There's really no introduction to this. Usually I try to give some sort of explanation to start with, but I just don't have one right now. Sorry.

It's been almost two weeks now since PSG. It hasn't been easy readjusting to life on the outside. I remember being told by a friend there that the you that comes back from it isn't the same person who arrives there and I know now how true that really is. I don't know how obvious it is to others, but it is to me. I feel different.
The hardest part is accepting this new sense of vulnerability. I feel exposed and it's not really all that unpleasant but it is unnerving. Sometimes I really feel like I'm complaining but I guess it's just sharing my feelings. I find myself telling people things I wouldn't ordinarily say. It doesn't feel bad, just different.
I worry about appearing weak, becoming weak. I value my inner strength so much, it's very hard to let go of. There are new dear friends in my life and their good opinion is very precious to me. I worry about my weakness in front of them. In regard to my  new friends, I have never felt so close to new people so quickly. For a long time now I have maintained my distance from most people. I haven't had new real friends in a long time. After being alone for so long it's aways been too hard to let new people in. Loneliness isn't fun but it is consistent.

It's dark tonight, darker than usual. There's no moon and very few stars. And it's so quiet, like the whole universe decided to take an evening off.
Tonight feels thick, languid almost, as if you could reach out and touch the dark.  The air feels rich and luxurious, full of energy and possibility in a sultry, velvet sort of way.  It's magnetic and seductive. "Reach out and take me." I swear I can hear it.

I think it would shock most people to know what I think about much of the time. Or maybe it wouldn't, only surprise them that I'm really serious about it. I'm certainly not going to mention it except in terms of sweet, horrible imaginings, temptation like starvation, and visions that you can feel run down your arms.
It catches me off guard sometimes. I'll be sitting at work, letting my mind drift during my down time, not really listening to the gossip around me and suddenly I'm transported. The images are so intense, the sensation so precise, it's all real. And then it's gone, leaving only a craving. I can usually withstand it now, but the thought is never far from my mind.

I still remember the best compliment I ever received. I was 16. A boy who I almost liked in a friendly sort of way told me that I was different, strange almost, that I didn't belong. We were dancing together at the time. I still get a warm lovely feeling whenever I think about it. it may not be what most girls long to hear, but I couldn't have been  happier.

War has got to be the single stupidest human endeavor in the whole of the universe. Well, not on an individual scale. I can think of any a number of idiot things a person can do, but on the grander international scale, war is the worst that I can come up with. It makes no sense!
People go out in the world and commit some of the most horrendous, cold-blooded acts of atrocity with that totally impersonal way that armies have, because they are decent, good people. Doesn't anyone else think that's crazy?
But you can't blame them, not on an individual level.....or so I'm told....and I don't believe that....

I'm always surprised by other people's romantic notions and the actions people mistake for love. Do you know how much love it takes to kiss someone? To have sex? That should be obvious. Very little, if any at all. What about having kids? Getting married? Same deal. Now, raising kids? Staying married? Those things take quite a bit of love to pull off. At least right at the beginning. Once all the niceties and little gestures become habit, it takes almost no thought at all.
It's the same with hate, really. I don't think what most people call hate is the real thing. It takes an enormous amount of energy and effort to really hate even one person. Trust me on that one. It takes just as much thought and effort to really hate someone as it does to really love them. And most people just aren't worth that kind of time.

There is really no particular reason or order to this. I just need to sort out the thoughts in my head. In a strange way, putting those thoughts into words, words that I can see, makes them real. If I don't, they just swirl around and around, like a craving. They won't rest until I give them some small bit of reality to feast on.

I don't really know if the gods are real or not. Maybe they exist because we believe in them, maybe we believe in them because they exist. It doesn't really matter either way. I think the reason people need gods so much is because, well, to put it a bit lamely, we're lonely. Each and every one of us is alone inside our own heads and we don't want to be. So we have gods to keep us company, to see the thoughts we don't say or act out and understand all the little codes and secrets we live our lives in, but never share.

I am, by nature, secretive. I am more of an observer than a participant. I want to watch people and listen, and know them, but never ever let them know me. There are a very select few that I share with, and I'm sure they don't even know it. It's a lonely way to be, but I won't change no matter how much I think it might really be nice to have someone really know me, there is only one who does. I say things that aren't lies, but they're not true either, exactly. I know the trick to keeping secrets.

Love is a strange thing. It can mean lots of different things. Generosity is love. Compassion is love. Even pity is a kind of love. Jealousy is just love turned sideways and hate is love turned inside out. And you can fall in love with anything. Have you ever fallen in love with a sound? A single note sung just right at the perfect moment openned up my soul and claimed me. I will carry that sound with me forever. Have you ever fallen in love with a place? A small space, up in the rocks over looking the valley when the sun is well up and sparkles on the river. And perfect moments. I've had a few.

Not once, not ever, have I dreamed about my husband. Isn't that strange? If I ever dream at all about people I know, I usually dream about my dad.

I suppose that's all for now until the words overwhelm me again. Ta ta.

This week, I'll be posting several pieces about my father, so please, bear with me.

    My father died two years ago, the 8th of February. It really doesn't seem like it's been that long. In that time, my mother cleared most of his things out of the house. At first it bothered me a little, but not as much as I thought it would. She gave most of his hunting and camping equipment to my uncle and a lot to one of my friends. My dad liked Brian, so I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I did think it was rather creepy that she gave a lot of his clothes to my husband. He doesn't wear them if he can avoid it, but he couldn't think of a polite way to tell her that he didn't want them.
    This past Christmas, though, she did something strange. She gave my brother and I each fire-safe boxes filled with little mementos. Most were rather unremarkable; coins and such that she had collected for years but which my brother and I had little interest. All my documents like my birth certificate, my old passport were in there as well as my baby bracelets. Inside she had also enclosed two watches that belonged to my great grandmother that I was very fond of and am glad to have, though I will never wear them. And there were several things of my father's.  There were several ornamental pocket knives that I remember him having received for various Christmas' and putting away and never looking at. There was also a picture that my mother said someone had drawn of him a long time ago, but I couldn't really see the resemblance.
    All this I could have really done without. But in a small bag on the bottom, was my father's watch. He almost never wore it. It had been broken as long as I could remember. I've seen pictures of him wearing it, but to me it has always been broken. He talked all the time about needing to get it fixed, but he never did. My mom said that it wasn't really a useful thing to give me, maybe my husband could wear it after I got it fixed, but I don't think I ever will. I can't imagine that watch working or being worn. I'm not by nature a sentimental person, but fixing that watch, having it run again, feels too much like letting go of my dad, and I'm just not ready to do that.
    There was one other thing in that box, and it still baffles me. In a small jewelry box that contained my baby bracelets there was my mother's wedding and engagement ring. They aren't the originals, but a set my dad bought her on their 15th anniversary. I don't know what to make of that. Why on earth would she give me that? She asked me if they fit my hand and I was mortified that she even thought I would put them on!

I'm an insomiac. Always have been, according to my mother. I know I didn't sleep when I was a little kid, still don't really. Most of it I think is just genetic. My dad didn't sleep either. But, as far back as I can remember, I have been afraid of dying in my sleep, or that somone else close to me would die while I slept. How many 7 year olds think like that, really? As I got older, that notion never really went away, and when I got sick, it got worse. The medication made my anxiety kick up and I started having panic attacks at night, terrified that I would die before I woke up. When I got married, I started worrying that my husband would die next to me in bed while I slept. I would get absolutly hysterical when it came time to go to sleep. Then one night something really strange happened. I was having one of my very typical dreams about being lost inside a hospital and taking the elevator (I've always had a thing about elevators, I HATE dangling). When the cable broke in my dream, I felt the elevator floor tip and fall. I remember it hitting the ground. And then I was awake. I could still remember hitting the ground and I couldn't remember sitting up in bed, but I was. I felt so strange. I thought I was dead. The room seemed lighter, I walked around the apartment, I couldn't feel my feet touch the ground. I pressed my hand over my heart and could not feel it beating. I couldn't tell if I was breathing. My head was very very clear. I didn't feel afraid or paniced. In truth, it felt wonderful. A floaty calm sort of feeling. Since then, I have not had a single panic attack while going to bed. In fact, since then, I can honestly say that I am not afraid to die. In a way, I already have and it really wasn't that bad. That's not to say that I'm looking forward to it, but it wouldn't be the end of the world either.

First of all, I would like to state right at the onset that I do not belive in the Devil. It just makes no sense for this being of absolute evil who sits in the basement or hides under the bed plotting away at making people act like monsters. It's just stupid.
Religion invented the concept of absolute evil. No human being could possibly contain such a spirit of malevolence and hate, but we pretend that some fallen "angel" does. I think that people use this entity as an excuse, a easy way to explain away the horrible things people do to each other. And I'm not just talking about the big things. All our petty little thoughts, our snide little acts of daily spite. And people say all the time "the devil is real, and saying that he isn't just means that he won." People want to belive in a devil rather than take responsibility for all the tiny little evils in their lives. If some dark creature possess a man and makes him kill his family then there you are! The devil made him do it. Forget that human beings are just as evil and wicked as any imaginary hobgoblin. Real evil and cruelty lies in the hearts and minds of human beings and blaming it on some archiac personification of evil doesn't change that fact. It's people that do these things, all on their little own. No one to blame. No scapegoat. Just you and me.

Let's get one thing straight from the onset. Christians stole Christmas from us, of course we call it Yule, but it's the same damned thing. On December 25 they celebrate the birth of the son of God. On December 21 we celebrate the birth of the Sun God. Pretty similar, huh? The tree? That's our's too. By the way, I love it when Christians sing "Oh, Tannenbaum". It does NOT mean Christmas tree. It means sacred tree, thank you very much. Holly and Ivy, we got that one. Even the colors on Santa Claus, although for us they mean something very different.

I'm not trying to be antagonistic. But you have to understand, for a faith that has been pushed into the fringes, it's kind of agrivating to see the great hulking majority take the credit for what are really our rituals and celebrations.

I think the first time I realized I had kind of out grown Christmas was when my brother had to literally drag me out of bed to open presents. That's a weird day for a kid, when Santa can wait, it's time for sleep.