getting the ball rolling on subtle cult initiation proceedings.

It’s a full moon tonight. My concerns about the moon are pretty real. There’s that thing Gurdjieff said about earth and earthlings being a slave to the moon, and then there’s the fact that every year the moon moves 3 cm away from earth, and without the moon holding our orbit in delicate balance, we’re doomed to spin off madly into space. Which I guess would be fine.

The moon is thirsty for more blood, can’t you feel it? Here’s the call I put out on facebook: I'm organizing a blood drive for tomorrow night's full moon. At midnight, we meet in a field. We put our blood in a bucket and hurl the bucket at the sky.

Feel free to not take any of that seriously. Go ahead and feel free, if it makes you feel better.

Today I went to see a man on the north side about a siberian husky with a wounded leg. To get there you have to ride your bike down a steep concrete slope that takes you through an echoey, underground tunnel. If you’re really lucky, a train will pass overhead. The dog owner and I talked about how busy we both were, which was sort of a joke, at least on my end it feels like a joke. Feeling the need to read and write all the time and actually being busy seem to me to be two different things, but I don’t know; maybe I’m selling myself short. I told him about crows, and he told me a story about his roommate involving crows and an air rifle. I’m saying the world is magic and we’re all connected.

Being too poor for a lot of food and riding my bike all the time is a recipe for a sexy body. Every day that I step on the rusted out, busted up scale at the anarchist collective, I’ve lost another two pounds. If I keep going at that rate, by the end of the summer I will still exist.  You can’t win!

30 years old. Living at an anarchist collective. Alone, alone, alone.

The guy who loaned me his bike at the beginning of the summer is expected to make a full recovery from the broken legs he suffered on the bike he loaned me. Remember in Misery when Paul Sheldon’s legs were just about healed up, until Annie Wilkes performed the ol’ hobbling trick and busted his ankles up anew, thus ensuring that they continued on in their dysfunctional relationship of demented nurse/writer held captive?

Ha ha. Just kidding, dude. I’ll give you your bike back.

In the book, she doesn’t break his ankles with a sledgehammer. She straight up cuts off one of his feet. In the book he has phantom limb pain which I think is a metaphor for missing his freedom and also a very real representation of the pain and horror of having your foot cut off. Why didn’t they do it that way in the movie, I wonder? An issue with special effects? Too graphic for 1990? I don’t think the film suffers from the change.

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