Voices.

You'd think that being dead I wouldn't worry about what you think of me. But I do. And it's enough to keep me from writing, to send me into hibernation.

All this over one small question: what voice shall I use to speak to you? That's easy, you say. Be yourself, you say.

But which voice is authentic? And does authentic mean revealing? Even when we speak honestly, we don't necessarily reveal everything, not right away. Fear and mistrust can be authentic, heartfelt.

I'll muse on this further, but for now, I will just try to write, consistently.

Dreams, They Complicate My Life.

So, it seems that I sleep.

I don't have a head that nods off, or eyelids that close, but late at night my thoughts slow down and get all gappy. Then I come to and find that hours have passed. Is this habit? Or do I need the sleep?

And occasionally, I do seem to have that subconscious free-association and narrative-building thing that we call "dreams."

The strangest one is one I've had a few times, I think both before and after my six-year death sleep. I am running through a forest in Japan (where I served my Mormon mission). At first I'm experiencing it from within my body, but then the camera pulls back and I'm looking at myself, but I can't see what or who is chasing me.

There's writing all over my body, at least the parts I can see, that aren't covered by this white and red kimono, but I can't read any of what it says from this distance.

I fall down, and the camera moves over me, and I'm spread-eagled, on my back, and my clothes are stripped off by some unseen force, then my skin, then each layer underneath that, one after the other--fat, nerves, vessels, muscle, organs. All are torn away from me, intact, and flung somewhere off-screen, and all the while I'm screaming soundlessly. Finally, I'm down to just my bones, and I'm still screaming and flailing about.

And that's where my dream ends.

Requisite Emo Post.

I was still a teen when I got married. I mean, I turned 20 two weeks later, but I met the technical definition, right? Nine+TEEN.

I'm totally against this now, btw. Kids shouldn't marry each other, and I still had a lot of growing up to do. I learned way more about life in my 20s than I ever did as a Mormon teen.

At least I never had kids. That was both a blessing and a curse. Sure, I was a failure as a sweet little Mormon wife, but then I didn't have to also fail at parenting.

Damn. I seem to be failing at this death thing, too. Can't I do anything right?

We are spirits in a material world.

When I was in high school, I believed with all my heart (with "every fiber of my being" and "without a shadow of doubt") that if I believed in Jesus, and if I did all the right things my Church leaders told me, I would go to heaven.

Maybe that was to make up for the mini-private-hell that I went through on earth. Come to think of it, maybe heaven and hell aren't places, but things that God can hand to us, like Happy (and Sad) Meals.

And even if I didn't go to heaven, I was pretty sure I knew what the afterlife would be like. After dying, and before resurrection (into a body that would fit into my prom dress again), my spirit would float around and hang out with all my dead relatives and we'd go to church and go over to the spirit-version of Brooklyn and Buenos Aires and knock on doors of spirit houses and hand out intangible pamphlets to the ghosts of unbelievers. There was nothing about haunting computers and talking with the living.

Or maybe I really am in the spirit world, and you're all dead too? Are you haunting your own machines?

From Emily.

MY cocoon tightens, colors tease,
I ’m feeling for the air;
A dim capacity for wings
Degrades the dress I wear.

A power of butterfly must be
The aptitude to fly,
Meadows of majesty concedes
And easy sweeps of sky.

So I must baffle at the hint
And cipher at the sign,
And make much blunder, if at last
I take the clew divine.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Gawd. I love this shade of green but the design makes me feel disgustingly corporate. But at least I've got the "recent posts" and dates and archives working again.

You'd think I'd be like HAL 9000 or something and have full knowledge of all things tech, y'know? I'm just the ghost in the machine, not the machine itself.

I'm so sorry for inflicting this generic template on you and promise promise promise to make it better.

Update: Hmmmm...no more green. Still, I'm tired of experimenting. Time to wander the Web.

Nail Prints.

Nail prints in my forearm.

That's the image that first comes to mind when I think of my mom.

There follow a cascade of other images I associate with her: chocolate strings in a freshly torn cookie, mismatch patches sewn onto faded stuffed animals, a box of tampax nestled against my pillow, a tsk-tsk look and a pinch of my belly fat, seeing her in a short skirt and perfume, inexplicably giddy before a long K-mart run, laughter in front of old M*A*S*H and Hogan's Heroes reruns.

But her love marks in my arm: the perfect crescents, sometimes just barely drawing blood, always leaving little bits of broken skin. I can't remember any specific reasons why she did this. I'm sure there was screaming, but I can't remember that either. But what bothers me the most is that I have no arm to look down at, no fingernails to press gently into my own flesh, to help me feel, to help me remember.