Yep, it's happened.

Fuck fuckity fuck. Totally off the fucking boil, blocked to fuck, sod everything, I hate you, suck any part of my anatomy you find sticking out from under the duvet because I'm going to bed now and even if I never write another word again as long as I live I'm still 5000000% better than you at everything and if even I suck at something it's because that thing wasn't worth being any good at.

I hated you first.

Creamcrackered.

I've got a horrible horrible feeling that I'm coming off the boil. I wrote that Eric thing yesterday and worked on my smut a bit, but that was all. I didn't write nearly has much as I have been writing. I did somethign this morning but it only came to half a page. Please don't let this have been an abberation. Please let me finish something tonight.

Feels like I'm on a comedown; tired, jangly, paranoid. I want to sell stories! I want to do this for a living! How can I do this for a living if I go back into my 200-word-a day coma? Arggh! Help! Arrgh!

Stupid writing.

Something's not right.

Way, wayyy too many of my cool friends have recently or still are going through really harsh times. I'm thinking of you.

Eric and friends.

Well, I got a phonecall from my Mum and finished a story, so big thanks to my imaginary friends. It was just another Eric though, not saleable. (Thinking of boshing out a comic script based on the Eric stories but that means work: narrative, coherency, backstory, actually sitting down and thinking about the thing.) So if the invisible frotteurs could see their way clear to helping me finish something I can get money from today, that would be groovay.

I was feeling afraid that this is just a flash in the pan, that the power will run out and this terrific output will falter. I'll fall back into the 200-word-a-day living death that was my lot only recently. The fear keeps me pinned to the keyboard for most of the day, so my output remains ferociously high. Now I fear losing the fear. I will achieve some sort of equilibrium at some proximate juncture; equilibrium, or at least metastasis.

I am becoming my own fiction, an invented being of my own device, and all the stories that you create around me are thus fan-fic. I have my canon which exists unto itself and which your texts do not violate. It was foolish of me to ever belive otherwise.

In other news: a plea for you to spare the weak(er than you in some regard and in this place at this time) from your unacknowledged aggression is not a violation of your intellectual freedom. This is old stuff but I thought I'd mention it.

Well, it's morning again, half past one to be precise, and still things are not right.

Where is my huge golden pyramid full of drugs and my army of khol-eyed worshippers? Where is my novel that is better then everyone else's novel and impresses the impressionable so that they want to snuggle up to my sagging flesh and warm me with their priceless youth? Why isn't there anything good on the internet? I hate the internet, it's all full of shite. There isn't any descent booze in the house. There is kirsch, on the principle that it's always good to have some undrinkable filth in the cupboard so that you'll keep the vodka topped up rather than drink it.

GODDAMN IT PEOPLE WHERE IS MY BOOZE?

I hate you all. This isn't the reality I ordered.


(Note for guides: All right, you spooky perverts, I've updated your green weblog. Now give me stuff.

I want to finish a story tomorrow, I want inspiration, I want to be magically filled with the passion and energy I need to do all the stuff I need to do, I want the door to freezer compartment to not be all iced open again, I want... I dunno, stuff. You know the sort of stuff I like.)

Dirt.

I'm sick of being broke so I'm channeling the relentless flood of words that has been pouring out of my twitching fingers recently into something more (potentially) lucretive. Namely: smut. Filthy disgusting SMUT. I've got my beady eye on Pink Flamingo Publications (short stories, paperbacks and e-books for the discerning perv). The bar's pretty high but my writing's come on quite a lot just in the last few weeks.

For some reason, I've never been able to finish a pr0n story till now. But things have changed lately: not only am I writing between ten and twenty times as much a day as previously (no, that's not an exaggeration), but the quality has improved. I'm becoming a better editor.

I will sell another story before the year is out. I can feel it in my boneessss. And I got some other tricks up my sleeve, too.

I AM YOUR SUPREME DARK RULER. GROVEL BEFORE ME OR PAY! OR BOTH!

Dreamed this afternoon of many things, including the Two of Swords and the Hermit. My tarot cards want me to take them out and play with them.

Validation.

The kind of backslap that comes with a good solid pricetag attached is nice, but d'you know what? The other day, when Cholister referred to my Leftover Parfait gubbins as "fics," I felt heckofa validated. I mean a) I didn't know what to call those hideous red-headed textual abortions that fester on my Lj and now I do, they're fics, and b) fics is a term that's fairly specific to the fanfic/slasher community, and I felt like Chol was giving me an honorary community... errr... thing. An "OKAY!" type thing. Coz I don't write fanfic. I could, and I don't have any real problem with fanfic or anything, I just, y'know, don't.

Anyway. It was nice.

w00t!!!

Guess who's just flogged another story? :D

Sick.

Or something. I'm processing something big. The night before last I had this minor freakout: loads of stuff from the past coming up, how crazy things seemed when I was growing up. Stuff like my folks getting their post opened because they were in CND, the way we all felt so vulnerable because of the homeschool thing, the way we had to be so damn careful all the time because other families who homeschooled were getting hauled up before the courts and having their kids taken into care left, right and centre. That wasn't what got to me, though. What got to me the impossibility of getting people to understand what it was like, that we weren't just being stupid and paranoid, that these fears were real and justified, and that the world is just such a fucking crazy place.

Realised that although I've begun to put the fear behind me, I've never really dealt with the anger at other people's blank incomprehension. And I need to free myself from it, get it off my fucking throat and pucnh its lights out and shoot it full of tranks until I've got it chained up in the cellar with the rest of this crap. Then I can use it, make it into my creature.

So anyway, all that came up and here I am a couple of days later, with a fever and a gunky throat (blue chakra flashing like an ambulance). And I'm thinking: This is it. This is where I get the poison sweated out and burned off. I think I'm getting to the bottom of where my voice is. The nature of the beast that rises up and chokes me.

When I find it, I'm going to kick its arse.

"Killing people at work is getting cheaper!"

I'm going to do that annoying thing of posting the full text of an email on my blog. You need to be thinking about this stuff.

The "Health and Safety" Executive today announced that the average fine for a conviction on a health and safety offence has dropped by 21 percent over the last year.

Commenting on this news - which shows the grubby reality behind the
government's spin about promoting a safer workplace - Mick Holder of the London Hazards Centre said

"This is very bad news indeed. Employers are getting away with killing,
disabling and injuring their workers at the expense of a paltry fine.

"Many cases involving the death of a worker are still heard in the lower,
Magistrates Court, which does not reflect the serious nature of the crime and restricts the fine to a maximum of £20,000. Nothing will change until errant employers face real sanctions such as prison and much higher fines that reflect the seriousness of the crimes."

Tchhh. When will these knee-jerk liberals understand that weeding out the weak in favour of the strong is a good thing? I mean, obviously, if you're desperate enough to be in a job that threatens your life or health, then you're inferior to your employer.

Examples of fines in recent court cases:

* SUPERMARKET chain Asda was fined £4,000 recently after Brian Costin, 42, a warehouse worker was crushed to death at one of its Yorkshire stores in July 2000.

Graham Naden, who trades under the name Roof Build was fined £2,500 and ordered to pay £3,750 compensation to the family of Terence Severs, one of his workers who died after falling off a roof. Huyton magistrates heard that Terence Severs life could have been saved if safety scaffolding which costs just £100 had been used on the job.

Farmer James Thompson was recently fined £7,500 following the death of seasonal worker Sean Dodds, 24, who died when a forklift truck he was driving toppled over at Redhouse Farm, Hepscott, near Morpeth in October 2001.

Information for health and safety activists at www.lhc.org.uk

www.simonjones.org.uk

Sure, to the Guardianistas who worry about this kind of thing, the fines might not seem like a lot. They probably spend that much on pashminas every week! But you have to look at these things in context. What's the point of bankrupting companies or imprisoning decent, honest businessmen, just because they were unlucky enough to have a little accident occur on their premises? You have to ask yourself: how much is the life of one of those sorts worth? It's not like they're real people; why, I bet some of them weren't even homeowners.

If you ask me, the UK has gone safety mad in recent years. The nanny state has far too much power. Don't people realise that financial weath is a clear indication of a person's worth, of their fitness to survive? We don't need more saftey precautions in the workplace, we need fewer! And while we're on it, what's all this namby-pamby nonsense about child labour laws? We need to weed out the undesirables at as young an age as possible. What Britain needs is a rolling programme of realistic safety targets and conscription for any child over the age of seven who flunks their SATs. Your bleeing hearts are diluting the gene pool, people!

Themes.

The forces of synchronicity have declared this Bottled Fetus Month. Every time I turn on the TV or surf the web or anything: bottled fetuses.

I really hope they don't mean what I think they mean. If this is a missed opportunites thing then I'm going to be very cross with a certain pair of entities. I'm trying, guys! Throw me a bone!

Writeoff.

I'm looking for an online writer's group at the mo. I need people I can spark off. My board is great for that, and to a lesser extent my Lj, but I need more-- more, dammit! MORE! I'm looking for people who write at the darker, slightly nastier end of things. Obviously.

The seach is not going well. My list of people who must suffer and die when I get my powers back just grew by a bout three feet of names. I mean, for the love of God, does everyone who's not a complete muttonhead stop writing when they hit twelve or something? Why is everything out there so unbelivably fucking crap?

If it was even different kinds of crap, that would help. But I swear, this stuff all looks the same after awhile.

"Hello my name is Marie but my real name is Gerladrial I am a elf because I went to see LOTR and I realised I was Gerladrial in my past life and I said to my friend OMFG I just remembered I'm Gerladrial from a past life and she was like OMFG!!! I am Gerladrial TOO!!! so were both best friends forever now because of both being Gerladrial in a past life and we love Gerladrial and we want to meet her one day. Also I am a Vampyre I realised I'm a vampiree after I watched Queen of the Damned. NEway here is my poem it is about my boyfreind or rather my EX boyfriend I hate him.

Ashen tears like blood
Flow down my face.
They flow like blood
Also like rain
But mostly blood really.

You put those tears there,
like cutting me so there is BLOOD
When you walked into the
Fourth-form common room
With HER.

I am going to kill myself now.
With knives.
Yes.
There will be blood
Like my tears

By Marie aka Gerladriel"

From a 14-year-old, this sort of thing would almost forgivable. But sometimes the author turns out to be a 44-year-old mother of three, whereupon that last tiny fragment of hope for humanity crumbles within your breast and you howl to the uncaring skies: "Evil, be thou now my good!"

So, if you want to clue me in on a writer's community that I won't want to kill after five minutes, that would be groovy.

Okay! Okay! I give up!

I finally yeilded to the nagging of my unidentified and quite possibly imaginary guide/angel/entity-type-people and gave them their own blog.

It is green. It is called Liber Viridis.

I thought that would shut them up, but nooo. I have to link to that blog from this one.

If I've buggered up the Latin, let me know. It was supposed to mean "the green book."

Do you spooky perverts know how embarrassing this is? I mean, no-one else belives in you, guys. I'm not sure I belive in you, and I talk to you.

Tired and brutishly pissed-off.

Even that hamster isn't doing it for me anymore. I feel like hurting something.

This isn't related to anything happening in the real world, you understand. It's purely my own misfiring brain chemistry that's making me want to tear around the room screaming. I fucking hate being at the mercy of my glands like this. My glands hate me. They hate you, too. My glands want all of us to suffer.

I was sort of run down today; possibly a reaction to my mammoth healing sesh on Sunday. Sounds peverse, but sometimes giving/receving healing actually sends your body off into disease symptoms for a while as it processes all the crap it needs to throw off. Cold symptoms are the commonest, but some people get fevers and stuff. It can't hurt you, it's just uncomfortable for a while.

Or maybe I'm just some sad deluded fuckwit with a headcold. Who knows.

Anyway. Angry fits. Usually I get them the week before the painters come round. I've got at least another five to seven days of this to get through, followed by a week of mopeyness and cramps. Oh, joy unconfined. Black Cohosh usually puts me to rights but I've run out and I can't find anywhere round here that sells it.

It's not been that bad this year because I've been channeling the random, unfocused rage into my writing. But at the mo I'm all writer's blocky, and that's making me bitter and frustrated.

Everything seems so damn limited right now. I know I should be moving on to the next stage of my life, the next stage of my thinking, but I'm stuck here in this space. Every time I go looking for guidance, for inspiration, for one tiny fucking glimmer of what it is I need I have to wade through all this tedious old crap, crap that people keep trying to convince me is some stunning new idea.

Well, the hell with that. I'm not listening to you anymore. I'm listening to my real imaginary friends.

You hear that sound? That sound is the wheels of the Chariot, rolling into my life. I aim to be the dude sat up top with the big fuckoff cup. You will not pull me down because I have been under those big red wheels wayyy to many times in my life already.

I may have to go and blow something up soon.

Spam.

Okay, so just now I got a Nigerian spam email that addressed me as "Daddy". I am more weirded out than I can comfortably accomodate.

Random stuff I need to get sorted.

Well, they warned me that getting hooked up with Reiki would stir shit up in my head. And lo, shit is stirred up. Has to do with... well, stuff.

It has to do with fear, mostly. Fear of being strong. (If I develop my abilities, I might hurt someone). Fear of being used. (If I develop my abilities, other people will bully me into putting those abilities at their disposal). Fear of being hurt. (I've never been able to induce an OOBE since this one time where I left my body under fairly hellacious circs.) Fear of losing touch with reality. (Will end up in looney bin, or just bloody nuciance in dangly earrings).

All these fears are rational to the extent that they are all rooted in experience. But they are irrational in the way that they persist, in the way that I allow them to limit me.

Stupid fears.

Twinkle, twinkle...

Betcha all wondering about the pretty blue star, hmmm? No? Sod ya then.

It's a heptagram, representing the seven days of the week. It has other interpretations, of course, but that's the one I had in mind. Then you've got 24 7 at the top, which is the hours of the day and the days of the week. The 29/11 bit is some numerolgical stuff that this numerologist told me once: it's obtained by adding the numerals of my birthdate together in a certain way. It represents my lifepath (supposedly that's a shit-hot number to have for your lifepath but I suck at numerology so hell if I know).

So anyway, the total significance of the doodle is that I'm now going to try and stick to my lifepath 24-7. No more detours, no sidetracks, no more... hey, look, a bunny!

Hmmm.

Big things are afoot. Had a bit of an odd day. Had to leave the healing marathon a little early, having Reikified and Sekhimed two satified punters.

One of said punters being a channeler. I'm hoping she might work with me at some point, maybe in exchange for more zappage (?) Don't know what the form is for this sort of thing. New territory... Anyway. Channeler. 'K, so she confirmed a lot of the psychic sensations I've been having recently. She reckons that and I have this two guides (check!) one who stands behind me while I'm healing (check!) and one who flies/hovers up on the ceiling while I work (check!) She remarked on the power of the priniciple guide, which is, y'know, cool. She also said that I'm a teacher, I just didn't know it because I was all self-doubty.

Interesting.

Grab a helping of Leftover Parfait.

Right. You know that Lj I started up so I could stalk more people? I've been chucking bits of fiction, poetry, and general ramblings there so it didn't look quite so empty. It's now chocka with writey goodness, so you can all bugger off there and have a look at it. I'll be updating it fairly regularly so don't forget to check back.

Can't be bothered with this thing at the mo. Maybe in a day or two. Meanwhile, here's a guy who fed bits of himself to his Venus flytrap.