A fiction writer’s stories reveal more about the writer than about the characters who appear in his fiction. That assertion is laced with assumptions, of course. It implies and assumes the contention is based on facts. It assumes knowledge about the motives and mindsets of fiction writers. And it assumes (if only through grammar-fueled implication) writers are male. Strip away the assumptions and there’s almost nothing of substance left. Just wasted clusters of emptiness bound together by unreliable scraps of indefensible claims. Words, when used as offensive weapons, slice through sinew as if through rendered fat. Another example. Again, a foundation for both truth and lies—an argument made as if a claim of veracity, rather than simply an attempt to set the stage for preemptive mental combat.
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My dreams seem to be growing more clear and more troubling with every new episode of unconsciousness. Dream settings range from shark-infested lakes to Mexican villages drenched in ostentatious wealth. One of the nightmarish experiences began in the middle of a large lake in which the shoreline was too far away and too far above water to allow me to climb onto dry land. In another, I tried unsuccessfully to keep up with a wealthy young couple who were running between check-out counters in an expensive Mexican shopping mall, spending obscene amounts of cash on leather and jewelry and lavish men’s designer suits. The reason for the hurry, I surmised from listening to the sales clerks, was that the mall would close at the impending sunset and fill with bats. Oddly, the circumstances did not seem even remotely like a horror story; just a naturally unpleasant transition I wanted to avoid. Many more memories of strange dreams in my brain await resurrection. But I want to expunge them from my recollection and sleep in peace.
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I suspect it was a chigger that bit me behind my left knee a day or two ago. The itching sensation it left for me (that’s still present) is reason enough for the little bastard to die a horrible death. I feel the same about cancer, but I want to be careful about what I wish for…you know, I don’t want to get things confused so that I die a horrible death, rather than the cancer. I know that should be understood, but I want to be quite clear about it.
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Though I’ve already had my regular breakfast (banana, espresso, and Ensure), I’m still a bit hungry. I’m in the mood for coffee-flavored ice cream. Then, I’d like to go back to sleep. Last night, a power outage began around 11:10 pm and lasted until 12:40 am. Even that brief interruption to the night’s opportunity to sleep was sufficiently disruptive to revive an overwhelming sense of fatigue.
