[ exit, pursued by bear ]

There are not many persons who know what wonders are opened to them in the stories and visions of their youth; for when as children we learn and dream, we think but half-formed thoughts, and when as men we try to remember, we are dulled and prosaic with the poison of life. But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and then we know that we have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy.
― H.P. Lovecraft

Gore Vidal. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of staring at my father's copies of Sex, Death, and Money and Julian in our living room bookshelf. Later, those books helped shape the woman I became. RIP.

Quick ramble about a dream I had last night. I’m scrambling to not forget it. Ignore my grammar; trying to spill this out as swiftly as possible so I don’t lose it.

I was driving in the middle of nowhere, and had to stop. (For gas? Pee break? I’m not sure why.) It was the middle of nowhere, but it was right outside of Los Angeles – so it wasn’t really far. No clue if that matters.

I stop in a junk store, a white elephant, filled with weird, colorful, cheap crap. The walls are white, but they’re hard to see through all the precariously balanced tchotchkes. While I’m walking through the store, I see my father. Not corporeally; he’s a ghost. He doesn’t say anything to me, but I see him clearly as he drifts through the shop.

I leave because I have to go home, and on my way out, I start seeing people from my past that I had conflict with. Some are specific, some are amalgamations of people I knew. When I talk to them, they seem… brighter? Unburdened. Kinder. They radiate light, but not in a literal way.

I leave, but keep coming back to this town because I want to see my dad, even if I can’t communicate with him. (The in-between times are fuzzy.) Whenever I go into the junk shop, I see him, and the more I go into the shop, the more I see other spirits of people I love that have passed away.

The rest of the town is filling up with more people from my past, and they’re all – how do I explain this? – they’re becoming their perfected selves. Something about the town burns away the hardness around their souls, the cynicism, selfishness, bitterness, and all the residue of hurt, and they’re their best selves as long as they’re there. I wonder if I am, too.

In the dream, there was one person in particular that I reconnected with. He registered in the dream as someone I was friends with in high school, or at least during my teenage years, but is someone I’ve never actually met. Eventually, he became very forthcoming about the nature of this weird town. Something about the town burns away the hardness around their souls, the cynicism, selfishness, bitterness, and all the residue of hurt, and they’re their best selves as long as they’re there. On this plot of land, nothing has ever died, and no act of violence has ever been committed.

And then I woke up.

- - -

Related and unrelated:

There’s a street very close to my house whose houses butt right up against a cemetery. The houses there are… different. Almost all of them have a quirky quality to them: some are painted bright, sherbet colors, the retaining walls and fences are wavy and whimsical, and most of the properties are covered – COVERED! – in… stuff. There are houses whose yards are overflowing with potted plants, and others that are piled ground to roof with ceramic figurines and holiday lights all year round. There’s an almost offertory quality to the gardens filled with Stuff that has fascinated me since the day we moved in, and I’ve spent a lot of time daydreaming about what compels an entire community of people living with a cemetery in their backyard to ornament their homes like this. Is it a subconscious drive to pay tribute to the spirits? Is it an impulse to keep the spirits at bay? Do the bright colors and whimsical statues bring comfort to the dead?

It occurred to me upon waking that the store in my dream – the white-walled junk store where the ghost drift – was filled with things I’d seen on this street.

As I told my friend Meghan, it would do my heart some good if all the cowboys out there would shut the fuck up. The self-congratulatory, faux-messiah, would-be hero bullshit is truly insulting to real human beings who were really there and who are really fucking suffering. Your Wyatt Earp nonsense diminishes legitimate grief and pain.

AND ONE MORE FUCKING THING, and I promise I'll shut the hell up.

As Kate put it: 'It doesn't matter why the kids were at the movies in CO. Stop. Blaming. Victims.'

So fucking what if some parents took their kids to a midnight movie? Somehow it makes it /their/ fault that a lunatic gunman went berserk and shot at them? I reckon a movie theatre ranks pretty high up there in the list of Reasonably Safe Places to Take Your Children No Matter What Time It Is. Stop blaming victims.

I'm thinking about magazines because I'm sorting through a perilously tall stack of New Yorkers, Economists, Mother Joneses, and Yoga Journals that are threatening to envelop my coffee table.

I like magazines. Once in a while, I like to read news and opinion pieces that aren't in binary format. I like the format of magazines, I like the feel of them, I like the relaxed, casual feeling that sitting on the couch with a goddamn magazine invokes.

I do not like the subscription forms that cascade out of them.

What periodicals you read regularly? Discuss.

I missed the Spartacus panel at SDCC. Boo! Consoling myself with Cabiria.

Barrial, Lilith. Araña. 2012. Black Phoenix Museum of Art. Sharpie on copier paper.

Photo from our Lovecraftian business trip. Abandoned asylum, Norwich.

The amazing Blackstone came to town when I was seven, and I saw how he came alive onstage and thought, God, I want to grow up to be like that! And I ran up to help him vanish an elephant. To this day I don’t know where the elephant went. One moment it was there, the next — abracadabra — with a wave of the wand it was gone!

In 1929 Buck Rogers came into the world, and on that day in October a single panel of Buck Rogers comic strip hurled me into the future. I never came back.

It was only natural when I was twelve that I decided to become a writer and laid out a huge roll of butcher paper to begin scribbling an endless tale that scrolled right on up to Now, never guessing that the butcher paper would run forever.

Snoopy has written me on many occasions from his miniature typewriter, asking me to explain what happened to me in the great blizzard of rejection slips of 1935. Then there was the snowstorm of rejection slips in ’37 and ’38 and an even worse winter snowstorm of rejections when I was twenty-one and twenty-two. That almost tells it, doesn’t it, that starting when I was fifteen I began to send short stories to magazines like Esquire, and they, very promptly, sent them back two days before they got them! I have several walls in several rooms of my house covered with the snowstorm of rejections, but they didn’t realize what a strong person I was; I persevered and wrote a thousand more dreadful short stories, which were rejected in turn. Then, during the late forties, I actually began to sell short stories and accomplished some sort of deliverance from snowstorms in my fourth decade. But even today, my latest books of short stories contain at least seven stories that were rejected by every magazine in the United States and also in Sweden! So, dear Snoopy, take heart from this. The blizzard doesn’t last forever; it just seems so.

[ source: ray bradbury by way of del howison & brain pickings]