Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Bone bruise

A few weeks ago, I was at a pre-house-demolition party in the inner sunset. I was being led around the house by someone gorgeous and slightly hazy but solid, as though she were viewing the world with extremely accurate precision through a veil or a 1.5-second delay. No, it wasn't just the alcohol. I needed ice for my drink, and grabbed a fist-sized chunk out of the ice bag without really thinking about it. It had just begun to get melty from having been out, and so was purely transparent as to be slightly hypnotic. I slammed it into the counter several times before realizing that it wasn't just cubes frozen together, but really a solid rock of crystalline cold, and that my efforts to fracture it in an instant, shattering the moment to slake my thirst, would only result in chipping and battering at what were perfectly good surfaces to begin with. About an hour later, I would notice that the topmost segment of my ring finger was continuing to be numb, almost completely without sensation, long after the rest of my hand had warmed back up to something like normal temperatures. It did not swell or discolor, but only slowly developed a reflective ache beneath the surface, one that would recur from time to time whenever I grabbed for anything too hard from then on, though on the surface everything looks just fine.

Sometimes you look for meaning in the little things.

Sorry I haven't written in a bit. I've been busy, and rather spacey lately, and jet lagged immensely.

I think I'm brewing a cold. I blame Dallas for this. Dallas and many planes and airports, and climate changes and time zone changes and altitude changes. Right now it's at that irritating stage where the back of my throat/roof of my mouth is itchy/achy, but I'm not congested at all, but sometimes I just randomly sneeze out of the blue. Now I'm dizzy, but I'm not sure if that's just slightly psychological, or I'm a bit feverish, or if I just expelled part of my brain on that last sneeze. Which is possible, but would be unfortunate. I often find my brain very helpful. Why it did not come to my aid by stopping me from drinking all those gin and tonics while I was in Santa Monica on Monday, I do not know.

Edit: That was three sneezes in a row, so we're past the brewing stage. Feh. Well, I'm a regular consumer of vitamins and orange juice so I'm hoping this goes quick.

Went out to the beach while doing laundry on Sunday. It had rained hard that morning, beating drops leaving the sands' surface dappled and divoted, baked subsequently into a hard shell by solar rays from a bright sky. The texture of it was fascinating, like stucco or rough concrete to the light touch, but merely apply a little pressure and it would flatten out. These then smooth-seeming surfaces would still feel rough to the touch, because you hadn't yet crushed the more substantial nodules of collected sand, merely pushed them down until they were indistinguishable from the soft sand. Apply some more pressure, and it smooths out into the cool, familiar tactile slide of beachsand.

The weather out there, even when sunny, carries the bite of a wind too sharp to really allow for laying out comfortably. I found a comfortable spot on the dune that slopes down towards the shore, and read from Gene Wolfe's Citadel of the Autarch, book four of the Book of the New Sun series, which tells the story of a dying Urth beneath a red sun, whose formerly fiery mantle is now cool, and who's inhabitants have mostly forgotten that they once, long ago, journeyed to the stars. The books mainly follow the adventures of Severian, a member of the Order of Seekers for Truth and Penitence, commonly called the Torturer's Guild.

I enjoy reading, and talking, and traveling, and gaming, but I am in the middle of one of those phases where it all feels like a big distraction. I am restless, having been in one place for so long, not feeling like I'm learning anything at my job, and not meeting a whole lot of new people but not really caring except in an existential way. I don't know how to explain. I feel too dreamy to be discontent, just aware of a charge building up. Like I'm waiting for a sign.

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"Like I'm waiting for a sign" --...or lightening.

This post was partially responisble for a nightmare of surreal betrayel with a shadowy Italian backstory and a rusty shiv!

I'm not kidding.
Except for maybe the shiv part.
I just like sharp things.

I went wandering in a book store the other day. I know. Huge surprise, right? And as always, I'm trying to The Book. Some Story I haven't read, but will be familair in that satisfying way.

Trolling along at fisherman's spead and getting quickly restless, I stumble upon a collection of short stories by Gene Wolfe. I sat down and read the intro followed by the first story. Lovely. But short stories are hard for me to finish--they end too quickly and I seek to put it off, that ending.

Right. Anyway, I leave--for plans, plans cancel--I come back and as I'm walking past the shelves, a misplaced book snags my eye.

Latro in the Mist. The title is not snazzy, but the premise is. Some poor man who's loses his memory overnight and can only go by what he wrote down the night before. I think they made some sappy romantic comedy off this premise recently, but it can't compare tp the simplicity of the journal. Oh yeah, and he sees gods and stuff. Anyway, if you like Wolfe's other stuff, you might like this.

Lalala. Back to work. See you in a week, ninja.

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