The Grimbscribe's Puppets: Top 5

The Grimscribe's Puppets is a short story anthology collecting a variety of tales that homage the work of horror writer Thomas Ligotti. There's 22 of them, all written by different authors, and they run the gamut from garbage to excellent, and as I'm feeling both lazy, generous and rather uncertain concerning my understanding of some of the tales that I labeled as tripe, and allowing for the possibility that I'm just too dim to understand what those were really about, I'll just be writing about those I think are the best in here. The really bad ones I can count on one hand, as there really are more good than bad, but I'll only be talking about my favourite 5 anyway.

-----

First off, I haven't read much Ligotti. Specifically I've only read Teatro Grottesco, the Vastarien short story, and as of now am only about three quarters into the Conspiracy against the Human Race, but I do have a firm grasp on the ideas and themes present in the man's work.
Said themes can be rather confronting to read about. As someone who's suffered from depression and the darkness that comes with that, to this day, reading these tales has sometimes been too much, and at other times it's been almost therapeutic.
I have an affinity with this type of stuff and when I saw the lovely cover art on this one I immediately bought it, together with the Seasons in Carcosa anthology, despite me never having read all the King in Yellow short stories... I really should remedy that somewhere this year.

Now, apart from The Grimscribe's Puppets I've also read all 4 issues of the Vastarien magazine that are out right now, and I've found that, occasionally, writers who take their influence from Ligotti don't exactly tread lightly when telling their own stories, and that the themes that Ligotti subtly (but clearly) weaves throughout his fiction, will by them be splashed on the page in an explicit and sometimes even quite shocking manner. Whether this a good idea or whether this devalues the thing in the way of common shlock-sensationalism, is for each individual reader to say. Needless to say, whether this is for you or not, there are always times one just simply should stay clear of this type of fiction.That's just a little warning: If you're depressed, Ligottian fiction will find a fertile soil in you.
For some this can be a help, for others it won't be.

-----

That's just a bit of an aside. Without any more prattling from me; here are the top 5 short stories from The Grimscribe's Puppets.

5. Gailestis - Allyson Bird

     At number 5 Gailestis, by Allyson Bird, is the story of Gerda and her twin Kay, who, bereft of their parents, try to survive in relative isolation. It's a story that's got more going for it in terms of imagery  than in any competency of style or skill at storytelling. There's barely any story to speak of even. We follow around Gerda for a while, listen to her thoughts, learn of her being different from the people around her, but I'll admit, as it continued I found among its elements intriguing oddities that implied more than that they stated outright, hints of strangeness, dangers that might've been supernatural, or not, it's hard to say because the story just ends, kind of.
     I can't really say why this one's in my top 5. It was this one or Diamond Dust, which was also very good, and for some reason I chose this one. Diamond Dust was more sensational, way more active, whereas this one had something more placid going on.
     I didn't think I would like it as, at its beginning, it seemed to me to be one of those pretentious stories where the author just foregoes telling a straightforward narrative, in favour of something more experimental, with sentence structure delivered in a complicated manner, jagged and disconnected, in a way that hampers the read itself, rather than something with a coherent vision or idea in mind.
     But after a while, lo and behold, it actually clicked. Maybe it was the titillation stuff, not outright erotica mind you, but still: to imply is sometimes better than to make explicit, and there also seemed to be something definitely nefarious going on with this particular element. Anyway, whatever the reason, though there might be better stories in here, this one managed to stick in my head and so gets my fifth spot.

4. Where We Will All Be - Paul Tremblay

This one struck a chord with me.
     A young man is different from everyone around him. It's been known all his life; troubles at school required him to have consultations that eventually pin-pointed the problem; that his brain just seems to work differently. And maybe this might turn out to be a good thing. Because when Zane wakes up one day to find his father storming out the front door to join what seems to be a mass exodus of humanity, in response to a kind of summons Zane himself can not hear, he can not help but tag along on the journey, of his own accord and in curiosity, unbeholden to the terrible signal that seems to compel the rest of the teeming masses.

     It's implied that main character Zane is autistic, and that this is the reason why his brain doesn't receive the same 'signal' everyone else seems to pick up and this, of course, is quite interesting to me, as someone with Aspergers.
     But I also liked this tale because of the sheer shock and gore factor, and some very nice and nasty apocalyptic imagery at its ending.
     It also reminded me of some of Clive Barker's tales. Frequently labeled and dismissed as Splatterpunk, Barker's work often uses supernatural elements not just to horrify but also to evoke a sense of awe when finally a higher power stands revealed. Think of The Midnight Meat Train, or Cabal. Although maybe Tremblay's story has more akin to In the Hills, the Cities, where the level of gore on display is of such scale that it simply becomes awesome, and mind-numbing.
Either way, the gist of the thing is that something bigger than mankind has touched it, and in Where We Will All Be the consequences of that touch are undeniably malign, or at least inimical to humanity's well-being, and their presence can not be denied. And their demand can not be stopped.

3. Furnace - Livia Llewellyn

     Furnace is the very first story in this collection and it's a great opener, immediately hooking you with a variety of horrors.
     I've done a separate post on this one already as I didn't really expect to be giving the book its own post too, but the short story bears an extra little bit of attention nonetheless.
     There's enough stuff in here to constantly keep the reader engaged. Under the guise of the familiar 'Dying Town' theme Llewellyn introduces us to a young girl's experiences with growing up in this kind of setting. And though it might seem familiar and even a little comfortable (quite reminiscent of childhood nostalgia) at its beginning, soon we're introduced to some really horrific stuff, courtesy of the girl's grandfather, who's been keeping an eye on some of the town's stranger goings-on.
     As the townspeople move away (or disappear) from their residences, violent and shocking things begin to happen, but what might be stranger still is how that this is simply expected, as if it's not all as fucked up as it really quite obviously is. And you do get the feeling that the longer this goes on, the more reality itself will begin to unravel.
     The story's ending is quite something, though there are multiple possible explanations for what exactly might be happening. There is added value in such an ending, inviting re-reads and analysis.
And usually I can come down easily on my preferred possibility, but here I found that the two possible explanations of what was happening were both rather plausible, and genuinely interesting.
But these things operate according to their own rules in any case, so I'm not going to try to explain and instead I'll just recommend you read this one for yourself.

2. Into The Darkness, Fearlessly - John Langan

     I am absolutely going to read more of John Langan's work. There's a quality to Into The Darkness, Fearlessly that I absolutely loved, and it might be my favourite short story in here.

     "The morning after the police found the final piece of Linus Price, Wrighton Smythe, his frequent editor and occasional friend, opened the front door of his apartment and saw a manila folder lying on his doormat." Within is Linus' last work; A grammar of Dread, A Catechism of Terror, a previously not even hinted at volume, that swiftly reveals itself to be an autobiographical work, primarily focusing on the 6 last months of Linus' life. The novel is undoubtedly by Linus' hand, and following up on the mystery of who left it at his front door leads Wrightson into something more dreadful than even Linus' darkest imaginings.

     It has a great opening line, the focus on the literary world is delicious, and I absolutely adore the story conceit of a writer whose darkest work is uncovered after his death. However, I found that the finale was a bit off. Not a dud, exactly, but less than what could have been, certainly. Still, the writing is hugely enticing, and of a higher level than the bulk of contemporary authors writing today.

1. By Invisible Hands - Simon Strantzas

     By Invisible Hands sticks undoubtedly the closest to the Ligottian themes of all the stories in the anthology. The story elements of the puppet and the puppeteer rears its head once more, and though the plot might seem very straightforward, its execution is masterful nonetheless.
    A once-great puppet maker sits alone in his basement, tormented by the decline of hands once capable of crafting true masterworks. When he is requested for another project he can not help but have his reservations. But a forced visit to his would-be client makes him decide otherwise, even though he can't actually remember much from the visit itself.
     As his newest masterwork begins to take shape his old pains fade away and the joy of the craft becomes paramount. But he's losing more and more moments of his day, and whole hours pass without notice or remembrance. He seems to space out, or forget. And worst of all, there's an acute sense of dread for what comes when the puppet will be completed. And slowly the craftsman begins to understand that a dreadful revelation might be waiting for him up ahead.
     It's a great story, with uncomplicated prose, an eerie, alien atmosphere and capped off with a perfect ending, what more can I say?

-----

There's definitely more stories I could talk about, but this month's been an impossible slog for me in the writing department so I'll leave it at just giving honorable mentions to Diamond Dust, The Human Moth, The Lord Came at Twilight, Basement Angels, The Holiness of Desolation, The Prosthesis and Oubliette.

The Storyteller

This art, by Eric Powell, who is, coincidentally, also the artist responsible for The Goon (see previous post's art), is the final page of a short but incredibly poignant Conan comic.
It is in every way the ending to the story and thus obviously constitutes a major spoiler if you're interested in reading it but as it's really quite a short tale, only tangentially related to the Dark Horse Conan series, and a one-off at that, I'm of the opinion that it isn't necessary to be up to date or even to be familiar with Conan as a character to get the gist of what is being presented. More than that, this page on its own, as a whole, speaks volumes.

During the last days of the year the more morbidly inclined of us (or those more thoughtful than others) traditionally tend to dwell on the lingering pain of the past and the sorrows yet to come.
And sorrow will come because logic and reason dictates us that it will. Pain is an inescapable part of the human condition. We suffer from loss, loneliness, guilt, feelings of inadequacy, from having no purpose, no direction, from a sheer host of anxieties and uncertainties and, at times, things can get awfully bleak. And for some of us, overwhelmingly so.

Robert E. Howard wrote many stories and has had an incalculable influence on the fantasy genre as a whole. He created Conan, the world's most famous barbarian. A character around which entire libraries' worth of books, fiction and non-fiction, have sprung up. The Conan stories themselves however number relatively few. There aren't many of them. And the panel above comes from a story called The Storyteller that was never even written by Howard.

He could've written it, maybe, but we'll never know, because Robert E. Howard committed suicide at the age of 30. He shot himself in the head, after he had received news that his mother had slipped into a coma from which she would never regain consciousness.
Despite the choice of his way out, he didn't die instantaneously and lived for another 8 hours. His mother only died the next day.

In The Storyteller, through the medium of dispassionate but earnest narration, we are introduced to our tragic protagonist as he works on his father's farm, uncomplainingly doing his duty, providing the hard labour that his father has ceased being able to provide, all the while dreaming of the wider world stretching out around him, the colourful characters it might contain and the wild and dangerous adventures they undoubtedly have.

 In the evening, at the tavern, fuelled by the stories of travelers, he spins his tales and shares his dreams to a rapt and appreciative audience.

But this very imagination sets him apart and though his audience cheers and gasps in all the right places, it also silently calls him touched, it calls him fool, and for his virtue, they demean him.

Knowing he will never have his own adventures the young nonetheless sets out to do what is expected of him.

And then a barbarian rides into town dragging his own wild and dangerous adventure with him.
As a priest casts a spell to keep the monsters out for as long as possible the barbarian commands the townspeople to fight alongside him as their village is threatened to be overrun by slavering monstrosities.

And for a time, through violence and bloodshed, the monsters are held at bay.

Until the moment when our young storyteller remembers the stories told to him by others, by those already familiar with the darker creatures of the world.

And so, the boy tries to rally his fellows to prevent what is a certain doom. 

But, they ignore him.

Dismiss him.

He is the storyteller, the fool, so his warning is just another tale, and not to be taken seriously.

And so, without options, the boy does his duty.

And while the battle rages outside, he goes to the mine on his own.

Where his worst fear meets him with tooth and claw.

And the night wears on and the desperation grows on all fronts 

In the face of fear and certain death, there are incredible acts of bravery and courage as men fight for their lives, for their families and all that they have.

And when the sun's earliest rays finally bathe the besieged village, their brightness burns away the horrors of the night.

 And as the men rejoice it is noticed that the young storyteller is not among them. He is presumed to have fled.

They don't find his body for two weeks. Having sought some privacy, two young lovers find his bruised and battered body in the mine where he made his stand.

He fought long enough to prevent most of the monsters from getting past him until they rushed out into the sunlight. With only gashes and a nicked and dented sword as evidence of having done his duty, they name him coward. Madboy.

And as the story closes, the dispassionate narration reveals itself to be filled with hidden feeling. With respect and admiration, and sorrow. It acknowledges the skill, passion and creativity of the dead boy, even if nobody else ever will.

At its close, the Storyteller reveals itself as a lament for the stories never told, and a lament for those that didn't get to tell them. A lament for Howard who could have written so much more. It's not an accident that the boy was drawn in his likeness.

I read the tale a week ago, when I was stuck in one of the worst periods in memory, and it served me well. It reminded me that people still love me, and that they love the things that I do, and that I shouldn't take my love, my promise and potential away from them.

We all have stories, we all have creativity to share and though I'm not exactly planning on writing any novels, I think I'll stick around and keep being creative for a while yet.

Hurray, another bad day.

An off day. A bad day. Went full autistic again. Total relapse.

Maybe too little sleep, maybe it's exhaustion from straining my body too much.
Maybe it's a bad memory. Maybe it's a new one; some new emotional hang-up, or maybe an old one come back howling out from under the carpet where I thought I'd dragged its sweating corpse...
Maybe it's insignificant, or should be, some unexpected thing that throws a wrench in the works, some stray comment or something I don't understand, or misinterpret. Something I want, but don't get. Fuck it, I don't know. Don't really want to look at it.

All it takes is for me to get stuck in my own mind, to have the part of me that knows it's all inevitable and pointless to be in the ascendant, and everything goes to shit. How we get there really doesn't matter. It happens. I lose. I fail.

I try to just move. Kick myself into the work, just get out there and get busy. But the slightest thing will throw me into a state of acute despair. I can't reach out, and I can't ask. My tongue is limp, my mouth is sewn shut.

I spiral into myself. Negativity reigns and it blots out my vision. What's in front of me loses its focus as my demons start to feed. They gorge themselves on the screaming void, this thing that enables my own personal reality of madness, and Self-Pity and Self-Hate become the almighty primes.
Half-formed questions circle them, coasting on the waves of their hellborn radiance. Why can't anybody see, why can't they reach out, why can't I, why do I keep feeling this way? I don't want this, I know it's not right but I can't stop, I can't alter it, can't change it, I don't even really want to because then I wouldn't even be me but then I just remain miserable. But being yourself is key in all things right? It is the key to self-reliant happiness that all the stories talk about, but what if your mind is the thing that makes you so unhappy, what do you do then? It's not even always there, but my god when it is, it takes over absolutely everything.

There's no sure-fire way to stop this spiral, no real way that isn't escapism or ostrich tactics, and if it takes too long, this miasma of seething spleen becomes a big ball of 'fuck it'.
I don't decide this. Some normal part of my mind just elopes to some forgotten place while the other part dismisses thought altogether and decides to take my body for a walk. It's the fight or flight response, but I do nothing but fighting these days, so in this moment it's time to flee, to get away from this place that has been polluted by my self-indulgent misery. I can't be here, damn the consequences, nothing's worse than being here, in this mindset. Fuck any and all fallout that will come from this atomic bomb, I don't care, I deserve the worst, I deserve your uncomprehending, self-righteous hate and I deserve whatever you might throw at me. I'll welcome it with a smile, even as my heart is breaking, even as future tears, yet more self-indulgence to sup on at a later time, start welling up from my slowly fracturing outward impassivity.

So leave. Run, you coward. Hide your face, the naked shock writ large, the appalled frustration and the teary-eyed helplessness at it all. But, be aware. Going home could be worse, so think of contingencies. What to do, go somewhere, do something? Make a plan, run with it, keep moving, because the quiet will swallow you whole, and then comes the screaming. Then comes the rage and the howling injustice of it all. Then comes the hate and the pain, and those are guaranteed to escalate. So keep busy. Don't think. Don't imagine. The mind out from behind your eyes. Crush it, stop it. Deny its endless circling.

Go do something.

-----

I don't know why I still fight to be a part of things, to be a part of a group, to have a place and be normal.

Regression is inevitable. Given enough time, I always relapse.

You know, maybe this is good thing. Why bother to be anything other than this; isn't this my truest self, this dark thing shouting into a corner, so uncomfortable with everybody else.
The problem is that I'm too aware of it. I look around, I look at others, and envy can not help but be a part of me. It is a fucking poison and I'm tired of it.
Sometimes I can harness it, use it as a goad for change, but on days like today, where I'm too aware of how insurmountable it is and of how some things just can't be altered, it gets to be too much and all it does is trip me up and bring me down.

So. Yeah, I don't know.
I think I need some space, take a step back.

A day

Alright then. Let's talk, see where this goes.

My eyes fucking hurt.
Thought it was a lack of good sleep, but as I slept 2 hours this afternoon I'm thinking that really isn't it. More likely, it's just the glasses: I switched back to my old ones as the whorled ones give me headaches. They're clear, and when I put 'em on the first time I had the impression they're sharper than what I normally wear. But there's obviously some strain.
Is it alcohol? No; I only had a shot yesterday, and a shot today, after which in both occasions I decided to do other stuff. And besides, it's not as if alcohol's all that enjoyable when your eyes are burning constantly, so that's locked up for today.
That burning does feel like lack of sleep though. I woke up at 5, because of worry. I couldn't sleep anymore for a little while, and I don't know how long I was up. The sounds of birds, and worry.
The pain is also at least in part because of that cold that had the misfortune to come barging in during one of my worst periods in recent memory. I don't let up so there's no calm for it to go away. It saps my strength and makes me tired, and that's okay because it clots some of the negativity and appeases some self-destructive urges.
Though not all of them.
I've gone back to running again, only a few days as of yet, but the body gets more exercise all-over than if I'd just use the home-trainer. It grinds my throat and I almost welcome it. There's a part of me that is horrified at the stabbing in my chest, and a larger part that just welcomes it with fatalistic contentment. They've come a few times over the past months, mostly during times when I've gone way past the bounds of self-improvement and straight into the realm of punishment. Is it my lungs, is it my heart, or am I imagining things?
The running also makes me feel as if I am doing something, reaching out, even if it's only to god, or something. Something that might help me, and give me something I won't get if I just sit around the house all day. A miracle that'll turn my life around.

Went to town this morning. Guess anxiety about going out the door isn't that terrifying as waiting for the hammer to fall. You see, I've done something stupid, and I've acted childish, and now I'm both cheerful in a suspended state of waiting, cheerful because that's the best I can do because where what comes next isn't up to me, unless of course I bite the bullet, for bad or worse, and I genuinely don't know here, and reach out first.
I'm also living in a constant state of self-reproach, except, it's not that at all. I wouldn't take it back if I could. I do want to see where this goes. I tend to see the past and what I did as done is done. I dine well on my mistakes, I turn them over and over, imagining hurt and sup on it like it is all I could ever wish for. Except I don't wish for anything, nothing specific at least.
I've done something and I want to see what happens, see the train derail or miraculously right itself.
Jesus Christ; it's like I'm in love. I remember a time well on over 10 years ago where I felt the same anxiety and where I let situations play out the very same way. You poke the bear, kick over the hornet's nest, hurl insults and let the rage and pain boil over, and then just wait, and you stew.
Thing is though: I'm not in love. It's just... do I want something? I honestly don't know anymore, it's been a while since I felt clear-headed.
It's kind of horrifying though, to see there's been no growth, no change in how I do certain things. I'm blind to the reasons, or maybe I'm just fooling myself.

Derailing here too, I see.
Yes, I went to town, as I needed a 20 euro note for the import tax for when  Lankhmar book 2 arrives from Centipede Press in a week or a day, who knows, not that I'm actually looking forward to it anymore; it's become rote already, and there's no joy to be had, fall into the pattern, hear the familiar noise, see the expected sight. It'll be a pretty book though.
I also needed a new 20 euro phone as the one I use now, in lieu of my smartphone because I'm stubborn, has a massive crack in the screen, making it a little hard to see messages or even check the time. I didn't get one though, as I couldn't find one I wanted without asking for help from any of the attendants, and that obviously wasn't going to happen.
So I went home with only the note. There's no true sense of failure though, as I can't really bring myself to care.

Came in, stripped, and sat in the sun while reading Red Country, which is turning out to be quite acceptable misery-porn, though its quality isn't near the level of its predecessors yet, and I'm already 200 pages in. Abercrombie's style, lauded by one and all, is just okay to me, and here it is distinctly subpar in comparison to previous efforts. There's a few bright spots as we get to some violence, though it doesn't pack the expected punch, and though the hints of romance are riveting; he has a track record for letting them end like garbage, so I'm feeling a little muted on this one already. I'm a romantic, I guess, at least if it's in fiction, so Abercrombie's never going to be a favourite, even if I can appreciate what he's doing.

I am constantly distracted, a nervous energy doesn't allow me to sit still for too long.
I tell myself it doesn't matter, and it does feel that way; I can't do anything so there's an odd sort of peace. But it's only a kind of, as I check and re-check the social media I'll allow myself to check, because I expect and yet know not to expect.

You don't ask, you don't reach out, because you're weak all over, and to have that last bastion of strength fall away from you, even if it's only appearance, that would be unbearable.
There would be nothing left.

The day is hot, sun blazing down. I tan away the ridiculous outdoor worker tan lines, or try, and walk around tohalfheartedly clean the pool. I would so love to swim again, and I was asked to clean so I fill my life with another's desire and things settle down as I adhere to command. I listen to music while fishing the waters for detritus. When Woodkid comes on I'm pleased, but soon the given emotions start to ache, and they begin to taste of loss and failure. I turn the player off and read some more. I begin to choke.
At three I go sleep, because everything's better than this state of being. Lose yourself in a dream or two, or let the time pass in nothingness.
I dreamed but I can't remember what anymore.

I'll have gone out three times today before I go to bed again. Once to town. Once to the store to buy bread, cheese and booze. Booze that I'm actually not really interested in, but it's all I can count on. And lastly, to exercise. That'll be later, when it is dark.

I started playing Wolfenstein 2 and If I didn't feel so disconnected and gritty, I'd love it. It is bad-ass and it is already emotional. It is mayhem and pure wanton carnage. BJ Blazkowicz is such a likable protagonist; a softly whispering bear, monologueing poetic turns of phrase, filled with love for his friends and his wife, and a shockingly blasé attitude towards doing horrific violence. TowardsNazis though, so it's all good.
But my eyes sting and my PS4 sounds like it's about to explode, as it is warm up here, and it's got a few years under its belt, so I quit for the day.

I sit down to write. It helps.
An hour wiles away.
It helped.

Dark enough now.
Time to go out, and hope for a miracle.

Update. And a long-ass wait ahead.

Spent my Friday evening presiding over the carcass of yet another animal being dismantled, this time a boar.

A case of being prepared, he says, a case of having the skills should they be needed.

So we hoist it up, and he demonstrates what he has learned.

It's a slow process, but at the very least, a satisfying one.

For me too, though I don't do any cutting.

I'm in a dark place still, and the company helps.

I'm still not out of it, but here at least, I thought at the time, I'm not doing any damage to myself.

This type of silence keeps me away from the dangerous kind. There's a slight bit of tequila to remove some more self-awareness and to exist more in the moment. The fire is hot, the glowing wood dazzling.

So I sit closer and let the heat wash over me.

The fire takes over, and it is beautiful.

It's definitely a special moment, but I'm aware that I'm brittle, and that soon I'll be alone.

And that's gonna get problematic.

And indeed, later on, in the dangerous quiet, the old demons come howling back.

So I go for a run, and despite a distinctly blurry left eye, an after-effect from lack of sleep and some tequila, I thought hopefully, it was a pretty good run. Not too much trouble from my right foot, where years and years ago I tore my ligaments. I can feel it, but it doesn't hurt enough to make me stop.

The blurry eye is annoying though, but I figure, a good night's sleep will fix that right up.

But, the day after, the blurriness persists and around noon I realize that my eye isn't the place where something is amiss, and that rather; something is wrong with my glasses.

The left lens, plastic 'cause glasses fall a lot you know, has slightly melted, so that there is an infinitely small whorling pattern on the outside, practically invisible if you look at it straight on. But very definitely noticeable over sustained normal use. Noticeable, and migraine-inducing.

It's bad enough, in fact, that I need a replacement.

So then, fast forward half a day and I still haven't been able to go out the front door.

Anxiety has held me close.

But somehow, somewhere after 4, I manage to extract myself from a very familiar mire of self-pity and terror, to make my way through the crowds of Hasselt centre to the store I went last time.

Huggin' and Kissin' helped. I fucking love that song.

So I did the business, but like an idiot I bought new glasses, rather than ask them to replace the lenses themselves, Mainly because it's hard to open my mouth and explain any particulars so I rather just let myself glide along on what is expected and what is easy, and partially because I figured it had been 2 years since the last change and the money would've been just about the same. I figured, wrongly, that this would also be quicker.

Yes. It obviously, in every conceivable scenario, couldn't possibly be any quicker.

 And on top of that, I got to pick an extra pair free of charge, to be converted into sunglasses, or not; my choice.

So I did. And I didn't think about that this might just add some extra time to the whole process.

And now I have to wait 2 weeks until my order is done.

I have to wait two weeks.

And my left eye is already in full-on squint mode.

The moral of this story is, if there is one;

Conquering one's own demons, even temporarily and knowing they're not gone and'll pop up in the future, doesn't mean one is instantaneously rewarded.

It's a god damn never-ending struggle to keep going forward.

Inching towards daylight, while a monster has its claws in your back and keeps dragging you back down the long dark tunnel you've been stuck in for already too long.

-----

Whatever, hope you have a good day.

Update the Second

Obviously, anything like normalcy has gone right out the window. If you came here for the books, you're gonna get a right rotten shower.

Although I'm almost at the point where I'm removed from the madness and self-pity enough to share stuff about books again. Because, believe you me, I do have stuff I'm interested in.

I was listening to Extreme Ways earlier, and Jesus, has this ever been so applicable?

Although, I had a feeling right now as if I was healing myself. As if there's a way past the mouth of hell and past those Extreme Ways Moby is talking about. And if you've been paying attention to what I wrote in the past, you might get exactly what he is talking about here.

To get back to the self-healing: It's not talking, it's not introspection, it's not the slow methodical reveal of self-knowledge.
Self-knowledge doesn't help, it never does, particularly if one is inclined to self-hate.

But flat-out escapism does help though.
What is escapism though?
It is the forgetting of self through the medium of not-you. Of being engrossed, being enticed, sucked in by truths and sentiments that are in no way informed by you.

Music is one of the best ways of doing it, and if you add drink to that, then oh boy, you're halfway done already.

There's nothing like giving yourself over to a mood shaped, crafted by another mind, no; to a team of minds, of minds feeling, expressing that feeling, that sentiment to you, through beat, through rhythm through beauty. But then even that word, 'beauty' falls short. Whatever you get out of this transcends nomenclature, description and labels; music shapes you, in the moment, your identity is effaced and exists only in that point in time, regardless of the darkness that has come before. Their input becomes your being. It is glory, it is magic.
Rage, sadness and self-pity become nothing, become melancholy, become love, become an endlessness of possibility.
A mind ready for rewrite. A blank page, exulting in its own absence of origins. No past, no future, no self.

There's only the rhythm and the mood. A blissful unawareness of self, this is the only thing that'll save us, that'll save me.

Nothing but potential.

Update

During times like this if for whatever reason, you can't get at the root of the problem, it's best to just to keep your mind off of it and keep busy.

During work days this is easy. I just pick the hardest, most physically demanding part of the day's jobs and just go with that. You tire yourself, in the moment and for after. I'm probably shaving weeks off of my life and reducing the good years I'm getting out of my back, but for now it suits me and gives me what I need. If there's only tedious small stuff to do it's a little problematic, and the mind inevitably starts to go to places I'd rather not have it go. But the real trouble starts when I get home, the second I walk through the front door, from a still glaringly sunlit street straight into a dark and cool corridor.
It should feel nice, but instead it feels like a death-knell, like I'm slipping, as if there's horror ahead, and I have no way back to the real world except right through the heart of it, and I can't get away from it and I'm afraid it's going to swallow me whole.
From being busy, being in the noise and a part of the movements of others, into a quiet time in complete immobility that's open for whatever I would want to do. The possibilities are endless.
Problem is though, besides my rampant introversion and the white-hot label of Aspergers, there's nothing I want to do. I look at my days, and the joy has leeched out of all of it. Books aren't interesting anymore, games are childish, trite and vacant, movies are just the flavour of the month and they won't last beyond their run-time, credits roll and I'm back in hell. I don't want to eat, I don't even want to drink. Alcohol, I mean. It's not just the loss of self-control, sometimes so comforting, so blissful. It's just... it's gone stale.

It's all gone stale.

As usual, I don't want to go anywhere. I don't know though, maybe I'd like to see the ocean, or just the sea. Come out on top of a dune and just see it ahead of me, salt on the wind, surf in my ears. It's nostalgia, maybe. Maybe it's the power of the thing itself, an unending strength and a complete indifference.

But mostly I just want to sit here and churn out scenarios, pleasing and enabling. But the rhythm of my thoughts turns into endless self-denial, and then comes the darkness. The teeth of despair grind and masticate, and all they needed was just the tiniest reminder. A pebble bouncing into the gorge of my loneliness, and soon the gentle click-clacking of momentary comfort turns into the hellish din of multitudinous needs and wants.
So, besides even taking into account what it does for my sanity on the whole, these days there's no lasting comfort to be had from this type of stuff.

Imagination is good and well, and it can help, but this particular brand of it, insidious as it is, constantly there, constantly handing you the perfect lifeline, it's all you want and it's so enticingly easy, so perfectly tailored for you, flaws and all, the flaws that heighten, the flaws that make it sweet: this will ruin you. If it hasn't already.

Is this indeed not already besides the point? Why argue, why reason; It's not as if I exert control over it. I rage in denial, but scant seconds later, there are the eyes that stare and the voice that beckons, and I can't hold off and it's impossible not to give in, to the trap of perfect comfort, to this infinitely gentle assuaging of need.

Your mind is your best friend, or it should be, and what it suggests, what it gives you, is your reality. Deny that too long and you'll go crazy. To argue with it, deny what it suggests, over and over again, is tantamount to physical self-harm. But it is actually worse, because your mind is your foundation, and if that starts to crumble, there's not a wall that'll be left standing.
The mind too aware of itself becomes insane. It is, inevitably, an entity at war with itself. It shakes itself apart, and all that can stop it is a joining, a unification of thought and action. Or, you just blot it out, however you can.

So you need stop thinking about it, and you try. You keep your mind off it, and you keep busy.

So here I sit in silence, and here I sit alone. Writing about it instead.

Shit.

A bad time

I have periods where I just completely self-destruct.
Where logic goes out the window and I do my unhinged best to just give up.
Self-harm in many flavours. This day it was rather beyond what I usually go through though.

Like Ventriss says: You don't suicide, you self destruct.
But this is of course wrong; you self-destruct, but only until you suicide.

The last 14 hours have been apalling.

And then suddenly it was over. For some reason, it wasn't all that bad anymore. You catch sight of something in the mirror and you flash a grin, and maybe it is self-conscious, maybe it is embarrassed. Because here we are again; staggering back from the mouth of Hell. The same type of mad careering dash, heedless of the consequence. You've teetered on the brink for an endless night again.

But you didn't claw back from that brink, oh no. Because you tempted it. You wanted it. There was no struggle to hold on. Because this is where it's going to end. Again and again, you know, you say; this, here, is where it ends. So why not now? Go on, do it. No hope; recognize it and stop. Endless words, endless self-punishing rhethoric, and the same age-old hurts cut open again and again. And in the awful silence, devoid of friendly words, the friendly face, the love so desperately needed, you rage, you coax, you beg, you cry. And it's just a breath away, so you don't stop, so you don't let up. It's out of control, this steady hate and sadness. This lonely, hateful sadness. You beg for it to end. Help me. Don't help me. Help me.

See me. Feel me. love me.

Save me.

Please.

And then: No. Silence and only the thud and throb of your private thoughts. Your hate. Your sadness. They're there and they're the only constant. And that's fine because this is where it stops, you can't bear any more, it's too much. Rage and shivering fear and such all-encompassing sadness, and you want the end.
The night goes on, and on, and on. And then all of a sudden that fire of self-hate, this thing that you thought boundless, this infinity of crazed self-maligning, is snuffed out.

It is as miraculous as it is awful.
This thing that was so real, so terrible, so all-consuming, is gone.

There is a grin on your face as you stare at your wracked complexion.
Because there is a secret delight. A secret pride.
See this? I'm still here. See what lies behind me? Do you see this monster on my back? I dare you to carry it a mile. And you won't make it. Because you are not me. You could not bear it. I am strong this way. You think this is new, you think this is impossible?
I have carried this all my life.

And I have contempt for your pity, and I rage at your love.
I don't need you.

Logically, rationally, you still don't hope. But you don't deny either: come what may.
It is human nature. We burn bright. We flash. No matter how hard these emotions might rage; they burn out, they ebb. But they'll come again. And then it'll be dark times again. Back at the mouth of Hell, gazing at its enticing glow.
And we might slip, we might fall. Maybe, we even jump. We might go over, see the bottom. Touch it, embrace it, kiss it. Be warmed by the fires, by oblivion, by come what may here too.

But not right now.
Cause fuck that shit.

Movie appreciation: Filth

One of my Favourite movies to watch while drunk is Filth. And that should tell you a lot about me.
There's not much more satisfying than watching a man that isn't me commit to absolute self-destruction. (As long as it's fictional, of course.) It's a reminder of how far some tendencies can go, how depression and trauma can ruin a man, and a warning and admonishment to whoever indulges in this type of self-harm to slow the fuck down, by holding up a twisted mirror that shows where that path ultimately leads.
It makes me roar with vindictive, hateful laughter one moment and huddle in heart aching silence the next.

James McAvoy is brilliant, just as he always is, but Filth takes him all the way. It shoves him into the skin of a man who has lost all control and who is barely hanging on by the skin of his teeth. There's a sick fascination watching him abuse everyone around him, hurting them, lashing out, belittling and demeaning, doing as much damage, insidious or overt, as much as he possible can.
McAvoy gives a performance that is unhinged and the longer the movie goes on, the more out of control he gets. There comes a point where you're just watching the movie, waiting for him to go off the rails and to plow headfirst into the dirt.

The moments where he isn't a bastard he is stuck in such a deep well of misery it can only demand pity. And to then watch him snap himself out of that misery, clawing himself out of utter vulnerability back into a state of black hate, is deeply disturbing, it is a terrific portrayal of one man's utter self-hating war and a mind come undone.

The despair and misery is on counterpoint to upbeat music that manages to just barely bury the horror and revulsion beneath the surface level. I mentioned before somewhere that if a music score is good, the movie will likely sweep me along regardless of what's on display and it's the same here. It wouldn't be acceptable without it.

Filth is inspired by Irvine Welsh's novel of the same name with many references to his other novels. I'm reliably informed that, as is usual for these things, the movie doesn't hold a candle to the book but hey, that's okay, I'm good and comfortable with this.

Street Art

I've taken some pictures of some street art I've walked, or more accurately, cycled past a lot of times over the years.

It's one of those quick spurts of graffiti that gets almost idly sprayed on public utilities, you know them, you've seen them; the small irritating acts of vandalism, like a fruit fly gently droning around, that are annoying but ultimately not worth the effort of the cleanup.

It translates as 'Fill the Void' and for the longest time I just took it as a scathing indictment of television and assorted fiction, of all the couch potatoes sprawled in fattening comfort on sofas, after a hard day at work, stuffing themselves full to the gullet with utter time-filling nonsense of others' making, too weary to think and content to just lap it up, the brainless zombies of the information age.

But, somewhere along the line it's taken on a different meaning. The brainless cavity of the head has lost its central focus and what remains instead is the television and the words.

Where once they were critique, now they've become guideline.

They've taken on the hue of advice and they come as an offer of help. 

Because it knows that everyone has that dark void; the terrifying thing that makes us reach out, in an effort to fill it, to satisfy the hunger, to blot out the ache that tells us we're incomplete. The social animal of man, most content to extract the much needed meaning and satisfaction from its daily tanglings with those most like himself, when left alone becomes an ugly, desperate thing and gorges himself on whatever has the ability to occupy him and make his crippling loneliness fade in the pound of its sensory input. 

He takes it and goes forward because he finds that with the distraction the hours begin to fade and that soon the intricate dance of spheres will get to continue. Because he's an object and they are objects and all are caught in the mutual pull. They dance a dance of gratifying and satisfying in mutual self-affirming existence, those spheres that orbit because they resemble himself most of all, enabling and comforting.

Sometimes they move in near, sometimes they remain far.

Sometimes those divine, celestial bodies grind close with delirious need, and the gravitational havoc they play on eachother eclipses the rest of the dark, cold void.

And sometimes they hurtle out of eachother's influence and vanish from sight, leaving only that same void to stare at, now all the more darker. But there are always more bodies, and the void can always be filled again.

Some of us don't dance, we are unable to or we don't want to.

 So instead we turn to other things: Television, books, comics, art, food, religion, whatever. It becomes the focus and we fill our lives to the brim with the meaning we endow them with.

I look above at the planets at play with fleeting envy and eternal hate and I grimly smile.

One way or another, sooner or later, we all end up desperately filling the void.

As I said, it's started to look like advice.

But then of course, if you look at what's drawn on the side...

Definitely a critique.

And here, from the pages of Hack/Slash, submitted without comment, because it isn't relevant at all in any conceivable way whatsoever:

Hate in the hidden places

One of the things that brings me down the most, is that however much you have to fight to stay alive, to find something to hang onto in order to prevent yourself from committing suicide and take that seemingly easy-looking way out, a short road with an absolutely final stop, far away from all the things that plague you, if you look at the responses of other people, or rather the lack of them, it becomes clear that all of that effort, all of that pain, stays very much hidden in the shadows. And the questions pile up.
How can it be that this deep a well of misery is not glimpsed, why can I not be saved, why do I not gain your pity, your compassion and your love? I want to, I'm looking for response, I'm here again, after all. But the air remains silent, as there are no words to reverberate the needed comfort.
And I know this is all my fault.

It is because ultimately, you can not just share. The average person does not understand this state of mind. We are all susceptible to loss and pain, and grief is a natural element of human life. But it's a different thing entirely when your mind turns against you, when it sends you and it tumbling headlong into a state that is so inimical to itself. A state that chews at all these things, the very fabric of you, something so helplessly dangerous that lashes out at everything and looks at this self-loving image you've so laboriously constructed for yourself and shreds it into a host of ugly self-hating truths.

You don't share, you don't reach out, because people can not really comprehend. They will mock or laugh, shrug it off or worst of all; they will offer their well-meaning but oh so very god damn inadequate help. So, you shut up, and you lock up the screams behind gritted teeth and make them believe you'll just get through it on your own. You are distant, immovable and cold. And playing into their conceptions of you, you pretend to get through it on your own.
And then you do.
And, over the years, you do it again and again. But they don't know how heavy this is, the horrible  draining weight of it, or how often the glass cuts and how much the open window beckons.

But then the other side of that well-rubbed coin reveals itself. The age-old reproach to those who opt out: How can you do that to those you leave behind?
To those who mop up the stains, pack up your things and sign all the documents. What of the damage and the pain to their minds that your horrific passing brings?

It is a reproach that fills me with a loud and rabid hatred.

As if this is not a pain I feel every time. Every day I contemplate suicide is a day I make myself feel these things, where, willing or not, these visions present themselves to me in a rotten yarn of self-punishing thought. There is so much hate and despair making up the twine of all these disparate cords, five for each of you, and more besides for some, all these things tied into the various scenarios as horrific as my imagination can conjure them. And the tangle of my imagination runs despairingly wide.

And there is no help, and there is no help, and there is no help and I am left with only hate.

There is no help and I hate you all.

-----

Reach out, share and get help, is that not always the thing that is prescribed for those suffering from depression?

Get help?

Go fuck yourself. I'm going to have a drink and finally play some Assassin's Creed Origins.

And no, despite opening with a plea for compassion, you can keep that hairy hug of love and choke on it. I don't want it.

...

In other news, I've been busy with another in-depth Fantasy Masterwork review, this time for the Song of Kali by Dan Simmons.

It's been fun and fascinating, reading up on the various influences and backgrounds to the novel trying to construct an in-depth, readable compendium of information on the novel, but in the idle moments of the day I get dragged down just a little bit more until at the end of the day I always end up stuck in a very dark place.

In the morning there is still hope, and only occasionally one is plagued by shocks of anguish, but the more time passes, the more those moments last and become more forceful. Until, here now, where it has become a constant whimpering, whining barrage of self-defeating despair.

I had a drink and am now just waiting for this fucker to finish installing, is why I am here and I'm still typing.

What type of drink, you ask?

Well, normally I'm a rum man but for some reason I bought something sweet this week.

...

...

...

Fuck, yes, finally.

Laters.

And no. No, shut up and leave me be. Comments will be deleted.

 Though the read is very much appreciated.

Edit: To share the pain one feels is to inflict that pain on others, even if it is just a fraction of the depths that it plummets. Another reason to hug it close is what I'm saying. Others might say they're open to hearing, to helping, but those are just words. Pain is pain, nobody really wants it.
And maybe some people don't want to be helped.

"Klop Hartje, klop."

Disclaimer: Despite initial appearances, this isn't actually about Cabal. It's about coping with mental illness, day by day.
I've tried to give as clear and structured an account as possible, but, as I'm rather tired and as I've written this in a few hours at the end of an emotionally draining and physically hard-as-balls day, it has become rather reductive and has ended up with tunnel-vison focus, or something. Might come back and edit, but I hope not. Once is enough.

Yeah, no. I came back and edited the shit out of it. I didn't leave anything out though, but I added some stuff and re-phrased certain lines I wasn't happy with.

-----

I was reading Clive Barker's Cabal in preparation for a horror-novel review for Halloween.
I picked a Barker story because I really quite enjoyed his Books of Blood and because despite the fact that he's on my list of favourite writers, I haven't actually read much by him: The Hellbound Heart, Infernal Parade (which isn't even much of a short story anthology to be honest), the Next Testament comics and the 6 Books of Blood themselves. I wanted something similar to the Blood. I still had Weaveworld on my TBR-shelves, from that visit to the Grim Bookshop, but that seemed a little too big to just pick up and start to read, I'm also vaguely aware it isn't straight-up horror. I promise myself I'll get to it one of these days.

So then, because of my experience with the Books of Blood I picked up Cabal, a 200 page novella that I'm hoping will be in the same vein as those books.
The Books of Blood were visceral, gory and memorably horrific and yet... There was an odd beauty to them, a poetry shining through out of a messy and unique voice. And I'm here for that voice, the voice of someone who stands apart from the run-of the mill crowd of horror writers. With horror on the page without it being a choice, because it sells or because it's easy, a chosen outlet, but rather someone for whom it just naturally comes out as horror, the writing without because of the demons within.

And then I started to read Cabal and the first three chapters are about mental illness...

Now, I had a rough day, in my own head at least. I was just looking for some horror. Didn't expect this, wasn't looking for this, and the question then arises; If I had known this was going to look so familiar, would I have picked Cabal to read right now?

You see, as a child I was diagnosed with Aspergers, a form of Autism. Mild.

Personally, I've always rejected that label for myself. Stamped on me by doctors looking from without, unable to look within, because I wouldn't let them. Because I, at the time, thought I was manipulating them, steering them away from where I didn't want them to go. Or from where I did not want to go. I thought this, because, in this time, I was aware of what I was doing, and I thought that I actually controlled my actions. Nothing took over and I still knew myself, I was aware of myself, so I thought I was still in control. I let it happen, because I chose to, chose to go along with the ride.
These days I wonder how much choice I actually had in these moments. Likely, no choice at all.

Intensely introspective, over the years I've reasoned away any and all appellations and labels put on me, because, after all, who can see in another's mind? And besides, I change, like we all do, from moment to moment. Every impulse from without alters the within. Again, this is something I've mentioned before here on the blog; identity as something illusory, man made up out of chemical reactions only,  and things along those lines, and so on and on. I've felt, so many times, that I have no identity and only fancies and responses to outward stimuli. Even books, the supposedly so great, magnificent thing in my life, is part of this. It came from somewhere and it stayed out of expediency, out of 'Why not just go along with it, you've got it now...' and 'It's useful at least...'.
But, to cut that line of reasoning right short, the appellations and the labels... Maybe there might be something to them, after all.

Because, despite my determination to reason my way out of all the bullshit, after all those years of self-placating argumentation, all the endless, cyclical reasoning, with all those well-worn tracks, all those roads of hurtful self-knowledge that were supposed to aid rather than pain, I still always end up in mental anguish. Breakdown after breakdown, some small, some severe. Most all of them, hidden, kept to myself, in myself.

It's rough and painful and I know it's mostly in my head. But it's how I respond and I can't help it.
It's how I seem to be.

These days, because of a steady and semi-regular association with a group of individuals in my work-space, I find myself quite unable to cope.
I come home and I crash. Alot. Several days a week.
I come home and I take the day home with me. I take those people home with me. They come in my mind, in my wake, in the trail of mud left by my shoes, like ghosts tracked into my house, on chains strung from my back and, heavily, they settle on my shoulders, like the tormenting spirit Kludde, grinning in teeth-clenched, sadist delight. And they are the grievances and the slights, the hurts and the pains. They are all the perceived and imaginary things that get me down because my thoughts never cease.
Emotions rage and howl and when it's done, when I've burnt myself out I find I'm unsure why. I know I do it to myself. I can see the edges, I can feel the cause but it's so unclear and I might as well have, indeed, imagined it.

But what is real and what is imagined? I pride myself on my reasoning and my perception and that I'm mostly right about what I see and what I know, and the conclusions I continuously draw. But maybe I'm not, maybe I'm far less perceptive than I'd even like admit here. It's a thought  that's difficult to entertain.

I don't believe I have autism, I never did. I believe I have something else, but I'll be buggered if I can actually name it.

So, the mess in my head comes home with me, and it defines my days and I find I have no control.

But I cope. Somehow.
Like everyone, I have things I do. Things I seem to like, things that bury the day-to-day angst and anxiety:

Alcohol. Comes with its own problems. But I can cope.

But mostly: Fiction.

For the thing I want most: books, stories, long-form fiction, I need to be clear-headed. With my head unfilled by a day like today. On the days off from work, uncluttered by the fallout from social interaction and all its myriad pit-falls, I have no problems. The prose flows off the page and I drink it in and it fills my mind.

Comic books and visual media I can imbibe any given time. 

As an addendum: from comics and television series and movies it is gaming that stands apart.

Gaming is good. In and out, consume and grind, the worries get put on the back burner and with time apart from them, diminish or even evaporate. But the act itself is weak. It is cowardice. It's a blindfold for the mind. It lets me settle into the role of responding to impulses only, without thought and without much consideration. It enables a shut-down that isn't present in visual media in general, where you take in what you see, but it gets judged all the while, on every level; acting, music score, dialogue, larger story, set-design, on and on.
In gaming you have to approach the world on its own terms and what it wants to show you, because there's such an obvious barrier between it and real life. Unlike anything with real people in it, it's not even trying to be a simulacrum and thus it plays by its own rules.

These things help, but above all, what matters most, what helps most, is the blog, I've been typing here for several hours, after all, it's taken away the stress of the day, and even my tiredness has been shunted aside in favour of this thing I desperately want to do, maybe need to do.

The blog is an amazingly good outlet for me. I helps, it means something and it matters and gives me something to cling on, to go on for. It fills my time and lets me look at books with a critical eye and with an insightful agenda. It's also intensely about me and the things that matter most to me, in a way that nothing yet has been. It's my way of communicating thoughts that I'm unable to share otherwise, stuck inside my head as I usually am. I write it down here, even though I don't share everything. What I do share is for the record, as honest as I can give it, whether these are times, worries, anxieties I'll grow out of or not, photographs of this moment in time, of my self. The blog helped me open up in other day-to-day situations as well. There has been growth and I'm not as closed-off as I once was.
This blog is what made that happen, but I'm worried it's a dead end, a stalling mechanism against the final day. And that some time in the future, the words will run out.

This is mostly how I cope.
Drown it out, literally or figuratively. To put a dampener on the insinuating voice that is wholly mine. In the end you either get off the bus, or you stay on and cope, somehow.

And here we are, back at the beginning; the reason for this unwanted and unlooked for figurative opening of this inverted Pandora's box, where hope has fled, but the demons remain.

At the start of the novella Cabal, Aaron Boone has a severe, as of yet undisclosed, mental illness. He speaks of his time in and out of hospitals and mental wards and of how, during that time, he has continuously met people who, to keep sane, to keep right, who to cope, cling to a talisman. An object or keepsake to safeguard their hearts and minds from suffering. A ward against chaos.
A memory of better times perhaps, a hope for the future.
Some object that will get them through, or some mantra that strengthens.

I was reading this and I thought to myself that despite all of the pain I went and still go through I didn't actually have anything like it. That I never picked up a keepsake along the way.

But, as three words suggested themselves to my mind, I quickly found that, in fact, yes I did.
I do.

"Klop, hartje. Klop"

It's not a keepsake so much as it is a mantra. It's from a dutch book I once read called Het Lied van de Raaf by Per Nilsson, a Swedish writer. In English it is called Raven's Song

Roughly, the line translates as:

"Beat, little heart. Beat."

It is a mantra that is an invocation, it's an almost literal kickstart to the heart, a beseeching for a continuation of life for the sake of that life itself, despite the loss of any and all hope.

The book is about suicide and coping with it. It's about a man who gives lectures on environmental issues at schools and who ultimately, insidiously, talks young, malleable minds into comitting suicide. It's about love and being young and growing up. A typical loss of innocence story, but with a little extra.

I can't remember if it was that good, but I do remember it. Because it gifted me with those words, because that scene where they are put to use is so powerful, and yet so gently written. At least, it is in the way in which I remember it. And occasionally, but sadly not occasionally enough, those words get dredged up from whatever errant compartment of my mind they've managed to snugly nestle in, and they let me continue on.

It is my ward against the chaos of uncontrolled thought. The call to halt the downward spiral of inner grief. It is the call for life in and of itself, just because.

No reason. Just to keep going on, just because.

"Klop, hartje. Klop."