Opting Out

Pulling this out, only an hour left. It's been a year. I had several adjectives there...abandoned them all. I'm reluctant to assign a moral component.

But here we are-thanks for coming, it's nice to see you. I've made no effort this time around, and I'm enjoying the novelty. Hunkered down, nested like a matrioska brain. Maybe I'm biding my time, gathering my chi. Marshaling, rallying, getting ready. Or not. What?

What makes you think I know? You know what, screw this. Tomorrow. I'm doing this tomorrow. This has been Previous Me. Later Me will have more to say.

Syncitium

I've been dreaming. I don't, usually. But the last few days, even a week or two...my subconscious's jumped up by an order of magnitude. Last night I dreamt of lye, and burns.

It gives me hope to see you dead.

This is the last day of an old year. I know how that sounds, what day it is. In as much as I'm trying to eliminate the arbitrary, have a reason for everything...the calendar's not cutting it. My calendar's different-it's the 8th that'll be a new me (Thirty-three this time. I'm having a passion play) but from a purely mathematical standpoint, I like the perihelion. It'll be a cusp day, an ending. And while the solstice certainly counts too, it's a little heavy with historical baggage for my taste. So yeah, the perihelion. At nine minutes after midnight tonight, GMT, we'll be as close to the sun as we'll be for another year. That seems like it's worth noting.

Today is the day I came and left.

The fields faced the graveyard, symmetrical with themselves and each other. The spikes that marked the bushes were alike...so were the corpses, down instead of up. I'm not my body, am I? I don't think, I don't...but you feel differently, don't you? Even if you feel the same.

This isn't making sense, which is apparently a common complaint among my consumers. The absence of sence. For what it's worth, I feel the same way-I don't know what I'm talking about half the time. I just don't think that it detracts.

Lists

Like messages, a letter from a younger you. Or like your will, externalized and free. "I don't need to want to do this, because an earlier version of myself dedicated some of her/his time to it and freed me up from that internalized ambition. Thanks, previous me! Now I can devote some of my finite (but not limited) attention to this sandwich."

I have a bit. Not now, maybe later. But I have one (another one. I think that makes three all told. Not all told in this blog post. Earlier. Piece it together. Or don't, whatever.) and it's coming together. It's all moral and clever. It's winning me over, which is odd-I'm not much of a joiner. Even when it's my thing, and I'm doing it. Not a joiner.

Also, having listened to lots of really bad Xmas music (musical war crime/abortion set to music bad), it's occurred to me that Frosty the Snowman's about death. That it's cruel to use a magic hat to bring a snowman to life, knowing that he'll melt so soon. Now, I'm not wed to this-a coworker of mine hypothesized that it's actually a metaphor for Christ (which makes the children god, and the hat...I don't know what the hat is) and the recursive nature of winter represents Christ's inevitable return. And I'm willing to acknowledge the similarities between Frosty's mortality and our own. I may just be a bigot, unable to reconcile the difference between a few months at most (in colder climes) and our own longer, more nuanced lives. It's anthropomorphism, is what it is. Reduced to my scale, and I have no sense of proportion.

Brunch

So I'm up early, on a Sunday of all things. Gonna try and clean the house, got family coming. Cook too, I think I'll make some bread. One of my HD has 1.21 Gigs left. Nice.

It's warmed up, but it's still winter, and my old body aches as I try and cross the terminus of one more year. Twenty days left.

Perihelion

Two days, burned days. Shot and sundered and wandered and warm. I've got Jimmy Buffet and Bob Dylan stuck in my head, neither good, neither wanted. It's blood warm outside, feverish where I work. Last day, to-day. Good, good.

Demonoid

Is back up after about 3 months downtime. Hot damn.

Long Days and Lovers and Seasons and Skies

It was six when I woke up this morning, at five o'clock. Like separation, like Kevin Bacon. God is made of bacon, did you know that? He's haram. Like a colander, like the calendar.

Look it up.

I came home and sharpened my face (I did other things betwixt and between, but that's just work, and thus not really worth writing about until it is). Made myself what Patton Oswalt calls a "failure pile, in a sadness bowl", and waited for it to succeed. Cleaned, swept, vacuumed (there's a handful of words in the english language that have two "u"s next to each other...know any others?) and finally, finally, settled down to write. To "blahg", the kids are calling it.

I've been writing a lot, not here, so that's probably wounded my blogging a little. Whoops. But it's still me, still an extension of myself. And it's not that I haven't had things to say-I had a whole bit about this a couple days ago, but it seemed like it would take too long to run it around (long story short, I'm racist. No, not like that). You'll have to forgive me-I'm nesting. Like a gorilla.

It's the holidays, holy days. I'm looking forward to Cthulhu and my mother's company, dreading the Xmas music that hollows out my place of employment (it's improved, though. My doing, I'm sure) and drowning in solitude and self-satisfaction. There's worse things.

So I'm well, well enough. Strangely good, really. Better than in forever, to tell the truth. I'm new, different, strong and burning bright. I have hopes and dreams, friends and allies. Some of you are some of those, some of you are others. I'd leave it ambiguous, leave you guessing. You choose, alright? Everyone gets to do whatever they want. Even me.