jacktellslies

I'm doing a bit of midnight cleaning. My house is obviously possessed, so I'm scrubbing its mouth out with soap before forcing it to swallow thirty gallons of holy water the wrong way. A proper storm stalks outside, the thunder breathing heavily on us while it watches. Tom and Erica recently travelled to New Orleans and were kind enough to buy me a bottle of voodoo floor wash. I'd planned to keep it as something of an amusing prop, but fuck it, I'm using it.

I bought a mask in Brussels: a woman made of dark, dark wood and human hair, her eyes narrowed to slits and her smile a knowing sliver, a scar or a moon. I work with that mask, sometimes: I'll ask her questions, or ask her to watch something for me. I moved the mask aside before sweeping, and living behind her face was a spider, a small one, perched in her web. Well hullo, old lady. The mask has a far finer mind than I could ever boast, and the spider has demonstrated superb housekeeping. It's good to know that I've been directing my enquiries to the proper authorities.

(I'm a touch disappointed that Krys wrote what she did tonight, because I'm afraid that she's rather stolen my thunder. Given the sort of woman that she is, I may be forced to admit that the thunder was hers to begin with.)

As I've grown older, I've stopped calling the gods by name. The more one learns of them, the more obvious it seems that one would do best to avoid their attentions as much as possible. But my distrust has never been less than amicable. It's often quite loving. But all this year they've been taking things from me, unravelling my efforts, the things that I have carefully built.

They are old and they are mad and I no longer trust that they have a point to make. If they had something to say, they ought to have said it. Because I have things to learn. I am very busy. And they have been getting in my way. Now I am going to start feeding them to each other.