Monday, January 13, 2003

I'm very tired. I don't sleep much any more. Not lately.

There are two kinds of people in the world: people who divide the world into two camps, and all the rest of you losers.

No, really, what I want to say is there are people who want to be involved in Big Things, who want to get elected mayor, or find cures for cancer, or fight crime on the mean streets of Gotham. And then there are people like me. Who want to grab a few quick moments of joy in between naps and work and all the crap life throws at you.

Which is to say, I've gotten one of those legendary "leads the police won't touch" about some of the stuff that I've written about here, and I'm torn between dropping it all (like some other involved parties) or doing something out of character for me and playing the part of vigilante detective. Because some people out there know something. ("character" - "part" - does the drama club still show or what?)

All I have to do is find someone and ask some questions.


In other news, I've taken down the woodcut. Someone had been drawing things on it (house guests? mysterious non-thieving burglars? psycho ex-boyfriends?) and it was freaking me out. Besides which, bugs had started eating away at a food stain or something on it - leaving trails of eaten-away-space like cross-country ski tracks on snow. Officially, the only reminder of the whole thing is my nagging conscience and a folder Stephen dropped off at my apartment. I could just file it away, along with my grad school applications and a ream of old dress designs.


In other other news, North Korea may well blow up the entire world. Happy 2003, Planet Earth! Hope you like fireworks!!

Monday, December 30, 2002

I just saw Stephen die again today.

This hysterical shit just about ruined my Christmas. This time, he was climbing on an awning over a bodega-style grocery in Brooklyn. I was sure it was him - I waved, he looked at me, then fell backwards down the below-the-sidewalk stairwell. CLANG! Crunch.

Christmas in New York. Gifts were given and received, and I'm walking through it like a zombie. I'm starting to feel like the city hates me. The cities, I should say.

Once again, I ran over, and once again, nobody there, and nobody knew what I was talking about, why I was freaking out on the sidewalk.

I emailed him that evening, and he responded the next day, still in Boston, still alive, and really wired about this packet of information he has for me - his "findings", all scanned and put on a CD.

I wonder if the crazies are contagious?

CLANG!Crunch. Almost like a cartoon. I can almost laugh about it, now. What is going on with me? This can't be normal, can it?

Monday, December 16, 2002

I might as well just give in and retitle this blog "Miseryzilla."

I just saw Stephen during lunch break today. At least I think it was him. He got hit by a car.

I swear, I'm not making this up. Jeremy thinks I'm making it up. I'm not. I'm freaked out.

I ran over to see if I could help, but the guy (Stephen?) must've just gotten up and ran away or something, because there was just this mark by the curb where he landed.

I'd just seen him over the weekend, too. He's not looking so good - taking the whole Sheila thing way too much to heart, not bathing or sleeping any more from the looks of it. And he's obsessed with finding Arthur. Everything is finding Arthur. He says Arthur wasn't on good terms with his dad and stepmom, or at least wasn't too close to them, and they haven't heard from him in months. His mom was out of the picture, either dead or just ran away, he never said which. (This also makes me sad, on top of everything else, which is a sure sign that I'm getting soft in the head.)

Anyway, Stephen's been turning into a ninja (his exact words) for Arthur, calling his family for clues and (creepy part) stalking his spooky "group" buddies. Now, the Stephen I know has always been crazy in a fun sort of way, like, "Hey, who wants to bet me I can't finish this entire bottle of Capt. Morgan's?" The crazy he seems to be now, though, is not as fun. While we were talking, he said stuff like, "I know things the cops don't know about Phil," but when I told him to talk to the police, he started getting all... there's no other word for it... shifty. He didn't actually come out and say, "They're part of the problem, can't you see?" but I got the distinct feeling that's just what he was thinking. Which is, quite frankly, scary.

It reminds me of John Trotsky, who I sort of knew at school. He was a very shy political science major, tall, kind of heavy, with a sweet face and soft voice. Junior year, he went off to an exchange program in Italy, and something happened there. It may have been a misunderstanding with the police, it may have been too many magic mushrooms, or an accident with an electrical shock, or a combination of all three. But when he got back, he spent all his student loan money hiring a lawyer. He was suing the FBI. For everything they'd done to him, you know. He was on to them, no matter what tactics they were using to break his will, he was gonna make the bastards pay for what they did.

The last time I saw John, I could barely recognize him. He'd lost one of his front teeth and was evidently eating something like twice a week, and he stank of gasoline. And he'd run out of money for the lawyer. And his sentences all ran together and changed course midway, so he'd be talking about an episode of Star Trek and it'd run into his "stable of prostitutes" and then how he'd picked out this farmland and was drawing up plans for the house he was building -- once the settlement money came through. It was sad, it was scary, and I so don't want that to happen to anyone I know.

I'm supposed to see Stephen on Saturday. Maybe I'll try to talk him into seeing a counselor or someone. I really hope that was just some well-dressed homeless guy or some lawyer or something I saw today. And not Stephen.

Monday, December 09, 2002

Oh, and this is just beautiful. Really makes my whole day seem so much better. Puts *my* problems RIGHT into perspective.

I'll just cheer up with some uplifting literature.

I'm tired. It's cold outside, it's freezing in here, and I'm feeling stiff and sore all over.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

I'm tired of talking to cops, of thinking about cops, of coming home at night and turning on the news as if it's some horror movie that I'm a part of, waiting for the supporting player to finally turn up dead. I'm tired of secrets and mysteries. I'm even getting tired of Clark Kent - I shouldn't write that, because he probably reads this thing, but still. No more fights. No more fights.

Maybe it's this: I tried to go Christmas shopping over the weekend, and in the second store I went into, (Garment District in Cambridge) I found this perfect Hawaiian shirt with a butterfly print on it. Perfect. If he was still... here. And yes, crying over other boys isn't the way to keep your relationship going, but still, it's not like he and I were even going out.

Maybe that's why Clark's been drawing shit on the woodcut - adding branches to the tree while I'm not looking. And then gets an attack of the Not Me ghost. Childish. Depressing.

And that cop... the Mole Rat. He freaks me out. I saw him outside my job the other day as I was heading out to lunch. He seemed underdressed for the weather. Thin. Tired. Achy. Like me. Maybe I'm coming down with something.

Wednesday, November 27, 2002

I don't even know if it's worth it to type this in - my entry from last Thursday isn't up, and it's Wednesday already. I may have to move my blog somewhere else if I want you, dear reader, to know what's going on...

The police have assigned a detective to Arthur's disappearance. No more society plumbers, we have the specialist on the job now. He was a little brusque, a little tightly wound, but efficient. Asked all sorts of questions about Phil, had already seen Arthur's blog... Somehow I don't feel as confident as I did after the first police interview. Maybe it's that he seemed nosy about my apartment, whether or not I'd had problems with bugs; or maybe it's that he reminded me of a
naked mole rat. Don't know why - he's not bald, not pink and squishy, not beady-eyed... (actually, he's not bad looking at all!)

Lunch with Nora was a nice break. I didn't get too soaked, and the meal was wonderful - a weird little Chinese hole-in-the-wall with incredibly flavorful soup (no MSG!) and the best crispy chicken dish I've ever had. And, of course, the company was wonderful - I think I'm going to adopt Nora as my older sister. We talked politics and things occult (she knew Phil and his group, thinks they were too ego-oriented to accomplish much), as well as music and broken hearts.

I feel really sorry for Stephen - I tried to call him to see what he was doing for Thanksgiving, but couldn't reach him. I hope he's with his family!

Thursday, November 21, 2002



You sure you're not making this crap up?

Posted By: someone 11/19/2002 10:25:16 PM


I'm offended.

A friend of mine, Arthur , has gone missing under odd circumstances including the unnatural death of a mutual acquaintance who was interested in things occult, the police are taking it seriously enough to have assigned a detective to the case (more on that later), my personal life may be getting sucked into the same weird mess that swallowed Arthur whole and spit out Phil's corpse, and "somebody" without balls enough to leave contact info calls my experiences crap and thinks they're fiction.

Fuck you too.

On a better note, work's been almost pleasant. The Evil Virgin has been spending more time in her office, the tasks set before me are less than Herculean for a change, and I'm having lunch with Nora on Friday.

In the freezing rain, if necessary.

Thursday, November 14, 2002

I'm beginning to think I dreamed the whole thing. I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately. The Bible is right; there are punishments for too much sex. Hallucinations must be one of them.

In other news, there is very little other news. Other than the humongous famine in North Africa that nobody's talking about. Are there even 14 million people living in Boston? How big is a crowd of 14 million?

It's freezing in here, and I don't think it's only because it's November.

I'm more than a little weirded out right now.

Clark was talking in his sleep the other night, and it wasn't the usual "mutter ..cheese.. mumble. Why would I want to eat that? ...mumble.. snore..."

He was speaking quite clearly, in another language that might have been Spanish or Portuguese. The words were distinct, loud, and rhythmic - it reminded me of a church service in some ways. The words also sounded familiar for some reason, but I was too sleepy to puzzle it out then.

I know now why I thought I sort of knew it; Clark was reciting the passage Arthur was so desperate to get translated months ago. And, some of the words are on the photocopy of the woodcut hanging on my wall. I think what I have is a photocopy of the thing that Arthur was obsessing about.

I have so many questions now, and I don't know if I really want the answers.

Why would Arthur tear the text off the picture? And then make another photocopy?

How did Clark know the entire text? He'd spent some time looking at my photocopy, but there are only fragments of the writing left there.

And, what does it mean??? I looked at the translation on Arthur's blog, and that makes as much sense as people usually do when they're talking in their sleep.

Grrr. I may have grown up wanting to be Nancy Drew, but I'm beginning to hate mysteries.

Friday, November 08, 2002

Currently, reflecting on our Democratic governor's election in the face of a federal government controlled by Republicans, I'm balancing the pros and cons of moving my pacifist, socialist uterus to Canada.

I don't think we've gotten to that point quite yet.

In the meantime, there's bubonic plague in New York and officials are telling us there's really nothing to worry about.

Since, after all, it's not contagious. No, really.

Wednesday, November 06, 2002

OK!! Enough with the weird dreams already!!

Once again, I'm wide awake. Characters from the TV show 24 were at war against the folks from Alias using the mask technology from the ghastly Mission Impossible movies. Everybody was revealed to be somebody else at least twice, the "weapons" were just strange (there was one massive unmasking precipitated by one of the characters throwing salt as if in a sumo match ritual), and while it was all deadly important, I had the feeling that what people did was more important than who finally won.

And I was shopping, again - but for real estate this time. Looking for a nice brownstone. On a Caribbean island.

Did I mention it was all completely silent?

I have no idea why I'm awake - this wasn't particularly scary, just very odd. While I'm up, I might as well meander through a description of the party from Saturday night.

I dressed not quite costumed - low black boots, black jeans, white floppy poet's shirt, red brocade vest, big gold jewelry... I could have almost been Clark's counterpart from Halloween. The party folks were dressed somewhat similarly - definitely not quite streetwear, but obviously not "costumed" either.

And I remembered correctly - the woman who invited me IS named Nora. And she was very appreciative of the bread and cheese I picked up on the spur of the moment instead of the bottle of vino I'd been contemplating. (Good thing, too - there was some amazing wine there!)

The party was pretty low-key until about midnight, when the games began. There was some sort of toasting game that I couldn't quite follow, and somebody had a deck of Tarot cards that were very Burning Man - lots of female and male frontal nudity, lots of tattoos and piercings and mud... so I did the "pick a card" thing and came up with the Six of Swords. In this deck, that's supposed to be "Interpenetrating Worlds" - realities behind other realities, mystical realms poking through the normal state of things and actually affecting what happens in real life. Too weird.

The high point was when the host dragged this big piece of canvas out of a closet and unrolled it in the livingroom. It had a labyrinth painted on it, and everybody who'd pulled a card was supposed to walk it. Somebody put on some sort of tribal music (forgot to ask what it was, I really liked it) and people started walking the painted path. I wasn't going to, but Nora wouldn't let me escape. And when I stepped onto the canvas, suddenly I really didn't want to, but it was like there was this pressure pushing me forward. Once I got started into the labyrinth itself, I was fine and it was fun, and I danced to the center and left my card and danced out again.

Then there was more dancing, more wine, and Nora instigated another round of "pick a card." Of course, I pulled out the same card again. She teased me about really wanting what I was asking for, but she didn't seem entirely happy with the repeat. And I don't remember now anything that I might have been asking for.

Well, I'm kind of tired now - maybe I'll be able to sleep.

Saturday, November 02, 2002

Better now - the house has coffee and bread and such, and I have enough three cent stamps to last until they raise the rates again...

I think I'm going to that party tonight. Not sure what I'm going to wear yet, though. I'm not wearing the corset again, or heels; maybe something simple for a change.