Hello, my wee little monkeys. Did you think I’d forgotten about you? No, dearies. Mother Claire has been lurking in the shadows, working on all sorts of diabolical and nefarious plans. But she’s never forgotten about you.

As for the lady whose image I’ve included in this post, she’s here for no particular reason except that I keep finding myself drawn to the image, wondering if it’s real or if the image was Photoshop’d. It’s hard to tell these days. Personally, I find it hard to believe that a girl this beautiful would get a full body suit, but I’m intrigued to enough to volunteer to give her a full, up close inspection. Let’s determine once and for all if those images continue underneath her bikini. I volunteer to do this only for your peace of mind, of course. I’ll write up a full report and get back to you.

I inted to resume posting here. I’ve written a lot in my journals, but I haven’t posted anything. Quite frankly, I’d started attracting some unwanted attention from some people who made me very uncomfortable. It’s taken some time for my usual stubborness to kick in, and for my defiance to come into full bloom. So, I have no idea what I’ll be doing here, but I’m not going to hide in my work anymore.

An old friend knocked on my door tonight. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since Christmas, when we both made some terrible mistakes (mostly at my urging). To my shame and deep regret, I put my needs ahead of his. I took what I needed from him at a time when all he wanted was a friend and someone to listen, and never once thought about the repercussions. Well, actually, I did think about the repercussions. I just didn’t care. And while it might have been better if we’d drank some plum wine and watched a movie and maybe talked, instead we wound up taking out our frustrations and urges upon one another, and we both have physical and mental scars from it.

Why am I writing this? Mostly because he showed up on my doorstep, when I never expected to hear from him again. I betrayed everything that we both thought our friendship was all about. And I did it by crossing a line that should never have been crossed. Now we don’t even know how to look at one another. And yet there he was, standing on my doorstep, staring at his feet, and asking me if I was alright. He was worried about me because I hadn’t posted to my blog since February 4th, and none of our common friends had heard from me.

He wouldn’t come in, but simply accepted my assurances that I’m okay. Part of me wanted to tell him that I’ve been dating someone, and I’ve been spending most of my free time at her place. Part of me wanted to tell him that I’ve lost interest in blogging about my every little pain and regret. Part of me wanted to grab him and ask him if there was any way I could have my Big Brother back, because I’ve missed his hovering presence and implied protection. Instead, we felt our way clumsily through a few canned phrases, never getting much beyond “How’ve you been?” and “How’s the family?” and “Still working at…”

It’s funny, actually, that I’m sitting here, writing this, because it’s not at all what I’d intended to write. All I was going to do was make an update, since apparently some people notice when I disappear. But instead of talking about my new girl and my recent efforts to actually have a life, I’ve talked about him. Maybe I feel like I owe him that much, at least. I’ll never offer my apologies. We both know that. But I can offer my regret. If he reads this, I hope that can be enough.

Holy crap, it’s cold tonight. The thermometer on the porch says it’s 4 degrees outside. I tarried there long enough to read the temperature and look at the snow for a bit. Of course, in true Claire fashion it didn’t occur to me to put on shoes and 20 pounds of clothes before I went out there. Now I’m huddled in front of the computer with some hot cocoa, trying to warm up again. I can vouch for the 4 degrees.

They’re calling for a winter storm advisory here, lasting until midnight tonight. Being Asheville, I’ll take that with a grain of salt. It’s cold, and there’s already some snow on the ground, but come on. The forecasters are so bad around here that if they say it’s going to be a sunny day I take an umbrella with me if I’m going out. So if they’re calling for a lot of snow, we probably won’t get much.

It’s probably a good thing I just stocked the pantry. I imagine as soon as the sun comes up the soccer moms will be rushing to the grocery store to stock up on Twinkies so her grubs won’t go hungry if the lights go out. No, thanks.

Fuck this. I’m going to jump in bed, and I’m taking all the blankets with me. Ya’ll’re on your own.

I’ve been very surprised to get some e-mail lately from some rather alarmed people who had begun to think that I was dead or something. One suggested that I had finally pissed someone off, was tied up in my own basement, and that my captor was logging into my MySpace account in the hopes of gathering the names of my fellow conspirators. It’s actually kind of funny that over a month has gone by since my last post, and I hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t missed it. I’d learned the hard way that everything I wrote could be used against me, and it seemed like everything I wrote, no matter the subject, offended someone somewhere.

I don’t shy away from offending people, but I prefer to do it intentionally, and not find that it’s bothered someone that I had a weird dream (”been thinking dark thoughts again, Claire?”) or got high (”drug abuse runs in your family, Claire”) or that I fucked someone and regretted it (”where are you? were you raped?”).

The truth of the matter is that I’ve been busy. Painfully so. I accepted a contract that was too big for me, had to bring in two other programmers to help me finish it, and even then we barely made the deadline. Not the way I like to do things, but that’s why I make the big bucks. I’m the great mind that seems to know how to keep things from getting broken because I’m so damned good at breaking them myself (the simple secret to my success is that if we develop it to a point that I can’t fuck it up, it’s considered a success - wow, I just had an existential realization… I’ve made a career out of being destructive… software design via chaos theory).

I logged into my WordPress install on my web site, expecting that maybe the spam filters would be clogged with love letters from Russian hackers and penis enlargement opportunities. Instead, I found a lonely 13 spam messages (in a month? My Russian adversaries from last summer must have finally grown hair on their pubes or either discovered World of Warcraft). I was somewhat disappointed. What does that say about me, that my response to 13 spam comments was “That’s it?” The traffic counters had slowed to a trickle, as well. Not that it’s surprising. Who reads your blog if you never post anything?

What I found most interesting was some of the search engine queries in my logs. These are from today.

• claire - 20
• how do you know if your organization is faith based - 2
• pill dalatta - 2
• pain pill dalatta  - 1
• mulkieran asheville - 7
• mulkieran arrest witch - 3

“Claire” is benign enough. I don’t imagine I’m the only one around (however much I’d like to think otherwise). I have no idea how the faith based query led to my web site. “Dalatta”… well, I guess I can see that. I think I mentioned taking them once. “Mulkieran Asheville” was a little disturbing, but I kind of keep telling myself someone is researching genealogy. The only one that actually might apply to me is the last one. Three people were looking up info on a Mulkieran being arrested, possibly a witch. That made me wonder if people were looking for information about my mother. Something I don’t want to think about.

Anyway, the searches were telling. No one winds up on my site by way of my witty and insightful posts. I don’t write (much) about world politics or current events. I don’t see all the latest movies or television shows. I rarely leave the house, so there are no adventures to chronicle. I’m 24 going on 40 and haven’t been out of the house in two weeks. Literally. I sat out on the front porch for a little while tonight with some hot cocoa and savored the cold, which made me feel alive somehow. Not just alive, but potentially living. We all know there’s more to being alive than just living. Well… so I’m told. I thought I’d test the theory.

Like most everything else I do, this has no real purpose. I’m just checking in. Yes, I’m alive. I’m not tied up in the basement. I’m not hiding. Mostly, I’ve developed a fondness for silence, stillness and darkness. I’m allowed, I think, being bombarded by electrons from computer monitors all day. If I sit very still and listen to nothing but the beating of my heart and the ghosties creaking the floorboards in this old house, somehow it makes me feel like the proverbial radiation is dying down. I don’t feel so much like I’m glowing in the dark.

Before I go, I want to toss out a line to the person who wrote me about being involved in a project. I apologize, but your comment wound up in my spam folder, and I read it the moment I hit the button to delete all spam. I don’t know who you are or exactly what you were suggesting, but the project in question is still very much on-going. If you’re still interested, drop me another comment (I promise to look the spam over before I delete it next time). Better yet, click on the link in the side-bar of my web site that says “Worship Claire“. You can leave me an actual message that way. If something winds up in my inbox, I have a better chance of actually reading it. If I read it, there’s a 14% chance I’ll respond.

Anyway, if there’s anyone out there who still gives a shit, I’m glad that you’re still out there. Alive is better than the alternative. I’m taking a week off starting next Sunday, so don’t expect to see me anywhere near a computer. If you actually know me, and know where I live, I’d very much like to hear from you. There’s wine and beer in my fridge that have desperately been waiting for an opportunity to enjoy some good company.

It’s amazing how delicious the self-torment is, after a night when you crossed lines that should never have been crossed. Regret or shame don’t enter into it. Instead one curls up on the sofa with a glass of plum wine and savors her wounds. It’s sinfully delicious to be sore; to know that you went far beyond your boundaries, fully aware that whatever the fall-out or long-reaching damage, there were moments when your conscious mind was lost and all that was left was gasping breath, sweat and muscles straining against their mortal limitation. There’s a sweetness to this hint of shame that I’ve developed a taste for. Yes, mistakes were made. But these mistakes you will never forget. And neither will I.

Tomorrow I will have no shame. Whatever else we might experience in our short lives, those breathless moments when we have slipped our bindings and are lost in animal instinct are the fleeting seconds when we are most alive. They are precious beyond any gold or gem, rendering whatever trifling shame we might feel in the glare of daylight meaningless. We know that our lives are incomplete and we will never again be able to take a full breath until we are back to groping in the darkness, finding our way through moist, fleshy corridors to the very altar of the Goddess herself.

I take pleasure in these scratches and bruises. I sit uncomfortably but without complaint, relishing my soreness. These wounds will heal, but for the one that will leave the greatest scar; that branding I will wear as proof of my transgressions. Cry if you need to. Beg your God for forgiveness. And when you have purged yourself of your pointless remorse and shame, feel free to drag your unworthy carcass back up onto my porch. Whatever you think of me, I think no less of you. And if I am still inhuman in your eyes, it is only because I feel no lasting shame.

I will be waiting. I will do it again.

(Okay, so I lied. This wasn’t a fictional writing experiment. But for the record, I was not raped. I just made a mistake, which I did, and do, regret. Isn’t it always the defiant one who spits in your face who has the most to be ashamed of?)

The following was taken from notes I made after having a particularly confusing dream.

A ship at sea. Freighter. Old and rusty. Seas were rough. Storm. Ship tossing and heaving. Dozens of people in the hold of the ship. Asians from many different countries. They’d all paid for passage to America, and found themselves in the hands of wicked men. Economic slavers. People were dying. Not enough food. They were locked in the hold and couldn’t get out. Could only hope to survive long enough to get to America. Some believed beyond hope that they’d actually be able to work off that contract they’d signed which would bind them to these men years. Can still smell the sweat, urine and vomit.

Above, the ship was taking a beating. There was a discussion on the bridge about the possibility of abandoning ship. It was an ancient ship, and the captain was afraid it would break up in the powerful ocean swells. They’d already made a nice profit from the thousands of dollars they’d taken from each of their passengers. Losing them would be a loss, because they’d get more upon delivery. But realistically, they’d already come out pretty good. This was the argument between the captain and some of the others. Enough Money versus More Money.

Their argument was interrupted by a searing bright light. White. Like the Goddess herself had reached down through the heavens. It was a general glow at first, but coalesced into a blinding beam of light that flashed and connected to the deck at the bow of the ship, like a laser beam, but as intense as a lightning strike.

When the flash was gone, a woman stood on the bow of the ship. She was luminous from some kind of inner light, like a living beacon. Wore a white dress with long, flowing sleeves the billowed out behind her. Though the ship was pitching up and down and rolling from side to side, she never faltered or was thrown overboard. Even when the waves crashed over the bow of the ship upon her, when the water receded, there she stood.

“The savagery of men is ending,” she called out in a loud, clear voice. Almost like it was in your head. Everyone on the bridge heard her, though there was no way they could have from where she was. “I bring justice.”

She started walking across the deck of the ship toward the bridge. As she did so, the hull of the ship disintigrated behind her, the metal of the plating blowing away in the wind like dust. The captain sent out men with machine guns to kill her, but he knew they were already lost with the whole front bow of the ship gone. His men fired at the woman, but their bullets never reached her, dropping away long before ever hitting her. So they could only watch in horror as she approached them and the ship disappeared behind her.

A few men stood their ground as she approached. She smiled serenely at them, and touched each one. As she did so, they vaporized and drifted away like dust on the winds. Each time she touched one of them, she said “You are impure”.

She continued through the entire ship like that, killing all of the crewmen. When she reached the hold, she soothed the terrified captives, but killed some of them, those who had preyed upon their fellow prisoners. The hull of the ship completely disintigrated, and the woman and the captives where left floating above the heaving waters in a luminous bubble.

I saw this last part as a survivor. A man, trying to stay afloat in the rough seas. I watched as the woman’s sphere rose higher above the waters. Lights broke through the angry clouds above her, and then the shapes of large craft of some sort came down through the clouds. Immense shapes, like flying aircraft carriers. I watched the sphere rise up and enter into one of the crafts, then the ship, for lack of a better word, rose up through the clouds.

A small light broke away from the second ship as it also rose into the clouds and darted toward me. As it approached, I realized it was an aircraft of some kind. But small. Not much bigger than a car, but zipping around like a dragonfly. It came to me and hovered above me, and I thought I was going to be saved. But its canopy opened and a woman in some kind of armor stepped out upon one wing. She was bald except for a long pony-tail that came from the back of her head. She crouched and looked down at me.

“Thought we’d forgotten you?” she asked me. She balled her hand into a fist, which she pointed in my direction. Energy crackled around her wrist and I could smell ozone building. As a wave of white fire danced around her hand, I realized she was going to kill me. “The time of men is ending.”

The energy flashed from her hand, and I was immediately awake, sitting on the side of my bed, gasping for my breath. In that animal moment when you first wake up and you’re driven by nothing but instinct, I knew in my heart that if that blast had reached me, I would really have died. It took a few moments for that panic to pass, and I wound up sitting in here, typing away on the computer, trying to get my heart rate to go back down.

Some of my Pagan friends might think this was a dream about the Goddess. The White Lady and all that. But what would the Goddess need of ships? Much less soldiers in armor who could blast energy from their hands? Maybe that’s what upset me most. It all seemed so frighteningly real. But I have no references that could account for these images. Much less the horror that they triggered in me.

Which, of course, is why I’m writing this. I want to remember it. Somehow it seemed important. I imagine I’ll be thinking about this for days to come, trying to figure out whatever symbolic meaning that it had. What is my subconscious trying to tell me?

I’ve made no secret of my distaste for the Twilight series. Now it seems that some folks are looking at my web site theme and wondering if I’m a fan. See, the cover of the first book is a woman’s hands cupping an apple, and my web site sort of has the same (except the apple’s in a more interesting place). It’s annoying that people are looking at my web site theme and thinking “Twilight”.

Do you have any idea how long I looked for a good WordPress theme that would sum up my dry wit and diabolical sense of irony? I mean, I get the obvious inference of the forbidden fruit and all. That’s what drew me to the design with the apple in the first place. But mine was meant to be naughty and playful. The Twilight cover seems chaste and innocent somehow. Dammit, not only do they give us pasty vampires that are nothing more than metaphors for abstinence, but they pollute the general perception of my web site along the way. Why, people might start thinking I’m virginal or something and lose all respect for me.

Okay, for the record, I am not a fan of Twilight. And if I offer you my fruit, I’ll won’t expect you to treasure the offer, I’ll expect you to get busy snacking. On that note, I’m going to stop writing before I start musing about sweetness and juicyness and various other things that end in “ness”. It would be unbecoming of me to go any farther with that.

Two friends have given me copies of Twilight books in the last couple of weeks, hoping to prepare me for the release of the movie. I appreciate the gestures, but I’m a little confused about the reasoning. I’m not known for reading science fiction or fantasy books, so I didn’t quite get it. But of course, an e-mail summed it up for me this morning.

“I thought a witch might like Twilight.”

Okay. At first that statement offended me on several levels. Why exactly would a witch automatically like a book about vampires? Oh, wait. If you look up Twilight, you find a lot of references to “vampires, werewolves and witches”. Oh! I get it! If I’m pretending to be a witch, I’d naturally like to read about other “pretend” creatures.

Okay, okay. I know. I’m reaching here. I only thought along those lines for a moment. The worst my friends might be guilty of is assuming that witches tend to like bad haircuts and melodramatic declarations. Sadly, most of the Pagans and Wiccans they see on the news and in magazine articles fit that profile. For some reason the media never want to talk to those of us who look like we have regular jobs and pay our taxes like everyone else. They always want to speak to Ravenmoon Silverbritches, who dresses in the black robes and has the Flava Flav worthy 5 lb silver pentacle hanging from her bent neck.

Anyway, I figured I’d read up on the Twilight series before I risked reading a book that everyone seems to be assuming I’d like. After all, it’s a book aimed at a teen audience. That makes me wonder what exactly people are trying to say about me. What I found was that the author, Stephenie Meyer, is a Mormon who attended Brigham Young University and married a Christian. Where she now stands on the whole Jesus coming to the Americas thing I don’t know. But her background infuses a lot of what constitutes the Twilight series. It also probably helps to explain why the books have sold over 20 million copies. However Christians might want to wring their hands over whether or not the series is appropriate for their young padawans, the themes are very Christian friendly.

Okay. So, like, I read parts of Twilight, the first book. It reminded me of an article from Teen Beat magazine. I’m surprised it didn’t come with a wall poster of the male lead character for all the hormonal teenaged girls. If you’ll notice, they tend to be the ones who are screaming hysterically at Twilight premiers. Long story short, this series is a bunch of trashy romance novels written for a teen audience, with all the references to throbbing members and heaving breasts removed, with vampirism tossed in as a metaphor for sexuality. Come on. He’s a vampire. She’s not. He wants to suck on her, but he won’t, because, like, it’s wrong. So … like most men, he leaves her there with her heaving breasts and moist panties while he goes off and does his thing with his friends. Geez. There’s a series? And they never get it on? Even in the metaphorical sense? Boys!

There’s a big debate at the moment about whether or not this series, and the just-released movie, is appropriate for Christians. Which I can understand. I mean, it’s vampires, which are dark and scary and evil; concepts which might lead Christians to giving free blowjobs in dark alleys if they’re not careful of their influences. Only, these vampires are about as toothless as they come. I’m sure there are the requisite battles in the movie, with people being thrown about in the air. But overall, these vampires are the most pussy-fied (to borrow an Agnon phrase) that I’ve ever come across. Pussy-fied and melodramatic as only hormonal teens can be. Come on! Fuck her and go rip out somebody’s throat, already! I mean … they play vampire baseball! Is that what vampires have been reduced to? Supernatural baseball?!

Nosferatu is rolling in his coffin.

Look. I realize the Twilight series is entertainment. I’ll take it as such and not get too worked up about it. But to put this as simply as I can, I’ve seen the lines of screaming teenaged girls at the Twilight premiers. Do you really expect me to be interested in a budding franchise that’s aimed at the Hannah Montana crowd? How about instead I curl up on the couch under a blanket with a glass of plum wine and watch Shadow of the Vampire instead? That movie is based upon the premise that Max Schreck, the actor who played Nosferatu in the movie of the same name, was an actual vampire who kept disrupting the filming of the movie by sort of feeding upon the extras. Doesn’t that seem more interesting?

It does to me. At least you get the impression that Nosferatu would properly introduce a girl to his throbbing member. Or at least give her a good sucking.

Agnon just called me. Completely out of the blue. At first I thought maybe he’d read what I wrote the other night. But he said he hadn’t read it. We didn’t talk long. About twenty minutes, maybe. He was at work on his break and decided to call me. His reasons are his own, I guess. I was just glad to hear his voice.

I don’t think I’m revealing too much by saying that Agnon and I were childhood friends. We grew up together. He helped me through a lot. Just by being a friend when we were younger. But when we got older, for awhile he saw it as his God-given duty to put me back together when I started falling apart. I think in some ways I came to rely on that. Agnon let me stop caring what I did or who I hurt. I could just do my thing, and when it all went to hell and I wound up a quivering heap on the floor, here would come Agnon to put me back together again.

I put Agnon through hell. I’m not surprised that he finally made a break. I don’t blame him. I love him even more for it. I needed to stumble along for awhile without a safety net. Sure, I made a lot of messes, but I think I finally learned that having a crash wasn’t the end of the world. You bite your lip, curl into a ball, and you make it through. There’s always going to be a tomorrow.

Talking to Agnon has put me in an odd mood. Not a bad one. Just … odd. Maybe there’s a touch of melancholy here. I don’t need to be under his safety net anymore, but I feel really bad that we’re so estranged. I keep examining what was essentially the dissolution of our friendship, hoping that I can learn some lessons and not make the same mistakes the next time. Or eventually learn to not make the same mistakes. So far my record really sucks. I think the fact that Caroline doesn’t write me back or return my calls says a lot about just how little I’ve learned.

Agnon suggested that the two of us have lunch sometime this week or next. I agreed. But the idea terrifies me. There’s some great unspeakable tension between us now. My heart twists when I think about having to face him, knowing that great chasm is there now. But I’m going to. I have to.

Anyway, it was nice to hear from Agnon. It’s always nice to hear from old friends.

Had a meltdown last night. Here I am. Writing about it. Wondering if I should be writing about it. I keep telling myself that I’ll write about it, but I won’t post it. But I know I’ll post it. I always do. And I always regret it. For six months I haven’t been writing it. That’s so hard for me. Writing stuff down was my therapy. Then I discovered blogs. People reading. There’s a concept. Who knew people would read it? You can’t write about this stuff in your weakest moments and expect friends to be comfortable at lunch the next day. Doesn’t work like that. I’ve avoided posting scary stuff by not writing it down at all. That was my pressure valve. Silly girl. Since then it’s been building. Sooner or later it had to come out.

Goddess. I’ve lost so many friends. I was a cute misfit. Then I started writing things down. Then they knew it wasn’t an act. Claire wasn’t wrapped so tight. There were issues. And when it got really bad, they scattered to the four winds, afraid they might catch it. Good riddance. So I told myself. But how do you dismiss the people who really know you as fair weather friends when coming to know you is the reason they scattered in the first place? How do you condemn people for saving themselves?

Obviously, I’m not writing this for myself. Whoever you are reading this, you’re the one I’m talking to. I need a moment of your time. Let me put this under your nose so you can tell me if it’s rotten. Or is it just loaded with exotic spices? I resent this. Who are you? Why do I need your validation? Who are you to sit there with that amused smirk on your face and critique the quality of my pain? Who are you to sit there and ponder my existence for its entertainment value?

Bleh. I’m making no sense. It might help if I decided who I’m writing this for. Is it for me, or is it for you? Do I need to think of myself as “that crazy Claire” to feel like I’m somehow closer to the edge than the yuppie girls in their tight skirts driving SUVs and looking forward to a life of spawning baby Republicans? Am I a Emo Goth chick deep down inside, who just happens to be allergic to heavy mascara and ritualized inch-deep suffering? Do I somehow want to be confused and fucked up?

A long time has passed between this paragraph and the last. I’ve been sitting here sipping my coffee and rum, wishing I could just go back to bed. I’m sleepy enough. I probably could. The rum is making me fuzzy. I want to. But I’m sitting here with my legs tucked up under me, staring at the computer screen. How did my existence came to be so defined by this glowing screen; these pixels so neatly arranged in recognizable patterns and colors. Instead of writing something that I don’t want to post but know I will, maybe I should be calling someone instead and arranging some kind of intervention. Or a nice dose of prescription medicine. Pound my brain back into nice, calm oblivion. Isn’t that how mainstream America deals with its problems?

I just want to sleep without dreams. That’s all I really want. No more bugs crawling under my skin. No more raping by demons. No more cattle cars carrying away Mother. Or men in black suits smiling serenely and telling me it’s all alright, that it’s air escaping from release valves and not screaming at all. Goddess, I just want to sleep. Why do I have to be shredded every night? Why do I have to wake up covered in sweat and shivering beneath the covers, watching the shadows circle my bed? Couldn’t I just sleep until dawn for once?