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estdeus_innobis[Late evening of Wednesday, April 21 (day 325)]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]
It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.
I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.
But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.
I have nothing to fear from dreams.
And it has been months since I worked properly on something.
So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.
[Open as discussed]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]
It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.
I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.
But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.
I have nothing to fear from dreams.
And it has been months since I worked properly on something.
So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.
[Open as discussed]
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Date: 2011-06-15 08:55 pm (UTC)It is late on a weeknight, and while the moon is full the sky is rather overcast. Blood does not show up particularly well in dark hair, and if we do run into anyone on my short trip home I hope I shall be able to pass it off as merely walking home a rather drunk friend gets hom. I hoist one of his arms around my shoulder and start down the street.
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Date: 2011-06-16 06:33 pm (UTC)Where are we?
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Date: 2011-06-16 11:03 pm (UTC)"Come along," I say pleasantly enough. It is remarkable how often that works. "You've hit your head." I am rather relieved I will not, apparently, need to hit him again. It is not a common concern for me, insofar as any trauma does not interfere with the ability to endure, but I think I should like to ask him a few questions about where we may have seen each other before.