Sirius Rising

Hello my friend, I have been neglecting you.

I can say it is because I am on a personal journey, and one that is not going incredibly well. It’s one of those journeys, self-discovery and all that, and rough patches are to be expected.

Some updates since we last spoke:

There are two new girls in my life who I shall refer to as Princess and Tomboy. They are both submissives, and they adore me. Princess usually sleeps with me and Tomboy sleeps on the floor (a foam mattress), sometimes they switch, and sometimes when they’ve been particularly good, we all sleep together on the bed.

They’re still young (Princess is a couple years older), and they’re still not completely trusting of each other. I think they’re still working through some jealousy, but they both come from backgrounds of abuse and/or neglect, and they both crave attention from “Daddy”.

They are rescue Greyhounds, and they are my girls. The household has also been fostering rescues— we have one currently we’re calling Dingo because he wants to chew on everything, especially plastic.He’s a sweet, sweet dog, and will make someone a wonderful friend.

I am currently preparing to edit a short film, and should be working on that, but I am taking a break.because I am exhausted. I have one of those “Day Job” things that you hear about, and it’s requiring a great deal of abstract logical thinking for extended periods. And then something changes, and I have to track down everything that happens from that point and fix it. In my head. Then make pictures of that that people can understand.

My brain is cheese.

I’ll try to keep you posted more.

The ghosts don’t really bother me anymore.

Oh, they used to. The hidden shadows, the movement just out of the corner of your eye, the specter of someone long since passed. I used to see them back when I was a child, back when I was afraid of the dark. I’d cry and scream, and my father would yell at me to shut my hole, and likely as not smack me around until I shut up (always an open hand, never a closed fist because a closed fist would leave bruises). I learned to fear the things in the dark quietly, still. If I didn’t move, they couldmn’t see me, or so the logic in my child-brain told me

After a while, I learned that the ghosts weren’t interested in me. They weren’t interested in anything really, they were just old and dusty memories, emotions given a kind of substance that you could see if you knew how to look, like those pictures that are just a bunch of colored dots thatif you sort of look through the picture, look beyond it, you can see animals, or words, or really bad porn. 

Most people that can see ghosts can only see their own. I figure it’s sort of like you have a keey that fits a certain lock, or maybe it’s more like you can tune a radio to a specific channel. In my case, it’s like I have the master key, or a radio that gets all of the stations at once. It sounds a lot more chaotic than it really is— ever had a conversation with someone at a party when a bunch of other people were talking, and you kind of tune out everyone else but the person you’re listening to? It’s like that. A lot like that, actually.

Most people can actually feel them. You probably have, without ever knowing what it was that you were feeling. Ever been to a place that just *felt* sad, or angry, or something similar? That’s a ghost. Or maybe several ghosts, because they tend to build up in places, like layers of paint on a wall.

They put me in a hospital once, gave me drugs that made me feel like my brain was squished in a shoebox and I was looking out of holes cut in the end. I hated it, and I lied to them, told them the ghosts were gone, that I didn’t see them anymore. I was Cured, a modern pharmaceutical miracle, and they let me go so they could go onto Cure more of their patients. They didn’t know that the ward was full of ghosts, wandering the halls lost and sad, even though the air was so thick with the feeling of them that nobody could miss it. 

I don’t miss that place. It hurt to be there, like sticking your hands in a bucket of ice water and holding them there, a slow ache that creeps in as it becomes harder and harder to move your fingers. 

I think it’s what drowning must be like. Or drowning in a frozen lake anyway. 

The important stuff I need you to understand is that ghosts are real, as real as a puff of wind, and have just about as much meaning. They don’t hold magic messages, they don’t try to scare little children, they just… are. Like thoughts, like feelings, fleeting and immaterial. They don’t have secrets to tell, they don’t have messages to give, they are as insubstantial as echoes.

It’s the other things that are out there that you have to worry about. Things that want to scare you. Things that want to hurt you, Things that feed on you, that get into your head and latch on like a lamprey. 

Things like me. 

Welcome home. Hope you like what I’ve done with the place.