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.

Sabbaths

Never having been what you would call ambitious, it's odd then, to reach a point in my life where I save up my resting and look forward to the day. Day of.

I have lots to do, have set myself to something. Somethings. It's odd, to have a purpose.

...

Not bad. I'll let you know how it goes.

Patience

I've had it up to here with people. And let's bear in mind, my here's higher than most people's. Which implies that the tall are more patient. Which is clearly true. One more proof.

Anglophile

I was a weird kid-no really, it's true. I fell into all sorts of odd things-I must have been about six when I started watching Dr. Who (the old one) and I still have a Red Dwarf shirt from a PBS marathon in 1993. My mother always liked English TV, we watched a lot of PBS back when that was what they played. So I had strange tastes in that sense, a fondness for things that were out-of-the-ordinary (though I can't stand Monty Python).

I must have been around twelve when I caught an episode of The Prisoner. Very few things have stuck with me so strongly, but then, there's nothing like The Prisoner.

It's beautiful. It's the strangest thing that's ever been on TV. Truly.

So when I heard that AMC was doing a remake, a reboot, I was worried. Like you would be, right? Other people taking something you love, doing new things with it...you'd worry, right? Tonight it premiered, and it's fantastic. Smart and odd and sinister and funny and brilliant. Just brilliant.

You can watch episodes of the old series here, see the webpage for the new here. Check it out, it's something I love.