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Light Well

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June 15, 2013 Posted by | Photo, Photography | , | 1 Comment

Signs

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June 14, 2013 Posted by | Photo, Photography | , | 1 Comment

Yeeaah

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June 13, 2013 Posted by | Photo, Photography | , | 1 Comment

The Little Things

The only thing I want more than a nice wicker picnic basket, with wine glasses and plates and everything, is enough people to go on a picnic. I can assemble a picnic meal no problem. I mean a nice one, not crappy lunch meat on Wonder bread sandwiches but a meal you could be proud of.

I should get a 2 person* one for Syd and I… but still. Being a poly-person in the midst of a two person thing when you’re accustomed to a multi-person things can be difficult sometimes.

*This one is awesome!

June 12, 2013 Posted by | Uncategorized | , | Leave a comment

DUCKS ON ICE!

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June 12, 2013 Posted by | Photo, Photography | , | 2 Comments

Lilly Pads

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June 11, 2013 Posted by | Photo, Photography | , | 1 Comment

Dock

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June 10, 2013 Posted by | Photo, Photography | , | 1 Comment

Twins in Death: Chapter Eight – Part Six

Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay


Chapter Eight: Concerning Birds and Clones

July 30th, 1878
2:25 p.m.


 “So is it always a flower you pick?” The Weirdo asked.

 “What ever happens to catch my eye.” The samurai said.

 “But usually a flower?”

 “Usually.” He agreed.

 “Okay.” The Weirdo said leaning back against the stone where they had made camp for the night.

 “There has got to be something else.” The samurai said. “I can’t keep wandering like this.”

 “You could try farming.” The Weirdo suggested.

 “No I couldn’t.” He said.

 “No, I didn’t think so.” The Weirdo said.

 “Sometimes I wonder what use the gods have for us. To have made us, and then let our usefulness die away like this.”

 “You sure it’s all gone?”

 “Our day has passed.” The samurai said. “Now we are either noble children who have never touched a sword or ragged wanderers like me.

 “You’re not so ragged.” The Weirdo said. “For a deadbeat.”

 They both had a good laugh at that, they laughed for a while at that in fact.

 

October 25th, 2002
1:35 p.m.

 The Weirdo came home, feeling beaten and battered in a daze of floating sounds. The front door opened and he stepped inside, feeling like he was moving through a wall of soft cotton. He took his coat off, sliding his arms out of each sleeve. He reflected, as he hung his hat on the hook, how much like armor it was. He took a hanger from the closet and put the coat on it. He hung the coat up in the closet, placing the hook on the rail carefully. He ran his fingers down the coat, and looked at it thinking about armor. He closed the door of the closet and walked away from it.

 As he walked by one of the studies, Judy watched him go by, her blue eyes tracking his pained movements. She got up and watched as he slowly began to walk through the house. He looked like a machine that needed to be oiled and have most of the screws tightened. He heard her following him and turned to look at her, his face tired and haggard. His face looked like someone else had had a rather bad time with it before giving it to him so he could have a bad time. His eyes seemed to not want to stay open, and he looked like every moment was weariness.

 “You don’t look too happy.” Judy said.

 “No,” He said, shaking his head gently.
 
 “Tell me about it?” She sat down in a chair, and looked up at him.

 She brushed a lock of her golden red hair back, and looked up at him. She had learned how to look attractive and make men look at her in the last five thousand years. She looked up at him and batted her eyes, breathing in a deeply throaty way. Her eyes widened ever so slightly when she did open them and her lips pursing just so.

 The Weirdo felt far too exhausted to argue with her, and too tired to take the hint she was trying to extend. He sat down and told her what had happened in the last few hours, as much as he thought she could bear. She listened with rapt attention, paying attention to not only the words but also the grand meaning behind his words. His words said a lot, but so did the rest of him.

 “So what are you going to do?” she asked finally

 “I’m not sure yet.” He said. “Maybe I’ll figure out where he’s hiding and hunt him down or something. Or maybe I’ll wait for him to come to me.”

 “Shouldn’t you find him? I mean if he’s a killer.”

 “Yeah,” He said nodding, “But for now I’m going to go to my room for a bit.”

 “You’ll be alright, won’t you?”

 “Yeah.” He said touching her hand. “Don’t worry, I’m always alright.”

 He walked up the stairs, his feet pushing him up further and further. It was like the walk to heaven when he was tired, the constant pressing upwards of the stairs. He looked up the stairwell and kept at it, unable to stop. He hadn’t realized how tired he was till he had begun to climb the stairs. They seemed to go on forever and ever. He came to his room, opening the heavy oak door.

 He looked at the bare floor of his room and came towards his bed. He suddenly couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. He was parking the car, and then he was up here. He knew he must have gone through the rest of the house, but some switch had closed that part of the world off from him. He touched the bed, trying not to think about it. It was a large bed with a huge canopy and heavy velvet curtains and also thinner silk curtains. The bed was covered with thick velvet and silk blankets, stuffed with down and wool. The bedclothes themselves were actually cotton flannel, soft and warm and comforting. He hated the cold feel of linen, had long preferred a warm bed to a cold one.

 The Weirdo lay down on the bed, and flipped off his running shoes. The world was spinning around him, and he tried to hold on for just long enough. He didn’t need the world to be stable for long, but he needed it to be stable for a while. He peeled off his shirt as thoughts bounce from one part of his mind to the other. Another person’s untimely death zipped past almost without him noticing, the face zipped past without recognition. Random ideas kicking up and down in his brain.  He looked up at the canopy for a moment and thought about life the universe and everything. He mused to himself and finally rolled over, drawing the thick velvet blanket up. 

 “Forty-two my ass.” He said. “It’s obvious the answer is forty-three.”

 He lay there for a long time, but sleep wouldn’t come. The world kept spinning around him. He stared open eyed into the room, his body unwilling to move any more. His mind wouldn’t stop working, no matter how much he wanted it to. He now had the time for his mind to unroll the deaths and displeasures before him. This time it was a particularly bad argument he’d had with someone when he was five years old. The events themselves were unimportant, as he knew for a fact the person he’d argued with that day was dead but the argument still galled him. He had been right, but they had said he was wrong and got everyone to agree with them. He hadn’t had the facts right in front of him so he was called the liar. It still made him angry to think about that long ago argument, and he wanted to sit up at that point.

 He pushed the blanket and felt his hand shudder under the strain. His mind wasn’t ready to go to sleep but the body had been all for the idea. He managed to push himself up though and walked to the desk, thinking about the long ago argument. It had been a stupid argument, but it still made him angry. The point was he had been right, and the other person had been wrong.

 He looked out the window as he sat down at the desk, his body wanting to give up at that point. He was moving his body not so much through the willingness of his limbs as the force of his mind. He felt every string and fiber of his muscles complain with each tiny movement. His body was lodging some serious complaints, but the mind wouldn’t listen. The mind was still angry about an argument that had gone by so long ago that few would credit the fact that it still bothered him.

 He should have gotten over it a long time ago, but it was unfinished business. He didn’t like unfinished business it gnawed at him. There had to be a way to put this open file on the desk of his mind into the closed cabinet. He knew he couldn’t, the people who he had the argument with were long dead. He turned on the computer monitor and opened a web browser. He ran a quick search and looked at a bit of data online. It at least confirmed he was right, if the argument ever came up again he would know where to find the answer. He looked at his bed and stood up, muscles sang out warnings now, not just complaints. They would soon collapse and would be unable to continue. He managed to walk to the bed though and lay himself back down.

 “Anyway.” He muttered to himself as he lay down and drew up the blanket. “Jupiter does have a few rings.”


© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

June 9, 2013 Posted by | Fiction | , | Leave a comment

Corner

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June 9, 2013 Posted by | Photo, Photography | , , , | Leave a comment

Hired Self-Destruction – On the Subject of Suicide and Changes

“ I starved to death in 1916. … Logically I was dead; a man can’t live on dry grass. Actually I went on breathing.”
— Nero Wolfe (Over My Dead Body)

“I worry about you. About you doing something stupid and permanent.”

“Have I given you reason to worry about me?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A thousand things.”

I didn’t tell her that I knew where her mind had been, that I could smell her sadness, feel her desperation like movement of the air. That when she was near, I could practically taste the danger she seemed to be in. There wasn’t time, and I didn’t have the words to articulate it without sounding ridiculous.

Because we’ve all been there, right?

Maybe?

Maybe not.

For about a year and a half, I toyed with the idea of a post called “On the Subject of my Impending Suicide.” Wherein I would explain that I wasn’t planning anything, but that some days it felt inevitable. It kept coming up as an idea, as a thought, as a backup if everything else went wrong and I had no other recourse. It’s good to have a plan, even one that requires you to end your own life. I couldn’t come up with anything that seemed right, that wouldn’t be too painful. Also, I absolutely didn’t want to fuck it up. The last thing I wanted was to have an “attempt” to explain. I also didn’t want to do it in such a way that it gave the message “See what you made me do.” Because I was going to do it on my own, for me.

I got a captcha one day that has stuck with me for whatever reason.

Hired Self-Destruction.

I remember it because A) the idea of hiring out your self-destruction seemed like a turn on the old irony wheel and B) I knew people who had done/were doing it. You may remember that in September of 2009, I posted some photographs of a place called Flat Rock. I was visiting that town for what I had decided was the last time. I was there for the funeral of my cousin, who had engaged in his own Hired Self-Destruction. That sounds nicer than saying “He killed himself in a way that was indirect enough that people wouldn’t accuse him of committing suicide.” Because that’s what Craig did, let us not bullshit ourselves. He had hit rock bottom, and there was no one to help him out, or he wasn’t able to ask for help, or… whatever. He packed on about 100 pounds to what had already been pushing 300. When he was laid to rest, they didn’t cross his arms over his chest because his limbs literally couldn’t be made to sit like that.

Hired-Self Destruction.

This was just about the apex of bad times. You might remember if you were there. A couple of months later, a relationship fell apart, we had to move to pokey little apartment, and we were feeling a little bereft. Friends who would have helped lived too far away, people who lived nearby fell away from us in droves. Syd did not react to the situation well, and some members of her family reacted by saying “Quit being such a selfish little bitch and let me score points of your depression! Can’t you see your suicidal state of mind is ALL ABOUT ME?” I have few good things to say about certain people, and I won’t spoil a cheerful post like this by going into that. Suffice to say, I had to help her carry the load. When you tell someone you’re not going to leave them alone, and you’re not going to let them kill themselves, you’ve got to stand by that or what are you?

I think Syd helped me carry my load, but I felt like I was doing most of it on my own. That’s probably my warped perspective, because I didn’t even really have my parents to talk to and she can at least sort of talk to her mother and father about certain things. Not everything, but some things. I couldn’t talk to anyone about anything. My parents were going through… they had their own bullshit to deal with. I’d always been the emotional booster anyway, everyone came to me with their issues, and I would either help them solve those problems or distract them.

I felt on my own in a way I’d never felt alone. Not as lonely as those last six months with Syd and Holly. We weren’t lonely, not like that, and Fancy willing we will never feel that lonely again. I’d gotten used to being internal from the time I was a child. Living in a house of tension had prepared me, doing it with twice the people ready to explode made steel out of the iron.

Internal. I’d spent some time simply sitting and looking at the internet, saying nothing, doing little, making myself small and inoffensive. Hard way to live, but it was one that didn’t seem to break any rules. Syd’s suicidal thoughts kept coming to my mind, that she had plans and ideas, and knew what to do. I’d had no idea, just a vague wish for it all to be over.

And then Hol left, and I knew if I did anything dramatic it would look like I was trying to blame Hol, which isn’t what it was about. I just wanted things not to be the way they were. I didn’t want to feel the emptiness I had felt. I never felt fear, or sadness, or shame, just nothing. As the Rockbiter said “A hole would have been something, this was nothing.”

I came to a conclusion. This has to end. Either with the death of the body, or the death of this existence. One way or another, this has to end. Syd had come to the same conclusion, although we never articulated it in such a fashion. Neither of us chose the first route, and we concentrated on the second.

Hired Self-Destruction.

Syd got the lap-band operation. That was hard, painful, and a complete and utter change in the eating habits she’d formerly known. If anyone wants to call it an easy way out, I will gleefully puke up half eaten Arby’s in their car so they can share in the joy I felt. They can slurp on clear broth for a month, then extend the thrill of actually having broth that was cloudy! OOOOO! You can’t actually see the cats through the soup anymore. That was no more easy than going on a starvation diet is easy, or suddenly having to avoid anything with gluten is easy. It was hard, and it was painful, and we’re still going through it. But we’re doing it together, and we’re going to get there. She has had to destroy the person she was, in order to become the person she is becoming.

I got a job. Because we had only one car, if I was working when Syd would be at work, I had to walk. Two Miles. Rain, heat, sun, cold, snow, wind, monkeys, custard… I walked to work and got there on time. Syd would get me on her way home and I’d take my lunch break taking her home and coming back. If I was working in the morning, I would drive Syd to work, come home, get my lunch, drive to work, work eight hours, drive home, pet the cats, drive to Syd’s work, pick her up, bring her home, cook dinner, and try to come up with the energy to explain to people why I didn’t seem to be writing anything anymore.

If you want to talk about a period of Hired Self-Destruction, then that was is. Physically, I was in torment. Mentally, I was pretty badly depressed and I had no patience for the bullshit that dealing with people brought upon me. I had to bend my will toward the idea of patience, to dealing with people without hitting them. I had to work harder in that year and a half than I’d ever worked. Remember, I was still holding up Syd a lot of the time, or at least felt like I was. And I was cooking every day, or trying to. I was destroying myself, and I was basically employing my employer for the task.

Hired Self-Destruction.

And then the clouds actually broke. Later than I thought they would, but THEY DID BREAK is the important part. I thought they’d break with my second store, but that place was in a neighborhood that was as close as it could be to the ghetto while still being patrolled by the police. For a while there, I felt like I was piled on more than ever. I had a feeling my Self-Destruction was going to be a complete job. But that was actually a good thing. It caused me to do something I hadn’t thought about before. It caused me to prove I could take the extra weight. If I could strive through this morass, then I could do anything… right? I grew stronger, and it was then that I’d realized how weak I’d been, how dependent. But here was the thing, I could take the weight.

And then we got the car, and then the I heard about the new store opening, and I started to make a plan. And it was about that time I realized what had happened. I’d basically completed the Self-Destruction project and had somewhere along the line begun the rebuilding process. Making a plan was a sure sign that one is done being destroyed and that one is ready to build again. I got the car, I got the job, I got some shoes so I can go running, I’m going to buy some dumbbells, and I’ve got plans to make some art again. The shoes and the pass to Stony Creek were step 3, and I’ve got 7 more steps to go as far as I can figure. I’m making progress though. I am moving forward. We’re going to be okay again… or at last. I can’t tell yet.

Stephen Fry made an admission recently, that he’d attempted suicide last year, and it got me thinking about this. It got me thinking because I feel like I did commit suicide. I killed the person I had been, I just went on breathing like Nero Wolfe, and that gave me enough time to build up this person I’m becoming. Sort of building on the ruins, but still… building. I had to go through this period though, just to manage to get through.

Hired Self-Destruction. Sweet Fancy’s Mousey, that’s a stupid phrase.

June 8, 2013 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , | Leave a comment