Flame-Besotted

canadian-rockies-1c-4-1368613-638x479I did not set the kitchen alight today.  That’s worthy of note in the grand record.    There was, however, a small oven fire.   That was caught before it was other than it was – simply a small fire.

I am letting this burn and char the inside of my brain, trying to figure out the metaphor that seems inherent, but there’s just a fire, a shock, a fear, that didn’t get out of hand.  A moment of sincere gratitude.

My neck is still aching and sore, but better, also? It’s better to the point that I’m doing the same things I think are causing it, sitting oddly and holding my head in my hands. I…am entirely over all of it, both the reality of the discomfort and the reality of my encouraging it out of fear.  I’m still investigating the pillow sitch – that is part of it, certainly.

I dreamed that one of the day players on Drunk History and I had a kid and it might have been alright except that he suddenly got very mean and started speaking in tongues and I was slow to realize it, but I ended up thinking that it was my job to get the baby out of there.  I woke up pretty relieved that I didn’t have a baby, didn’t have it with that awful character, and didn’t have to fear for its life.

I’m trying, brain, subconscious, dream world understanding of life as we know it, I am trying to get this baby out of the fire.

Other notes:  I saw most of Clive Barker’s Lord of Illusions on my new favorite channel, CometTV.  Well, that was a disgusting, weird, silly bit of nothing.  The special effects were both gross and often entirely laughable. I think the only way I have any interest in a horror film is to watch them from twenty or thirty years ago.   It looks like it might repeat and I’ll pay better attention.  How odd to have a funny feeling about Scott Bakula.  Ah.

Now Comet continues to please me with an old MST3K episode.  There’s…

Here’s the thing, I feel done, but the word count is not filled out so I have to ramble on without warrant.  I’m thinking about the RP guy who can only be qualified as MIA or RIP.  I’m thinking about how cretinous and monstrous Donald Trump grows in my mind every day.  That there’s no way, no way he can win.  But of course, he could.  And the anxiety dances like water on a hot skillet, here for a moment, and then back to nothing.  I cleaned out the microwave, a bowl of vinegar, a smaller task, compared to the scouring of soot-coated belly of the oven that I have to figure out how to do eventually so we stop risking incendiary disaster.

Next year – posting every day – 500 words of fiction?

My mother says now I can stop worrying about her and worry about myself.  Hah! Hah! As if I can’t do both.

A demain, mes amis.

 

 

 

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