I’m nine chapters into Finnegans Wake. That’s over 200 pages, folks. My head is hurting, my emotions are growing in intensity, and it takes a lot of willpower for me to make words make sense. The scary thing is, the book’s starting to seriously make sense. It doesn’t take that much effort to understand it anymore. (Well, except this newest chapter— once Part 2 starts, the book spikes right up in difficulty. Which is saying something.) Though the even scarier thing is that not only am I following this, but it’s seriously having a powerful effect on my emotions. I’m feeling shit and even my emotions in other aspects of life are starting to really show themselves.
This book is worth the hype. Jesus.
I PROBABLY HAVE BECAUSE I OFTEN CLICK ON THE THINGS YOU LINK BUT I HAVE NOT GOTTEN INTO THEM YET
MY LIFE RUNS AT A PACE THAT IS SOMETIMES OBSESSIVE AND SOMETIMES IMPULSIVE, SO GIVE IT TIME
QUICK, SEND ME ASKS
IT’S FOR A PROJECT
So I had a flashback last night. It got me kinda hard and I spent today shaking and anxious and I wound up exploding at people and then I just felt utterly horrible. I managed to apologize. And then I went straight home and wrote this. Yes, Finnegans Wake was the inspiration. I wanted to write something that made me really comfortable while still allowing for sadness.
Here it is:
There once was a boy, a multifaceted anomaly spelled Lovecraft L-I-T-E, who did juxtapose a young dad’s jest— and you do jump at your dead Jason’s Argonauts, ally yeah?— damn joker attacks yksi-kolme-kaksi-viisi/kahdeksan. Watch out, tellytubbies: 8ere Comes 5verybody, ripe from the finger-licking marketplace of the xtra living (plurability? noyeplural. Night Owl.) dadelus (flew close to the son). Yeame, the shame’s lamely the same. Q: When will it won’t? A: Welles en wants.
I jest, told ye.
Ooh ooh ooh(e he he), have I got a story for you. Welcome to the House of Spiders and Mold, where the juveniles conggrevate and the why’s always wed. Second in a line of neverbefirsts, fifty-seconds several beers later, this house eats those it hits. Heh. Ahalftop the hill of haves and halfnots, yerquired to hike no way batta batta Witchler’s Walk. (Witchler’s Walk? Member of the social club a good squonks ago, we had argoselves a janiral lighthousekeeper inna World Wrasslin’ In Ignum, innit? Orwell he marched ‘til April or sosheses, allways atop dem stairs. Beef ting man janiral ‘twere nonther’n Witchler umself! Least a lookalike.) Fine ally you are, 8ere Come 5nter! Up t’ stars, up t’ nawth, nowt nawth near nosir! G’luck t’ya PREmetheus, derections abound. Enter the moldhaus and lemmingbee M-A-T-K-A-O-P-A-S (ulysses in a sentence? finnish it yerself): Nada in kitsch least ear less at now pas, upstarrrrs to upparr you’ll sees Daddy Long-Legs (the first of any evils, phobic represenstation jest nordinaryvil N-titty) rusting in pieces livingstone I PREsume (spotting the ash-plant yet?). Really, that’s as Farr’s torn notebook can go. Wassat? Tshaw, you want to mourn. Ax ke$ha-anns, meselse.
Long story to that! There’s a guy, and he’s named Teleporting Fridge, and his high scrawl the time traveler. Thank Gog for dat. Ancientennantal dickscurvies later, we meet Harold Saxophone, brother from another belover, an’ their lights(rollsound) camera(mastermix) action!(record!) begrieve a belittled binormalty of the ages! Thank Magog for mut. Come in, at least soon, tothema NeAr YoU (heheh, jest kiddin’). Orson fi want, nodear. Union depository, god I’ll say there’s “Hella Dancing” for ye if this groundhog can hardwire his sonnics in the M-O-O-N that smells soon! Thank Begorra for sat.
Ah! Now we get too juicy to see. Of rats and hers, I could and redwood tether your sortal code unto Annawoken oblivion (plurabellum?) in same time and space, buut hoo needs thaat? Readwood if that’s your game! In sit stead, we’ve got a supeniturinal exasplanterntation revolvering this moldhaus. So shit comfortifiably, daodidancess!
Every house has a democracy to foretell. Some are jest more unholy than others. So spoketh Charliethustra, sayeth throth Toy Story. This particle manure (O wot a goriffic illusion o’ PREtense) house happens to be filled with the blood of Others (staining the beds of the headless), an adhesive layer o mould (old mold w/ black dots, wart can ye tall me o dat?), an’ an antruitive antrusion (spiders fucking spiders fucking spiders all day erry day). Youse studying PRE duncepts mayor 5cogneyes dese dem dere as rePREsent, Inc. of Her Salmacious Majesty’s Semeotyces Unquisition Brigadiade colloquially and formally noneas “The Read Cape,” “The Chore,” and “Tea-n-trushon.” I have acquired posmission to also formally inform you of the PREsence of such notions as “Teddy Ingman,” “Umpire Sitty,” “The Woodshop Gal,” and “Ate” (which, between the buried and myself, doesn’t exist).
At haus and Jardonn-ay noose, may now I’f been handled a blog. Godot read it, wait here.
He asked me about therapy today. He didn’t know that I can’t have any more until late November. He also didn’t know I had a flashback last night until after I’d yelled at him. I said a lot of things, some of which I regret, but truthfully most of it I was honest about. She was there, and she didn’t speak up— she agreed too much with what I’d said and didn’t want to exacerbate things. There’s never a fix; there’s only ever a hole and how far down it we can go. That’s the way of this house.
Starts en MIDIas res, unsure if interested.
Of course I remember the city. Going in was my decision and my decision alone, even if I may have been influenced by stress and a desire to get far away from here. But obviously I came back. I had no choice, if memory serves me right (heaven/hell? depends.), but what’s done is done. I’m back. Back in the rat race. Or maybe I’m still trapped over there, maybe the damage is what’s done and this is my mind in pieces. I certainly can’t say I’m wholly whole.
Holy whoa, what a PREtentious git gens wonts. Summon muslim!
I have two distinct memories of how it happened. Both feel as real as the other. In one, I close the door and stay to look for my fallen brother. In the other, I leave and drink myself dry. But everything after that’s a blur, that’s after either. And I have no trouble believing two contradictory things may have happened. That’s.. my mind for you. I’m torn in two, red white and blue, trapped in this house of spiders and mold dying until I get old. The spiders keep me obsessively centered in fear; the mold keeps me depressed and confused. I can’t get used to it.
Say, are there any rivers in Crimea?
Anyway, all I know is that now I’m stuck with.. my house. And things might have gotten better, for all I know, but the flashbacks keep me psychologically awake. My memories make no sense. They’re all like that.. set of two. There’s multiple memories for everything, many of which were supplanted by him. He does very well at that. Anything to keep his emotional security high, damned be my sanity. Maybe he isn’t responsible for it at all, maybe that’s another hallucination of mine. It’s hard to tell. But I had to start writing again. I had to address this. I think I’m living with a mental illness that gradually gets worse. I’ve already finally started crying again, and I kinda hope it stops. I don’t want to be broken.
Eh, he’s not shaken, but he’ll do linguage.
Oh? Where you off to?
(no this won’t be a list of 10 things, I’ve just always wanted to write a Buzzfeed-y title)
I probably think drama is the single scariest thing in life and in art. I don’t like experiencing it or watching it. But there’s been a lot of talk of the subject in the mythoi-blogospheres lately with a lot of people sharing their views on the matter, even with anecdotes that get remarkably personal, so I’m going to take this opportunity to sheathe my insecurities and share with you an account of what was one of the biggest cases of “drama” in our mythos. I ask that, if you care about the Fear Mythos or if you simply like reading me talk about emotional things I’m passionate about, you please read on.
I called Dirk from Homestuck a Marty Stu and capslock’d a statement saying Rapture!Jordan is a better-written self-insert (god it was immature of me to even say that lightheartedly). This prompted a lot of.. what people like to call “drama.” Basically, people were (rightfully) passionate in their own responses to me. It just so happened that people had been bottling up a lot of problems with Rapture they hadn’t yet confronted me on, so this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It effectively resulted in a weekend of polarized posts— a lot of users in the mythos community versus another lot of users. People voiced their complaints, and it gave me the motivation to edit Rapture into its second draft.
The core of the matter is this: Rapture had way too much sex, and people could tell that it wasn’t there for all the right reasons. Plus I was (and still am) an inexperienced writer, so really I made a lot of bad decisions in both writing the story and in talking about it. But because they expressed this in a polarizing way I was quick to use that as an excuse to only listen to their surface-element criticisms while dismissing anything else as just “drama.” I thought they were projecting, so I projected in dismissal, while also editing the second draft for reasons that probably boiled down to spite. Now, the second draft was certainly better than the first, but as I got older and the drafts piled on, I had a chance to take a step back from the logs to attempt to look at them objectively. I.. hahahaha. I sorta came to realize how easy it was to read Rapture and take from it an utterly escapist fantasy. All the deconstruction in later acts meant nothing if certain central systems weren’t changed all throughout, starting with serious rewrites of the earlier acts. So the Rapture book will.. really have so much less sex. It wasn’t necessary. It really wasn’t. There were other, less amateur, ways to convey the intended effect. In the end, people were trying to get me to reconsider that part of the story all that time ago, but some were more vocal about it than others, so I did not listen to the “drama.”
The lesson here is drama is important. And the Fear Mythos has had its fair share of it and is still continuing to, and there is nothing wrong with that. Drama does not imply a community is immature. We should really stop calling it “drama” and invalidating any significance it might be trying to express. “Drama” is really just people expressing their emotions and that causing conflict, and that is the most natural way to develop experience, maturity, and a stronger sense of a healthy community. In fact, it is very much arguable that the people who complain about how they “can’t stand drama” are the same people who heavily influence it— and that the very wording of that phrase tells us all the reasons why. They can’t stand people expressing their emotions and a conflict stemming from that. Look, worst-case scenario: people will leave our community, definitely over conflict. But that is not a sign of our nature— it’s a sign of theirs.
Which isn’t to imply at all that I blame people for leaving a community over conflict. Blame is really not what I go for. It’s just that leaving a community is a personal decision, and naturally it deals much more with a person’s goals and intentions than with anything other people could ever plant in their heads. A person who leaves over conflict is a person who wasn’t benefitting in a wholesome way from the community in the first place. They might come back, they might not, but either way they need to focus on their own state of mind, and we should never take it personally if someone leaves of their own free will; we should wish them all the luck in the world with finding the balance they need and promise them they’ll be welcome if they decide to come back. (If the person is kicked out, however, that’s a different dynamic. Note that I am entirely talking about people who choose to leave here.)
THE POINT OF THIS RAMBLE PART OF MY POST is to say, again, that’s the worst that can happen if a community has drama— people will leave. And it’s not something we should feel insecure about ourselves for. We’re all stuck on this life-journey thing together, we all have our own goals and needs we often never figure out for sure; it is not a reflection of us. It’s okay.
Drama is okay.
Drama is healthy.
We all need to be open about our emotions, and sometimes those same emotions make things get heated.
But don’t take it personally.
This happens to every single human being.
The point of the Fear Mythos is to tell stories about Fears. The community is secondary to that; the community will come and go, with new people and even old people coming back and leaving and for all these different and complex reasons. But as long as the stories are there, an audience will always follow. As long as the Fears are there (and kept as open-source as possible), writers will always follow. Hell, Rapture’s audience kinda significantly got quieter after that big conflict, but look at me, I’m still here. And I’m glad the conflict happened, because it helped me finally realize what needs to be in the story and what really doesn’t (even if the realization didn’t come until almost two years later; it was certainly always brewing in me once I found out how problematic the logs were). “Drama” saved my story, and I’m so sorry to anyone I’ve ever offended or argued with about this.
So I wholeheartedly encourage anyone to come to me, reblog this or send an Ask or anything you want, and tell me what you’re scared will happen to our community. I’d love to help spread the optimism and take those insecurities off you. Because they kill us inside. Those are what make a community fall apart, and it often takes “drama” to get them out in the open so we can address them together.
Alternatively, if my account of that specific experience sounds spiteful in any way, or if I came across like this is directed at specific people, please feel free to let me know. Or if I simply sound like I’m being pretentious, you’re welcome to call me out.
The Cockroach Metamorphosis has entered Part 3: Ilmarisen Takomo. Welcome, readers, to Seppo Ilmarinen’s forge. This is where it all slides into place. This is where Rapture’s sequel gets more Rapture-y.
From the desk of Black Plague
My first trip upon waking up and thanking the residents for the night was to The Musician. He sat on the floor in an aisle in the local library, thin and hoarse and surrounded by books and papers. He’d clearly had a fun night. I picked him up by the shoulders, and he tried to hiss at me to leave him alone.
I walked for days. I did not feel tired. I find I rarely do anymore (sleep as a god is for other things, things that will become more apparent as I write further). However, I did spend much time with my mind elsewhere, as The Empty City clearly wanted me to wander— mind and all. It gave me landscapes of ruin, shops of ghosts, as the backdrop to my thoughts.
From the desk of Black Plague
Fucking Devil. I have presidential matters to take care of— Minnesota’s still divided on whether or not to vote for Proposition 32, and their vote could determine the fate of our modern world. But no, instead I’m over in California dealing with a medical case. To add insult to injury, the subject of today’s inquiry is one Jordan Dooling, the same psycho who The Devil had sent to attack my offices a month ago. Yeah, I’m feeling real appreciated right about now. The flight here was miserable through nightly rain, and I still had to do my duties over the internet, had to sign paperwork and veto a dangerous bill that could have fucked over more citizens than we even have (who in their right mind proposes taking away our nationalized health care? That’s my bread and butter you’re fucking with! Hasn’t our nation suffered enough?), so naturally I got no sleep on the way here. But alas. Duty calls.
As soon as I got to the local Beacon and asked for the patient files, I got a blank look. These guys didn’t document the kid; I’ll have to remember to give the Beacon director a piece of my mind. But getting his information down was easy— I’ve certainly filled out more than enough reports in my time. We really should improve our education system. Anyway, I put on my sterile gloves and doctor’s mask and skulked into the patient’s room.
Gleaming with sweat, sitting in the corner, head darting from person to person almost as fast as his eyes, hands twitching with legs completely still— this was the state in which I found the patient. That robed lady (who had also attacked me a month ago) had brought him in and was now telling me this and that about his behavior. Apparently, ever since Azathoth fucked off and headed for the hills, the patient has been either sleeping or in a conscious state of— cover your ears for this one— madness. Specific examples of his symptoms when awake include communicating in gibberish, frantic movements, and frequent risk of panic attacks or loss of consciousness entirely.
To see for myself, I crouched down near the patient, grabbed his head still with one hand, and held a finger out, asking him to follow it with his eyes. He did, after a while. Then I asked him some questions.