, I've been reluctant to tell, because then you'll know I'm every bit as much of a flake as you first suspected. Hell, just by the lead-in, you can probably already guess just what sort of story this is going to be. Well, you are more than welcome not to read, if you'd rather not. Let me start by saying that I do not claim that any of this is real or true. It could so easily have been an incredibly vivid nightmare, or even a joke, or the imaginings of a broken mind. I hadn't been broken down to my elements in basic training yet, so I was still pretty fucked up. oooooOOOOOOOoooooOOOOOOeeeeeeeeeoooooooo I'd been playing with candle wax again, and the table next to my bed had tons of candles and saucers of melted wax and matches and burned matchbooks and various other pyrophenalia. It was well past bedtime, though, and I couldn't sleep. I was still living at my dad's house, in a room of my own. Lea Ann and Lydia were sharing a big bed out on the porch, so it must have been summer. My bed was a bunk bed arrangement with a curtain hanging down on the side facing the door. The table was on the other side, between the bed and the wall. Eventually I fell asleep, but then seemed to rise again into wakefulness. It was because of a low cyclic throbbing coming from the northwest. Train sounds I was used to, but this wasn't quite right at all. When I glanced out over to the northern window, my stomach turned very cold. There were lights going on out there, all different colors, flashing on the white curtain. Highway headlights I was used to, but again, this wasn't it. Then I saw it. A shadow of a hand. Long fingers rising up from the windowsill, impossibly long fingers, and then another hand and another. I wanted to scream, but couldn't move. To my horror I discovered I couldn't move at all, not to turn my head, not to jump up and run, not even to blink. I was frozen like that, either by panic or who knows what, watching these fingers feel gingerly about the window frame. I wished I could pass out or something. Then with a gentle lurch, I felt my body rising, the sheets dangling off the edges of my body. Omigod. Omigod. Slowly I rose and then thankfully, all consciousness left, though it wasn't completely blank. I had nightmares about Wookies in my hallway. I awoke the next morning feeling very, very strange. No markings or mysterious aches or anything, just a heavy mantle of suspicion and fear. Sometime later, I read "Communion" by...who's it by? Well I read it, and it scared the everliving piss out of me. Parts were so familiar that I really threw the book against a wall. A few years later, I saw the movie, but by then I was pretty stable, so it wasn't such a big fear, though the part where that visitor holds the crystal shard up to that guy's forehead... That is probably the only problem with this house; it resembles that one. In the movie. If I remember correctly. I've always been terrified of great wide open flat spaces, and this thing didn't help that any at all. In addition, I never really feel secure unless I'm near radar equipment. Like at a military base. Like at an airport. That's the good part about this house. I can see the tower from here. oooooOOOOOOOoooooOOOOOOeeeeeeeeeoooooooo Ok we're done that. I'll be accepting your donations for psychiatric treatment at the end of this entry. I alternate between loving the dark and fearing it. Sometimes I feel rather fetal, and this womb of blackness is very comforting in enveloping me, making all my horizons into snug walls. Sometimes I feel insidious forces in the night, though not like when I was a kid, and my mom believed in demons and shit. Back then, I was constantly terrified. You never knew when a demon or some such would come out of the blackness to get you. They aren't coming. That crap is a blend of Baptist-Pentacostal horror movie garbage thought up to keep people in line, though for god's sake I don't see how it would. Ah how fucked up I am. Or were. Or am, I mean, who knows? Oh, that story up there...I wanted to tell the Daveworlders yesterday, for the subject did come up, but I didn't know how to broach it. --Spring
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