In a World of Living Dreams - short story

A man woke up and fell out of bed and kept falling. There was no floor. Turns out he'd been sleeping in the clouds and the thing he thought a bed was little more than cumulonimbus.

No big deal.

The man fell but only until he got the hang of flying. It didn't take long. He saw a bird do it, and if a fucking seagull could do it then he sure could! He wasn't sure what to do at first. It had been a while since he'd flown last. He'd thought he was on pavement, only to find that wide open blue was above and all other things were below. This was scary and pretty darn rad. He grew wings for good measure, figuring that people would think it was weird that he had none and yet was flying.

The air felt wondrous over and under his wings and awful on his face. His eyes were chapped within moments and his ray-bans did little more than up his sex appeal. He approved.

Being practical, he flew to The Kingdom of World's Edge. There he met a tinker. Her name was Mack. She fashioned goggles for him out of raw, viscous joy. They were black leather with rainbow colored lenses; practical with a touch of whimsey. He stood in super-hero pose. He looked good. He felt strong. He asked Mack to join him in the sky but suddenly she was gone. There was a knock at her hourglass shaped door. The man went outside where he found Mack aloft on her own wings made of a tinker's dreams. She smiled, arms crossed. He smiled and went after her.

Around noon things were getting rumbly in their tumbly. They'd both wanted to see New Empire. They shot over land and sea, faster than you and me, hungrier and hungrier than could be.

A wise monk was there to meet them and greet them, a golden cap on his head. He moved like rubber and had the strength of kings and knew ten thousand things. He also hated rhymes. It was on principal more than anything. He actually liked the sound of such things but the idea of words slavishly tying to one another for the sake of entertainment seemed wrong and unnatural. All of his words were asymmetric, and as he spoke: great columns of earth and wood rose up around him.

Hunger eventually came back up, between the three, and so the monk split the ground with his heel and revealed a valley of waterfalls and hanging homes where the Happy Folk lived. He called this home. It was a suburb and was pretty darn nice, as far as magical valleys go. His wife and child stood on the balcony of their seven story home next to the largest slices of pizza the Man and Mack had ever seen.

They ate together and shared stories. The Man and Monk had known one another a decade and so they recounted their adventures in the Land of Kings. The talked of the Lake of Sapphire, the daily feast, the People's House and the tale of the Great Misunderstood, Misplaced Messenger. Monk's wife sang songs, because that was her name. She sang about the Southern Stride and their adventures in the town called Thousand Year. Two weeks in Thousand Year was one-thousand years everywhere else. Except for Saturdays. Those were standard. But they were always accompanied by a party filled with song and dance and twice as much wine as any one person could handle.

Monk and Song and Child stayed behind. Man and Mack hugged, then waved and thanked their hosts.

Long past sundown and heavy filled with food and stories, which you know are thrice as heavy as food (stories, I mean), the two sought a place to lay their heads. The Man realized that he'd been in a cloud his whole and therefor a bed wouldn't be out of the question, though it was dull. Mack decided to build them a place to rest. They thought, though not for long, and snapped her fingers. She removed her spell-scribed spanner and donned a warm smile. In the lack of light, Man could see she glowed ever so faintly and gently with a smile on. It soothed him.

Mack tapped spanner to tree and an inn was born, staff and all. She tapped the grass and bread fluffed from the earth. It was marble rye, Man's favorite. She tapped the stream that trickled and it became music. The man cried at this, a tear or two. He didn't know he was, of course, and it was through excited laughter, so it was a happy cry, to be clear. Lastly, Mack tapped them both, and their wings fell away in vapor and then dew, their clothes became stardust and then changed again.

He wore a fine suit built from midnight, she: a dress of moonlight. The stream played beautiful music and they danced. They were quite good! The sun eventually began to rise. By that time, they'd danced all night and had fallen asleep, Mack on his shoulder, Man resting his head on Mack's. They didn't talk because they didn't need to. They didn't dream because they didn't need to.

They awoke to the smell, by the smell, of good things cooking. A young green dragon brought them a plate of things they craved. They ate. Mack decided to leave the inn where it was and not tap it away. Others would want that same comfort, she figured.

While over the Center Kingdom, the Fire King offered Mack a place in his kingdom, a new shop, a new adventure. She couldn't say no. She dealt in dreams, survived on stories and craved adventure, after-all. Man was sad, but only for the briefest of moments. She was happy and so he was happy for her. He said he'd visit. He would. He went on. She stayed. Before leaving, Mack gave Man a tiny mirror. She held a similar one. If you fogged the mirror with your breath, could write messages to another person who held a mirror just like theirs. They kept in touch.

Over the Sunrise Coast, the man found his sisters three. They were long sense dancing and wondered where he'd been. He told them about his morning and they all contemplated growing their own wings. The eldest made wings of sound, the youngest made wings of light, the middle made teal wings of healing water. The four danced. They found like minded others and challenged them to duels and games of chance in the sky. The Eldest began speaking of wonderful things that the others had not yet thought about. She taught them these things and more, more and more. A full days adventure and then some had caused Man's bones to ache, so the Middle healed them. The Youngest stood by his side and they made one another laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh. Together they were powerful.

As the sun fell into its own sleep, the lot of them, now hundreds strong, returned to Man's home in the Rain Song Forrest. He thought of sleep but it seemed boring. So he didn't. Instead, he wished and dreamed. The magic of the Rain Song mixed with his imagination and gave form to his hide-away. It was a castle made of wood, grown from the trees themselves. From the castle flowed water onto the forrest floor that was sapphire blue, because that's how he remembered it. The rains fell harder, fat drops that soothed his nerves the happier he got. He knew that not everyone liked the rain, so he ushered everyone inside his home.

Inside, he and his Sisters Three made a grand feast from simple things and they fed their own until they were fat. They gave them drink that loosened the strings on stories and they all shared their adventures.

Rocket had slain a great beast made of glass. Siegrid had bent gravity because she could and wowed a crowd of ten thousand. The Brothers Neon, who wore armor of brilliant light, had heard tale of great peril and profound sadness in the Eastern Wastes, a living shadow of hate. With their army they removed the shadow with ease and renamed the land Joy, after one of their wives.

The night had come and most ventured home with kind wishes and thanks. Those who were too tired or drunk stayed behind, as the Man and Sisters Three had insisted. The castle grew beds for them and the rain played their songs above their heads to ease them into dreams.

The Man was alone on his balcony, a smile on his face and his hand in the rain. He was happy. Like his family, he survived on stories and craved adventure. He'd had both and then some. He was tired, exhausted, practically asleep on his feet.

He thought of his friends who hadn't been at their feast and smiled wider. They were far, but felt near. He felt a warmth in his chest and savored it.

Something vibrated in his pocket and startled him. It was the mirror. There was a message being scrawled in the fog that appeared. He smiled. It read, "Sweet Dreams."

He slept. And he dreamed. Not because he needed to. Because he wanted to. Because his life had grown beautiful and dreaming was what he did very well. Because when he awoke he would weave these dreams into reality for himself and his family, his friends and strangers.

He fell asleep with a smile, and woke with a smile, greeted by another day filled with love and endless adventures.

Make Time, Give a Fuck and Deal with Shit

Willpower is a currency that you have only so much of daily. Popular phrase is "fucks," as in: "Leroy had zero fucks to give that day."

Let's say you start your day with 100 standard-galactic fucks (warning, there is math, though basic, and that is NOT the man you married). In your mind, let fucks be represented by a shiny platinum coin (the shape is up to you). Everything you do that costs energy/effort costs fucks.

You wake up fully rested, 100 fucks in pocket. You make breakfast (in theory), shower (unless you're disgusting), brush your teeth etc. Your morning routine and all that, if you have one. For most people this is a minimal effort. Let's call it 5 fucks. You now have 95.

Most of us have a 9 to 5er (I don't), so we bolt off there. I'ma skip the majority of your theoretic day because what you do with your time is your damned business. But you do look good in that black shirt and beanie, Mr. Marsh. Mmmmm. Yes.

A workday takes a lot out of you. I say that because it's true. Even if you... scratch that. ESPECIALLY if you are so lucky as to have a job in your passion or one that fulfills you. But let's go off of the assumption that your 9-5 is just there to pay the bills and so forth. It's a huge chunk of your day, your effort, and as the average person is awake but 16 hours a day, it costs a large bit-o-fucks just to work. It's a fourth of your day, never mind if you don't sleep too well or miss breakfast, so we're calling it at least 40-50 fucks depending on how you feel about it. It costs more the more effort you put in AND the more tedium you feel. So we're down to roughly 45 fucks, possibly less. Not so bad.

Again, if you are not rocking a salt-mill bread and butter kinda job, this does not apply to you. It may cost you less, but generally will cost you much more as you will no doubt spend more energy because you... well, give a fuck about it. To be clear, I'm not writing this about you though. You're awesome. Good job landing your dream gig. Everyone else is awesome too, but in a more nose to the grindstone  because you have to kind of way. Moving on.

45 fucks. It's not a ton, but there's still enough to do something. Hit the pub, relax at home, do your sport, create something, try to have sex, learn something, it's all good, and some of these things invigorate folks. Let's take into account that the average you and me does a thing. Things cost fucks. Pick your favorite, it's going to cost you at least 20 fucks. (generalizations are fun)

You now have 25. What does that mean? You have 25 out of 100. 25% of your starting willpower/energy/effort worth expending. Lots of people, especially me, forget that there are consequences when you start getting to the end of your willpower. By 25, you're already pretty exhausted. You rocked a job and a hobby all the live long day. Most people call it a night and head home with their loved ones or do the solo thing. Either way, even that costs willpower. If you have a calm situation, it's a teeny cost of let's say: 5 fucks. But if you are like so many and have a family or at least a significant other, you've gotta be at least a little ON for them. It's at least 10 fucks. AT LEAST.

So now we're down to 20 or 15 fucks. Here's when things get incredible, people watching wise. Appropriately, the lower your willpower, the less willing to deal with shit you are. Shit and fucks do not mix. Shit is not the things you've elected to do. It's fighting, it's bills, it's cleaning when you don't want to, it's simply the things you don't want to experience. Shit drains you. Shit is where we all get into trouble. We overextend our willpower and get into the red, the negative.

(cue 1950's slides, announcer voice and woodwind heavy music) When you spend more than your allotted willpower, you experience such things as depression, misplaced anger, fatigue, restless sleep, joint pain, headache and or muscle aches, confusion, decreased cognitive function and so on.

This is burn-out. Welcome to where most everyone you know lives. The average person vastly over-extends themselves into burnout. At that point, you play catch up.

If you're only getting 100 fucks a day, but you've put yourself into the red, let's say -15 fucks, you start the next day with only 85 fucks. Doesn't seem too bad, right? Then another day, and another and so on happens. Eventually you're so far in the hole that the serious versions of the afore mentioned problems happen. Sickness, clinical depression, violent outbursts, profound sadness and so on.

SHITTY THING (also a huge generalization): The average person starts with 100 fucks, but can drop almost twice that much before they lose their mind or die. You can exist in this hole for the remainder of your life and never realize where you're at. Also, you CAN raise your fucks to 150 in theory, but it usually takes having the perfect life you've always wanted, and even then, most folks only have so much excess energy every once-in-a-while. Having a daily 150 is rare.

You CAN do things to try and recover the fucks you spend in your every day. Grab a pint, that's like... 5 fucks (that's A pint, maybe TWO, not a bender. Benders cost fucks. Lots of fucks). Go to the spa! It'll give you like 20 fucks! Laugh, cry, experience emotion. It's healing! Cathartic! Releasing emotions, negative or positive, is a very good thing and will give you a variable but valuable raise in fucks.

Most importantly, learn to manage your time. Doing too much? Always in the red? Stop doing something! Knock one thing off and see how you feel. I guarantee you'll breathe a tad easier. We are still simple creatures, we humans. On the real, we should have a job and a close nit friend group on the average and a hobby just based on our attention span. It's a solid trio. Work pays the bills (food and shelter), hobbies fulfill your creative/destructive needs (control), and friends provide pretty much everything else (the tribe).

Most folks (me too more than I want to admit), think that there is something missing from their life, a cog or spring that would help their life run smoother or more efficient. Sometimes this is true. Maybe you do need a new job or a hobby that drives you or a wife/husband/paramour/buddy/animal to fill the void. Maybe that's true. More than likely, you are tired, depressed, unfulfilled because you don't appreciate what you have.

In general, it is easier to destroy than it is to create. I think it's funny that it's so hard for most people to drop activities/jobs/relationships with that in mind. But that's a whole different post/two hour long uplifting seminar and/or weekend conference. That's assigning worth and meaning and attachment and that's for later.

It's hard sometimes. No judgement. I load myself down with tasks, jobs and blah blah blah and come out the other side depressed. It feels like I spend 200 fucks a day sometimes. When you really get down to it, most of us will die after around 80 years. It sucks. It terrifies me. So there is no real reason to keep latched to something that would make harder that precious little life you've got. I need to remind myself sometimes that there are always other jobs, other hobbies, other friends and other loves.

Make time for yourself and you'll find that dealing with shit isn't so difficult, that you have more fucks to give and, jokes aside, you'll find that you are happier. That's the dream, really, isn't it? To be happy? To enjoy what time you've been given? Focus on that, the things that make you happy. Spend more time, more fucks, on those things.

A Mouth Full of Mind

It's important, this thing called: honesty. And it's a funny sombitch. I say so because we, as a people (people being Americans in this case first, humans second) are pretty darn outspoken when it comes to what we think on surface matters (mostly crap we want to buy). We become tongue tied (some of us) when we attempt to speak our true thoughts, impulses and that sort of thing about the things that truly matter. I don't mean the drunken splat that erupts when our inhibitions are removed due to good old social-lube (booze, you sick/awesome bastard). Side: it should be noted that I have had a few. Moving on. I mean the thoughts that we marinate on daily, sometimes hourly. The thoughts that we are sometimes afraid of just having, let alone letting out of our respective word-holes. Mostly the positive. While we may be honest, we are scared to say what we really think.

Also, this isn't a how to. It's just what was on my mind.

I don't lie. It's not my thing. It has nothing to do with morals, either, it's more coming from a general hatred of wasting time and abiding that which is useless. I used to lie like a champ and all that it got me was a mess of people who treated me, themselves and our respective passions like garbage. It made getting to know people useless... Really, that's it: It makes the time you spend useless. My next phase was omission. I may not have been lying, but I wasn't letting anything true about my convictions out. Where's the fun in that? Where's the fear, the danger, the joy and the learning? How the fuck do you expect to learn, grow, change, enact chaos and order without being truly honest with others?

(Babbling paragraph) Others, of course, come later. First is honesty with yourself, but I find that most people are very smart and very much know what they are about, so we can skip that. Honesty with others is another bastard that comes from confidence. It can also be a great path to confidence. It's really easy, actually, to be confident. It is! More on that later. Now it's all about honesty with others, which leads to said confidence. Ahem...

We are unconfident for many reasons, but personally I find that I am most unconfident when I have my "idiot days." These are those days when you feel inferior in some way. Stupid, fat, a failure, and so on. No matter your intelligence, weight, successes and so on, most people have those days where we feel less than we are. I don't know why these days happen, and for todays purposes: I don't care. Your people, your inner circle, family etc can bring you out of this funk in many ways. The longest lasting, in my experience, is from the best source: their strength, their success, their brilliance.

The average person has at least one friend. It can be safely assumed that this one friend brings something very positive to that persons life. I'm talking about said friends merits. In some way, this person/these people is/are superior to you. Deal with it. I've got friends who can do a style of dance better than me, can sing better, can cook better and so on. We all do. When you look at them and you recognize this, accept and embrace this, it empowers you. You surround yourself with the best! It says volumes of you, the company you keep. The path to embracing your own brilliance can be nurtured through the embracing and celebrating of your people.

The next bit, my favorite bit, is saying the things on your mind. To make a long post short: It's so easy to say what's on your mind if you start with your people. Compliment them, praise the ever loving hell out of them. From there, you can hold your head high and do the same about yourself. Of course, you can also do this in the opposite way, it's just how I handle things.

This was fun to write. In part because I'd been drinking and watching West Wing and Angel. I feel like my next post will be less babbling. Meh. Still fun.

You've Got Growing Up to Do.

It's 3:08 AM and I'm still awake. Not wide awake. 75% maybe? I'm still awake because I'm an insomniac. I'm an insomniac because I'm stressed most of the time I that I think about the next thing that I have to do. And the next thing is never alone. It's never one thing. It's a shotgun blast of many, many fulfilling project and opportunities. A metric fuck-ton of big dreams and slim to jack-shit budgets. The things I've taken on in my life have all lead me to greater things and incredible people and experiences. Payment is not one of these things.

I look forward, and I budget during the wee-hours. I do what responsible people do when they want something. I brainstorm and I ask the questions: Do I have enough cash to get this going? And if not: How much will I have to work/how much do I need/and what will I have to do to make this happen? I spend a great deal of time trying to budget my time, willpower and finances to fulfill many, many dreams, mine and those of others, and usually I come up on top! Or at the very least near the top with room to improve. And for years this has been fine. I've been happy while not having a savings and a solid 100% that I don't have any real monetary assets beyond three figures. As long as the projects got done, I was happy and reasonably healthy.

I'm still happy, and every day I get stronger, but today I realized something: The relative success of my projects and my ability to stay afloat financially has been largely luck based. I've made enough due to commissions/gifts/flukes and the like. When it's flowing, the luck and money, I'm smiling. But I've relied so heavily, subconsciously, on this luck based income that I had no plan for when/if/should it bottom out and leave me high and dry. And here we come to why I'm awake at now 3:16 AM (typing is hard when I'm stressed).

The money's gone. Okay, not gone, but definitely to a point that I need to be fairly concerned. I've never been here before. Not like this. And it's not that I'm afraid of being here or not used to it either, it's that I sit and ponder what loop hole for circumstance that I might be able to fall into and I'm just not finding one this time. I hit a wall, if you will, and the only thing that I can actually come up with is that my usual brand of dumb-luck just isn't working. As much of a planner as I am, I never truly factored in the "real world." The holy shit moments when budget is actually screwed. Every time the money as always come close to running out, I would get either a gift, or a random ass gig that let me float a bit more (save for a horrific year in college back in early 2000. Eggs, rice, occasional ramen. Always hungry. Always tired. Always stressed. Nervous breakdown. 'Nuff said).

It never once occurred to me that my budgeting wasn't accurate, because I was actually factoring in random-ass "what if" possibilities into paychecks. But they are gone, these moments and I just now realized why. I have been drastically changing my life for the past year for the better. It's all good stuff! However, I was still planning my budget according to how I'd been up until this past year. I've cut out some income spots that used to give me good ol' rando checks, but still included them in my plans. And so we return to the why of my insomnia. Decisions.

It's all simple and annoying: I have to make a few big boy decisions in the next couple of days. I have to evaluate my dreams, plans, job, etc, and some things won't make the cut. Some of these things are minor and include petty shit that I don't need. Others are much larger. Others include dreams that I have that I'll have to pass on if I can't figure something out. There's a very good chance that these dreams, these big things, will not be possible in any way right now. There's one very expensive one that I'd been working toward off and on that will most probably lose. Primarily because I just don't make enough. But that's a part of what being a real adult is. You must admit where you're weak in order to become stronger. This is my weakness.

It is not a good feeling, admitting weakness and accepting change. But it's not bad, either. It's also not that earth-shattering, when I get down to it, it just sucks. It blows, having to admit your plans are screwed and that you have to drop a portion of opportunities because you lack funding. It's the worst real world slap in the dick that you have to deal with. Money makes the world go round. Just as Joel Gray.

So here I am: being a good man, evaluating my situation, preparing to do the right thing, the adult, responsible, irritating-assed thing. I know the right decision, and I'll see it through in a proper way, but it doesn't make stepping down from a big dream any easier.

I'll be better for it in the short and long, though.

And it is with a sigh of relief, pride and slight cynical snark that I write these next words: It's time to grow up. It's time to be the man that I've always wanted to be, to be the hero that I idolize in my friends and family and mentors. I am a good man, a driven dreamer with more strength and control than I have allowed myself. I take my first step into adulthood, into the life that I've always wanted, that I've been working forward to for so long. I do so by removing my childish mindset in planning, by admitting my greatest fears and weaknesses and by not overcoming them, but by leaving them behind in favor of greater strength and humility.

I read this back over at 3:50 AM after writing it. Still couldn't sleep. It's a much needed change, the new path I'm setting out on. I like this new path. I'm a bit scared to leave some things of myself behind, but I know that it is the right thing to do. It's the right thing to do. The decision still fuckin' blows and I'm sad that I have to make it, but it is the right thing to do.

Day 18 - Idea Man vs Impatience (not an interesting post, I promise)

It gets rough for me sometimes, like anyone else, when I take a second to take stock of what I have and where I want to go. See, I'm at that annoying part where I have to start over on many things. But that's not really the problem, or at least, the tick that's irritating me. I can handle starting over, I've done it a bunch. What gets me and puts me in this, a foul mood to anyone, is not feeling like I've gained my just reward for my efforts. It's the whiney artist/business phase that everyone goes through at some point or another. The looking back at what you've done and wishing it had pushed you to a better where you are now. I am grateful for what I have, but I'm just as annoyed that I'm not quite there yet.

I apologize to those around me who have had to deal with this attitude. I do my best to stay upbeat. Today was just annoying, and so was I. I hit that level where you get so unsure of your own opinions that you question your friends opinions about your opinions. "What did you mean by that?" etc. Paranoia can suck it. I don't want it as a BFF.

My greatest gift, my best skill and my favorite thing about myself is my brain. I have a terrific brain, full of ideas, ever-churning out new ones. I am not the most organized, nor am I rich, so putting this dreams into reality is usually a real bitch or just hasn't happened yet. I'm usually met with nay-saying or bad company or dumb luck or anything whatever so-forth that monkey wrenches the works but good, and usually I can just get mad, push forward and get over it. Today's just a dwelling day. It will pass.

But how do you capitalize on a skill like "I have a million and one good ideas?" Hence: writing. But as a fledgling writer, producer, man about town so-and-so, I've yet to hit a stride or any big therein. How do you make your living off of being creative? How do you sell your ideas? I'm actually asking. I don't paint anymore, nor do I draw or do photoshop these days, so I'm heading back to school. I have more examples, but I know it just boils down to being impatient. I'm so impatient, so tired of waiting for success while still working my ass off. But you must push forward. It's either that or die, and nope, no thank you.

I need to create, I need to build, foster, teach and grow myself. I'm working on it.

I want to be Joss Whedon. Well, sorta. I love me some Joss (Firefly, Buffy, Angel, Dollhouse, Avengers etc). The Whedon has a formula he loves and follows. Gruff anti-hero with a heart of gold, supernatural twist on everyday life, big evil corporation, kill off someone you love. He plays with the formula a little, but that's the gist, and it has made him a fuckin' nerdcon (nerd-icon...nerd...con...nerdcon.). He has stayed true to the creative nut that he is, and has come out pretty well so far. Or Steven King! Do I really even need to go into how many books, movies, series or money he has made? J.K. Rowling? Even the Twilight lady! I may not like the franchise, but she had a good, mostly unique idea on a classic money maker, and has done just that, made dem greens!

I know I need to just push forward. I know I need blah fuck cock blah whatever.

Writing this, I find that there is a single cloud that I'm starting to notice in my routine. Two, actually. One's easy and who cares, but the other is a slight mystery and I mean to find it. I've got a list of to-try stuff for this week in an attempt to weed out whatever it is that makes fog of my gray-matter. Shouldn't be hard. I'm betting its my living space. I just do too much here. It's my bed, my entertainment center, my office, my escape and more. Huh...I'll think on that.

Day 11 - My Sweet Anna

My sweet Anna. I softly whisper your name though they spill only into an empty room. It is cold, with the pounding rain against our window the only offering for distraction. The air tastes like ash, and the reality that you're gone gnaws at my brain ever more vigorous with every passing second. A soft belt of thunder in the distance nudges a memory of our first evening. 

It was such a beautiful evening; a night of wine and musings of the future. A simple plate of bread and a bowl of soup, a single candle beneath a full moon at the old inn by the wharf. We never did learn the name of that song, the piano tune that warmed a room like sunshine on the bay. Never once did we speak of that night, but in our shared glances I knew we would think of it always. Scampering beneath the sudden shower to return you home before your sisters caught you out. What they might think should we be seen together, the daughter of the mayor with a lowly fisherman. Stolen moments were what we could afford, and our purses were full, though I had barely two coins to rub together. Not a cent mattered, for our riches were in love and the time we together took. 

The thunder is closer now, with a brighter flash. It stirs behind me, behind locked door; the brigand, the stranger. I away my mind to this, our fifth year, but this morning as I return to port. The seas had been kind most of my life, but never had I been so gifted a reward as what I'd hauled today. Three weeks on the ocean, the catch was slim, with barely a minnow to call our bounty. The sea air tasted of metal all that time, with something unsettling about the calm of the waves. It was as if the very ocean was fearful of something it held, though all that was brought up was treasure. It was a box, no bigger than my tackle carry, made of more rust than iron. It took but a moment to crack it open and shuck it of its reward. Two things were taken from within; a simple dagger with a blade of bone and a brass handle, and a gold ring. Oh how brightly the bauble shined. I was transfixed with single minded-purpose, for this was the right ring, the one with which we would be wed. It had design like thatching along its curves, and a single blue jewel, perhaps a sapphire, mounted into the band. Your birthstone.

The thing scratches at the cellar door every so often; right now, in fact. I hear its nails dragging down the heavy wood, scraping away at the tarnished hinges. It is calm in its movements; patient and perhaps content in my torment. I refuse to turn around, to acknowledge its existence beyond a large gutter rat that had traipsed its way into our lives so suddenly. I hate it as much as I fear it, puffing heavy breaths of hot air into the frigid space you and I once shared. It came as if from nothing, a punishment deserved by one far more wicked than you, Anna. Yet it still came, removing you from this world and embedding itself in a place not meant for such a thing. I managed to trap it beneath our home, yet there it pesters me, taunts me and calls to me. Our fifth year together should have been heralded with a feast and family, and yet here I stand, accompanied by a twisted figure bastardized by nature. It is a wicked thing that prods our cellar door, horridly back lit in yellow torchlight, a beast that nature would call a bastard of her ilk. 

My pistol lays on my desk, loaded with a single shot for a single purpose. My hand finds place easily on the weapon, and I swear the thing that took you smells the gunpowder. It is getting restless, scratching now, pushing against the door with its heft. I lift the pistol and catch sight of the dagger, so bundled with the ring that should have brought us eternal happiness. It tries to speak its murky words now, bidding me closer in rasp and choke. Its voice is familiar, frightening and unnerving, a litany of lies through a mouth that does not belong to it. My pistols hammer clicks and the evening rushes back into my mind.

Your face as I ease to one knee brightens, ever more still as I give you my sweet words. They come naturally, though I do fumble once or twice, recounting our days and years together since our childhood. I often wondered if you noticed me when I first found you as you walked with your father. An angel, a gift from something beyond what we see, that is what you were from the first and until the last moment I was given of you. You smile and tears fall down your cheeks as soon as you see the ring, your eyes closing as I slip it on your finger. I don't remember an embrace as powerful as the one you gave me then, crushing the wind right out of me, leaving me as I was when I first saw you; breathless. The band fit your finger as though it was meant to be there all along, as if it had a purpose for you. How right I was, though not in such a way as I desired.

Its fist pounds the door now, the hinges rattling loudly over its clearer speech. It invites me beyond the barrier to the cellar and I will give it what it needs, though not what it wants. It asks for my neck, for the blood that keeps me bound here, to this world of ours. Time and again it beats the barricade, becoming more forceful with every pound and word. It harasses with three words, "BE WITH ME!" in a pleading, angry mouthful. Its breath heats the air, making a sort of fog near the bottom of the door and a picture not unlike an entrance to the afterlife. This is good, Anna, for when that door opens, a soul will depart this world.

My hand shakes as I near the latch, but the thing quiets. It knows I mean to free it from bondage, though I don't suspect it understands to what degree. Its breath is like lead, and I can make sight of it from this side of the door. Its eyes are like firelight on a bloodied sky as it stares through the cracks at me. It took your perfect green eyes from me, and here it slouches with its own twisted gaze. The latch rattles with my pounding heart, yet the creature calmly raises its own hand near mine on the other side of the door. Softly it repeats, "Be with me..." I can not stop the tears now, so I think to the song from our first night. With each remembered strike of the keys and that soft melody, my body warms and readies, even in this icy air. The time has come, my chest tightens, my veins filling with fire, and the door opens.

Not a man, not a beast of the land or sea that I had ever seen, but it shares pieces of all of them. Hunched and deformed, the creature is, with tiny and useless legs, crippled by its birth, but large arms that pull it where it need be. Its oily, leathery skin makes a sickening scraping sound as it slowly drags itself forward. Steam rises from its back and off its nearly bald scalp. Again it asks I be with it, but this time I point my gun between its eyes. Why does it cry, Anna? A beast that would deprive this world of you deserves not the emotion of sadness or fear. It should feel nothing, nor should it exist any longer. But as is the stupidity of man, I never think that it would be anything better than I. Its fast, lunging and taking me down at the midsection. My pistol does fire but only helps to deafen me, the bullet flying wild, hitting no beast but a stone wall instead. 

I try to escape, striking my enemy on its head, fighting as you would want me too, Anna. But I am too weak, tired from crying and my days on the ocean, and the monster has me pinned. I can not look away from its eyes, its horrible orange eyes on bloodshot blue. These are not your eyes, Anna, and they would look better blind. It screams as the butt of my gun takes the light from its left, granting me a small window of escape. Though no sooner am I upright does it lunge again, pinning me against my desk, my back bursting into pain that overtakes my everything. It is through asking for my companionship, now only filled with desire for my end. Its arms are mighty and I feel my life being squeezed from me. So terrible is its strength. I feel my lowest two ribs break and I scream though I don't give in. You wouldn't want me to give in.

My hands scramble around for something to save me, finding the dagger from the box, and I waste no time sinking it into the creatures flesh. A stab wound to the back sends the thing off of me, it screaming as the wound I inflict bubbles and burns, its meat rotting away in a fist sized lump. It scratches for the injury, but it's too high on its hump to reach. Its eye finds the dagger in my hand, and then looks to my face. It is afraid of its bane that I hold in my left fist. I struggle to stay standing, the pain of my broken bones is almost too much to handle. It puts out its long, bony claw as if asking for the blade. Seeing the ring on your finger like that hurts me so, Anna. I promise, here and now, that while it was I that brought you into this form, it would be I to lay you to rest.

I slash at your hand, Anna, hearing you cry out in pain. The tears are heavy as they fall, but I can not stop, I must grant you peace. Forward I through myself, crashing atop you like a wave of sorrow. I quickly loose track of how many times the dagger pierces your body, pushing the act as far from my mind as possible so that I might ignore the twisted cries you make. Soon enough, you're gone again, the second time taken away by me. Truly, I took you both times, both in selfishness. I wonder if you'd ever thought like I do now, musing what life would have been like had I not forced my way into yours. I look down at the hand where I placed that cursed ring and know that the claims of your sisters were correct, that I was nowhere near good enough for you. The ring has fallen from your finger, Anna, now on the ground at my feet. The tears stop as I look from the ring to the body I ignorantly forced upon you, and my path becomes clear.

The sun is golden as it peaks over the horizon, gently touching my skin as I sit here, in my boat. It is dawn, and the gulls are as loud as ever, my boat packed with but four items and two passengers. Your body lays next to me, swaddled in linens. The smell of kerosene has always been a bit too pungent for me, so I had best be swift, though the morning sea air does help. I wave to the other men as they ready their gear for the day, eager to search for such treasures as the ones I had found. "Pleasant fools," I say to myself as I paddle on. An hour out on the sea, and no others are in sight, the sun now up and the world starting her day once more. I hide the ring and dagger away once more in their lock-box, chuckling and wondering to myself how many lives they had claimed and how many times folks had returned them to the sea. The box hits the water with a low splash and I watch its decent until the blackness of the deep claims it. 

A lone seagull flies overhead, coming to rest on the bow of my tiny vessel. I smile at the bird, bid it, "Good morning," and continue with, "Would you mind excusing us?" It flies off, Anna, politely leaving us be. Quite an adorable sight, my sweet. I lay next to you and wonder if you know I'm there. A silly thought. I kick over the lantern that sits at our feet, the flame quickly catching up to the oil and then the kerosene. It is instantly hot and I am frightened at the sound of my pistols hammer cocking back. I am but a man, the same frightened boy you once knew, really. But I have a final something I must do and a punishment I must accept. I think of you and as quick as the feeling of fear comes, it falls away, and I am myself to a much brighter place where all I see is your true face on that first night, and all I hear is that nameless piano tune.

Day 6 - Bad Gyro Man Bad!!!

Don't eat at Arabian Nights. Don't you do it! $8 for a tiny gyro that gave me the greatest case of rot gut I've had this side of the flu. It had almost no taste up front, was burnt, and the after-taste was closer to a rectum packed with onions than anything else. Don't eat there. That is all.

With my energy sapped that's to Bad Gyro Man, I've been hard pressed to get much done today. Though I did get to spend another couple of hours in Scott and Domeka's improv class, which is always a good thing. Not much to say there, other than I really love being there. Really, I miss performing and I'm glad I'm getting more opportunities to do so.

My head is cloudy and my gut is roiling. Not digging this. Mostly been prepping things for completion on the morrow. It's a good thing. Tomorrow is another round of teaching my freaking amazing students at the best dance studio I've ever been a part of (Vega Dance + Lab for the win. www.vegadancelab.com). No matter the blah that could happen during the week, Vega cures what ails ya.


I'm a geek, and therefor I love video games. I love them the same way I love books and movies and stories in general. They are more than my escape, they are my safe place, an inspiration and refreshingly frivolous. So when I snag one that stands out, I latch on. This year I've found so many drops of the juice, lemme tell you. Those that have been standing out have been presenting real consequences and challenges that you'd find in the good ol real world. Guns in The Last of Us are probably the best example. You get a hand full of bullets in the beginning, when you fire it's loud and unnerving, and knowing that last bullet could be the one that saves you from certain death gives a real weight is just a snazzy poke in the gullet.

It is my favorite mechanic/hook in games: scavenging. It's the ability to go beyond looting; to take the pieces of armor/chiton/scrap metal/fabric/hyde etc. and use them to make yourself stronger. It makes the world more important to you. To me, it makes each kill more humanizing and the opposite. It makes some see monsters/enemies as nothing more than equipment, makes them worth risking their life, makes player-created items all the more impressive to you and yours, and enriches the experience. Taking something from something else to create or bolster something new is a win. You're creating a functional trophy, one that just might save that skin of yours.

Now think about if you could scavenge/harvest etc aspects of other players. A huge dynamic shift. More on that later. The gyro is back. Ow.

PS. HabitRPG is gold. Level 6. Got an Axe, leather armor, wooden shield and a pet red panda. Score.