Wednesday, 16 January 2002

I dreamed that a woman in armor sent two children in same to kill me with swords. I also had a sword. She had cast it trying to kill me.

I did not kill the children. And though their swordplay was better than mine, I did not die. I used my size and initiative to overpower them. I beat them with the flat of my sword till they capitulated.

Then three robbers tried to take my money and perhaps life. Surprisingly there was no loss of agility or strength and the 10 years since I’ve been much of a marital artist evaporated. I beat them easily, though one escaped. I dragged the conscious remaining one to the bathroom where I proceeded to torture him by holding his face in the water filled sink while pummelling his head and neck. I was careful to make sure he stayed awake for the water.

I had other dreams.

Years ago, visiting again lately. Climbing a tortuous mountain. Slipping. Maintaining. Realizing the dust and dirt crumbling beneath my hands isn’t dust or dirt exactly. Pulling desiccated arms and halves of skulls loose. It’s a pile of long dead humans I climb. Reaching the top. It’s too long lain. It disintegrates beneath my weight. Dropping into it.

Rivers. Monstrosities of all animals that have lived.

An eternal hunt of me where the family is supplying the assassins with tips and I have a box of 40 kinds of bullets, none of which fits the revolver I have.

At six. Beating a naked body. Black and white. Then fire, and screams the horses around the house don’t allow for anything but burning.

Oh, don’t get me Started!

Permanent night time repertoire. That’s what Tom called it.

Why tell you? I used to write 500-1,000 words a day on an off day. 10,000 to 15,000 on a better one.

I’ve heard a good writer sells out everyone they know eventually. I haven’t been a good writer for a long time.

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