Journal 2000
December 18, 2000
Last year the news and tabloids were filled with ominous speculation about the coming of the new millennium. Only every 100th article mentioned that the real millennium, the true start of the third thousand years begins in 2001. Yet, this year, I have seen no mention. If the war of angels and demons happens in the sky, no one will be ready to comprehend. At least the media will be free to cover it, now that the election fiasco is done.
November 17, 2000
My bookshelf is an alien hive. I look at the books and try to remember the ones I have read. They loom and leer. I feel like someone else. My memories do not feel like my own. And Time obscures any sensation it ever held.
October 31, 2000
I hate November. I hate the way it barges in and changes everything overnight. The smells of leaves are ruined. The chill becomes cruel. The magic is stone dead. I declare open war on november.
October 19, 2000
Art show done. Sleep now. A minute. An hour. A century.
September 5, 2000
Art opening is fast approaching. A month away. Deadline anxiety increasing. An occasional calm of the storm, knowing it is the nature of deadlines to be intimidating, But I always thank them afterwards.
September 2, 2000
Surrounded by mountains. And friends.
August 29, 2000
I have been in too much bed. the sleep has been eating me. Last night I dreamed Matt and I were shopping in Omaha which was not Omaha and the world was in black and white and outside a strange store which sold capes and bone beads and incense and books which do not exist it suddenly snowed and a robin’s egg had fallen to the ground and the blue fragments were the only color and in the broken egg was a human fetus and looking closer the heart was still pumping and then Aimee was there and my mind detached from the narrative awhile, enough to wonder about the meaning of the image of a baby, and there was anxiety about its presence in my dream which was then realized as a dream, and then lost. And later Matt was some warlock in the post-apocalyptic future after the dream had become a Quake-type slaughter video game for awhile, saying he would not be like everyone else, he would not pick up a gun, he would use magic until the day he died, and lit a candle and left his apartment which was in Omaha but not Omaha, and I knew like a simple movie plot device he was going to die. But I didn’t say anything or hug him goodbye. Perhaps this needs to go in my news page. Which was supposed to be a dream page. Supposed to be. Supposed to. Was.
August 28, 2000
i hid from the sun. from the light. i slept all afternoon. a mushroom grew out of the carpet in my bathroom. i was fascinated. i like the word “intruder.” i have heard this word once a day for the last five days.
August 22, 2000
Ray Bradbury’s birthday. he is 80 today… i like his Mars. and i like his dandelion wine. and i like his boyhoods which were not. and were not mine. and wish they were. and i met him once, and he is just as plainly awesome as his stories. he told me to bloom. mostly, i have tried too hard. i hope to see him again.
August 20, 2000
H.P. Lovecraft born 110 years ago today. Died in 1937 of pancreatic cancer. “Ia Cthulhu f’tagn!”
August 13, 2000
Matt came to visit this weekend, with the intention that we would attend the Test-Fest heavy music festival in Council Bluffs… alright, with the intention that we would see Kittie and Soulfly. It was 100 degrees in Lincoln on Saturday, and hot Sunday morning. But, noooooooo, in Council Bluffs it was cold and raining and lightning. Truly, it was surprising that any bands played at all. Late afternoon, lightning struck the roof of the stage shell, and sent charred debris into the crowd. The band managers and show producers talked for a long time. They finally announced they were going to repair the electrical system. But we had to clear away from the stage, to the buildings at the edge of the arena bowl, or our cars "if we wan"ed to." We’d “start again in an hour.” Forty-five minutes later, a security guy (not a guard, just a guy) told us to move out of the arena bowl. Five minutes later, another guy they wouldn’t start the show again until we were all outside the gates of the fairgrounds (I couldn’t find any logic in this one either). Twenty minutes later, sitting in our car — still raining — someone walked by and said the entire event was cancelled. Wow, I haven’t been treated so much like a child, since, maybe, I was a child. …Errr, this is writer news, because Matt is a writer. He was my co-editor for the launch of the original print 3LBE in 1991. He was also in the band with me. We, err, wrote lyrics. We were both BFA in Creative Writing together. We are working on a new edition of his chapbook.
August 11, 2000
A bat visited the second floor at [my workplace], flying around and around in the hallways. people were coming out of their offices, saying, “what’s all the commo — WAH!” and ducking back as the bat flapped by. I suggested a coat, and repeatedly tried to net the bat as he flew by. A few times I would see him at the end of the hallway, changing direction, and he would 180, so Iwould turn around to head him off. Okay, I might have said, “Toro, toro” a couple times. But only a couple. [My boss] chased him to the room at the end of the hallway, and closed the door. I snuck in. He flew around and around us in the room, getting lower and tired, and all-too-easily evading my snagging attempts. Finally, he rested on the ceiling. A chair was brought in, I could reach him, and trapped him in the coat. We took him outside. He was disoriented when i opened the coat. But when I touched him, he made a high-pitched fast rattle, like a cicada on cocaine, and spread his wings. I was really hoping he was radioactive, so I could get a bite. And then I could hollow out a cave beneath my apartment, and start building all sorts of bat vehicles to go with my new superpowers. But he just flew off. The remainder of the work day was fairly dull. Sigh. (And yes, I HAVE encountered a cicada on cocaine before. Criticize not my similies.)
August 8, 2000
My aunt died today at 4:07 p.m. CDT. My aunt died today. She died.
August 5, 2000
I think this qualifies as “writer news.” (Thanks to Any Powers That Be that it’s not about me, the writer.) The Hollow Man movie is terrible. The dialogue was simply poor. It wasn’t even bad in an entertaining manner. The story is misogynistic and stupid. This wasn’t a monster story, like the participants in the production want you to think, it wasn’t a “study” in pyschological dementia. It was simply dumb. Just a dumb story. Now, the special effects were incredible. Kudos to Phil Tippett et al. Perhaps some benefit will come to somebody that the anatomy graphics were donated to medical research and development. Paul Veerhoven, on the other hand, should really not work anymore. I’m weary of his “pushing the envelope” style. His execution of storylines always includes: gore to make your butt pucker, stupid dialogue, awful women characters written by men who pretend like they might have once actually met one, and too often rape. Starship Troopers was campy and entertaining, but why even pretend it’s related to Heinlein’s book? I do not know why I am surprised that the Hollywood entity has blown more energy and money. I try not to make sweeping judgements. The real issue here is: just because a movie makes money, doesn’t mean it is good. Studios, directors and writers need to take some responsibility to make the best story and art possible. But too few recognize a good story, or the proper way to write/film it. If they refuse to learn, they should fire themselves.
August 6, 2000
I shall invent a time machine. I shall go back in time. And kill the man. The man who invented coffee. Do not misunderstand me, I am not a coffee addict. I do not like the taste of coffee. I do not drink it. I will not buy another kitchen appliance. Morning coffee is a fix, not a ritual. I have other fixes. They do not taste as bitter and horrible. Augh, the very idea of hot run-off from a nasty-tasting bean. What the hell are you all thinking?! I will continue to hate the fact that every social and food atmosphere provides coffee in abundance, ostracizing those of us with any unique tastes. When was the last time a waiter came around with a pot of warm chai, asking you if you wanted a refill? I will be a writer, even without your demon drink.
July 29, 2000
Another dream I can’t remember.
July 25, 2000
I should have taken time off this week. Matt wanted me to meet him in Chicago for the Tattoo the Earth tour. Wanted to see some bands. Don’t have my tattoo design ready. Apprehensive about taking too much time off work. Sorry, man. I feel old.
July 24, 2000
Another bad movie dream. Some part of my psyche wants to be an actor, I guess. By the quality of the plot,I could tell it was my first desperate role. I spent a great deal of energy in a mall or museum senselessly beating off hordes of flesh-eating zombies with poor makeup. I recognized one of my friends from high school as one of the zombies. I believe he was directing the film, and remember feeling small satisfaction at thumping him in the face with a rifle butt. The interesting aspect to the dream was that my participation was all perfectly edited, as though in post-production, there were no cameras or crews visible. Perhaps it was all filmed in real-time.
July 23, 2000
A dream this weekend… I was a cowboy in a post-apocalyptic setting (ooo, how original). I dishonored an old man who “remembered how things used to be” by passing through his ranch land, and had to gunfight him at high noon. His ancient six-shooter against my laser liquid light squirt gun. His eyesight wasn’t too good. And I missed on purpose. We became fast friends. Together we had to infiltrate the bunker headquarters of the evil corporate war lord. What uncreative movie producer got into my head before I went to sleep?! Keep out, you bastards!
July 22, 2000
Two grill outs in a row. Two night of portabella mushrooms. How many does it take for them to overthrow control of my body, before I become a… become a… (Can you name the relevant Ray Bradbury story?) Side note: Jack Daniels and Barq’s root beer is not worth it, just you keep clear of that idea. My fingernails are now painted “Heartless.”
July 19, 2000
Got back on the climbing wall tonight. Fingers are angry and threatening to leave. Can you name the relevant Clive Barker short story?
July 17, 2000
Posted 3LBE yesterday, one day late… “I’m a bad, bad girl/I’ve been careless with a delicate man” …the only Fiona Apple song lyric I can remember.
July 16, 2000
My tenth high school reunion yesterday. Oh shame on me for even considering I wouldn’t attend, oh shame. Nice to see you all. Stay in touch.
July 13, 2000
Coming down to the wire for 3LBE. Not enough stories to post the issue. Considering writing a piece under a pseudonym. Trying to resist the impulse by blocking out even any ideas for a pseudonym.
July 11, 2000
In second grade, some people told me I could draw. Even my deceptive parents. I always knew they were lying.
July 7, 2000
150,000 people really want me to move out of Nebraska. While I am not gay (or a lesbian!), the staggering number of paranoid bigots that surround me create more than a passing nausea. If I would have known the guy who came to my door last month contributed to such a conglomeration of crap, I would have fired roman candles up his nose.
July 5, 2000
More nostalgia: the smell of gun powder. Later, we were showed with tiny cold cinders from the city fireworks show. I’m thinking… we are fortunate to live in a place were these smells and experiences do not mean war, or the fight for survival.
June 25, 2000
The culprit is found! My own dear father cut the “naughty word” off my bumper sticker. Oh, the rivers of betrayal run the coldest through the deep of the soul…
June 21, 2000
What the hell is there to write about when you’re happy?
June 19, 2000
My most vivid dream last week… my dad and I had a car wreck on a wilderness mountain road. We hiked to find help, and came upon a massive half-constructed shopping mall in the forest. In the moonlight silence, we walked around the outer edge of the silent steel girder skeleton, looking for a construction trailer, a phone. My dad stopped us, and said to listen. I didn’t hear anything, but he ran outside the perimeter a few yards and stooped over. I understood in seconds, seeing the frantic pace with which he dug like a dog, his hands rolling, the dirt flying back between his legs. We both worked that way for long minutes, listening to the weeping moans beneath us. We dropped to our knees and continued to scoop the dirt aside. A few feet down, it was no surprise to me to find a lengthy cardboard box. The sounds had stopped, and we watched the hole, the box. The box was not sealed, the flaps simply folded down. And it was no surprise to me when the woman sat up. There was no shock of a quick fright moment. I had known she was there, with the vivid obviousness that laces all my dreams. I had known since my dad had said, “Do you hear that?” She was cold and crying, wearing only a bed sheet. Closer to my age than his. She hugged me immediately, sobbing, thanking me over and over. I was embarrassed at the gratitude. I would have passed her by. She kept thanking me as the emergency vehicles arrived from nowhere, as the EMTs checked her over. I continually insisted it was my dad who found her. My mind was constantly distracted, thinking the entire time about how long she had been buried there. The earth had been perfect, undisturbed. How she could still be alive. And who had put her under there.
June 18, 2000
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. See you soon. Congrats to Jami and Rody. Yours was the ultimate wedding. Thanx to Cornfed and all Ultimate players (and my date{?!}) who showed, played, and played some more. Obnoxiousness and decadence, these are two of my favorite things…
June 16, 2000
I’ve always wanted to begin a dream journal. Maybe I’ll turn this page into one of those…
June 15, 2000
Another miserable audience attendance this week at Open Mic night. Kenneth Y. got up there and did his slam stuff. I wish more people would see his energy… this town is dead, selfish, and ignorant. For the first time in a year, I didn’t get up and read. Although I had three new poems, and four of my friends came… no one else in the whole city came. I have been mildly disappointed in the past with the poor attendance, and simply used the readings to rehearse and refine my pieces. It was a necessary process in finishing the poems for FOR THE LOVE OF SHADOWS chapbook, but too many weeks I rush-wrote the poems in the last hours before the reading, and hated myself for that. I figured I deserved a break, after an undefeated season. Hoping to work more serious on pieces… earlier in the week. Fiction again, my first love. Which I simply haven’t allowed myself time for.
June 8, 2000
Someone cut the “FUCK” off of my “FUCK WORK” bumper sticker. Since it was a meticulous task removing the rest of the sticker, it makes me wonder why someone thought it was worth censoring only half of the message. Either it was someone from my work place who thinks I have “the wrong attitude,” or one of those meanies who stole the stereo out of my car behind my house. Get your own free stickers from Unamerican Activities. (Okay this news page is becoming a stupid daily diary. Don’t be surprised if it disappears soon…)
June 7, 2000
Happy birthday, Dad! Here, the need for another window air conditioner unit becomes more and more apparent. And my fingers are reacquainted with rock climbing, after few weeks hiatus.
June 4, 2000
X-files season is over… so I made my regular crew watch RIKKI TIKKI TAVI, and FROM BEYOND. They kept asking in a confused tone what exactly was going on. I would not answer — lost in nostalgia. Ahhhhhh…
June 3, 2000
My last beginning photography class. Now the race begins… to complete the kind of pieces I’ve been envisioning in time for the art opening in October. Must… not… emulate Dave McKean…
May 27, 2000
I printed the first run of my new poetry chapbook, FOR THE LOVE OF SHADOWS. Don’t you want one of your very own? Order from Legion Press. Now… back I’m back to fiction. I miss it.
May 13-14, 2000
Unable to attend the World Horror Con 2000 in Denver this weekend. My minions will gather news for me… Meanwhile, I am in far away Portland, OR for my sister’s wedding.
April 15, 2000
Did you know Edward Gorey’s work? Learn. He was distinct and beautiful. He will do no more for us. We will miss him now.
