An Unfinished Story called: "The Night, The Howling of the Wolves and the City that Trembled."
Current mood: angsty
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural
In the binding, cloistral hush, the overpowering silence of the panelled narthex, stood a tall, blond man, who wore a long, coal-black overcoat as tatterdemalion as an ancient, unraveling threadbare rug; his broad, black woolen back to the endless rows of overturned oaken pews immediately behind him in the ancient stone cathedral, arrayed around him, encircling him like a kaleidoscopic, holy corona (composed of thousands of particles of geometric, prismatic light)-the light of sunlight passing through the tapestried, filleted stained glass windows with their Christian mediaeval saintly scenes-he stood, and he prayed; prayed in German and wept, for ominousness had recently instilled and overhung the city, crept in like a thief: craven, sneaky and surreptitious and imbued, inundated all it's inhabitants-all 248, 000 of them-with dread: the dread of death. No prayer, no love of nor faith in Jesus could ever completely remove that dread and that's why Hans Olbermann wept, for he knew that, and his lack of faith, the impossibility and hopelessness of the hour, and the certainty of the coming municipal apocalypse; these shook him and he felt made of fear: a small, cowering child, cringing from, hiding from his abusive father's disciplinary blows-not a great, muscular, fearless, stalwart, fully-grown, confident man, the way he had thought of himself all his life.
All around his particular city, in the dozens of Germanic conurbations and metropolises that surrounded it, lay the ruins of civilization: great, proud, ancient cities that had stood unchallenged for a thousand years, were now little more than immense hills of rubbish, charnel and rubble, all of which, despite being only a few months dead, seemed unearthed from a far and bygone age: more like Egyptian, Greek or Roman ruins thousands of years old and millennially deserted, not lately crushed by enemies who seemed, in their fantastic, merciless fury, much worse than the Devil or God; these were German cities, German; destroyed utterly by British and American aerial forces , whose numbers ranged in the high hundreds or thousands. Vast armadas composed of more than a thousand Allied warplanes and bombers pounded the cities like an unrelenting steel flail of epic massiveness, until the ground trembled , split open and swallowed the cities-inhabitants and all-vomiting only the leavings of society, ghosts and skeletons of once-proud edifices and citadels and parks and compounds and enclosures; and vomiting forth also, mere crumpled, maligned, defiled and hideously mangled, ensanguined shadows of human life. In their thousands and hundreds of thousands did the Anglo-Americans slaughter them, reducing them to ash and their songs to dirges, to silence-eternal, abiding silence. Only tombs stodd where once were cities; tombs and graves marked by congeries of stony rubble, over which abode a constant, haunting rush of wind, whose lamenting tones and howling. bereaved-sounding shrieks scoured the land, masking all sounds of happiness (like that of birds chirping) not that there were many, certainly. Germany had become an immense necropolis cloyingly redolent with the grotesque stench of conflagration, desolation and death: the olfactory yet physical aftermath of saturation bombing. Hans saw the decrepit, worm-eaten, holey doors of the fetid, abase, insulting mausoleum opening wide, welcoming him, beckoning him into it's foul, eternal, unlightable, malodorous darkness and dankness: the caliginous oceans sealed within the mammoth, unlit, tenebrous, bottomless crypt; aye, he saw that opening even now, even while standing where he now stood-in this clean, light, wholesome, holy, invincible, bright, comforting place, in front of, looking at all those stained glass, saintly kaleidoscopic panels; panels of heartening, religious, faith-ridden scenes that afforded him small comfort-no comfort.
In the center of the ancient brick library-which itself stood roughly at or near the center of the somehow cryptic town; a cryptic quality that perhaps only came from the overlook of the town, its odd combination of rural barrenness, inhospitable urban vibrancy and decaying urban and suburban sprawl: the old Catholic cathedral, the series of abandoned, filthy mills that loomed like vast ancient stone mastadons by the grey river; the archaic, blasted factories; the scarred, fenceless, lifeless gravel heaps (those vast barren wastes of suburbia or urbia), gravelyards, graveyards, gravel pits; the crumbling, clotted, stained white sidewalks, the eerie closeness of the buildings downtown, and of course the railroad: all the bloody, rusty red rails, the sagging, pitted, dilapidated, scarred, faded, uneven ties, the sprays and crooked lines of gravel alongside then, the ancient, huge, cryptic signs, switches and eldritch railroad crossings with their sinister black-hooded lights resembling a glowing red eye of evil intent; but most of all, the vast, abandoned, ruined railroad yard, the stockyard, the hellish terminus fro the regional rail line, a rail line that barely functioned anymore; this, this juxtaposition of barrenness, sprawl, enclosure, ancientness, ruin and decay, this was the town, at least, it was the downtown-there stood a vast, mighty iron-walled, iron-floored, iron-shelved, iron-roofed, finally, iron-doored cubic vault. It was old itself, too-and why shouldn't it have been? It was appropriate, it was fitting. After all, didn't the subterranean vault (which was so moribund and tomb-like, so funerary despite its drab color of faded dull iron-gray and its pyramidal apex in its broad roof that tapered to that point that so Egyptian and ancient) house only the rarest, most valuable, oldest tomes?
They were ancient, dusty, moldy, musty, mellowing, faded volumes-many of them first editions, both fiction and nonfiction, even textbook; somehow autographed with a plain, simple authorial homily and scriptural signature by the original authors themselves!
And, some of these archaic voumes were from before the Colonial period; although, really, more of them, most of them were published well after it.
So, down deep in the library and at it's center, somehow resembling and acting like its ancient, giant, ferrous, boxy heart-perhaps the heart of a slumbering yet deadly beast; an ancient, mammoth beast-there was the vault and its lifeblood was the grand storehouse of the breadth of history; the representative history; of American literature trhough almost as many eras and ages as America had existed.
Naturally, due to the sensitive, valuable nature of the goods locked away within its iron fastness and impregnability, only a hand-picked chosen few (most of them being head librarian, librarians and library assistants with the most experience and seniority) were allowed oft-limited access to that sacred inner chamber.
In the sacrosanct nature of that sanctum sanctorum; though in a way it was more like a neglected, enclosed bouleterion or a more open, larger genizah; and the reverence, dignity and exclusivity that they paid to it, there was something hauntingly, cryptically religious, as if they regarded it as a grand, sacred, secure altar or pulpit or sacrifical, blood-stained, knife-decumbent, pagan, gilded table: a table of horrors, or terrors, of darkness-of immolation and wicked intent. For at least in the physical, mental and perhaps spiritual or at least implicative darkness of it all, the operating force behind whatever latent or clandestine religiosity attached to it was clearly a malevolent one.
Yet, in the end, all it was, was a careful, selective, thorough safe and slow selection and placement and protection of irreplaceable books, wasn't it?
What harm or horror was there possibly in it-or behind it, coiled up, curled up like a giant satanic viper ready to spring and strike with celerity, with devastating, deadly force?
If anyone would have known the obvious answer to those ominous, purposeful questions, it would have been one of the elite: the few chosen librarians sent to maintain that somehow morbid site.
Without that locale, in the well-lit, temperature-controlled, sterile yet cozy and clean, heart-warming precincts, corridors and stacks, shelves of the library proper itself, one would never guess, never imagine, never dream of the existence of that nighted, locked, dank, dark, ferrous cardial chamber and the portentousness, the prodigiousness, the odiousness or, at least, creepiness that suffused it-and that undoubtedly crept into the heart and mind of even the steeliest, most stalwart, staunchest librarian (with an overactive, paranoid, horrific, Kingian imagination) whose misfortune it was to draw the task of repairing down on some foolish, mercifully infrequent, irregular detergent errand.
Thus, it was a young librarian's occupation occasionally to be slated with this grim, hateful, unenviable duty one eeriely, unseasonably delightful, balmy spring's early evening.
The books in the vault, much like orchids in a greenhouse, in a glass-roofed, glass-walled steamy hothouse, needed at least occasional but still meticulous tending, arrangement/rearrangement, and maintenance; though this rarely involved anything more difficult or ostentatious than a simple dusting-yet if methodically done, due to the sheer volume of volumes, such a dusting could take weeks: straight, sleepless weeks of nothing more than dusty diligence, of dusty wiping, swiping, and flat, nay, flattest erasure of airborne, book-settling filth.
The vile, crushing irony of it all was that the vault was constructed to be an utterly dust-free, airtight sterilely clean chamber....yet obviously this design specification no longer held true-if indeed it had ever been the truth at all.
Often, all the many oddly spousal or maternal duties associated with and occuring at libraries were clearly set out in a kind of little duty roster or log (a log of bibliographical. bibliophilc devoirs: most related to upkeep and dust or mold-eradication; often by any means necessary) that was itemized for each person and that stated, with no room for convenient ambiguity, who would do what for any given night, on any given night. The oft-monastic vocational behavior of most normal librarians notwithstanding, in this one man's mind, as he stood now over the night's duty roster and read his name and his nightly, seldom-performed taks with muted but ever-growing disgust (and possibly horror) it seemed to go far beyond that.
They were ancient, dusty, moldy, musty, mellowing, faded volumes-many of them first editions, both fiction and nonfiction, even textbook; somehow autographed with a plain, simple authorial homily and scriptural signature by the original authors themselves!
And, some of these archaic voumes were from before the Colonial period; although, really, more of them, most of them were published well after it.
So, down deep in the library and at it's center, somehow resembling and acting like its ancient, giant, ferrous, boxy heart-perhaps the heart of a slumbering yet deadly beast; an ancient, mammoth beast-there was the vault and its lifeblood was the grand storehouse of the breadth of history; the representative history; of American literature trhough almost as many eras and ages as America had existed.
Naturally, due to the sensitive, valuable nature of the goods locked away within its iron fastness and impregnability, only a hand-picked chosen few (most of them being head librarian, librarians and library assistants with the most experience and seniority) were allowed oft-limited access to that sacred inner chamber.
In the sacrosanct nature of that sanctum sanctorum; though in a way it was more like a neglected, enclosed bouleterion or a more open, larger genizah; and the reverence, dignity and exclusivity that they paid to it, there was something hauntingly, cryptically religious, as if they regarded it as a grand, sacred, secure altar or pulpit or sacrifical, blood-stained, knife-decumbent, pagan, gilded table: a table of horrors, or terrors, of darkness-of immolation and wicked intent. For at least in the physical, mental and perhaps spiritual or at least implicative darkness of it all, the operating force behind whatever latent or clandestine religiosity attached to it was clearly a malevolent one.
Yet, in the end, all it was, was a careful, selective, thorough safe and slow selection and placement and protection of irreplaceable books, wasn't it?
What harm or horror was there possibly in it-or behind it, coiled up, curled up like a giant satanic viper ready to spring and strike with celerity, with devastating, deadly force?
If anyone would have known the obvious answer to those ominous, purposeful questions, it would have been one of the elite: the few chosen librarians sent to maintain that somehow morbid site.
Without that locale, in the well-lit, temperature-controlled, sterile yet cozy and clean, heart-warming precincts, corridors and stacks, shelves of the library proper itself, one would never guess, never imagine, never dream of the existence of that nighted, locked, dank, dark, ferrous cardial chamber and the portentousness, the prodigiousness, the odiousness or, at least, creepiness that suffused it-and that undoubtedly crept into the heart and mind of even the steeliest, most stalwart, staunchest librarian (with an overactive, paranoid, horrific, Kingian imagination) whose misfortune it was to draw the task of repairing down on some foolish, mercifully infrequent, irregular detergent errand.
Thus, it was a young librarian's occupation occasionally to be slated with this grim, hateful, unenviable duty one eeriely, unseasonably delightful, balmy spring's early evening.
The books in the vault, much like orchids in a greenhouse, in a glass-roofed, glass-walled steamy hothouse, needed at least occasional but still meticulous tending, arrangement/rearrangement,
The vile, crushing irony of it all was that the vault was constructed to be an utterly dust-free, airtight sterilely clean chamber....yet obviously this design specification no longer held true-if indeed it had ever been the truth at all.
Often, all the many oddly spousal or maternal duties associated with and occuring at libraries were clearly set out in a kind of little duty roster or log (a log of bibliographical. bibliophilc devoirs: most related to upkeep and dust or mold-eradication; often by any means necessary) that was itemized for each person and that stated, with no room for convenient ambiguity, who would do what for any given night, on any given night. The oft-monastic vocational behavior of most normal librarians notwithstanding, in this one man's mind, as he stood now over the night's duty roster and read his name and his nightly, seldom-performed taks with muted but ever-growing disgust (and possibly horror) it seemed to go far beyond that.
Concerning Yesterday; that is, Last Night-
Part I: Travels in Portsmouth and Kittery
(to be followed in time by Part II: Travels in Dover and South Berwick early this morning)
(Note: Part One is, in a way, so long, that it will probably be best to divide it into at least two subdivisions; thus, it might be better and more accurate to call part I "Book I" and part II of course, "Book II" or even, "Volume II." Another important thing to bear in mind is that one, this too, at least for the time being, is unfinished; and that I wrote about one hundred pieces similar to this for a six month period last year, from rough February to July or so. So, I may decide to upload those strange part-fiction, part-nonfiction pieces as well. Besides I love to read, write or watch a good story-who doesn't? So, without further ado, here is the opening to "Concerning Last Night-Volume I: Travels in Portsmouth and Kittery." Enjoy!) :)
After I left Mike's old house, clambering down the ancient stone steps, along the stone walkway, down more stone steps, alongside the stone wall, with it's cracks, crannies and fissures, and down to my grey four door Buick sedan, I climbed in, of course, and drove off, meaning to depart the city of Portsmouth and head home to Maine, but a thought seized me as I drove along, a compulsion to see my old place of work, if only from a distance, so I drove down the long, winding, sinuous ramp to the monumental Portsmouth Rotary, which was lit up like a Christmas tree what with all the hotels, the liquor store, and the diner that ring it, that stand along the circular fringe of it, plotting out the circumference of the spheroid by means of their existence as odd landmarks (now I say odd not because they, in themselves are odd, but rather their placement to be markers from a circle, that is odd, uneven and highly irregular, considering almost all of them are lumped on one side, and only the ramps to the highways and the vast urban fields seem to be the other markings-but they are also irregularly placed). I negotiated, I manuevered, I navigated the semi-circular portion of the rotary easily, as i had done a thousand times before-for after all, I worked for much more than a thousand days at the place to which I was heading. Soon, I was out of my curve and on the straight angle of the Route One Bypass. I passed several landmarks, most of them buildings alongside this thoroughfare, and soon enough I was on Route One proper, marveling at the landscape spread out before me: at the rolling hills, purple and indistinct yet still mighty in the distance, the lights and shops and plazas and gas stations all around me, flanking me, the hundreds of yellow and red glowing eyes of the cars in front of, to the side, behind me, the blackness of not only the sky, but the road surface itself, the lowlying marshlands just before and beneath the gradually rising ground, the hills, the great accretions and gatherings of trees off at the far edge, beyond the reach of man, the red-and-white spire with it's red lights that indicated the altitudinous radio aerial, the antenna, the transmitter of the local radio station, a squat brick building of one-storey that lingered somewhere in the limbo between the things of nature and the things of man. All this and more, I passed by, but thought it held (as it always did) a certain fascination for me, I was more interested, I suppose in my intended destination: The tucked-away, tree-bordered plaza of light, people and stores that had been my secondary, vocational home and that of my secondary, vocational, temporary family for almost three years. A place that despite the hell I had endured for at least two years there, is still somehow special to me, and I miss it. I suppose it is only the fact of the heavenliness and paradise of the first six months there that makes me miss it and wish I could have it back again, and also perhaps the fact that over the course of three years, for better or worse, through much heaven and hell and tedium I grew intensely attached to it-though it was also the dwelling place of Hitler's minions, of new Nazis. I say this metaphoricallly, figuratively to provide an exaggerated if somewhat accurate portrayal, a concise portrayal and assessment, of the rather incompetent, childish, vicious, brutish trio of vile managers, who in their incompetence and general behavior and speech, not only barely passed for human beings or even apes, but not even did they pass for the devils and demons that they were! Again, though, they were men-stupid, hateful, evil, worthless men who insulted and harassed and condescended to all, perhaps, but in the end, still men, just men, not the vile, almighty demonic creatures of pure malevolence that I, in my endurance of their harassment and bullshit, make them out to be.
Still, at all costs I wished to avoid them.
Part I: Travels in Portsmouth and Kittery
(to be followed in time by Part II: Travels in Dover and South Berwick early this morning)
(Note: Part One is, in a way, so long, that it will probably be best to divide it into at least two subdivisions; thus, it might be better and more accurate to call part I "Book I" and part II of course, "Book II" or even, "Volume II." Another important thing to bear in mind is that one, this too, at least for the time being, is unfinished; and that I wrote about one hundred pieces similar to this for a six month period last year, from rough February to July or so. So, I may decide to upload those strange part-fiction, part-nonfiction pieces as well. Besides I love to read, write or watch a good story-who doesn't? So, without further ado, here is the opening to "Concerning Last Night-Volume I: Travels in Portsmouth and Kittery." Enjoy!) :)
After I left Mike's old house, clambering down the ancient stone steps, along the stone walkway, down more stone steps, alongside the stone wall, with it's cracks, crannies and fissures, and down to my grey four door Buick sedan, I climbed in, of course, and drove off, meaning to depart the city of Portsmouth and head home to Maine, but a thought seized me as I drove along, a compulsion to see my old place of work, if only from a distance, so I drove down the long, winding, sinuous ramp to the monumental Portsmouth Rotary, which was lit up like a Christmas tree what with all the hotels, the liquor store, and the diner that ring it, that stand along the circular fringe of it, plotting out the circumference of the spheroid by means of their existence as odd landmarks (now I say odd not because they, in themselves are odd, but rather their placement to be markers from a circle, that is odd, uneven and highly irregular, considering almost all of them are lumped on one side, and only the ramps to the highways and the vast urban fields seem to be the other markings-but they are also irregularly placed). I negotiated, I manuevered, I navigated the semi-circular portion of the rotary easily, as i had done a thousand times before-for after all, I worked for much more than a thousand days at the place to which I was heading. Soon, I was out of my curve and on the straight angle of the Route One Bypass. I passed several landmarks, most of them buildings alongside this thoroughfare, and soon enough I was on Route One proper, marveling at the landscape spread out before me: at the rolling hills, purple and indistinct yet still mighty in the distance, the lights and shops and plazas and gas stations all around me, flanking me, the hundreds of yellow and red glowing eyes of the cars in front of, to the side, behind me, the blackness of not only the sky, but the road surface itself, the lowlying marshlands just before and beneath the gradually rising ground, the hills, the great accretions and gatherings of trees off at the far edge, beyond the reach of man, the red-and-white spire with it's red lights that indicated the altitudinous radio aerial, the antenna, the transmitter of the local radio station, a squat brick building of one-storey that lingered somewhere in the limbo between the things of nature and the things of man. All this and more, I passed by, but thought it held (as it always did) a certain fascination for me, I was more interested, I suppose in my intended destination: The tucked-away, tree-bordered plaza of light, people and stores that had been my secondary, vocational home and that of my secondary, vocational, temporary family for almost three years. A place that despite the hell I had endured for at least two years there, is still somehow special to me, and I miss it. I suppose it is only the fact of the heavenliness and paradise of the first six months there that makes me miss it and wish I could have it back again, and also perhaps the fact that over the course of three years, for better or worse, through much heaven and hell and tedium I grew intensely attached to it-though it was also the dwelling place of Hitler's minions, of new Nazis. I say this metaphoricallly, figuratively to provide an exaggerated if somewhat accurate portrayal, a concise portrayal and assessment, of the rather incompetent, childish, vicious, brutish trio of vile managers, who in their incompetence and general behavior and speech, not only barely passed for human beings or even apes, but not even did they pass for the devils and demons that they were! Again, though, they were men-stupid, hateful, evil, worthless men who insulted and harassed and condescended to all, perhaps, but in the end, still men, just men, not the vile, almighty demonic creatures of pure malevolence that I, in my endurance of their harassment and bullshit, make them out to be.
Still, at all costs I wished to avoid them.
In This Case, at this time: Whatever I feel like
Current mood: cooky/wacky
I decided just now that I wanted to write a blog and to make it a tad different from my other, earlier ones-especially considering that most them were just unfinished stories of mine. But today I want to try something different, a writing experiment if you will. I could make this thing an example of literary free verse or even stream-of-consciousness or something like that. I never liked the idea of a blog-at least, not one that was like a daily web log, a journal or diary or something. I mean, after all, I did write an essay on the subject of quotidian writing last year-of course, unless I post it here or on Facebook, no one will ever probably see it. But that is nothing to lament! That piece on quotidian or even diurnal writing is kind of a rambling, repetitive, unstructured, inchoate, sprawling, insane piece of crap! It is just a rant or something-nothing more; except, of course, that it, too, is an experiment, a literary experiment of sorts. Just as this is going to be; regardless of the use of fragment sentences, run-on sentences and other ungrammatical things. Sometimes I think I could be a very good comedian, especially for improvisation, for I can think often very quickly and could tell a story that would hopefully captivate an audience, even if it was only an audience of one, for a long time; I have a lot of stories-real and fake, true and false, fiction and nonfiction, novel and autobiographical-locked up in my mind (just as I don't doubt, anyone and everyone does, too), but then I have moments of nothingness. I mean, mental nothingness, like nothing passing in my brain. I don't know how to explain it-and, as it is not the source or subject of this particular blog o' mine, I will not attempt to (unlike last year, when my series of literary experiments included writing long, deep, tedious essays on the origin of certain of my thought-processes and lack thereof!) I can be very random, as some of the people who I know generally think of as assholes at the second Market Basket I worked at well know, for I have would some might dub an offbeat, random, abstruse and didactic sense of humor. Though that is not necessarily true. I would describe it as something quite different. Also, you will note that I do not, at least, in these, use proper indentation and paragraph separation, that my sentences and paragraphs all just run together, as or into some kind of rigid, massive block. I mention this only because I have nothing much to say at this time and am writing whatever comes to mind. I will not, of course, go so far as to tell anyone out there really deep, secret things that are known only to me and a select group-which I'm sorry does not, at present, include many of my Facebook or Myspace friends; even those of them that I do actually know! It might be a good idea to put up a smiley face now, right here: :) I can't help but wonder what the spatial requirements are on a blog, for a blog. I mean, when will I run out of space? How many paragraphs, pages or volumes can a blog (especially a blog of mine) be? When am I (and everyone else for that matter, too) cut off? These questions and others like them have never entered my head before-until today. Today, I had musings of this sort-but so what? To be perfectly honest, and I know this is going to sound completely random; indeed the perfect nonsequitur, but: I really miss Jennifer, that sexy Asian girl who worked at the GNC in the plaza that housed Market Basket on Lafayette Road in Portsmouth, NH. Of course, that unbelievably pretty, hot, sexy girl no longer works there! By the way, she had a wondrous personality, a personality to match her outward gorgeous sexiness. It was always too bad, I thought ( I mean, once I learned of it; which was like the first day her and I met and talked; thought I had heard rumors of her well before that) that she had a boyfriend. Another bad thing, was that she had to tell me that like right away. I was interested in, even aroused terrifically by her, yes, but I didn't exactly show it, I didn't make it abundantly clear...yet she said that and mentioned her boyfriend, and I, at the very least wanted to be deaf-for that moment. There are other girls and yes many of them, most of them are, as Jennifer, sexy and Asian, that I miss, too. Lik for instance. And no, those two should never be placed together in one sentence, or even one page. I mean, not to insult or anything, but: is way better than her, and it is an insult to to even place her in the same sentence as I know that some of the morons that I went to (not worked with, for it was more like a school-a high school-than a real, true, right workplace) Market Basket-the second one; No. 56: 1500 Lafayette Road, Portsmouth, NH-with might balk at some of this, but I really don't care! But like I said earlier, I should not be so personal herein, I should not turn this into some kind of confession, and the computer into some kind of confessional. No; truly this should not be as confessional as it is getting. But I'm just somewhere between "pouring my heart out" and "ranting/raving." This is a detergent process (by the way, did you know that that word-detergent-can be used as an adjective, too? That it, in fact is an adjective, too? Much like the little known adjectival uses of and forms for 'attic' and 'tonic' which most people only see, read, use and think of as nouns-much like detergent, but they are wrong!). I mean, this purging of at least my mind-and perhaps also, my soul and heart. I am writing shorter sentences than I normally do, because much like Faulkner or even James, I write fantastically long sentences. I mean, single sentences of a page long or longer, and my average is usually like 250 words anyway. So, I have to cut down, I have to save words and streamline sentences-and not use a styptic pencil to do either one...lol! Well, I could probably go on forever in this mode as insane and random as it is, but one, it is an experiment nothing more, and perhaps also the result of heavy boredom and nothing better to do, and two, my hand, my wrist hurts. I have typed been my threshold for today, and have I made any discoveries, written or discovered any revelations or hidden truths? No, I haven't! I just like to write-a lot; as anyone who knows me really well or has read even one of my seventy thousand writings, could tell. So, I think on account of reasons, facts like that, I will end this now. For, as I said somewhere at the beginning, or perhaps only in my head and heart (and soul), I do not want this, whatever this is, to turn into some sort of confession. It will not be confessional. I am not now nor have I ever been a Catholic-not, of course, that it even matters. Now, the rambling and ranting is done, and if I wasn't so enamored of writing, and wanting all my writings to be read and enjoyed for what they are, even if they are only log entries or letters, I would delete this whole thing, this whole insane mess. But I won't.
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