Didn’t go to rehearsal. Figured I deserved an evening off from all of it and my tummy wasn’t doing well. SMSd the director to tell him. Mentioned my anxiety over fall out from The D Episode (as I call it in my brain). He blew that off. Didn’t acknowledge it at all, said there wasn’t going to be any back-lash. Since he wasn’t in the room when G pulled her shit on me the other night, he’s not seen it. I’m crossing my fingers that my mere absence might make M speak up. It was her act last night. Say something nasty. I know you want to. Say it, so the director can hear it and realize I’m not fucking insane. Say it.
Reached out to a friend because I didn’t know what else to do. My bro is getting angry with me for not letting it all go and just chilling. I sure as hell can’t talk to the director, who continues to ignore all the warning signs. And I’ve still another week before I see Dr T. I needed someone to say ‘I’d be angry, too’, and ‘slow down a bit and don’t assume you know what these people are thinking; talk it out with them’. I received both, along with a healthy dose of understanding and empathy. It did me worlds of good.
Today I’ve a stack of dishes to do. Then I’ll start on sound files. No tv, just me and headphones. Ugh. I know once I get over there I’ll fall into a rhythm. But just the thought of all that work -! I’m eating elephants again: huge jobs during which I have to remind myself to just do the next step and not worry about finishing. I’ll get there.
… Yesterday I was really angry over D’s tone to L on WhatsApp. The message as I got it was arrogant and blaming: it’s such a shame I had to leave the play. No responsibility for being a bitch to me, for dissing me at least 4 times during that conversation, for her utter inflexibility and refusal to accept not only the creator’s influence but also the director’s. She doesn’t get to say ‘it’s such a shame’ and act the good guy. She’s the fucking bitch here, and no one is saying it. Why? There were 4 people with me when the shit hit the fan. Someone else had to see all the eye rolls and shit. I even spoke up and asked why she kept rolling her eyes at me. Everybody should have heard that. But, no! It’s such a shame… Shame my ass. Shame we ever spent any time on your shitty self.
Yeah, I’m still angry about that. And right now I can’t guarantee that I won’t hit her sharply on the bridge of the nose and drive cartilage into her brain the next time I see her. It’s what I want to do.
Began enjoying Hellraiser again. My bro got a box set with the first 5 films for my b-day. I’ve survived only on Hellraiser II for 4 years now. I’ve a glut of my favorite character, Pinhead. He’s so honorable. There’s nothing in my nature that would call the cenobites; I have nothing to fear from them. I could stand in the middle of a cenobite slaughter and probably not be hurt at all (and if D were the one getting hooks in her face because of her shitty fucking attitude, yes, I’d stand and watch). Don’t get me started on the crappier films in which the creator had no part. Those are just fluff films; they don’t really address the characters properly. No basis in the true mythology. The real Pinhead, as Barker wrote him: I’d have no fear of that being. I think I could call him an ally.
But that’s me as I’ve aged. When I was young, I looked to the light for help. Help never seemed to come. Then I learned to confront what scared me so much. To look it in the eyes, to declare myself to it, to take a stand. Things changed after that. The monsters that once haunted my dreams now came to defend me, to fight along my side. It happens often.
I won’t say the things from my nightmares are evil. Nor good. I think they’re beyond those titles.
Is this crazy talk? Perhaps. But the reason I can write horror is because I have that world with me, all the time. Because I grew up with people sitting on the end of my bed at night (I could feel the weight of them) but when I looked no one was there. Because I’ve heard things and seen things and been there to say undeniably that something other than what we’re used to as reality just popped through. I see it, everywhere. I hear it. What we see as our reality…that’s just a facade. A reflection of what’s truly going on. It’s like coming across a footprint in the sand and assuming you know everything about the person who left it just by looking at that one print. That’s the way humanity acts about reality. We see only a small slice of the light spectrum and our ears are some of the worst in the animal kingdom. We’re not interpreting things properly. We don’t have the data.
And I’ve read CS Lewis. One idea in his Space Trilogy has always stuck with me: he proposed that any being outside of what we interpret as reality is beyond our concept of good or evil. ‘Angels’ could be as terrifying – or even more terrifying – than ‘demons’ because of their other-worldliness. Their inability to understand our reality. Their total lack of connection to the concepts of sorrow, pain, love, or hope. It is THAT we find terrifying: the being that inflicts pain simply because it doesn’t know pain. It is observing this ‘pain’ phenomenon. It does not have empathy; it cannot relate.
This is the world I see. The world I write. The world I live in.