#ghostconch

Little different, little looser, I like it.

– People who’ve made off-colour jokes being lumped in with actual abusers is actively harmful

Listen to the Doing Spont Episode of Hollywood Handbook. (It won’t explain my situation but it is a good podcasting episode)

Nothing else is happening here.

Party Lobster

Dirty mirror. Bad light. Pulling it off, or be pulling it off?

Mother always told me from a young age not to engage with the door on the side of the house that to, to me seemed to lead into the basement. Its one of those things that you think about a lot obsessively as a child. I can't; I must. My own mother? My childhood home with a secret? Maybe a dangerous one? My father left and came back like clockwork. Jobs. Affaris? Long bouts of strange depression. Could she be concealing some dark smudge painted by him? It didn't seem likely but i couldn't see any other source. One day, it happened. A terrible storm blew the door off the hinges and the mystery was uncovered. I can't sleep. A simple traffic cone. Orange and reflective silver. It sits at the top (yes top) of the staircase that ascends rather than descends. A traffic cone. I nearly vomited on my shoes with laughter and then a glow sadness at my poor mothers concern and fascination with such a plainly ordinary ignored object. When she saw me picking myself up out of the door frame she screamed like I was dying and pulled me around the house and into the front hall. "Don't you ever---" That was two weeks ago. Two weeks ago I got a chewing out and stern warning and sent to my room for a long time. Hungry and tired I awoke and made my way to the kitchen. I could see out the side window the basement lights were on. A reverse image can be seen on the surface of the oven , classic polished silver, almost sickeningly shiny.) I couldn't help myself. I went outside and around the house to the side where the door had blown off. As I silently turn the corner, I watch it all in slow motion. My mother, flashlight in hand walks up the set of stairs that seem unreal, mumbling without true words. Nothing weird, just humming. As she reaches the third to last step up, she points her flashlight into the open space, a bright spark bounces off of the traffic cone, sending her reeling backward. She was dead before she reached the opening. After the funeral and some time away I came back to the house that raised and ravaged me in so many small ways. The first thing I did was board up that doorway.