This thing still on?
- I’ve been writing again, my dear.
(with respect to Stephen King)
But, I think the parallels are similar.
No sleepwalking, but the dreams have been sorta spectacular.
The clown danced, as always.
_Right! Hey, right now!_
It is on the edge of awareness.
Trying to ignore it.
_Hey! Hey, I bet we could beat.._
Trying to think of other things.
_I have an idea_
Ain’t anx + depression a *bitch*
…things have been brain-chancey.
I’m working on it.
For now, here’s my latest thoughts. From my FB.
I am not usually one to post anything political. But this shit? Has to stop.
I posted earlier, elsewhere:
I wanted to write something pithy and deep. Fraught with meaning and nuance. Something to reach out and touch the hearts of people. Make them think, react, pro-act, vote, change, something. ANYthing.
But my Muse is gone, the denier media is in full swing, and I am just too heartsore.
No more. Please. Just no more.”
I can do better. We all can.
I will keep fighting, doing my little bit, trying to expand that bit.
Because this is my world. These are my humans. All of them. My Beloveds. All of humanity. Fuck your inability to see what’s happening. Fuck. It.
We can do better.
We can do better.
We can do better.
I believe that.
I will keep finding ways to do so, to bring to light the hate and injustice and inequality and imbalance.
Because this? This is wrong. Wrong. WRONG.
There is NO justification. There is nothing you can say that will make any of this right. Not these latest victims, not the ones that were wearing hoodies, or had a play gun, or who were swimming in a place that others thought they shouldn’t be.
FUCK your discomfort. Expand your goddamn mind. Broaden your fucking horizons. This is our *world* and you are fucking,it.up so that you can be more comfortable.
Reach out, find ways to heal hurts, find ways to redress the balance, find ways to not give excuses to the hurters.
Because if we don’t? Orwell would be right. And fuck a bunch of that.
Camelia glanced out the window again. Yep. It was still there. She tucked her head back down, pretending to stretch out her neck. Why in the hell did the bus have to break down at this particular corner? It had no less than three of those stupid memorials – crosses, plastic flowers, and teddy bears in profusion – arranged on it. One of them had been nailed to a battered telephone pole, the now-gray gouges in the creosote and wood marking where something awful had happened. Cam felt her eyes being drawn back towards the thing. She supposed it was a morbid curiosity. They were so…well, horrible. Spindly arms and fluttering gray flesh all over-topped with scorch mark eyes. WAS it a ghost? Or just the bad feelings about someone’s death, nailed into place with memorabilia? She didn’t actually know, but those things gave her a bad, bad feeling. No one else could see them, as far as she could tell. Under her feet, the vibration of the engine changed slightly. Yay! They were going to get back on the road soon. The rumble ratcheted up another notch and Camelia decided to look at the thing one more time. She turned her head and recoiled in shock. Its face was pressed up against the window, empty sockets with wriggling black holes locked onto her face.
So, I know this story has some (OK, lots) of issues. But this idea has been bouncing around my noggin for a long time. I wanted to set it down, see what it looked like in words outside my head.
I still like the idea – ghosts nailed into place by loved one’s pain & suffering, marked and held by the little memorial crosses you see everywhere.
I think I am going to play with this idea some more. It may be that it is just too much for a flash or micro fiction piece.