Camp

    Summer warmth on the Oregon coast doesn't linger past dark. It's not freezing, buy the air is wet, heavy, and never still. The grass is slightly damp but it feels safer sitting. My back is against a tree and I am alone. The chill on my skin is in a sharp contrast with my innards. The extremely cheap vodka and orange juice makes me feel like my digestive tract should be glowing. But it's dark under the trees and no one is near to even watch me sip from my canteen.
    It is night and I am listening to howls and screams. The other teenagers are set loose for one last wild hunt before a snack and bedtime. They are supposedly playing capture the flag or something. I didn't pay attention at the evening worship meeting slash briefing. All I could think about at the time was how to ditch my counselor and friends so I could have a little piece of the dark to myself. Fortunately at a christian camp no one checks aluminum bottles brought from home for booze. I've learned I can get away with a lot if I let them keep their illusions about me. Oh sure, I dress like a bad kid, but it's obvious I am just going though a rebellious phase. I am a pastor's kid after all. I am polite to adults, and talk about Jesus just the way I should. I even know to switch my language from overt bible talk to more hippie friendly terms if the youth worker has facial piercings or doesn't shave her legs.
    I am sitting, and not really thinking, more just feeling. It's been a very long week. One that I even mostly enjoyed. I can feel myself slowing down, really letting it sink in that for the first time in days I am not in view of several hundred kids and our adult minders. I can finally relax my face back to it's neutral state without anyone pestering me about how I look "sad" or "angry". I have no idea what they're seeing, but if I don't fix it I'll wind up with a small group of concerned girls expecting me to cry and share my deepest feelings. Calculating up a feeling that is vague, fairly glum, authentic enough but not actually close to my reality is tiring. And I've never been good at making myself cry on command, unfortunately. Nothing makes "nice" girls feel better than making someone cry and then telling them they are beautiful and Jesus loves them. Which of course solves all problems. The girl in crisis is then fixed and happy again, and the nice girls leave knowing they have done good in the world.
   I'm drinking, but not to get drunk. I'm mostly doing it because I can. Because I like the taste. Because I love the feeling of doing something that has no consequences if not caught, and worlds of annoying shit if I am. The screams and shrieks are getting quieter. I don't know if it's all winding down, or just drifting away. It doesn't matter, I am tucked away back towards the hills and the forest in an odd corner no one visits at night. It is so dark I can barely make out the difference between the bushes and the grass a few feet away from me. The tree behind me smells nice and piney, the air is thick with oxygen and water. I have plants on all sides of me, a narrow path leading towards a larger clearing.
    I can feel my outer emotional layers peel away. The gossip, the grudges, the interest in boys and video games, the insecurities. All of it just melts away. What's left is a hard steel core. I know who I am. I know what I am and I know that no one else does. I know exactly how far I will allow adults to control me. They all have their outer layers on and they see just what they want to see. As long as I can keep them seeing that image of me I am safe. I know that given the proper motivation I am capable of anything. I am also clueless as to what I actually want to be doing. I can't seem to fear flunking school like my classmates do, and I sure as fuck don't fear god's wrath the way my camp mates do.
    And then my ruminations are ended when I hear the bell. There is a huge old church bell in the middle of the grounds, it is the signal to end the evening melee. I cap my bottle, stand up and head in. The closer to the light and noise I get, the more pieces of my mask come back together. The cold steel inside gets coated in layers of teenage life. I think about my friends, my enemies, who is dating who, what my clothes look like, all the usual stuff. My feet crunch on the gravel path and the laughter and shouts are converging around me. I hear something familiar behind me so I turn, and when I see my counselor I smile.
  

The Door

    There is a room, perhaps a sitting or living room. Comfortable overstuffed furniture. hardwood floors, windows letting in warm sunlight. Bookshelves against the walls, cabinets with fine china and display pieces. There is also a girl. She sits on a chair holding a book, all her attention soaking into it's pages. There is only one door, a large oaken thing in the wall behind the girl. It is solid in a way that speaks beyond construction, it's elderly finish scratched and worn.
    If you were standing in the room trying to entertain yourself, you would most likely find your gaze wandering the shelves, or perhaps settling on the sole human occupant. She is quiet and still, not only her attention claimed but seemingly her entire awareness. You look past her at the door. It is in fact still a door. Shut tight, old, solid. You gain the impression that it is locked. Your eyes drift away again. Why are you here? Are you waiting for some appointment? Is there really nothing better you should be doing? You attempt to look for a book, perhaps something as enrapturing as the girl's, but your eye glazes over the collection, the titles indistinct.
    You look to the girl wondering if she will ever even move enough to turn a page. Maybe she is just a slow reader. The door, you noticed, is slightly larger than normal. Both wider and taller than one would expect. You pull your eyes away to once more attempt to see if anything remotely interesting is near you, but you wind up staring at the door. It is truly huge, the top of the frame meets the ceiling. Why would anyone make such a large door? It looks inches think and must weigh a ton. You contemplate trying to open it, but an uncomfortable squirmy feeling rises in your gut. An old door like that no doubt makes an awful racket, and you don't like the idea of disturbing the stillness.
    You take a look at the girl. Her face isn't so much blank as it is focused, intensely focused. Which is odd for someone who hasn't made any progress in her novel. You also realize her eyes aren't moving. She is just sitting stone still and staring at the page. Startled by this, you look around the room searching for the cause of her odd behavior. There are books on shelves, the chair and the girl, and the door. The floor is cold and bare, the sun must have been hidden by clouds. You are hit with a sudden creeping unease. Weren't there cabinets? Another loveseat, or perhaps an end table? No, there are only bookshelves. You shoot your eyes back to the door, wondering if it has changed. It is the same. You feel it has always been that way, and it always will be. And yet... it seems taller than you recall. And maybe slightly closer to the girl? You stare at the door, boredom replaced with an itching suspicion. Why is it locked? You are certain it is. Why does it feel.... insistent? It exudes a feeling of having been closed and ignored, forgotten for so long now. But it is a door, a thing designed to allow passage from one space to another. Why would it exist, if it was not meant to open? At the thought of it opening your innards clench with dread. You do not know how you know this but there is indeed something behind that door. And it is angry.
    The girl is on the bare floor now, you have no idea where the chair has gotten to. She still clutches her book, desperately staring through it into nothingness. The though makes you sick but you know that she could open the door is she wanted to.
    The shelves are gone, the walls empty. There is a door and a girl, but the girl is almost frantically pretending that the door does not exist. You, however, are all too aware of the damn thing. Whatever it keeps away is tired of being confined. It is tired of being ignored. It is tired of watching the world happily ignore it. It doesn't just want out though, it wants you in.
    The room is cold, floor bare, walls empty. The girl is on the floor staring at a wall three inches from her face. You get the sense that the girl has been here as long as the door, however many countless ages that might be.
    You feel the precarious balance in the now tiny room, and you are terrified. The oonly thing you can do is close your eyes, and then open them. Nothing changes except the girl is now staring directly at you.
    And in that instant of eye contact (or after? before?) the room is different. The sunlight coming on the windows is warm, the girl back in her comfy chair reading a book, bookshelves and cabinets decorate the room. The door is just a door, no more ominous or notable than anything else here.

The Forest

    This is my first little piece of actual, entirely creative fiction. But I am starting to feel like I am writing the same story, just all different parts and out of order. But yeah, this is not based on a dream or an amalgamation from life events.

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    The forest smells cold and empty. Despite it's emptiness there is movement. The air is flowing through the canopy in a steady torrent, pulling at the trees. It grasps at the branches, trying desperately to stop it's rush. It is dark, but it is not night. It is as if there is no sun, no moon, and certainly no stars. Just blackness above.
    There is a girl. She isn't running, but she is striding through the forest at a determined pace. Her long arms are wrapped around herself, and she keeps her eyes on the ground ahead of her. The wind pulls at her arms, as if trying to take her backwards with it. She hunches forwards and keeps walking. As she walks the tugs grow more insistent, desperate even. Plucking at her hair, grabbing at her clothes, drafting icily around her ankles. It clings to her like she was a vine dangling over a cliff edge, with hellfire burning below. She keeps walking.
    The wind, once clingy and scared, is getting even more insistent. Now it pulls at her in irritation, frustrated at her ignoring it's pleas. It gusts, whipping her hair about. It demands she stop and acknowledge it's need. She casts her eyes down, making sure her feet find solid purchase. The unseens treetops groan under the wind's increased assault. The only response from the girl is perhaps and slightly quicker pace, but she keeps walking.
    The wind is angry now. Why should she go on, when it must go back? Why can't it decide for itself where it should be? Who is this tiny mammal to be striding about like she has choice or freedom? No no no, if the wind must go to some horrid doom, it is only fair it not go alone. This girl, this fleshy earthbound sack of meat, has no respect no consideration! And not even an ounce of shame.
   The wind is now screaming, wailing through the forest. It must blow towards damnation, that is why it exists. Winds do not choose, they simply exist. But they can rage, and rage is all that this wind has left.
    But the girl keeps walking.

Agitation

This is a ... snippet of writing I suppose? Perhaps a scene?


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    It is late and she is sitting on the bathroom floor. She is holding still, and more than holding still. She is clenching every muscle tight. She is in her underwear and a t-shirt, her ass cold and aching from the tiles. Her knees are drawn to her chin, her back against the wall, eyes open and unfocused.
   Her bones are made of fire and she wants to rip her flesh away. She wants to scrape her knuckles bloody on the wall, to ram sharp objects into her biceps. She wants to sit and burn in the sun she can't see until her skin splits and bubbles. She wants to run until it feels like her ribs will break. She wants to wander the streets crying and clawing at her face. She wants someone to grab a fistful of her hair, bend her over and fuck her. She wants to tear through underbrush until she emerges torn to shreds. She wants her knees scraped, her fingernails torn, face to sting, muscles to ache, teeth knocked loose, and lungs unable to fill.
    If it were food, her stomach would be cramping and her mouth slavering in desire. This need is wrapped tight around her sternum, clenching hard and pressing on her heart.
   Eventually the need passes, as all things do. She is overcome with exhaustion and crawls into bed to sleep fitfully.


   "Sometimes... I feel ...agitated and tense. It keeps me up at night."
    "Yes, sometimes mood swings are unpleasant. Have you tried exercising? Getting more sleep? Eating better?"
   "....I suppose it might be worth trying."

Shadow men

This is loosely based on a dream I had recently.


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    I am standing in a parking lot. It is night, it is dark. Far darker than any urban parking lot shoulod be, the shadows cling to and wrap around the parked cars. Across the way there is a person standing. All I can make out is a vague human outline. It seems roughly male, or at least not distinctly female. It starts to move, it walks towards me. It moves deliberately, but not quickly. It comes closer to me but does not become any easier to see. It almost seems to pull the darkness along with it.
    I've felt uneasy this whole time, but with every step it takes, fear starts crawling up from my belly, grabbing firmly and sharply around my throat.
   It is twenty feet away. I should be able to see what it is wearing, perhaps a color or two, maybe even a rough facial impression. Yet all that is visible is just this vague and poorly lit form. Ten feet away now. I can see it's eyes. I can see two holes where eyes should be. A pale yellow light leaks out from them, but that light fails to reveal anything.
    I am stepping back now, at the same speed it is stepping forward. I bump into a car and send my hand out behind me to find... anything really. My arm twists behind me as I keep facing forward, not willing to let this thing out of my vision. To my mild shock, I do find something. Something long, smooth, and wooden with a handle. I grab it and charge the few feet between me and the figure.I am holding what seems to be a police baton, but again I am not willing to look to closely at anything other than the figure. I swing at it's head. It falls to it's knees, so I hit it again. The weapon connects with the skull solidly, the impact jars me from my hand to my shoulder. The sound is oddly muffled, like something far away. I keep swinging. I swing until my hand is numb and I am dripping with sweat. I swing until my shoulder burns and I cannot breathe. I swing until I feel something crack beneath my blows, and the figure falls still. Then I run.

First Real Post

    Well this is mildly terrifying, but I had better do it now and get it over with. The following is one of my very first attempts at writing. It's a description of a dream I had about a decade ago.




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    I no longer remember how this dream started, I assume it started with the usual mess of imagery, nonsense and memory that makes up most of my dreams. I do remember I was traveling through a city with a group of friends on foot. We stopped under and elevated train track beside a moderately busy road. I remember a boy's arms around my waist holding me back from traffic, I think we were on a particularly narrow shoulder or sidewalk. I was looking out across the damp, grey street at a building that had caught my eye. Unlike the rest of the standard urban construction around me, it was skyscraper sized, blue, and cylindrical. More like a tower than any sort of modern apartment or office building. I was struck my an intense sense of recognition. I know this building. I leave my friends without explanation and walk across the street toward it.
    I am in the lobby facing a reception desk. It seems the middle of the tower is hollow, an empty cylinder inside the larger exterior cylinder. Stairs spiral up along the wall. I've realized this is an apartment building. I also realize that I used to live here, but the details of exactly where and when are just beyond my reach. But I am absolutely certain that this used to be my home. Somewhere in here there is a space that I belong in.
    There is a man sitting behind the desk, wearing some sort of bellhop uniform. I ask him if he knows me or knows where I used to live. He does not, but he suggests I go upstairs and ask some of the residents. So I start to climb the stairs, getting several hundred feet up before I find a floor that I feel I might have lived on. I am hoping my random choice will lead me where I want to go.
    I am now in a cavernous hallway. The light is odd, dark and green. The ceiling is 15 feet over me, the floor at least twice that in width. It stretches on into darkness. There are doors on my left every twenty feet or so, the wall to my right is blank. On the carpet by the blank wall I notice there are toys. Blocks, bears, something that might be a Fischer Price Ferris wheel. It is very dimly lit, so I can just barely make them out, but after trying to see the toys for several seconds I notice some sort of small movement. I see that the toys are moving, but no one is in the hallway with me. It is as if invisible children are playing with them, or the toys are playing themselves, drawing from memories of children's play. Instead of  the usual sounds that accompany children's play, there is only silence.
    As I walk through the building, I can almost remember what I am seeing. Every new sight is expected, everything achingly familiar. I cannot, however, pull up where my apartment is, what floor it is on, or even what the interior looks like or when I lived here. But I am certain that my forgotten home is here, somewhere.
    I start knocking on doors, mostly being greeted by just the silence. After a few attempts, one finally opens, spilling out a brighter shade of green light out. The door only opens a foot or so, and behind it stands a strangely withered old man wearing a sweater vest. I cant tell if his skin is green, or if the light just makes him look green. He quietly informs me that he doesn't recognize me, but he suggests I go downstairs, to a room under the lobby, and ask the people I find there. Apparently they are the people who know about everything that goes on in the tower. He closes his door, leaving me alone in the grimly lit hallway.
    I decide to keep looking around on the floor before heading back down. I find a door that looks like a janitors closet, or maintenance room. It opens up a small empty room, the walls are white, the floor is white, and even the light itself is bleached and dead. Ten feet up the back wall there is a small window that looks out on an overcast sky. More notably when I open the door I am not only struck by the air that rushes out to meet me, but an overwhelming sense of   rage, fear, and misery. I am utterly repulsed and horrified by this space. I close the door, back away and resolve to try to forget that I ever opened it.
    I head back down the stairs in the middle of the tower, through the lobby and down some more. I arrive in a dark, ill defined space. I cannot see the walls around me or the ceiling. In front of me I can see a fireplace and mantle. Between me and this, the only light source, is a semi circle of overstuffed chairs. Most of the chairs are occupied, but the dark seems to cling to the occupants. I cannot see their faces, only their outlines. They sit in silence.
    I walk until I am in front of the fireplace and facing the chairs. I ask if these people know me, or know where my home is. They say they do recognize me, I used to be one of them. I even had my own chair. But they say I will have to find my misplaced home on my own.
    After this point, the dream fades from this weirdly solid place back into standard dream fuzziness and confusion. I never found my apartment, and I am not certain I want to know what is in it if I do.

Writing While Waiting in Queue

    Specifically, I am waiting in queue in Star Wars: The Old Republic to join a random group in a flashpoint. I promise to some people that last sentence is in fact written in English. I should also apologize now for the future post that is going to be all about online gaming. Make that posts. I have many opinions, and few people in my life willing to listen to my rants and rambles for the 14th time.

    So what should I write about tonight? There is a fairly large pool of emotions and thoughts floating around in my head. Some of it I am saving to write in a physical journal. Because yes, it's too scary to put creative writing of any sort on the internet. Wait crap is this creative? whatever. I know what I mean. That's good enough. I could write a list of all the things I wish I was doing right now (cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, finish knitting a hat, cleaning) but I seem pretty committed to procrastinating. It's much more fun to sit around feeling guilty than just doing whatever it is I'm guilty about not doing. Obvs. I could write about how I am feeling weirdly creative right now. I have pictures in my head almost ready to be painted, a board to be colored once I find the right board, a hat I am knitting, and a couple ideas for writing taking shape. I don't usually have that many urges to create at one time. I'm usually more likely to be pulled towards one type of art at one time.

      I could sit here and list all the profoundly dumb character names I am seeing in my game online. ("Nytdreamer" ha oh god) I could mention that I use far too many parentheses when I write. But I'm actually ok with that, it's as close as drawing arrows pointing to related but slightly off topic concepts as I can get with a keyboard. Sometimes I won't write about something because I feel I couldn't properly explain without drawing a diagram.

    Oh here we go, an idea. I think I know why I am writing a blog. Besides from the fact that I've been sleeping weird and therefore have no one to talk to and too many words in my brain. I think it will be good for me to write even stupid shit like this on a daily basis. It's been so long since I've been in school I'm starting to worry my brain is atrophying away.  And I suspect using my brain and expressing myself will also help keep the depressions away. So there. A reason to be doing this that doesn't feel utterly stupid. Now I just have to decide if and who I want to read this. Ugh, gross. It's so far just a diary, so who the hell do I know that might possibly want to read my diary? I think I will wait until I have more interesting things to post. Like short stories, or art. ooo Hey, I could post pictures of art I make!  And then write out all the things about my art that I hate!

    Ok fuck, I need to do something productive ish. I'll go unload the dishwasher. That probably won't kill me. Probably.