If you're reading this after Monday, then odds are really, really good that I'm homeless. I'm returning to my house tomorrow night, and I don't believe my father will have me around for very long. So, on the road.

This is where things get interesting. There are a few homeless shelters around town, so roofs are not a problem. Finding work...well, this makes it a little easier. I can travel now, camp around. There are a few expenses to worry about, but now I can start focusing on getting a place of my own, settling down...living my own life. Where that happens is up in the air, but all I know for sure is that things are about to get very, very Gonzo.

I'll keep this updated as much as possible. Keep a running journal of a Bluesman's life on the road. Wish me luck, folks. The Scrybe is signing out; Legba got my soul, and I've only got my legs to stand on and my pride to swallow. Keep it groovetones, my babies; I'll try to keep in touch

Barron

Assume that the nature of reality is paradoxical. Not that to think on it is paradoxical, that the fundamental defining aspect that is REALITY is in itself the concept of 'paradox.' Now, since reality is paradoxical, then by definition the world around us must operate on paradox. People have tried to superimpose sense on the paradoxical reality; this in itself is a paradox, accepting our definition. Where there is sense, there can be no reality, where there is reality, there can be no sense. But they both exist, so it works out nicely, and for the most part, they're both moderately okay.

In short, assume the world is, much like my doctorate or that goddamn tree, kidding. With me so far?

Now, those of Gonzo look at a chaotic world that makes no sense but must make sense but doesn't and, where most people go lie down for a little while, we realize that, in order to make sense of things, we have to embrace the fundamental nature of things. Like Buddhism, really, but with better drugs. So, followers of Gonzo want to make sense of the world; since by whatever means we figured that things only make sense because they don't, the only way to make sense of things is to make no sense, to act paradoxically in relation to the nonsensical sense. Therefore, behavior that most people view as chaotic or baffling or trying to shake the foundations of the world as we know it is actually an honest attempt to understand things.



-Rev. Dr. Barron

I couldn't begin to tell you an eighth of the things I saw and did this past weekend. If I were to be totally honest and disclose the entire course of those three days with as much honesty and description as I could possibly muster, then two things would happen. The first is that the entire effect and nature of what a Burn is would be lost on you, Dear Reader. The second is that at least thirty people who I know and like (myself included) could be indicted on any number of charges and wind up rotting in jail cells from Raiford to Atlanta. So here's the story as best I can do, with a little help from the Spirit of Gonzo, the writings of the Good Doctor (Thompson, not Dr. John the Plastic Shaman, to whom I am also in debt,) and a whole lot of caffine-based fabrication.

There's no way to understand a Burn, the people and events involved, or the spirit of the thing, without actually going to one. It's like trying to tell someone what a sunrise is; you can talk technically, talk about artistry and emotional response, but you've got to see it personally to understand what happens. I'd heard of Burning Man from a series of youtube videos put up by a comedian I liked; all I knew was that it was some big fiesta in the middle of God's wasteland with lots of fire, lots of debauchery, and a big wooden effigy doomed to become a celebratory pyre. I had no interest in any of it until I came to This Place, when I discovered Gonzo and what it meant to me (A post or three on Gonzo will appear much later once the author understands what in the hell he's talking about --ed.) and realized that a Burn is, in essence, one gigantic Gonzo CONFERENCE.

The man who told me about Preheat is a fellow I'll just call The Captain here. The Captain, like the Burns, has to be experienced to be understood. He's a maniac, to be sure, consuming any number of illicit things and dropping well past the line of insanity, coming to rest at a kind of meta-sanity on the other side of bonkers. He's a fire spinner, a mathematician, a physicist, a drunkard, a raving lunatic; he is, in short, a brilliant Aspberger's-riddled madman whose actions over the years have lead the population of This Place to believe that he is, in fact, one big collective acid hallucination that got stubborn, stuck around, and eventually became real out of sheer unwillingness to leave just because the drugs wore off. He'd hung around me for some time since the beginning of the year; I honestly don't remember quite how we met, nor does it matter. We collided like two runaway trains, and were just as inseparable as the ensuing wreckage. For all his quirks that drove most people to drink if they thought of him too much, I liked the guy. He was interesting in his own mad way.

"Pookie, you need to go to Preheat," he said to me, shortly after lighting my newly-shaven head on fire for the third time that day.

"What exactly is Preheat, and why would I go?"

"Preheat's a Burn." I mut have given him a blank look, because he sighed in that "oh, you poor, poor fool" way that's become a trademark of his. "Lots of people spinning fire, lots of fun, any number of drugs...it'll be blast. Just imagine three days around tons of people..." he took an intentional dramatic pause here, surely just to raise the tension a hair's breath "all of whom have a SERIOUS Hunter S. Thompson complex."

That did it. He brought in the name of the man I was studying with nearly religious fanaticism and fascination. I was still hesitant, and he smiled and said "Pookie, just trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?" As much as I hated to admit it, the bastard was right. Every insane idea he had every told me to go through with had turned out beautifully and we both knew it. There was some bantering for the next few weeks, some issues, but by the grace of Gonzo and some sheer, twisted luck, I secured my Invitation to Preheat 2009.

My roommate,

You know, Dear Reader, you can't really claim to know anything about reality until you've looked into the eyes of someone who knows nothing about it at all. Try telling me that the world is a safe place and I'll laugh you down. I got the rare chance to see a friend go mad not too long ago; we've all read of insanity somewhere, more likely than not in the paperback horrors I love so much, but to honestly see it at work is a kind of experience that is both illuminating and terrifying. Eyes are important to me, to quote someone dear to my heart. I speak to people through them, look for familiarity in them. To see all traces of someone you logically recognize you know like the back of your hand just vanish...it's disquieting, to say the least.

She honestly had no clue who I was. Knew my name every once in a while, but had no associations with that name. I was a floating entity, a threat, and I've got the bruises to prove her mindset. The person that almost bit a chunk out of my bicep is curled up asleep in my room, dozing as peacefully as you like. She's fine now; it was a combination of exhaustion and mixing two things that should never be mixed....but I just can't see the same human being in her. Maybe it's just me, but I can still catch a glimpse of the animal lurking behind those baby blues of hers, and I'm just waiting for it to come out again. I wonder how much this changes things?

No other news; only midterm today, kind of studied, still feel good. I'm starting to feel the last week weight me down; only two more full days and then I'm free for a week. Two more days; 48 hours. This can be done, no sweat, barring any unseen circumstances. And for that I have places to go, and, if need be (and dear god, those eyes...I certainly hope there's no need) duct tape.

Ba-dum-tish.

I stare out at the crowd. A lot of people are laughing, which is a good thing. We're on par, we're communicating. I like these folks just fine, and'd probably buy a drink for any one of 'em provided they were good-looking enough and I had some money. Them laughing, though, is the catalyst for money; the more they laugh, the more I get paid. Yuk it up, guys, I need to pay my cell phone bill.

There are a few faces in the crowd that are starting at me blankly. I hate these people more than I hate the few who are glaring at me who will probably yell obscenities at me onstage or go write bad reviews of me on whatever blog they happen to have. The angry ones I can fuck with; I'm at my best when I'm yanking a hapless heckler around, and more than once I've made a member of the audience leave in bitter tears while the rest of the crowd taunted them out of the building with ruthless guffawing. Those are my proud moments, when I can shame someone to self-loathing while keeping the show going all the while.

BA-dum-tish. Another one gone.

More laughs this time, and a few of the blank stares are gone. Okay, I think to myself in the instinctive non-voice of show-thoughts, we're starting to warm up, now. Good. You'll love this next one. I keep going, pattering and bantering along. I cross the stage, big gesture, loud inflection, lots of laughs. By this point, I've spotted the ones that Aren't Going to Get It. These are the people that piss me off the most; the angry ones are fun to fuck with, and the good ones keep braces on my ex-wife's lover's daughter's teeth, but it's those apathetic cock-bites that just stare at you right after the line's been delivered, those sheep in sport-coats and low-key evening wear. They gaze up at you blankly, Stepford stares and Barbie-doll eyes, no hint of anger at their confusion. Getting the gag is beyond them, but they can't bring themselves to hostility. Instead they just sit and stare at me, absorbing what I say, tucking it away. They didn't come to laugh, they came to sponge. The mannequins in the crowd distract me and put me off my game more than the fat bastard in the Steelers jersey lobbing insults at me could ever hope to do.

It's because of people like this that I used to put a gun to my head right before I went onstage.

Ba-dum-tish. Big laugh.

My time's almost up, and I'm starting to sweat a little bit. I keep staring at the worst sheep in the crowd. He's a whale of a man, wearing a bright floral print shirt soaked in his sweat and a spilled drink. He doesn't blink at all. He's not even twitching. I want him to scratch his nose or sneeze or do something instead of sitting there like a corpse. I keep talking and staring. The crowd doesn't even notice, but my eyes are not going to leave this fat fuck for the rest of the show. He infuriates me worse than any of the others, because his stupid stare belongs on his face so well. Something about this man sitting there in that ugly shirt says that he looks like this all the time. I think for a second about what this guy's life must be like, going through things so passively, never bothering to feel anything. I'm angry now to the point of rage. I'm shaking now, noticably, and right as my time runs out I swing the mic and yell out “Laugh you big stupid fuck! Open your mouth, like when you drool, and giggle a little. It ain't rocket surgery!”

Ba-dum-tish. Huge laugh. It's my last punchline.

They've been a beautiful audience. Thank 'em so much.

I walk offstage and catch the eye of the comic taking the stage. That poor bastard is going to deal with them now; they're not my problem anymore. Let them laugh to something else while I go home and drink and surf porn sites and drink more and go to sleep, probably thinking of joining the Marines or jumping off a bridge.

This is my life.

Ba-dum-tish.

Not half a year ago, I put my fist through a wall. I remember the events immediately before and immediately after, but a full recollection of the actual blow is lost to me. I only remember the blind fury slipping over my head like an assassin's garotte, the quick way the world seemed to black out and phase back in, and the unsatisfying lack of resistance as a piece of drywall crumbled under my knuckles. It takes an awful lot to make me angry; anyone who knows me has probably seen me mildly annoyed at worst. What pushed me to the brink and beyond for one overwhelming second was an email from my father. In it he said I was a lair, worthless, and eagerly invited me to get out of his house. I almost did, then, but I held out a few more months until his continuous insults and put-downs brought me to the point where I fashioned a noose out of some old rope I found in our storage unit. When I slipped it over my neck and felt the thing scratching against my neck and smelled faintly mothballs and decay, I broke. I broke down sobbing, burying my face in a pilow not to starve my brain of oxygen but to stifle my bawling. The next day, I calmly called my best friend Goose, who was wel-informed on the situation, and slipped him the code words that meant that I had hit rock bottom, that I couldn't be at my house anymore for fear of a full breakdown or worse.

Ten hours ago, I almost buried my fist in my father's sneering face. At this point, I've moved in with Goose three times to date and all for the same reason: my father is deriding me for not having a job, my father is insulting me for not working enough, my father is reminding me that he thinks I'm not worth the money he'd spend sending me to college. Tonight was good for the first ten minutes. He gave me a big smile and a hug, and we chatted for a little bit. He asked if I was working tomorrow. I'd just called my boss, so I said 'no, but I'm doing a gig Tuesday and Wednesday for another guy." My father asked if I was going to go to Labor Finders at five thirty in the morning and try to find work there. I told him that instead Colleen and I were going to call up the New College people and get our questions answered before we leave. I'm still not sure what happened next, but he started lambasting me, chiding me for being lazy, calling me irresponisble and worthless. The next thing I knew, I was on my feet and shaking. You all know that my hands normally have a tremor to them, but this was the kind of feral Parkinson's you see in people dangerously close to the brink of animalistic fury. I was yelling at him, belting out for him to shut up, to shut the fuck up, that I didn't need his fucking money, that I wasn't worthless and that I'd worked my ass off.

Then I felt it; that same creeping blackness that signaled a drop in all human tendencies. I imagine, looking back, that I heard horse hooves and smelled steel. What I really did hear was my father's voice, much smaller, saying "If you hit me, I'll call the cops." I wondered what he was talking about before I realized that I'd stopped my fist maybe two inches off the bridge of his nose. I looked down at my stepmother, whose face had blanched. I tried to remain fairly civil, and then just ignored him until he had taken his fill, and then grabbed the phone when it rang. It was my friend Goose. I briefed him in a whisper that was almost a growl about what had happened. Even though we'd done this little dance before, I must have been bad, because he sounded worried when he said "We're coming over. Don't do something stupid." I hung up the phone and I could hear my father yelling at Colleen for sticking up for me. I calmly reached down and grabbed the first object my fingers brushed-in this case, a pool cue. I tested the weight on the end, tightened my grip, hefted it a few times. It felt good in my hands, it felt RIGHT. I could feel raw power flowing beneath the grain of the wood; I knew this was The Equalizer, my weapon of righteous justice, and an oilly little voice creeped into my ear and slithered "Break his fingers, and keep him breathing." I saw the scene perfectly in my mind's eye; me kicking down the doorway, nonchalantly brushing Colleen aside while her eyes widened in horror, one last grin at my father before I brought the pool cue down across the bridge of his nose. Colleen came out of the bedroom; I'd put the cue down by then, but she asked why I was smiling.

The reason I tell you all this is because I've been lying awake for hours now playing scenes back in my head. The most common one is what I imagine to happen had I gone through with that first swing, but there are others, some brutal, most distorted recollections of my father's diatribes. My treacherous mind threw up just now a memory buried for years; I was ten years old, and we were in a restaurant. Thick, aromic, husky cigar smoke filled the air. The lights were dimmed low, and there was a pleasing buzz of the upper class chattering over lobsters the size of my one-year-old brother and expensive steaks. My father was seated at the black grand piano, in his best tuxedo. His fedora with a silk rose tucked neatly into the band was perched far back on his head. His hands started to dance across the keyboard as he began to play "Wind Beneath My Wings." The room began to fade, and there was only me, my father, and the music.

The reason I'm telling you this is the same reason that the last paragraph took me an hour to write; I had to walk away stifling sobs. I have these two conflicting images of my father, and all I can wonder is where my Dad went. Where is the music man now? Where was the man that fought hard for me to live with him, the man that always made me smile? Is it really my fault? Did I drive him away, leaving only a memory and a ligering scent of cologne?

At this point, Constant Reader, I've got some things I could worry about. I no longer have any support, financially or otherwise, for college, and I'm due to leave in eight days. I could worry about the thoughts I'm having, the flashes of nightmare while I'm still awake. There's whether or not I'll go to New College or college at all or join the military until I can cry "G.I. Bill" and pick up my life a few years down the road. There's a thousand more, but none of them matter. Because, now, Constant Reader, as I'm watching my own hands dance across the keyboard, I'm fighting to keep tears buried, and I hear a voice. It's my own, many years ago. It's the voice that half of me thinks in, at least for tonight. It's a small voice, steeped in fear and hurt. It's a heartbreaking voice, and it keeps saying over and over,

"I want my Daddy back."

After a couple weeks of a long slumber, my computer has been brought back from the dead thanks to the capable skills of Mauricio at Radio Shack. Much thanks to him for getting me reconnected with the world.

So! Let's talk, you and I. It's been so long, Constant Reader.

Where to start? College? I'm still going, theoretically. There's money involved, and I try to avoid that subject as much as possible. Money, that is. I don't have any, you see, and that poses a dilemma. Still, I'm going for as long as I can. Work? I have some now, on-again-off-again, but there's a paycheck involved, and usually a very generous one, at that. Not to put too fine a point on it, I work construction, refurbishing a series of apartment buildings off Bellview. I'm learning, working with my hands, shedding weight like a fur coat in August, and, for the most part, enjoying myself immensly. Coincidentally, if you know anyone who's hunting for a place to live, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, six hundred a month, and these are nice places.

But, of course, I only really talk about one thing here anymore, and that's my writing. Since my computer's been in data heaven for the past two weeks, I've been stuck writing by hand. Any of you out there who know me knows that this is pretty frustrating, because my hands are A.) remarkably stupid and B.) tremble incessantly. My mind always gets ahead of my hand, and I usually wind up losing the train of thought. I'm working on two things right now, one directly inspired by Hunter S. Thompson about my (mis)adventures with Vector Corporation (Coming Soon to a Livejournal Post Near You!) and another about something that happened to me in childhood (Fruedians beware.) I've also taken up the habit of sleeping next to an open notebook and pen, because I tend to get some interesting flashes right before I drift off, and I've gotten tired of losing them. So, for your entertainment, here's some samples of what I've come to think of as Night Wanderings.

1.[accompanied by an abstract drawing of an eye] "Don't you dare look me in the eye, Horatio," she said through an angry sheen of tears. "He loved them too much. You dirty them when you look at them."
2.) 'Let there be no light. We've seen enough. Time to let the boogeymen that thrive in darkness have their say in things."
3.) 'Never let the tremors that run up your arm as you smash a man's face into a concrete pillar go unnoticed. It rivals only the orgasm and the following cigarette as the best feeling in the world.'
4 'I go to sleep with a smile on my face every night, Bob. Do you want to know why?"

Bob made a nondescript motion with his head, too stunned to reply.

"I have a smile, Bob, because the last thing I think of before I drift off, every single night, is blood. Blood on my knuckles. Do you know WHY that's the last thing I think of, Bob?"

Bob's eyes were absurdly wide, eyes of a cartoon coyote staring down a train barrelling towards it. Thad curled the last three fingers of his hand, the scars stretching and morphing, and pointed at Bob's nametag on his pristine white shirt, covering a fat chest. Bob recoiled and moaned.

"That's right, Bob. People like you. People who sit and smirk in their little fortress of order, people who push away chaos and clap their hands over their ears and hum, hoping that'll make all the bad stuff go away. People like you, Bob, make people like me angry. Isn't that nifty?"

If the overall consensus you want to reach is that I'm a screwed-up puppy, then...duh. God bless Nyquil. Until next time!

location: The Internet music: Nat King Cole -

It's been a long time since I've posted anything, and to prove that I'm not dead, here's a rough draft of my latest prose piece. I call it "John Doe." The idea is based off a creepypasta I read by Anonymous /x/phile, so props go to him. Comments/ critiques are greatly appreciated AUTUMN AND KATIE COUGH COUGH. Really, I think it's got a lot of potential; I just need to find it, and I'd love your help. Thank you kindly, Constant Reader.

"John Doe"

John Doe lay in a field one quiet summer evening. There wouldn't be anything particularly remarkable to this situation to the casual observer, unless they knew this particular John Doe. He never lay down, to the best of any of his associates, as few and far between as they were these days. If the casual observer took the time to track down and interview this handful of individuals, he would garner the knowledge that Mr. Doe not only never lay, but never ate, sung, blinked, sneezed, nor coughed. At least, he did none of these things in the presence of people. Mr. Doe, it would be learned, spent a great deal of time in public, and none of it socializing.

The hypothetical observer would find that incredibly interesting were he to have that information. However, he would be much too distracted by the pistol a few feet from John Doe's right hand, the large puddle of blood next to him, and, of course, the large hole in John Doe's head. This would lead the casual observer to believe that he had stumbled upon the site of a suicide, and he would promptly notify the authorities, being the repectable citizen that he is. Shortly thereafter, an eggplant-shaped officer of the law would arrive with the coroner's van that is affectionately referred to as the "meat wagon." A quick search of the area later would turn up, in addition to a half-empty pack of Pall Mall cigarettes and a Bic lighter in the left front pocket of John Doe's slacks, one shell discharged from the pistol and a glove. The local law would then assume that John Doe wore the glove when pulling the trigger, because the gun had no fingerprints, and that would be that. John Doe, ruled a suicide, would lie on a metal cart and be shipped off to the morgue for a quiet burial at the county's expense. Perhaps if the local law was the curious sort, he would wonder why John Doe would put on a glove to shoot himself, or why that glove wasn't on his hand. Perhaps the local law would try to gather up an investigation, thinking himself a kind of modern-day Columbo, only to realize that there just wasn't enough evidence. Granted the glove being off the hand was unusual, but could be explained away with enough convoluted logic. One thing, though, could not, and it was the one glaring piece of evidence that hinted strongly that John Doe had not taken his own life in this field.

John Doe did not smoke Pall Malls. John Doe smoked black clove cigarettes.

The truth of the matter lay in a woman several hundred miles away in a quiet Iowa farming town. Edina Belize was a former stripper from DEs Moines who had met an intoxicated John Doe ten years ago. They had formed a quiet, temporary sort of friendship over the five days that Mr. Doe had been up North. Her value lay in that one night as Mr. Doe was brushing his teeth, she had peeked into his wallet to try to discern more about him-birthday, his home town, anything at all. There was no identification in the wallet, no pictures of old girlfriends or children or family. $5500 in cash sat in the billfold with a blank business card with a phone number hastily scrawled across in royal blue. Edina Belize memorized this number, later writing it down and locking it away in her casket-sized hope chest.

Calling that phone number would have led to a seventy-five year old bicycle salesman outside of Omaha, Nebraska. He would deny ever knowing a person of John Doe's physical description, and he would not be lying. This bicycle salesman, whose name had changed five times in the past ten years, would continue to deny knowing anything of the affair in the field, but would, after intense interrogation, reveal that he had only bought the piece of property recently, and that they might be looking for the previous owner. This would be difficult for the law enforcement agent, and twice as much so for the casual observer, because the phone number would be disconnected and all the information would be false, and there ends the mystery of John Doe: at a dead end.

But there's more to this story. The previous owner of the bicycle store, could he be traced, would possess the knowledge that John Doe hired a contract killer to assassinate an office worker who lived three blocks away from the hotel where John Doe and Edina Belize spent the night. This raises a slew of questions, most notably, why would John do something like that? The office worker never knew John, never remembered seeing anyone that looked like him. Was it a spurned love back in high school? Did this office worker steal away a young woman from John? Or was it, perhaps, a drunken barroom fight that John never forgave? Or was it something darker? Perhaps John Doe just didn't like this office worker. Perhaps John Doe was paranoid and insane, and was convinced that the office worker was actually a spy from the CIA sent to pin the September 11th attacks on John.

But what of John and his murderer? Who shot John Doe, and why would they place in his pockets a half-empty pack of Pall Malls? Why that field, or that day? A thousand arguments could be formed about this, all as plausible and implausible as the others, but it wouldn't matter. For all the speculation and tracing and chaos to be found, only one thing is relevant. Only one thing matters, and that is that John Doe lay in a field one quiet summer evening.

location: Ain't on the map. Ain't never gonna be ON the map

"You can call me whatever the hell you want, and you'll probably be dead on the money. I've been a lot of things and a lot of people. Cynic? Done it to death. Dreamer? I lived in the clouds more than I lived in Oxford. Thinker? Maybe. Revolutionary? Failed, but yes, that too. An optimist? Maybe less than most, but yeah, that too. Sociable? Check, ask anyone who's been to my parties. Loner? Look past the parties and you've got your answer. Bitter?

Oh, God yes. Dear god, am I bitter. Like barley on the tongue, and that one stayed constant always, if just a faint undercurrent. But don't ever forget this: no matter what you saw, whoever you are, I meant it. Every single second, every laugh and tear and scowl was sincere. I never bothered with masks; I lived from the heart, and I'll be remembered, if nothing else, for that."


-From the suicide note of Raymond Eric Lisey.

Written a couple days ago. I like it; tell me what y'all think.

Two Stars

The debate still goes on:
Fire
or
Ice.
Live in a desert for a hundred years
And then kindly tell me
if
you still give a damn.
I have stared at the sun
For a thousand days
tiwce over,
And it has not blinked once.
The moon,
on the other hand,
Has not yet beaten me.
I am proud of this.

I
do not

know

why.

Ah, but the stars!
You should only see them.
I can.
They outstare the sun
Shine brighter
Stare
the
bastard
down.

I think that
perhaps
I am in love with those stars.

When the moon peers down at me
Through an ocean
(or
perhaps I am the Ocean?)
Of stars
And blinks as if
it had sand in its face
Two stars give me warmth
Where there is only
The embrace of ice.
Ah, and there we are.

But what of fire?
It has done me well,
And there is no fire in daylight.
I know this because
Fire is raw,
wild
untamed, pure as newfallen snow;
A gift of Prometheus.
The heat of the desert?
Sticky
weak and bound
A bitter god, chained to a rock
coughing on the world
The punished
trying
to punish.

There is fire in those stars,
That is where I draw my warmth.

Tell me then
When you have walked my desert
For a hundred years
(or more, you'll never catch me)
Then tell me
If you have seen
my stars.
And
Tell me
If you
Have fallen in love, too.

The embrace of stars like eyes
Has done this for me:
I have walked the desert for a hundred years.
You may scour
Every square inch
Of sand,
But you'll never find
A single footprint.

location: Away. mood: contemplative music: Me Voy Pal Norte- Calle 13 y Los Orishas

I just rolled into town an hour ago after a day's stay in Sarasota and a tour of New College. There's so many stories that came out of that one day, and I love my school now so much. Unfortunately, my caffeine-deprived and distance-addled brain can't really master 'coherant sentances' right now, much less do justice to NCF. So, expect a Big Long Barron Blog sometime soon.

Man, I love my school

location: Pensacola...but not for too much longer music: "The Worst that Could Happen To Me' - The Brooklyn Bridge

I woke up this morning in an unfamiliar bed. I'm one of those people whose dreams blends perfectly into reality in those waking moments, so I was absolutely convinced that it was a guest bedroom in Briana Nixon's house. That's the only detail of the dream that I had, but I do remember it was a nightmare. Then I realized, I had crashed at Goose's house the night before, when we abandoned a recording session because both of us were struggling to keep awake. I shot awake, because it was Monday, at least seven o'clock from the light outside, and I had to be at school...

The moment when I realized that, in fact, no, I did not need to be at school any time soon, will easily go down as one of the most beautiful of this vacation. Needless to say, I passed out for another hour.

Now, that little segment has nothing to do with why I'm writing, but I thought it'd bring a smile to a couple of my Constant Readers, and, what the hell, I like to make 'em smile. Call me meretricious if you like, but baby, I still won't do windows. I'm too lazy to come up with a decent segway into the main topic, so this is it.

I spent most of today packing and turning over ideas for stories. I can't wait to catch up on all the writing I've been meaning to get done. Now that I can afford to expend my creative energy how I choose, such as writing one of my stories rather than making up utter bollocks for a couple pesky IAs, all the words are flowing like the proverbial milk and honey. What I want to do now is run over the two major projects that I'm going to tackle over the break. Now, not only does this whet your whistle, Dear Reader, but it also helps me keep focus. I get my best ideas usually when I'm slogging my way through a mediocre one, but these are two good ones, and I plan to get them lined up and squared away. Without further ado (or purple prose) here they are:

1.) "31,025 Days." Looking over one of my previous entries, I was lamenting that my one really good story, "True Believer," didn't really "mean" anything. I wanted to tackle "deep" and "philosophical" things, be the Kerouac of my day. Turns out I don't even like Kerouac that much, but this is going to be a story that has "meaning," I think. IT's a science fiction piece, odd enough for me. It goes like this: an astronaut falls into a black hole backwards. That's the only action that takes place, quite literally. The interesting thing about this, though, is that I read somewhere that as you approach the event horizon of a black hole, time speeds up, so that the last thing you see before you fall entirely into the black hole is the end of the Universe. That idea of having the last thing you see (at least in this dimension) is all of existence going *poof* just delighted me, and so I'm writing about it.

2.) Lakeside. Ah, yes. The Big One. The Story that I've been meaning to start ever since the new year. It was my one resolution, because I make a habit to never make resolutions, but this one demanded special attention. To put it bluntly, it's my novel, my first novel, and it'll be done by January 1, 2009, or so I swore to myself. What I have so far is this: a group of evacuees seek shelter in a run-down motel during a massive hurricane. Anyone who has ever stayed in a motel during a hurricane knows the kind of people you get in there. The politically correct term is "Melting Pot;" the more accurate one is 'cesspit.' So, a mishmash of humans from all ends of all spectrums crammed into a cheap sleazy motel during a hurricane. One of them turns up dead, and the word on everyone's lips is murder. Now, the hurricane hits right as the body is discovered, so they're totally isolated. Think of it as a comedy-murder-mystery in the tradition of Carl Hiaasen, minus the pro-Florida environmentalist undertones because it's set in Montgomery and the Everglades can rot as far as I'm concerned; I've never seen 'em.

So, that's what I'm doing. Lots of writing to be done on the trip to Sarasota tomorrow. Lots of writing in the motels especially. I'm hoping to have 31025 knocked out by the time I get back, and at least a chapter of the novel put away. We'll see what happens, but either way, there'll be new entries on here soon, so keep your eyes peeled, if you like.

Take care, Dear Reader, and happy Spring Break to you. Take the time and use it to relax completely; odds are that you could use it just as much as I.

Tripping the Light Fantastic,
Barron

location: Southbound music: Kalinka - The Russian Red Army Choir

Before I go on, I'll concede to karma. I rolled my eyes when Heath Ledger died. After the Anna Nicole phenomenon, where people simply would not shut up about the passing of a woman who was ultimately famous for her lack of societal grace and the fact that she had in her body more plastic than, say, my Chrysler, I became embittered with the clebrity obsession altogether, but especially celeb-deaths. Yes, it was sad, but let's not go nuts over it.

I found out that Arthur C. Clarke died today, and I broke down and cried. I couldn't help it. I rarely cry at death; my mother, who subscribes to her own particular brand of New Orleans-bred voodoo, taught me from a young age that its nothing to be feared, and that people go on to do more things after they've left this world, so it was never something massive to me. When death comes unexpectedly, then yes, it hurts worse, but I never knew Mr. Clarke. It's been ages since I read his stories (though I'm picking them up again, of course.) But that doesn't matter. Arthur C. Clarke was one of my childhood heroes in an odd way. Growing up, I had no interest in the present. My eyes were always to the future, wondering how we could make the epoch to come (the one we're now seven years into) the Golden Age of Humanity. This was partially where my love for Star Trek came in to play, because it was the image of the future I wanted, where everything more or less worked, and problems were solved. Clarke, though, was a visionary for me. He was an embodiment of the future, a living passageway to the stars. Isaac Asimov and Gene Roddenberry were already dead by the time I came to appreciate what they did, but Clarke was still there, a sort of pillar, a guardian of ideals that are fading into dust.

Rest in Peace, Arthur. May you dance among worlds.

....for fear of losing a precious handful of seconds.

That's the thought that just popped into my head as I was going over the basics of Lisp, and it just about crushed me. It's three-forty in the morning. I'm so behind on work I have to get done. We're not even talking deadlines anymore; deadlines have long since past. I'm not even sure what to be worried about. On some root level, I'm terrified of all of it. It's that old freshman feeling of being overwhelmed, of seeing so much and not knowing what to do, but what disturbs me is my absolute apathy to it all now. Let me tell you what I've done tonight. I've talked to a bunch of friends, put a couple more chapters away on Robert A. Heinlein's "Starship Troopers," watched a couple episodes of a wierd but very funny anime, read into Number Theory a little more (the math looks pretty daunting, but the concepts are so intriguing I don't want to stop,) read up on three programming languages (Lisp, Perl, and C++, for those at home keeping score) and actually did do some math homework. Now, of course, I still have three bio labs to get finished before Friday, two of which require data, one of which I will have to more or less fabricate entirely, there's the research comission to worry about, the math internal assessment, the Other Thing, CAS, and probobly something else I'm fogetting. Oh, that's right, those goddamn Beloved reaction papers. I hate Toni Morrison forever, because I want to loathe and detest her book but I can't.

It's three forty one now. Another handful of minutes gone by. I failed a biology Paper today. Miserably. I had little to no idea of what I was saying.

I don't care anymore.

That's what I'm most scared of. I'm not even interested by these things anymore. Even English is becoming a chore. Am I burnt out, or subconsciously rebelling, or just trying to justify the darkest of thoughts I've had these past few weeks? I feel right now more lost and afraid than I have since September of freshman year, when everything I knew and loved vanished in a cloud. But, unlike then, I don't even care. The path can find itself, for all it matters. I miss feeling passionate about something anymore.

Please let me get through this okay. That's all I'm asking. I don't care about the goddamn diploma anymore, I don't care about Bright Futures or free money or fuck-all. I want to get out of this okay. I want to be able to walk into Professor SChatz's class and be amazed and absorbed. I want to feel like a human being again, instead of some cow trotting merrily to the abbatoir, cursed with sentience fifteen minutes before it meets the blade. I've been told by so many people that college is the best thing that will happen to me, it's such a breath of fresh air, nothing like high school, so much better, the freedom you need. I've told them all that I don't believe a word of that. I wonder how many know I'm serious?

Two days. Five counting the Research Commission. 24 hours times five. 120 hours. 120 120120120120120120120120. Tick. Tock. Tick

Tock

tic
toc
ti

This is the way the school year ends, this is the way the school year ends, this is the way the school year ends; not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but a shrug and a breath.

You know, I know that typing into this is pointless, but it makes me feel better. I'm about to make a decision that will affect me for the rest of my life. Who I am as a person. How happy I am. Whether or not I succeed. My decision is extreme, but, I feel, absolutely justified. I will regret this later on, I imagine, and I also imagine that I will outgrow that regret later on. I can very easily see how I am being stupid, brash, young, and how this is one of those things you can't take back. I understand that. I have thought for a good long while about all of the consequences of this, and I've come to two conclusions: one, my decision is wholeheartedly selfish, and two, it is the best route to take for myself. But, goddamnit, I need to be selfish this once. It's not being selfish that got me where I am, punching holes in walls, thinking dark and dangerous thoughts, and I don't want to be there anymore. Am I going to kid myself and say that things will be easy from now on? No. In some ways, they'll be harder, but you knew that from the start, didn't you? This could last a short time or it could last the rest of my life, but I'm okay with that, too.

My decision is made. I walk to the Crossroads tomorrow.

Dear Reader, I would love right now to paint you a picture. I can only hope that the one I give you is the one that's there; I'm terribly biased, you see. There's nothing worse than an author who interferes in his own work; we are, after all, merely vessels. Observers. Reporters of the non-FOX-News variety. We're not here to moralize, or to spin, or to make you agree with us, and if you read otherwise, then they're dead wrong.

The picture I would like to paint for you now is of a man in a city. It's night-isn't it always in scenes like this, scenes that, in the theatre, have to be set to good jazz music? That is, of course, what is playing in the honky-tonk a few doors away. The red neon sign casts a glow across the wet road, and across the man's face. I would like for this man to be wearing a long trenchcoat and smoking a cigarette while leaning against the building in the James Dean style of cool. I would also like for it to be raining, or at the very least lightly drizzling. But none of those are the case. It has just stopped raining a handful of hours ago, and the man isn't wearing a trenchcoat, but a beat up old jacket he got for his 17th birthday and has worn ever since. I wish I could tell you why it was his 17th and not his 18th, or his 20th, or any other birthday. I wish I could tell you that it meant something, but it doesn't. That's just how it has to be, because that's what happened to the man. He is not smoking (he does, but not tonight, not now, the uncooperative son of a bitch that he is) and he is not leaning against a building. He is sitting on a bench on the street, and he is thinking, probobly more than could ever be good for him

A couple walks by, and he notices them, which I did want to happen, and am glad that it did. This couple is young, and happy. It is Valentine's Day, after all, why wouldn't they be? He is tall, thin, with just enough of a five o'clock shadow to be fashionable, not enough to be messy, like our friend on the park bench. He is wearing a trenchcoat, which is rather nice of him. It is a beautiful jacket, very well cared for and obviously very expensive. This man looks like he goes out of his way to make everything about him look expensive, from his perfect dark hair to his million dollar smile to his clothes. This isn't quite true; he does like to look nice, and wears obscenely expensive things, but he has worked hard, and I think that he deserves to wear that coat. That, of course, is none of my damn business to begin with. I do not like this man, and nor does our friend on the bench, but not because he appears successful and happy. Our friend on the park bench is not the kind of man to blame and dislike others for their happiness. He does not like the man in the black wool trenchcoat because of the way he looks at his girlfriend.

She is not tall. She tries, wearing sexy black heels that look incredibly uncomfortable, and the kind of little red dress that make heads turn. She is very beautiful; she always has been, and she has no need to add to her natural beauty, but does anyway, because of him. He is staring at her breasts. I won't bother talking about them; she has a nice figure, the kind to be appreciated, but the man in the black wool trenchcoat is not appreciating, he is leering, almost drooling. The man in the jacket on the park bench with the messy five o'clock shadow, the messy hair, the messy life is looking in her eyes, and he feels his heart break. Her eyes are blue; all the colors that could be called blue are in there. Hers are the eyes of the hero Paul our friend in the jacket read about, the eyes after the hero Paul ate the Spice and lived. It is the shade of beauty beyond words and beyond reason. He sees in that blue something that should not be; sadness. The woman who is to her boyfriend nothing more than a nice figure and a pretty face to accompany a well-sculpted arm (which he worked for, so do not blame him there) is terribly sad. She feels alone, even with her boyfriend who is successful. She does not find much about herself to admire, and the compliments given to her daily feel like arrows piercing well past her heart and into her soul. The man in the jacket imagines for a minute that the woman with the blue eyes in the red dress is looking at him, inviting him to see her pain, share her pain, and take it away. He feels for a moment that he could, and then he sees her smile on the woman's face. It is false, the smile on the face of the doll he gave his daughter for her third birthday. His daughter did not like the doll. She thought it was "scary." So did the man in the jacket, sitting on the park bench, and looking at the sad woman with the blue eyes and the doll's smile. The woman in red slides her arm into the her boyfriend's black wool trenchcoat and they walk off down the street. The man in the black coat says something, and the woman laughs. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard to the man in the jacket, not to his ears but to his heart. It is a laugh that to him says "I will never find truth in this world. I know this, and I am afraid, but I do not know what to do."

The man in the jacket with the messy hair, the messy five o'clock shadow, and now red eyes from crying heaves a heavy sigh. I wanted him to do this, and if I ever meet him again, I will thank him for it. He gets up and walks off into the night.

I wish I could tell you, Dear Reader, that this meant something. I wish I could tell you more about them all, tell you a story that would wrench your heart and turn your soul. I wish I could give you their whole story, and I wish I could tell you that the man in the jacket, no longer on the park bench but walking slowly down the street, still with the jacket and the messy hair and the messy life overcame trials and tribulations and ultimately won the heart of the woman with the blue eyes and took the hurt in her eyes away and made her smile real.

I wish I could tell you that, but I can't. I don't know any of it. I only see this one scene on the street. I can tell you that our friend, the man in the jacket he's had for many, many years, is thinking about too many things as he walks down the street to wherever he is going. He is thinking thoughts beautiful and dangerous. He may be crying again; I cannot tell. I also wish I could tell you that this all means something, but any meaning, Dear Reader, is yours and only yours. I'm just a vessel, a portal, a peephole so that you can see the man. That's all.

You know that old axiom "Old habits die hard?" It's true. One hundred percent undeniably, absolutely, wholeheartedly true, and anyone who says it isn't is only saying that because they have an old (usually bad) habit that isn't dying that they want to. Case in point: this morning.

Anyone who's known me for more than a month knows that I exhibit what I like to call Classic Writer Syndrome: strange as hell, (hopefullly) fun at parties, manic-depressive, and L-A-Z-Y lazy. Not in the mental sense of "Oh, I don't care," of course. No, mentally I'm as much a go-getter as the next corporate zombie, but when it comes to actually getting things done...the motivation tends to flounder.

For this whole week, I had a schedule drawn up. It's a perfectly good one, and one that could be easily filled. I looked at it this morning, and just started laughing. Probobly because I woke up half an hour ago, but that'sonly a guess. So, let's see, right now I should be working on my Math Studies IA. Instead, I'm writing and waiting for my coffeemaker to finish.

I know I need to stop. Yes, I get that very much. Will I ever?

....

Back to the old Word Processor.

location: Y'know, that's a real good question.... music: "Couldn't Stand the Weather" by Stevie Ray Vaughan

Here we all are again. It's past November 15, which means that Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and the Holiday Season has begun. Already, the big Megastores like Wal-Mart and K-mart have decked their aisles with no less than ten varieties of bogus holly. A million fat and jolly mechanical Santas dressed in a million different red suits with white fur are singing Christmas carols by the dozen. Those kitschy holiday pictures are coming out again, Rockwell look-alikes portraying happy families clustered around enormous green Christmas trees lit up like Times square and red-cheeked children gazing on with wonder at the miracle that is Christmas.

I suppose the holiday season means something different to all of us. I've long since given up on ranting about how Thanksgiving no longer seems to be a holiday to its own right, but more of a precursor to Christmas, and I'll say nothing about the holiday woes that plague the nation every year. This time is a happy time for nearly everyone I know...at least, that's what it seems. But I think that Christmas for a few other people is what it is to me: a time to put on a mask, cast from iron and blood and tears, a mask with a grotesque smile painted on and parade the thing around for all to see. "Look at me," it says, "I'm so happy to see you all, I'm so happy!" But, come holiday, who is? This Thanksgiving, my stepmother, who I believe is one of the few people for whom the true Spirit of the Holidays will never die, has invited dozens of people to our house, people that we normally try to avoid as much as possible. My grandfather, for example, who will invariably get drunk and point out the character flaws of everyone in the room as Colleen, the aforementioned Christmas-elf stepmother, pretends not to hear and checks on the turkey, or an old friend of Dad's who will show off his new wife like a trophy. Dozens of these people, every single year, and for one day, we all put on that mask and let 'em all know we love each other.

I never had a problem with this. I slid into that particular nook of the American Way of Life just as easy as you please, because I understand the meaning behind it: sometimes, you've got to fake it till you make it. No, the holiday blues comes to me because of a tired old reason that I'm sure you've all heard before. Anyone reading this who's into psychology ought to grab a pencil and paper and start taking notes; send me the bill after New Year's, please and thankya.

My mother was the kind of person who loved to live off everyone else. I'll give her this, she was good at what she did. If people ask me what she does for a living, I give the same answer without the bat of an eyelash: "She's unemployed." That's only about half the truth; my mother's a con artist, who's currently living out of the pockets of an electrical engineer, if what her sister tells me is right. Her specialty was and always will be the guilt trip. She's perfected the technique in two varieties, both of which she can pull out in a heartbeat. The first is what I like to call the Making It con. This is where she'll offer to do a favor, such as take a friend out to lunch at a nice restaurant. She'll open with light conversation, but before the evening is over she'll be fighting back tears recanting tales of how hard life is on her meager budget. This is usually the fault of myself or my father, though I'll be damned if I know how. The friend, heartbroken at the plight of "Poor Melissa," will not only pay for the meal, which will be expensive, but also write my mother a check for a hefty gift, insisting that she buy herself something nice (when I still lived with her, it was to buy me some clothes. She bought out of the local thrift stores and kept the rest for herself). The other was the one she used on me. This one I call the "Breaking You" con. She would, in this case, never be the poor old waif, but the indignant victim. "How can you treat me like this?" she'd scream at me. Names would be thrown out, her favorites being "horrible child" and "evil little boy." I believe she first brought this out Christmas of 1997. That, at least, is the first time I can remember her yelling at me in such a way, though I can't remember why. Since then, she'd always try to work one of her "Why do you hate me?" routines into every holiday. The two that were the worst were, of course, Mothers' Day and Christmas, but especially Christmas. I learned over the course of seven years to dread the holiday, to come out and open presents early on and then to hide in my room. If we'd have a party, which was rarely, I'd make the excuse that I was sick. If we went to a party at someone else's house, which was often, I'd just slip out, and let Mom work the crowd as only my mother could.

I hate to complain, because it makes me feel like her, who would complain often, but I need to open up on this. It's a stupid association, one I should have gotten over years ago, but Christmas stopped meaning joy and cheer when I was seven. Now, it's a time of quiet reflection, of blocking out the same sounds year after year, of Charlie Brown's Christmas Special and "Deck the Halls" and of my mother's voice, god-knows-how many miles away now, screeching like some horrible angry bat in the back of my mind that I'll never amount to anything, that I've let her down, that I've failed. I tend to quiet down during the season. I suppose I'll keep my nose on my work, Lord knows there's plenty of it, and I'm sure I'll be able to keep my friends laughing with a slew of Christmas jokes and anecdotes. But, when it all comes down to it, the holidays are the time when I feel most alone, in a room full of friends and family. Maybe this year will be different. Perhaps this Thanksgiving will be a fun, relaxing holiday filled with old friends, rather than a big meal followed by a night spent running from my thoughts. Maybe this christmas will be the joyous holiday everyone knows it ought to be. I sincerely hope it will, but I still get a chill that doesn't come from the cold every time I feel the winter air, and "Christmas Time is Here" is still the saddest song I know.

mood: drained music: Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered - Ella Fitzgerald

It's usually times like these where any conscious thought I have just shuts down, or at east gets the volume turned down way, way low. Take now, for instance. At this moment, I am doing nothing more than watching my fingers dance across the keyboard. I have no clue what's on the screen right now, and I won't until I look up. I've got some nice jazz going, so I'm relaxing my way into what feels like a good Wednesday.

On to a point; I think I need one of those.

The one-act is going really, really well so far. I love my cast; I don't think a day has gone by where they haven't impressed me or made me see something in a different light. I hope that my occasional outbursts of frustration and frequent swearing (I've really been sticking to English and Spanish; I think I've finally lost my taste for Klingon curses) doesn't send the wrong signals. Right now, I get the sense that I ought to be worried, but I'm not. I'm not sure whether I should be happy at that or even more worried.

I really need to write more, at that. Anything at this point will do. I've quietly shelved this dream that I'll be a great writer. I realized I don't want greatness; all the great writers were depressed alcoholics. Yeats? Depressed, drank a lot, stalker. Spooky guy, probobly not very popular. Hemingway? Angry books, very self conscious, very fatalistic, wound up smooching his Remington. I now strive to be a schlockmeister, to be the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and fries. My strength lies in telling stories, so that is what I shall do.

Have I rambled long enough? If anyone is still reading this at this point, you've got a brief glimpse into my mind. And no, I don't get it either.

Life is good. Life is really good right now. I wish I could explain why, but for some reason, I feel no need to. I suppose I'll just bask in that feeling of contentment with the world as a whole. Time for more coffee; thanks for tuning in. MAybe next time I'll have something slightly less stream-of-consciousness.

Western philosophy is a funny thing, isn't it? Never look behind, always look ahead, think to the future, climb the corporate ladder! Don't just stand around, son, when there's an American Dream to be had! And, above all else, if something goes wrong, as they are prone to do, if that nasty little critter Worry creeps into your "Look to the Future" bandwagon, then just ignore it, and it'll go away! That's not just Western Philosophy, that's PIONEER SPIRIT! What are ya, some kinda Commie?

But there's a problem with that. The problem is, there's a whole other half of the human spectrum that this wonderful PIONEER SPIRIT misses, and any problem, no matter how small, will not just "go away" if left alone. It'll only grow, and change, until we don't even recognize it anymore from that seat on the Wagon Train to the Stars. Our eyes are fixed ahead, there's the goal, there's Dodge right there, the Promised Land, and we're getting there! You're so fixated, you don't even notice that little critter. But now it's not so little. It's gotten big, and it's gotten mean. While you keep your gaze on the trail ahead, you don't even notice the blood-red eyes staring up at you from the shadows, the long, jagged fangs like knives bared and dripping with ooze, or that hand, fur covered and clawed, reaching for your leg....

There.

Do you feel uncomfortable? Feel a little weirded out? Or maybe do you just think that good old Barron's finally flipped his lid? I'll bet you do, and congratulations, you're a step closer to The Bad Place.

We've all been taught to pick up the pieces and move on, leave the woes behind you, and carry on with the lesson you learned. Focus on the good feelings, in other words. Well, that's all fine and dandy for a little while, but you're still missing half of your emotional spectrum. The body, the mind, and the soul all need balance, and WEstern Society has forgotten that. It's one side or the other, be it in our politics or in our frames of mind. Where's the happy medium? Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear, eh?

I had forgotten that myself. I was back to work, I had a job, I had money in the bank, I'd picked up a new instrument I was pretty good at. And then, as things are prone to do, something went wrong. At work, I couldn't do something and the boss had to do it for me. He said it was no big deal; he didn't want me doing anything I wasn't fully comfortable with, but that wasn't quite good enough for me. For the first time, I'd let him down. He'd asked, I'd given the obligatory "No worries...." but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Oh well, pick up the pieces, move on. Try again later. And so I brushed that feeling aside, that feeling of resounding failure.

Today came along, and it was perfect. I had the day off, I stayed in my pajamas all day. I practiced my harmonicas, wrote a few emails, read some good blogs. The day was going just fine, another nice little Saturday to relax on. Then, as I sat chatting with a friend online, it hit me. That old feeling, but bigger and uglier. This wasn't just "I can't do it, I've failed." This was a full-blown hopelessness. Who was I kidding? I'd never done anything right. I wasn't going anywhere. There was no future for me. There was barely a present. In one fell swoop, I stopped seeing the point in anything at all. I tried talking to a couple dear friends to cheer me up. That beat the beast back for a moment, but he came lunging right back. When I thought that I'd just give up and stare disdainfully at some old writings, I saw that an old horror movie I'd been meaning to see, The House on Haunted Hill, was online. I figured, sure, why not?

That movie brought me back down to the Bad Place, and I'd needed to go there for too long.

Now, I've said that twice or three times now, this Bad Place, and I think it's time I explain what that is. You're close to the Bad Place when you start to get weirded out, when you start laughing at things you shouldn't be laughing at, or when you just want to leave. But the Bad PLace itself...that's the place where fear lies. Not panic, that's gone too far. Fear, that room in the palaces of our minds we visit when we read that Stephen King novel that really sent us the chills, when we watched the movie that made us leap out of our seats...then chuckle nervously. The Bad Place is when you find yourself saying "Heh, this isn't real...is it?" It's uncertainty solidified. It's where the impossible meets real life in a glorious train wreck that jolts our minds back to dead center. I think that's why horror novels sell so well, why we still rent The Shining, or go catch the latest zombie flick. The Bad Place doesn't push us into the darkness; you'll never see a person come out of a showing of 28 Weeks Later morbid and depressed. Scared shitless, maybe, but by tomorrow or the next day, they're going to feel pretty good. Because the Bad Place brings us back to square one; when we're there, we can't ignore the feelings we want to. They've come to find us, and make their point, even if they have to drag us kicking and screaming to get there.

I found that place again in that old Vincent Price movie. It wasn't anything spectacular in the ways of special effects or script...but it did it's job. It got me spooked. It was the hand on the shoulder that whirled me around, pointed out the other door, the one you don't want to go into, not because you know what's on the other side, but because you have no clue and can only imagine. And, I'll tell you something, dear reader. I feel fine. More than fine. I feel at peace with the world, and with myself. I feel balanced again, ready to head back into the world. Screw the PIONEER SPIRIT, bugger "KEep your eyes on the horizon." John Wayne and Clark Gable had nightmares, too, and I'll keep looking up...but I've got to glance down every once in a while, too. BEcause there's always the other half, there's the Mr. Hyde, or the Thing Under the Bed, Worry, Fear...and that's not a bad thing. Work with what you have; make use of everything, and you find peace. Don't get wrapped up in it, now, or you've gone too far. But find balance, and then you won't need the Wagon Train to the Stars. You'll just fly there.

For my Extended Essay, I'm looking at the evolution of the American Horror Story. That begs the question, though: what is horror? Where does it come from? I couldn't write a word on it, nothing good...up until now. I read the stories analytically, getting the details but missing the big picture.....up until now. BEcause sometimes, dear reader, we need a good fright.

location: I think we know by now. music: Moolight Sonata - Beethoven