Away, you wretched world of tethers...
Yesterday I wrote 915 words on "The Collector of Bones" and finished the story. It's an odd piece, one of the sort I used to call "bad shopping-cart stories," because I want them to go one way and yet they are determined to go another. In the end, "The Collector of Bones" seems to hark back to Tales of Pain and Wonder — thematically and in mood, more than in its style. The ending is quiet and somewhat sweet (or bittersweet) and not nearly as grim as I'd expected. I'm not yet quite sure how I feel about the piece, what with it having turned out so differently than I'd originally envisioned. But, as I have said, writing, storytelling, is a wild magick, and we usually err when we push too hard one way or another.
I'm not sleeping enough. No matter what, I seem unable to get to sleep before 4:30 a.m. or so, Ambien or no, and I'm waking by 11 a.m. And the bloody fucking dream is not helping. It came back to me last night. Back on the "space balloon" and mostly only things I'd seen and done in earlier incarnations of the dream. There was a long portion, which I only just recall, with me lying in the upper berth of my sleeping compartment, smoking and listening to the orange man talk. I have no recollection of what he was saying, and it seems that even in the dream I was only half paying attention. I'm not sure if that was before or after he gets shot. Spooky has stopped blaming David Bowie for this one and has begun blaming This Mortal Coil.
I shake, for the reeking flesh
Is as romantic as hell.
The need to have seen it all,
The voyeur of utter destruction as beauty,
Last night we watched Louise Osmond and Jerry Rothwell's 2006 documentary, Deep Water, which follows Donald Crowhurst's disastrous bid to win the Sunday Times Golden Globe Race (1968-1969). A moving and truly brilliant film, and, unexpectedly, I was reminded repeatedly of both House of Leaves and Bowie's "Space Oddity." What begins as a tale of conquest and human achievement becomes, instead, a tale of human frailty when pitted against unimaginable loneliness and one's own deteriorating psyche. Towards the end, there was so much more of horror than I'd expected, with both Crowhurst and his far more skilled French competitor, Bernard Moitessier. Strongly recommended.
Unfortunately, the same day I decide to begin writing about my Second Life characters I have one of the few truly awful nights of SL I've ever had (and certainly the worst in the last few months). So that will have to wait.
At least there's Kid Night tonight.