Archive for August, 2013

There’s that brief moment, when you turn on a television, that you feel and hear the electricity snap to life. Or when you’re in an older house and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end when you flip a light switch or start the dryer. You can feel it in your stomach, and you can hear that high-pitched whine deep in your head.

That’s how I feel when I am around people.

Everyone has this – hum. It’s a bit like a vibration.
Well…. it’s like when you can hear a vibration (kinda like when your cell phone goes off).
It’s a little like how I imagine mediums see auras; it’s just there.

I don’t really recall when I first noticed it, or when I finally realized what it was. It just clicked one day that other people, especially the toxic kind of people, were affecting me more than I thought was necessary.

I’m a bit of an empath.
Happy people make me very happy.
Being around angry people sometimes makes me violently ill.
Sadness can easily throw me into depressive episodes.

I’ve learned to read, for lack of a better term, the hum. It helps me avoid certain people in order to keep myself balanced.

It’s a lot like music; it can make you feel very intense emotions.

So this hum is a song. Everyone has their own song, and it stays the same for each individual, but the intensity, the dynamic of the song changes based on current mood.

The hum hits me square in the chest.
An angry hum feels like I’ve been kicked.
A sad hum pulls me out of myself, like I’m drifting into fog.
A happy hum feels a bit like a hug. It’s warm and calm.

I get overwhelmed at events, sometimes, because there is so much chaos. I get a ringing in my ears from the ceaseless echo of voices. It takes a hell of a lot of concentration to not panic. I will generally gravitate toward one or two people and focus on them.

I can feel my own hum all the time. And when my hum harmonizes with someone else’s, it’s a great feeling. It’s like I have my own little orchestra playing.

My friends all have this in common – their hum plays nicely with my own. Sometimes, their hums match up with the others’, too. That is usually when I am most contented. There are some friends, though, that (while I love them dearly) I cannot have around each other. It breaks my heart, but it’s for my own good. It’s not even that said friends cannot be around each other. It’s just that the vibration is so mis-matched that it gives me a headache.



A few changes.

I’ve been writing a lot lately, which was (sort of) the whole point of starting a blog.

I needed a place to vent, to find myself and my purpose. I don’ know that I have found either, yet, but I feel like I’m on a pretty good track.

My writing technique has suffered from neglect. I’m not quite happy with what comes out, because it isn’t coming out how it sounds in my head. But I can feel the rusty joints moving and am confident that some things will come back to me.
At this moment, though, I still feel like what I have been writing is coming out as a bit contrived, juvenile, and predictable. I think that’s probably normal, and I have to push through it.

A lot of the things I write are a bit depressing – death, losing love, depression – because those are the things that push me to write. They are things I know, or think I know, and the words fall fairly easily onto the keyboard. Not everything I write is from experience, though, but I can create scenarios in my head that make sense, if only in that over-romanticized Hollywood manner.

I enjoy writing (or, typing, in most cases), because it gets a lot of images out of my brain that I can’t stand to have stuck in there anymore. Some things are traumatic, gruesome, and just plain sad, and I don’t want them filling up the space anymore. Most ideas get started, but never finished. Or I start them, leave them, and come back later when I feel like I can clean it up.
Some things will NEVER be published to the internet, because they aren’t for you, but need to get thrown out of my skull before I stab someone in the throat with a rusty spoon.

I dream.
A lot.

Most nights, I don’t remember more than little snippets. And those are usually pretty basic, weird, dreamy things that mean nothing to me.
Other nights, I feel like I am being told a story. It’s not really a precognition thing (though, I do experience deja vu often), but it’s more like… I don’t even know what it is; it’s not always clear.

And some nights, like the one I had two days ago, are awful.
I sleep, but it isn’t a good sleep.
I dream, but the dreams are terrible.

That night, it was like the horror-version of Groundhog Day.
I died, many times, only to wake up and do it again.

I was stabbed, beaten, shot, drowned, suffocated, attacked by a shark (which actually ended in drowning, since the shark didn’t kill me quick enough). I was buried alive, hit by a train, blown up by a vest-bomb, and poisoned. There were probably more in there, but I lost some of them in the ether of my memory. It’s for the best, really.

The whole next day, I felt uneasy and sick.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was going to happen.
As of right now, nothing is going on, and I am okay with that.

Anyway… the writing.
I know the shorts I write aren’t that good.
Honestly, I don’t really care.

I take that back.
I care a little. There are a select few people in my life whose opinions mean so much to me, that I would be mortified if they read my b.s.
I’m not going to tell them that they can’t read it; and if they wanted to comment on it, I would take the criticism. But I would also be really, really disappointed in myself. But I am aware that I am not that good at this.

It isn’t about content.
it’s about getting the monsters out of my head.

I’m actually pretty stoked about the new Who. 😀

Adventures and Musings of an Arch Druidess


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Another dream-inspired short story for you all.

The Muse & Her Demons

It was just the two of them, if only for a short while, and they sat under the willow tree by the lake watching the sun rise over the water.

They would have this whole day together, alone.

There was a chill in the air, and dew hung on the grass and the leaves. Whenever the wind blew, the cool droplets rained down in a mist.
She shivered, and he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.
He was so warm and strong. She felt safe in his arms, protected from all the evils in the world.

But evil would come, and she had to be ready.
Just…. not yet.

She wanted to take this last day to be with him, her love.
She never thought she could feel so strongly about anyone, and yet, there he was, resting his chin on her shoulder and…

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Some Day

Inspired by a recent dream… about a trip to a museum that happened over a decade ago.

The Muse & Her Demons

She watched the men and women around her staring, judging, taking in the museum’s many pieces.

The paintings and statues, photos and furniture; it all had to mean something. They were looking for that hidden thing, whatever the artists was feeling when they created it. Some of them were smug, thinking that they had uncovered some conspiracy or another, and lording over the poor masses that couldn’t see it.

She never got it… whatever “it” was. Some things were just pretty, and that was enough.

The Degas exhibit was extraordinary. The detail in the lack of detail. Rough brush strokes and vibrant colors. She was particularly fond of the nude portraits. They were full of life and warmth.

While everyone else swarmed around the bronze ballerina – which she did find quite beautiful – she stayed back, watching them.

Oh, how they ogled and fawned over the little girl. And how…

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My period was more than a week late… it finally came late last night/this morning.

I have been regular for the last 7 years (miserable, but regular), so late freaked me the fuck out.
My regular pre-flow symptoms did not come, with the exception of a bit of acne that showed up a few days ago. I really, really tried to rationalize that this is all due to the fact that I started taking evening primrose oil and black cohosh supplements. It’s the most reasonable answer.

But I still started to panic.

So, yay; today I’m all bloaty and headachey. But… that’s not the reason why I am hostile.
I had to tell hubby (I’m horrible with secrets, and keep very few from him). I had to tell him that I was worried enough to buy a test. And, silly me, I had to ask him “What if?”.

It’s tough to answer that kind of hypothetical when you aren’t in that position.

But it comes down to this:
If I ever change my mind about having kids, my marriage would end. Period.
I haven’t really finished processing it, so I quite don’t know how I feel about it.
But part of me is angry. And part of me is sad. And another part is fairly indifferent to it all because I am pretty comfortable with my life and I don’t do well with change.

A Little Off Track…

I’m been trying to focus on writing, which isn’t all that easy for me anymore.
I used to write all the time.

Short stories, mostly. Stories without proper endings that left you hanging at a hook (though, most everything was fairly cliched and predictable – I’m not a good writer, mind you.)

Usually, I would have a dream and need to get it out of my head.
I filled notebooks and post-it pads.

I wrote a lot.

Until a few years ago, when I was too busy working 12-14 hour shifts at the art gallery.
I didn’t have time.
I wasn’t really dreaming.
The few dreams I had were awful and I didn’t want to remember them.

My life is a bit more relaxed now, though so I thought I’d try to get back into it.
I started a secondary blog, which is very small at the moment.
I hope to fill it up as my brain gets going again.

I have only a handful of shorts in there, and a few that are started, but not published.

I don’t work in a very linear way…

I dream, I jot, I type.
I leave it alone.
Sometimes, I’ll dream again and jot some more.
Other times, I’ll just go back to it and expand or delete – there’s a lot of deleting.
I edit story by story, in no particular order.
And, when I finally feel like it means… I don’t know… something, then I’ll hit the publish button.

Typing into a blog is nice, because I go through far fewer pencils and a lot less paper.

If you feel like checking out a few contrived, predictable (and not very good) stories, check it out.



Shady Business

Just a little something I threw together….

The Muse & Her Demons

She woke up to the sound of rain on the window.
The pounding in her head (from the copious amounts of booze at last night’s party) and the churning in her stomach were enough to make her swear off drinking – again.

It was a good party, though.
All the pretty people were there – actors, singers, poets, politicians, brokers and dealers. If you were “it”, you were there.

On the day she got the invitation, she thought she has finally made it.
All her hard work.
All the backroom deals, and shady business.
Finally, someone recognized her talent.

She spent weeks trying to find the perfect dress.
Black with lace at the shoulders. If was light and flowy; she had no need for the body-hugging leather that many others in her profession chose to wear.
She felt it was unbecoming and, frankly, a bit cliche.

She strolled between conversations…

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