greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

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In your fear of what we have become...

As I drew out my scalpel yesterday, my red pen and yellow highlighter, and began to type and slice at the pliable red meat of paragraphs and sentences, I realized just how raw my nerves have become. I've tried to make light of it, here in the journal, but the truth is that it has worn me down, this unwriting. I need to be finished, and I need rest, and I need to be writing stories that are my stories. These are the three things that will make me better, these three in that order. I am amazed that I was anything like good company on Saturday. At dinner, I did admit to being "miserable," but I attributed it more to Atlanta and less to the unwriting, when, at the moment, it's actually about half and half. But, yes. My nerves are raw, frayed, shot. I'm jumping at my own shadow, as they say, when my own shadow is usually my One True Companion. And it is not yet over, and I have only so much say in when the end will come. I'm still aiming for Wednesday evening, but I also know there will be more after that. I might not be entirely free of this affair until July. But I have learned my lesson. And I should say that yesterady was not all unwriting, strictly speaking. I did write two new scenes, 603 words total, though it seemed a bit like adding extra noses or a couple of spare astragali.

Today, I will do what I can do, and break as little as I may.

We had a good walk yesterday evening, through Dellwood Park, and the park just west of Dellwood (the name of which presently escapes me). There were lightning bugs and bats and robins, and we saw a chipmunk. Most of the smoke had dissipated, but there was still an odd reddish halo about the waxing moon. Even with Ponce de Leon so near, the air is good and smells clean in amongst all those old trees.


Inwë, this is my dream. Or as little of it as I can bring myself to admit. This is my dream. I stand alone in some dark, deep place, some cavern or well or mine secreted far below this scorched land. I am myself, and yet I am become another, as well. Though I stand in the glow of unseen fires, rising up all about me is a muttering, impenetrable darkness. There are faces peering forth from that dark — fell creatures that once served the Necromancer, as Sauron was known long ago in Mirkwood. They have died, all of them, and in my dream I have called them back into being by black sorceries which, mercifully, I can not ever recall upon waking. They are beasts and goblin, Uruk and troll and Easterling, men of Haradwaith and Umbar, the creeping daughters of Delduthling, werewolves and worse things still, and they have come up from death and unimaginable gulfs to walk the world again, to do as I bid them. On my right hand I wear a beautiful ring, I know that it is one of the Nine. I stand on a dais, beside a throne carved from out the native rock, and on that throne sits the man from the banks of the Limlaith, though he wears a leather mask that me might appear more like an orc than a man. He speaks to the assembled host, telling them in many tongues to bow down before me, as there is again a priestess of Melkor in the world. And I feel such terrible joy.

I hold out my hand, that the glory of the ring might be seen by all, and then I am only myself again, and I am remembering some bright day before I crossed the spikes of Ered Glamoth into Mordor. I can not say where I am, but there is green grass and sunlight through the leaves. The brown wizard, Aiwendil, is walking with me, and all about us are birds of every hue and shape and their songs fill the air.

"You will behold many awful sights," he says as we walk. "And you will listen with your eyes when you would do well to listen with your heart." This is my dream, Inwë. And in my dream, I watch Radagast enter a pool girded about by tall oaks, and he is bleeding, and his blood turns the water to pitch. I stand at the pool's edge, and he tells me that even when the worst has come to pass and there is only night, even then I shall not be entirely undone. "You were brought back from the wolves for a purpose," he says, before the bloodstained water pulls him down and Aiwendil has passed from my view and from Middle-earth. And again I stand at the left hand of the Kinslayer and wear the ring once worn by the Black Easterling, Khamûl of the Nazgul, and that assemblage of nightmares kneels before me. This is my dream, and now I have put it down on paper. The sun is almost risen.


Okay, setsuled. Tag. You're it. I have mutilation to attend to.
Tags: mordorian death march, unwriting

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