Facebook status updates part XXV (June 2014)

I would like to say I am drowning in you
But I learned to tread water long ago

“There is a creature on Elm Street. Murdering people in their dreams,” Bess said to him, each word precise and cold. “And you believe me?”
“The world has lots of weird in it. Unless you’re making that up?”
“I’m not, but no one believes me. You’ve really never seen a single Nightmare on Elm Street movie?”
Boy shook his head.

"The only work if fiction I writing right now is my diary."
"Why that?"
"So that after I am gone people will read it and wonder if they ever knew me. If they ever knew me at all."

Enigmatic status update.

“People might have died –,” Bess snarled.
“People do that. I am a witch: it is not in my nature to disturb the natural order of things.”
“But you’ll tell us how to?” Boy cut in before Bess could say anything worse.
“I did not say I was a very good witch."

"A witch is born, a sorcerer is found, a magician is made. There are other things in the world beyond those human understandings of magic, but that is how many works for us and the stories we tell with it.”
“Like putting children in ovens?” Bess said sweetly. “There aren’t many stories about nice witches unless they are fairy godmothers and I don’t think those are nice stories either.”
“Well, you wouldn’t,” the witch said, her tone entirely bland.

I said I would write our story. I can't even bring myself to write your name.

“Bess,” Boy said after the other passengers had got off, “is this normal? I mean, do other cities have busses that are steam locomotives you can whistle for at bus stops?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you,” Boy snapped, then looked down as Bess raised her eyebrows. “Sorry. I’m whining, aren’t I?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Just a little?”
“So far." Bess’s grin was a flash of teeth. “And I have no idea if other cities have busses like this or even why this one exists at all. I find it’s safer not to ask about things like this because I don’t think we’d sleep soundly if we knew the answers.”

He says it is a metaphor that we are all dogs on leashes
But his dog just wags his tail in violent bliss

#post #pointless #hashtag

“What is the house on Elm Street,” Bess said, not looking at Boy as she headed down the hill toward the bus stop.
“A shelter, a little like a halfway house for runaways? That’s what you told me, but Ambrose – and your friend Jennifer – basically claim it makes children more compliant by destroying their dreams. So they lose some spark inside them and never rebel or run away away again. Which is what parents want.”
“And that surprises you?”
“No,” Boy said after a pause. “I don’t think so. I think most parents want their children to be unexceptional, for all kinds of reasons.”

“Sorry is for when we say the wrong thing when we know we shouldn’t. And the thing about that is that if you can say sorry, you also could have done otherwise in the first place. No one should ever say they’re sorry. If you can’t stand up for yourself, how the hell do you expect anyone else to?” Bess said.
“People make mistakes,” Boy said.
“Yes, well, that’s what punishment is for.”

"We define ourselves by what we are missing rather than by what we have," the fox said.
Boy scratched his scalp. "Does that we include foxes?"
Reynard Fox just smiled in reply.

I have come to the conclusion that my life needs more CGI in it.

I might forget you
If the distance between us
Was not so great

Life is a carpool lane; no one makes it through alone.

"After today, the world will have one less monster in it."
"Do you mean you or me?"
"I haven't decided yet."

I keep losing track of the places where I find you.

Say-aunts: a seance that only calls up your great aunts.

The moment when you write the end of a scene, sit back to mull it over and realize there is something to tease out from it but it will probably have to wait for the next draft. That, or you’ll recall whatever source you nicked the idea for it from in the meantime and go: “Ah, crap.”

"Because of you, I’m not me."

"Well, we selected who would live in the New Order and who would die based on the simple criteria of forcing the population to eat asparagus and culling those whose urine smelled."

Thought of the evening: retell Adam and Eve leaving the Garden of Eden as a breakout from the first reality TV series. (Or prison, same deal.)

“Reynard Fox was there when the moon was born,” Malki said soft and low, “and when Raven first committed acts that made all crows into murderers, when Coyote first tricked life from death. He – we – are old, Boy, and you are human. He cannot be friends with you the way you are friends with other humans, or even the way humans are with pets. It is not in the nature of the truly old to hurt themselves like that or they would go quite, quite mad.”

Every time I think about you I become

a necromancer of fading memory

This is a repost.

Today I am grateful that I am not you.

A lot of old literary works were by the wealthy people who a) could take the time to write and b) didn’t need to make money from them. So the idea has just filtered down like a kind of poison, that somehow success undervalues art. Because people against making money with art are invariably those who have never been poor.

"I am not a monster," he explained.

"You killed my husband and drank his blood!"

"You will find that a true monster would have charged him a fee for their services."

They say it is science when

we know it to be magic

They say it is magic when

we know it to be chemicals

We speak of love as though

we were not GMOs

never read the comments (on articles) should be rule #1 of the internet.

Me: I spent an hour having to wait for that delivery that never arrived. Granted, I was able to clean up the back and furniture area a little but it was a wasted hour.

Manager: It's okay, you were supervising while I was out.

Me: So supervisor means not working?

Manager: Come closer so I can strangle you.