"Witches can be right. Giants can be good..."

I have watched a small marathon of film today.

Stephen King's Dream Catcher
Orson Welles' The Stranger
M. Night Shyamalan's The Village

I have been taught important things from these movies, albeit conflicting things. Weird and strange, but fun things.

Love conquers all. Love can blind. No one can pick who they fall in love with. Love will save the world.

The woods are full of wonder. The woods will get you killed. The woods are a piss poor place to go when shit goes down.

You can see red in black and white. Red is the bad color. Red marks things as dangerous. Red in movies means danger. Red is fascinating and should be pointed out and looked at at all times. Whenever you see red, you should just really run.

Monsters are real. Monsters are everywhere. In ourselves and in the woods. Man is monster. Aliens are monsters. Monsters are just messed up man. All over.

Nazis are evil. Aliens are evil. Soldiers are evil. People are dumb. Nazis can be loved. Aliens can be good. Soldiers can be noble. People can be smart, when they really need to be.

There are secrets everywhere. Mostly locked up. Inside a box, inside our minds, or in our hearts. We never realize our own secrets when they're right there. People are dumb.

Nazis prefer to hide in Connecticut. Creatures prefer to hide in the woods. Aliens prefer to hide in your ass.

People only use the toilet in horror movies.

Kids play really dumb ass games, and do dumb ass stuff. Kids go where they're not supposed to. Kids like to run around the woods.

Animals always get killed. Skinned, poisoned, or burst. Animals don't know how to run.

It pays to pay attention to where you are going and what is in your surroundings. Really.

Small towns are dangerous. Small towns are ideal. People are friendly in small towns. Weird shit always happens in small towns.

M. Night Shyamalan's name is in front of the movie. Orson Welles' name is in front of the movie. Stephen King's name is in front of the movie.

Never tell someone bite you. Never turn your back. Never try and convert someone crazy. These things will always backfire on you.

Guns? Who needs guns?

Mind (the) Clutter.

I talk in six, and sometimes, I feel in nine, but who knows if it will be eleven by the time I wake up.

I rarely wake up anymore.

The world is getting older. I can feel it in my ankle when it pops. And it pops whenever I walk. Whenever I move, or stretch, or just lay there pretending to wake up, pretending to sleep, or pretending that my dreams will be anything interesting enough to write down in the morning.

The morning is at 6, sometimes nine, and rarely eleven anymore. It's not like I have a choice in the matter, you see. It's more like a whip is on my back, cracking, with a whack, whack, wach, Keeeeerrrr-craaaaaack! only to tired and bruised shoulders.

I can no longer detense my shoulders without a concerted effort and copious amounts of alcohol. They rise like bread left on the counter and then twist in knots like a beautifully glazed Challah (did I spell that right? Somewhere in my memory filing system, that seems spelled correctly. Maybe it isn't, and if it ain't, then who cares? Who?)

I sit for hours, it seems untying knots, only to artistically re-tie, and re-do them over, and over, and over again, like the chorus to that song that kills: "This is the song that never ends. It just goes on and on my friends." It goes for hours, in a round. But instead of cutting the chord, switching the channel from Barney to something more provocative, I just continue with it, continue the stupid row-row-row my boat, gently down the stream. But I never row the boat ashore (hallelujia). I just keep on down the river like Harrison Ford in The Mosquitoe Coast.

Dumb ass.

Here I am, not floating downstream, but just sinking down, like a rock, with nail hard shoulders, 6, 9, 11 fathoms down. Mark Twain, kids. He's hit full depth. Down, down, down, down...

And then mudbed. Muck in the mud. Play in the mud, in the dirt that I've been thrown down in so often that I've taken on the color, and mold it, shift it, and make it into a new me. Let the creator breathe life into it and let the Golem go. Just wind up and go. Feet of clay, heart of...

I speak in 6 year old speech, and think like a 9 year old, but embrace like I'm 11. All of them hard times, all of them, and I'm feeling it again. Here comes the fear, here it comes., 11...9...6...4...Can you year me, Major Tom? Can you hear...can you...here...

I often pity myself, and it makes no sense, because I have nothing to pity. Not really. But that's the worst. When you have so much to stare back into the mirror, and let it catch you there. What's there? What's there? Shaky ground (clay feet), and unwaking dreams.

It's foggy at best, you see. Fog brain, feet of clay and heart of...

It was lost one time. Once. Long ago. Nearly broke. I broke her heart, and I broke mine, and I think about it a lot. And then I think about my heart being broken again, later, and it was stupid, but not my fault...I was just...kind of blind....

Everyone (meaning, Michael) could see that I was still dealing with crap. A whole year of me, dealing with crap in my head. And it sticks there, and it comes out to play once in a while. And then I was okay. And then I met wasserface, and it happened again, with games, and stupidity, and 6...9...11...and my own, want...

Want a puppy dog? There are puppies everywhere if you want one. But they break easilly, and have no owners manual that you can buy from a store. A shame though. Becaus the best puppy dogs are mutts. Not pure breads. But that's getting harder and harder to find these days. They're breeding all the mutt out. It's all about perfect stock. No flaws, never flaws.

They check the coat, pull the tail, and reach underneath to make sure that his balls are in tact. And then they run him around. Run, run run, with a promise of something else--a treat perhaps--attention. Fetch. A ball, a walk. Cuddled up on a bed, keeping your feet warm on a cold winter's night. Just you and your puppy (dog).

Dog or die, I used to say. Dog or die. Too much spike lee making the world mad, and making me mad, so mad I have to count down my blood pressure 11...9...6...But still, and yet, it just don't add up. Doesn't add up for a moment. It's nothing like Sister Daniella told us in Algebra.

We would stand up, and salute her, in the way that you have to salute a nun: "THE ABSOLUTE VALUE OF A VARIABLE! ALWAYS HAS! TWO ANSWERS!" And we would make absolute value signs with our arms, and roll our hands around and flash a two (peace) and a two (up yours). But what she failed to explain is that the value of anything is measured in binary. Yes and no. On or off.

Off to nowhere, I am, she was, we were, counting at random, throwing out numbers like rocks into the brown, beautiful brown mud. And none of it makes sense. None of it. it's like a dream, all the time. A big, non-sensical dream made up of half told stories, and blended memories and pieces from the world as it gets older. It's like talking...like speaking in six...feeling in nine...sometimes eleven...but what does that mean? What does it really mean?

Nothing. Nothing at all. But so much. So much.