I used to love this time of year

I don’t think October is going to be a very good month. I might withdraw a bit, or I might force myself out and be a bit off. Hopefully things calm down from what they have been. I don’t have the vocabulary to untangle and articulate the roller-coaster my emotions and desires have led me on the past few days. I don’t know if this even belongs here, but I don’t know where else to put it and if some of the above does happen maybe a bit of explanation is warranted.

From a pretty good night, to spending the next day for some inexplicable reason suffering from a massive depressive episode interspersed with crying jags. Which is something that very rarely happens to me. Me crying is generally a sign something is very very wrong. And it wasn’t even anything big that set it off. I finished a book, and the ending just clicked with something within me, with a desire, or a wound, or something, most of the book had been resonating pretty hard. This just sealed it…

I thought I was okay the next day and then I was brought something I didn’t think I’d see again… My little brothers dice bag. It doesn’t seem that significant maybe to others, but we connected primarily through gaming, my brother, my sister and I as well as our mother and her partner.

We played Werewolf the Apocalypse and we were closer as a pack then we ever were as a family. We weren’t one of those families that ate together and I’ve always been very reclusive so sometimes it was the only time we saw each other. When your character died we burned your sheet…

When my brother died on the 30th of October 2011 he was cremated… But we kept his characters. He was 20. He was straight edge, he’d never had sex, never drank, he had a girl that he loved and that he left behind. He had his flaws. He was fucked up in so many ways but he was family. I loved him.

I used to love this time of year. Autumn was my favorite season, then it started stealing my family. He wasn’t the first, I’m sure he won’t be the last though at this point I don’t have much family left to lose.

I left the dice bag on my desk most of yesterday and last night. Still I was okay.

Then I wake up this morning and it’s clear that I’m not. It’s not so much that I feel sad as an intense longing for things I don’t have. Things I might never have. Things that I find hard to articulate entirely. I feel like even with the steps that I’ve taken recently I’m sitting on the sidelines afraid to get involved in the game… And maybe I’m just imbalanced and insane, and should be medicated, maybe it’s just situational. Every time I hear one of my housemates voices it’s like nails on a chalk board. Which certainly isn’t helping things. Or maybe it’s just fear.

My Muse

All of us have a muse. Just be thankful that most us can’t see them. She’s been with me, as long as I can remember, a pale woman, never a girl, always just a few steps away from me, no matter where I am. She never speaks to me. Not in words that I can hear, but I can feel her in my mind, when I sit down to write, when the ideas start to flow.

When I was little, I used to try to convince my mother of Her reality, it was always dismissed as a game, a little bit of play acting. She had an imaginary friend when she was young too she’d say with a smile. After a while I could see the worry on her face whenever I mentioned “The Woman.” – I never really had a name for Her, didn’t understand what exactly She was, I didn’t have the words. Not back then. – And so I let it drop. I stopped mentioning Her, started to try ignoring Her, though as I got older this grew more difficult.

I’d see Her every time I looked over my shoulder, every time I looked in the mirror, and I soon came to realize that She was beautiful, Her plump lips always slightly upturned as if we were sharing some private joke. Though this smile never seemed to reach Her eyes which were a pale shade of green, always fixing onto mine when I looked at Her. Her hair long, and richly black, and She always wore the same long green dress, old fashioned, like something from a story book without the lace and the ruffles.

I’ve always been creative but mercurial, my passions shifting from one pursuit to the other, first drawing, then painting, playing instruments, anything that involves an expression of myself. But my true love has always been writing. When I write I lose myself in the story, it pours out of me like a torrent. I’m almost never at a loss for words. But I find it so draining. A few hours of writing and I feel like I’ve been working a full day, bone tired fatigued. And I never really understood why until I was in my late teens.

I was home from school and rattling around my empty house, Mom was working and Dad was out of state. So I decided to go down to the local coffee shop and try to get some work done. There’d been a particularly complex story that I’d been working on, my first real attempt at a novel, and I wanted some time to proofread, but I didn’t like being alone with Her. As I pushed through the doors of the shop, I noticed something odd. A man who looked to be in his late fifties sitting and typing feverishly, this in itself wasn’t strange. But what was behind him was…There was a woman standing there, similar enough to mine to be her twin, the same generous features, the same green eyes, but her hair was red, a brilliant fiery red. As he wrote she leaned in close her lips pressing against his ears, her hands resting on his shoulders, she seemed to be whispering something, though he was not responding, simply typing away. I started to approach them, to talk to him, to her, but then I saw her nails. They were long, curving slightly downwards, sinking into his flesh through his shirt and as I watched I could see a faint pulsing glow rising upwards along them, from him into her and he began to droop visibly, reaching to take a deep sip of his coffee, fatigue suddenly registering on his features.

I fled as soon as my mind registered this, pushed back out the doors and ran all the way home. I didn’t stop till I was in my room, throwing myself beneath the covers and hiding there for all the good it would do me. They looked so much alike, that strange woman and my Muse, was She doing the same to me? I let the idea go, tried not to thing about it. To force it out of my head then one day on the front page of the paper I saw a story about a local writer who had died “tragically early.” The picture was of the man I’d seen at the coffee shop just a few months previously. His age was listed as thirty-five, but he’d apparently been quite prolific, eight novels to his name. The cause of death was hear attack. This couldn’t be right I told myself, from the picture alone he seemed to be on the cusp of seniority, sixty I would have believed. I went to the computer, googling his name, confident the paper had been a typo. It was not. The information was accurate. There were all kinds of theories about his appearance, about his gray hair, including drugs, but I knew better. It was her, it was whatever she had been taking from him. And I now knew what I had to do. I had to see if She was doing the same to me as his woman had done to him. I had to know. I set up a mirror on my desk, she never appeared on film, placed it just in front of myself, so I could glance up at a moments notice and I began to write. Nothing at first, my interest more on staring at the mirror, trying to catch her then the act of writing itself. But finally I found the rhythm of it, the words pouring forth once more. And I glanced up. And I saw Her, looking back at me. Her nails in my flesh, her lips on my ear, I could have been the man in that shop in that moment. I threw the notebook away from me, vowed never to write another word, hoping to starve her.

But the ideas, they just kept coming, flooding into my consciousness at the worst moments, drowning out everything else. I lasted a little over a year till I had to give up. I sat down at my PC, and I typed, for hours, the words flowing forth like a river breaking a dam. When I finished I could barely move the short distance from my chair to my bed. I collapsed, not even having the energy to pull the sheets over me and woke sixteen hours later, the bed beneath me, and my clothes soaked with sweat, my entire body aching. I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, trying to tell myself it was nothing, just a fever, it couldn’t be anything else Then I looked into the mirror, and I found the first streak of gray. I was sixteen. My mother nearly fainted when I came downstairs, she immediately drove me to the doctor. He told us he couldn’t find anything wrong, said it was probably just stress, nothing to worry about and sent me home.

I learned my lesson then. I didn’t try to bottle it up anymore…Eight years later, that’s still my only streak of gray, but I easily pass for thirty. My face is lined my bones ache. Every time I set pen to paper or finger to key she feels a bit more solid, I can feel her touch even now, feel her lips brushing against my skin. It’s addictive, her presence. Comforting almost. feel a little bit of myself flowing out of me every-time I write but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop, and I know that She’ll take me if I do, I’m sure of it. She’ll take me all at once instead of in pieces, my face the next in the paper.

My little Brother

He looks so pissed in all of the photos, but he was so proud. He was graduating highschool, step one on the path to his dreams of helping people. He was never perfect my little brother, but I loved him, despite his many faults, he always wanted to be a firefighter, or a policeman but sadly the genetics he was dealt would not allow for that. He was born with a hole in his heart, a condition that would make either career path far too risky for him.

So he settled on becoming an EMT, he was on the path, he was going to be going to school, he had everything lined up. And then he died. Suddenly as that, I got a phone call two years ago tommorow, I was on my way home from the library and kid called, I didn’t normally answer calls in the car unless it was important since it bothered Dave, but I did this time since Kid so rarely called. “Sam your brother’s dead.” she said, I thought it was a prank at first, some kind of joke, I could barely understand her, couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying, she had to repeat it for me to grasp it. Finally I went into gear. Told Dave we needed to go pick up my sister and then go up to Toledo where my brother lived. Started making phone calls, everyone’s reaction was different, my sisters was similar to mine, borderline hysterics. My mother acted like he wasn’t her son, like this was something solely affecting Amy and myself. She offered to fly out, but only “if we really needed her.” and made it clear it would be a hassle and a burden.

I still couldn’t believe it, it just didn’t hit me until we were up there and I saw the police cars waiting. I’ll always remember standing in that parking lot watching the door that used to be his, my sister and her Ex who was there for her, myself, Dave and Kid, aka Cassandra, my brothers ex-fiance. I couldn’t bring myself to go in for the longest time. But I knew I needed to. I needed to see him to make it real. That’s how it’s been whenever someone I loved has died. It’s not real till I see the body, and we were having him cremated so I wouldn’t have many chances. Finally I work up the nerve, I ask the cop if it’s okay, he says that it’s better to think of him how he was how I knew him in life. It seems they have a script to work off of since that line was awfully familar, but I went in anyways, I approached slowly, he was half hidden by a wall, I saw his legs, that’s it, his legs, I couldn’t bring myself to go forwards any further, but I knew they were his. I knew it was him, it hit me it was real.

I had to be the strong one though. Arranging everything, finding a funeral home, requesting an autopsy, my sister and Cassandra were comforting each other I just felt distant, distracted. I’ve never been much of a hugger, but I did hug them then.  After that it was back to Sanitized death, distant and Removed, we went to the funeral home, we gave them an obscene amount of money and the clothes we wanted burned with him (His favorite hat, a shirt he loved, We forgot shoes though, something that still bothers me), they had him cremated. I and my sister got a necklace with his thumbprint and birthstone.

Kid arranged for services, church services. I’m not sure how he would have felt about that, he was half christian half wiccan, it was stuffy and structured and everything he wasn’t.

We bought a vault, but we want to scatter his ashes and we still haven’t questions about where we should scatter them mixed with getting up there and getting everyone together, he’s sitting in a sort of safe, a holding facility, waiting. It’s something that’s more and more pressing as time goes on but I just can’t bring myself to deal with it. It feels like the final goodbye.

So, Direction Change

Basically, this is going to be primarily a writing blog. Enjoy.

Here’s the first, randomness that I wrote I might turn it into a story, I might not.

I have this theory, that when you die, your body is left, but your mind, your consciousness continues on in another reality, one where you didn’t die, if a car runs your over, your mind hops to an identical reality where the car managed to break in time, if you’re killed in a home invasion your mind jumps to a reality where you remembered to lock your doors that night, or you didn’t fight back, or you fought back harder, one where you don’t die. It’s comforting I think, to imagine that he’s out there still alive somewhere, in a world where I can speak to him whenever I like, where I can call him up, or go to see him, a world where I didn’t lose him. A world where he went on to become whatever he wanted, where he wasn’t cut down so young. My theory only holds so long though, at some point you’re going to have to die for good, and who knows what would happen then, at some point even infinity can collapse down to nothing.

And even if my theory, my comforting idea is close to the mark, would you be the same person in these other worlds? Would your life be rewritten and if so would that even count as being still alive. We with every decision we make quash an infinity of potential realities, what about the decisions we don’t make? And what happens if it’s some natural cause, a bad heart, cancer, something long, do you vacate to a place where you have a few more days left? A place where the inevitable is just a few moments longer away? If so, how long until this catches up with you, and what comes after? These are the questions that keep me up at night…These are the reasons I can’t sleep anymore, this and what happens after I close my eyes, but that, I’m not ready to talk about that yet. Let’s talk about him.

I lost him, and I might as well have lost a stranger if not for how deeply it’s impacting me, I barely remember him anymore, I barely remember what we did, how we grew up, we weren’t the closest as I’ve said, but he was still my brother. My Dear brother who has existed always at the peripheries of my life, a pester, a bother, later a friend, but that much later, a friend, and then dead, ripped away, always wanted to be a cop, a firefighter, a hero, he was dark inside, hiding, lieing, schizophrenia, add, bipolar, poisoned mind. I feel as though I should know him better, we were speaking again, we were getting to know each other once more as adults but it was not enough time, it is never enough time.

My life is a quickly burning page, my memory consuming itself bit by bit. How long can I stay ahead of the flames?

My existence is a race against myself, against the encroaching darkness, the ever nearing sense of oblivion, of vagueness, events stand out bright like a chain of islands in the ocean of the past, but they erode one by one, each destabilizing the memory of the next.


I know it’s been a while, I’ve just had quite a bit going on. Including remodeling an SL house, which is harder then it sounds. Escpecially since nowhere ever seems to sell items in the color scheme I want. Hopefully I won’t be taking any more mini-hiatuses until we get deeper into the holiday season (another reason I haven’t been posting.) but we’ll see.

Anyways, for now. Until I get my mess of an inventory better sorted, here is a quick fix.


Skin: Gauze – Nude 2

Shape: Custom

Eyes: Plastik – Bloodless

Hair: Wasabi Pills – Kylee

Antlers/Ears: Half Deer – Jackalope Ears/Antlers

Pants: Plastik – Stardust Pants

Shirt: Plastik – Sulyien Tops

Shoes: Duck Nipple – Fenton

Gloves: Plastik – Lipstick Muse

Tattoos: Para Designs – Black Bloom, Plastik – Soul Ink Creep

Piercings: Ziau – Chasity

Christmas Caro

Today’s Pictures were taken with the assistance of my friend and lovely model, Caro Dragonash(Caronwynn Chau). You can check out her flickr here.


Shape: Custom
Skin: Mother Goose – Lene1
Hair: Wasabi Pills – Kylee
Teeth: Ni.Ju – Free Fangs
Eyelashes: Tameless – Lashes 22
Ears: Trap – Gelf Ears Pierced
Antlers: Vita – Reindeer Antlers
Tail: ++Panda Express++ Tail Belts are also from there, but are extra
Face Tattoos: ni.ju – Red Panda, -TSH- – Brown Animal Nose, ni.ju – Red Face Stars
Corset, Stockings, Panties, Gloves, Collar: {Frick} – Alice in Crimson
Boots: [PP] – Santa’s Girl Boots
Bangles: Origin Unknown
Whiskers: Origin Unknown

All details on furnishings can be found here.

Watch out!

There’s a new danger sweeping Second Life, a terrible threat that it’s nearly impossible to prepare for.


It could strike ANYONE at ANY TIME!


Even when you’re home alone, even when you think you’re safe.


That’s right. Roving gangs of felines!


There is unfortunately no defense against their special brand of adorableness, and no cure once affected.

Shape: Custom
Skin: Pink Fuel – Alyx – Pony (With Love Hunt, 10L)
Hair: Alice Project – Sooyoung
Eyes: Shakeup! – Paris Eyes 05 rare (Arcade December Gacha)
Necklace and Earrings: Cae – Flourish (With Love Hunt, 10L)
Jacket/Shirt: DuckNipple – Leather Jacket
Boots: DuckNipple – Fenton(New Release)
Dress/skirt: DuckNipple – With Love 2012 Dress (With Love Hunt, 10L)
Roving Cat Gang: d-lab gang Cat – Fred, Vito, Carlo (Arcade December Gacha)
Pose: D.Luxx Poses – Delights – I Do Believe in Fairies