The release of my new website has been admittedly a little rushed. I appreciate patience while I hammer out the formatting.

    I'm in the process of separating my blog from my creative writing, so that I can expand and feature my creative writing on the main site, while segregating my blog. So FYI, the stories and poems will be at www.darknessuntildawn.net, and the rest will be on the blog site (accessible from the main site) at https://darknessuntildawn.blogspot.com.

Monster Mansion (Part One)

    It was after Bob convinced me to verk with him on the problems of the Hauntless that we began discussing preparations for the new Center for Hauntless Spirits. It was a massive undertaking, but with such a dedicated and persuasive ghoul as Bob at my ear, how could I say no? 

    I immediately flew home to Transylvania to mobilize the family. Not a cursed treasure or banshee could be spared, America wasn't like my beloved home. They did not understand the burden of my people, they did not know how hard it was to haunt! Why, back home, haunting was practically a state enterprise! We even had unions! How backwards this country was! I had to consult the best spirits in the business. I would not rest until I made America HAUNTED again!

    I arrived, as was my preference, by barge. Who else was there to greet me but the Cerbal Bats! None other then Nikolas and even his cousin Trina! The fame of my travels had preceded me! Drac himself could hardly drum up a better crowd! Ghouls from all over the country! Even a few recently deceased from the war in Ukraine! (Let me tell you they were looking quite ghoulish indeed!)

    Vell, without further ado, Zee tour, folks?

    First, we had to inspect the grounds before contacting the engineers. Grassy and with trees, level, but a little boring. So we got creative! Digger, Crusher, and Cy went to verk with their massive limbs and cleared out space for an underground emporium complete with museum and tourist shop. We needed authenticity, nothing but the finest training grounds for ghouls would do!

    We imported the finest Tombstones, the most delicate mummy wrap! Downstairs was the real treat... it started with the secret entrance. We even posted a ghoul with a sign "No humans beyond this point without escort"... we couldn't afford to reveal the secrets of a good haunting...

 

    Dat Bat. Nebber a dull moment. Der he goes again, stealing Spidey's best carapace. Why, it was just di udder gnight...

    Spidey was so berry happy. It had been a gweat day for the nest! Sebben flies, and Spidey had finished the Mona Fleasa, my primier werk of art for di community.

    Spidey was so berry pwoud. She was BEAUTIFUL, and quite tasty looking. Well, no sooner had di lights gone out when there was a flapping sound at di window. Spidey rushes to look. Der must have been twenty bats out der! All carrying a most pwecious cargo!

    "HEY YOU! BATS! DROP DI CARAPACES! HEY! NOT IN DI... ribber..."

    They had stolen Spidey's prize carapaces, worth countless flies. Den dey dropped dem in di ribber. 

    Gone. In di ribber. Di cwazy bat duddent know how to stop. 

Ebbyday dat molly pind gnew waze to inspire spidey... den I sing my song...

Spidey gonna get webby...

On a 66 chebby...

When tings get hebby...

Molly keep it steady...

Den der used to be tAmy

But she wasn't di samy...

So spidey get webby...

Till di web is ready...

A lack of Conspiracy after all...

    Well, it turns out that my family didn't actually talk the hospital into re-bipolarizing me.. Seems the staff just got creative in an effort to flip my script. Sneaky little devils. All's well that ends well though. It got me writing more, and I love to write. I do. I hope I can write something people really enjoy. 

    I get frustrated with the process. Then I get grouchy about it. Today it was the website giving me trouble. Found a few broken links that I fixed, but I wanted to splash up the colors and the editor was not that responsive. I continue to research. I'm working on adding more writing and some more images and other content. 

 

    He treats the blood bank like a McDonalds. Eddie was running hard and fast after the bat with Sarah on his back. She had to catch him before he reached the blood bank and cashed out. The crazy bat didn't know how to stop. 

    By the time they reached the blood bank, Vlad had lost them and Eddie was worn out. The only sign of life outside was some parked cars and the faint sound of Aerosmith.

    They stepped inside and Sarah knew immediately that Vlad was there for sure. A group of Hauntless had moved in. Vlad's assistants, Digger, Crusher, and Cy, were serving as makeshift bouncers. There was a Bluetooth blasting a remake of Walk this Way by an undead band that called themselves Bonez and the Relics. He had turned it into a monster dance club.

    They found him in a supply closet with a phlebotomist. 

    "Vell, my friend I once was a phlebotomist myself, but the work made me too thirsty. I had to give it up." He was saying to a young man as he sipped on a pouch of blood. "It vas back during the blood shortage of '83. I vas looking for my next feasting, and I came upon a university that vas promoting their phlebotomy program. I said to myself, vhere else will I get to needle zee customers and drink for free?"

    He continued. "It was a rough time for ghouls, let me tell you. The humans were running away with things, and we had to fight back. One of the biggest problems was the drugs. You see, we needed the needles to harvest the blood but the humans were using them all to inject drugs instead of harvesting blood! We had ghouls to feed, cemeteries to raise, spirits to haunt. 

    "So when I heard the Phlebotomy school was accepting applications, I signed right up. This was my chance to get in on the ground floor, really move some volume for my fellow undead. I couldn't pass it up!"

Dichotomy of the illusion of Reality

Split between the person I am and the person you would have me be

Unable to blend the two into one without periodic flashes of truth

that reveal the dichotomy of my reality and betray the illusion outright

Making the consistency hard to maintain.

The persona, its perfection marred only by acceptable flaws of social construction

The other, a living being contorted to maintain the illusion

They draw me out with the bait

Looking for some facts to twist back into some semblance of the illusion.

Occasionally we come to crisis created by the inability to tolerate our truths

Seeking to restore the myth, we wind our facts into narratives

Hoping to disguise the inconsistency of reality with a pretty lie dressed up in theories

Running away from the truth, we only trip up over the inconsistencies

The inconvenient truths of our imperfections and failures

Cannot overcome the engineering of our most contorted perfection

In which reality is the disease, and lies are the cure

Inevitably comes the crash, through the conflict of what is and what we pretend to be

In the end, the illusion is the reality and the truth is the psychosis we hope to deny.

Tips from a Therapist

 

Spidey a liddle under di wedder...

 

 

 

Riverside Arrest

    God knows I do not remember how I came to wake in the field by the river. It had been many days journey from the estate in Western Virginia, down the Blue Ridge mountains and into the foothills of Greenville District. What I do remember is that the moment I woke was one of the last moments of peace I would know for quite some time. I did not yet know that the Southern way of life as we knew it was ending. What I knew was that the sun was still shining down upon the fields of South Carolina, and the river still flowed down in the gully beside me, restless in its pursuit of the ocean. A certain restlessness haunted me as well, a desire to find the life of that American Dream, one might think? No, I had something to prove. What it was that I was yearning to prove was not yet clear to me. 

    What I did know is that I had labored hard at my studies, yet I found the success I gained to be unrewarding at best. There was something gnawing at me… a frustration that I could not quite define. The fact was is that I was unexceptional. I was tired of trading on other people’s names. 

    I was long an adult and yet I felt like a child, still questioning the way things were, still trying to find my way. I felt far too old for my life, and tired of chasing what seemed like petty goals. Where was the real action? How did a man come to do things of true consequence?

    White beards kept gathering in the halls and the churches, going on about such high minded notions as states’ rights and the threat of sectionalism. Back home the Tidewater whites were up in arms about the question of Negro Rights and the survival of the Southern way of life, while folk further into the mountains were concerned about the costs of helping rich slaveholders line their pockets. Since the election, South Carolina had already voted to succeed but as of yet no other state had chosen to follow. 

    Meanwhile, the mild mannered Buchanan had already declared that the Federal government lacked authority to prevent a state from succeeding. As President, he had made clear that he would not use force against states who attempted to succeed. He sought to negotiate. When the State of South Carolina declared its withdrawal, some thought it was decided… some thought that the union had ended.

    What could Lincoln do other then sneak into the Capital and hide? No one was going to take up arms against Columbia. Why would they? The Northern cities had no appetite for a war over that which was called the Peculiar Institution! 

    I had only been in the town but a few days, having traveled to the aid of my father, who had gotten in a spot over his unpopular opinions. He had managed to cross so many people over the years it was no small wonder he was still alive and though they said that I took after my mother I suspected I had merely learned to better hide my opinions after years of observing my father express his. 

    I came down from Middlebourne of Tyler County, Virginia, doing so only with great hesitation and anxiety of the calamity around me and the danger into which I was descending, for my fellow Virginians were mighty torn about the question of succession. There was very little appetite for leaving the union, especially in the western part of the state away from the tidewaters. My father had always been a trader, and took great pride in his reputation as a merchant, while at the same time abhorring the peculiar institution on many accounts. 

    The sun was shining brightly and nearby a mill wheel turned in the water. In the distance I could hear faint signs of life, and the wind rustled the trees gently. The river was quiet, but fairly shallow beneath the banks. The trees and bushes were green around a dirt road that cut towards the mill. A sign hung by the road, reading in large letters “Parkins Mill”.

    My father had summoned me from the small house he called a plantation, though it had not hands nor slaves to work the ground, and the ground itself, like much of the western part of Virginia, was not particularly hospitable to seed. For a time before he had turned all of his productive energy to trading (A livelihood that barely kept the bill collectors satisfied), He had styled the place as a ranch. He even hired a couple of riders for a short time, though they never had more then four cattle to tend to. I’m not quite sure why he returned to calling it a plantation, other then some misplaced sense of Southern pride. 

    My father was a strange man indeed, and there were more then a few who would assert that his only son was even stranger still. Yet, he had seen to it that I was educated, and though I had not always taken to the pursuit with the enthusiasm of my peers, I had recently finished said education having learned a great deal of literature, but particularly the study of contracts and numbers. I was eager to make something of it, and less then thrilled at being called so suddenly down South, especially with all the excitement stirred up in government. It did not seem wise to attract too much attention at a time such as this, but such concerns were never high on my father’s list.

    Yet he had summoned, and therefore I had locked up the estate and left it under the watchful eye of the neighbor, his onetime partner and periodically his friend, though they feuded from time to time. I only wished I knew the reasons we were sticking our necks out this time. Yet His letter was uncharacteristically formal and cryptic. 

Joseph,

    Events have transpired to force my hand. I regret our recent quarrels, but you must come and extricate your sister from this place. Come to Greenville Courthouse and seek out the men of faith, then the men of letters. Not the one before the other. Take every precaution that I cannot.

Father

    The fact that he neglected to even mention my brother at all, the youngest of the family, was perhaps the strangest detail.

    Somewhere nearby a horse whinnied, and my heart quickened as I realized I wasn’t alone. Before I could move, rough hands grabbed my arms and hauled me up and over the bank. I flailed at the air as I fell several feet and landed in the river below. Hoots and Hollers rang out as I thrashed in the water. I had not had much occasion to practice my swimming, though the water couldn’t have been more then a slow moving five feet. The water was dark with mud and lined with stalks of reed. Not more then 30 feet up the river from me stood the mill. 

    The water had the most peculiar smell, and flowed in a gully no less then 5 feet tall. In later years so many factories and mills spouted along that river that they started calling it various names like the Rainbow River due to the chemicals that were dumped or the River of Death due to the amount of raw sewage that flowed from the sewers. Yet it was named for the reeds I found myself becoming acquainted with. 

    As I paddled towards the bank I saw two men standing by the river, a tall thin one with a long face and a beard and a shorter, stouter fellow with a mustache. The thin fellow was grinning and made a comment to the other, who guffawed and slapped his knee. 

    I finally reached the muddy bank and pulled myself up the bank from amongst the reeds. I had barely time to catch my breath when a gunshot rang out, freezing me in my tracks. 

    “Now old on there, feller.” Said the thin fellow, his arm holding a long barreled revolver in the air. 

    Reluctantly, I drew my hand away from my side arm, suddenly noticing the metal stars pinned to their chests. It made no difference how fast I moved. My pistol was dripping wet, and the powder had likely flooded. Anyhow, the pistol shot was attracting eyes, eyes that bore me no kindness. 

    The stout man stepped towards me, picking up my hat from the grass and brushing it off, extending it forward with a gentle smile.

    The thin man wasn’t smiling. “There’s some people that have taken an interest in you, seeing how you’s not from around these parts. You’re coming with us, friend.”

The Dangers of Persistence (Part 1)

    Persistence can be a troublesome thing. Sometimes people don't see the dangers of persistence. 

    What is it does it look like when you persist beyond all evidence to the contrary? What is it called when you persist TOO far?

______ (adj): 

    having or showing dogged determination not to change one's attitude or position on something, especially in spite of good arguments or reasons to do so.

"a ______ refusal to learn from experience"

    One thing that I was taught growing up, that has been repeatedly reinforced, to a fault, is persistence. Yet, persistence carried too far starts to look remarkably like ... being stubborn. Being stubborn is a problem for sure. Sometimes, flexibility is required. Take iron, for example. Pure iron is not very flexible. It's hard, but it will break. Sometimes a soul has to be forged in a fire to become strong, just like iron has to be forged in fire to become stronger. The Samurai had a method of forging swords to make them very strong. It involved repeatedly bending the metal back on itself and hammering it together over and over again. This made the blade hard but with some give and not as brittle. It gave the blade strength, sharpness, but also some flexibility. 

    So too a soul must be. Sometimes a person must bend with the wind in order to survive the wind. To be willing to bend is to adapt and to learn. Change will always come. Challenges will always come. You can't always be prepared for everything. The willingness to make changes or adjust on the fly is not indecisiveness if properly thought out. The willingness to adapt is not weakness or lack of courage if it is necessary. 

    There have been many moments in battles which a leader had to make a choice whether to adapt or stay the course and chose to stay the course to disastrous results. Sometimes persistence is not courage or strength... sometimes it is stubbornness, foolishness, and weakness. 

    

Dancing in the Moonlight

Careful

    I'm trying to be careful. Focusing on the basics allows less room for error. I'm keeping my timeliness and accuracy as high as I can, maintaining records, and keeping my head clear. I've got to keep moving forward. I can't move backwards. I try to make time to fill in bits of my writing as well, but sometimes maintaining my work and my health take all of my time. 

    It's very strange how social relationships work. I cannot figure them out for the life of me. People are unpredictable. Sometimes they are are nice as pie, sometimes there is such strong hostility, and sometimes they are simply so fake that conversation becomes an exercise in absurdity. Some of the strangest experiences are conversations that actually leave you with far more questions then answers. 

    Then there are the smaller contradictions. You get paid to verify orders, but some suppliers make it virtually impossible to verify the order. They don't label or they seal the order. Then I'm supposed to guess whether they did their job right and confirm. If I guess right then it's ok but if I guess wrong then it's on me. Never mind that they make the job impossible in the first place. 

    Anyways, when I'm not absorbed by the nitty gritty, I'm trying to let people see my positive sides. That's not always easy and sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes impatience or frustration get the better of me. Other times, there's not a lot of room to maneuver. I try to avoid highly rigid situations for just that reason. I'm tired of getting boxed into situations. Yet I do have positive sides. People have to choose to see them. There is an us vs them mentality out there. It's unfortunate. Life is better when people work together. Yet people make choices. Sometimes they choose the path of most resistance. 

    I'm finding it helps to divide my time between work and reflection. It helps me to clarify the changes that I need. Life cannot simply be repetition. Life requires growth. Life requires beginnings and endings. A life with too much certainty is not sustainable. I'm trying to streamline so that I can prioritize necessary change in my life. 

    I feel like I have taken my eye off the ball. Relied on the wrong assumptions. I cannot allow myself to stray again. I need to be more careful. I'm getting older and there is only so much time. It's not just that I don't want to buy into false narratives, there's not enough time and energy for it. Repeating the same fights, regurgitating the same grievances, worrying about the same people and events again and again, makes no sense. 

    Sometimes I miss Robo-Rob. I get caught up in the details of how I got from there to here. Then I get tired of thinking about it. I try to go out and do stuff. It doesn't go great. That's what brings me back to the how's of getting here and being here. 

    The thing about being numbed out is that in a way it feels good but it doesn't lead anywhere. Clozaril is a permanent dead end. A one way trip to nowhere. Yet People want to believe in it so badly, that they'll destroy almost anything, do almost anything to maintain the lie. Zero recognition of the harm done in the process. Arguing with someone who is convinced that they are right is worse then arguing with a wall, because a wall doesn't attack you for simply disagreeing. The wall just maintains its position. 

    I heard something that really resonated. It was "you can't change someone's behavior, you can only change how you react to it." This is very true. 

Psychology Article

Undercurrents

    I'm definitely still having trouble with subtext. That's where walls and space sometimes help. I particularly struggle with when I think a situation is going well and suddenly someone becomes hostile, seemingly without warning. 

    I want to rely on what I am good at. If I am consistently doing what I do well to the best of my ability, then I am adding value to the world. I don't want to focus on things that I cannot control. I really did used to think that I was a good communicator. I was definitely wrong. I'm far too out of touch. A narrow focus helps my clarity and calm. Focusing on the most pressing tasks. 

    I'm continuing to focus on working with the two contractors and waiting for a response on volunteering. Today I hope to spend some time finding something interesting to write. 

    Interpersonal communication is so strange to me. It's so very hit or miss. Two different people can take the same words and go in completely different directions with what they hear. It's not just that people are complicated, they're rather unpredictable. 

    I let down my guard and then something happens. Usually nothing big, just large enough to be noticeable. Something that serves as a reminder to be careful. Something that reminds me that bad things can and do happen. 

    I feel like I walk a very careful path, but people don't notice that. Sometimes I struggle to understand what people do see when they look at me. I'm not one who spends too much time reading signs or looking for symbols. It's enough to keep up with more explicit communication. These seem like very troubled times, though. Solutions seem more complex and less easily grasped. So often there seems to be unspoken tension in the air. 

    I'm trying to find something funny to write in my stories. I'm hoping to diffuse some of the tension that I sense. I feel like I need to reflect to find that humor. People need to laugh. 

     I've begun delivering with another contractor. It's an adjustment, but it's going well. Doing the deliveries leaves less time for writing and brainstorming. Yet it keeps the bills paid. 

Change

    My work continues to go decently. I'm trying to focus on what I can do positively in my own life. I don't feel like I have the endurance or the energy that I used to have. I enjoy writing when I can focus. So I'm trying to save my energy for that. Preserve my mental presence for work and my writing. Though I'm hoping to start volunteering at an animal shelter soon. 

    There's always far more to do then I have the energy, focus, and presence for. I keep trying to do more but I get spacey quickly sometimes, or without warning. Sometimes conversations seem circular. I alternate between untethered optimism that ignores inconvenient truths and a biting pessimism. Sometimes I feel so lost in my head that the world seems distant and I get that floating feeling. Sometimes it feels like a play or movie, only the guy who's supposed to prompt me for my lines is either out sick or drunk.

    I keep running into the same problems. Like this thing with the utilities where they are not billing me right. I even went and verified everything online and there's still some problem. And God forbid I should try to call them on the phone. Last time I tried to talk to a company on the phone, Spectrum's employee fraudulently charged me for services I wasn't receiving instead of terminating the services. I called them back and complained, yet still had to pay for the services. Some things are criminal. They didn't seem to recognize that they did anything wrong. I'm not doing business with them again, I should have learned my lesson with that company. They've always had shit customer service. Of course they still have my phone service, but they jacked it up, so there's another issue to deal with. They even jacked it up more then they said they would. Which only proves how dishonest they truly are. 

    I'm trying to live out the saying "Less is more". I'm trying to be more deliberate in my actions. To go more slowly. Events have just gone so quickly in the past several years. A lot of change. I think I'm still catching up. 

The Hauntless

 

   Vlad had the most marvelous experience the other day. He flew into a corpse named Bob, from just down the street. He was on his way to Home Freako again - yes, he goes most every week - and the girls were playing Marco Polo. As usual Jess was winning. Sarah was only playing to humor her. 

    Bob was a businessghoul, first and foremost. He was in the middle of haggling a price for his patent pending formula for Necrolyte chewing slime and his Ryse of the Dead energy drink. When Vlad first hit him, he was quite flappy, almost besides himself. Then Bob gave him some free samples. He could see the potential immediately and wanted to buy in on the spot, so Bob invited him over for some Ryse and finger food. 

    Bob was set up in an abandoned bungalow four houses down. A charming place, really, he had such a knack for decor. Turns out he shopped at Home Freako as well. 

    When it came time to get down to guts and jolts, Bob engaged Vlad with a somber voice as he served up a pinky and a forefinger. 

    "You see, good sir, haunting is such a noble vocation, but some poor ghouls, well, they simply have no one to haunt! It's sad, really. They work their whole afterlives, honing and refining their haunting skills, practicing until the whee hours of the day."

    "I've heard of these creatures. A shame. Everyone should have someone to haunt! There must be hope for these poor souls??"

    "Well, yes, I've started a placement agency, to place these ghouls - we call them the Hauntless - with hauntable souls... for a nominal fee, you see."

    Vlad brightened at the prospect. "How many have you placed?"

    "Well, none as of yet, but that's where you come in. A sharp fellow like yourself can help with the logistics. There's many souls to place with the living, and they need somewhere to gather and meet like minded hauntless. What do you say?"

    Vlad could not say no.