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I Suffer Quite Badly From My Head, You Know

1
You see a wiry bald man with a blonde mustache and goatee. He's dressed all in black and pale with slumping posture. His blue eyes, ice and rime, cast on a keyboard that his fingers occupy. Above his line of sight is a computer monitor broadcasting the blog entry page for Writing Forums. If you wish to speak to him, Turn to 230. If you wish to let him make the first move, Turn to 57


57
He doesn't move, save for slowly nodding his head. His lips part and he begins to speak aloud, whether to you or not, you are unsure. But you listen to his words...
"I thought I'd welcome you to the making of this blog post...make it more interactive. Fair warning, this entry...is a bit gloomy. I don't want to oversell it, but not a day-brightener. Least it wasn't for me, to write. Probably hard to follow, but bear with me.

I had an issue of what to write about next. I introduced the main characters in the first post. Caught you up to the most ongoing SWA mystery in the second post. My trouble stems not from lack of material, you understand, more from excess of material. We could've talked about "The Demon at the Dinner Table", "The Mystery of the Haunted Radio", "Marilynn Won't Leave Me Alone!", "The Month Kentucky Froze to Death", "The Red Brick Congregation", "The Horror of Tom Sutton's Hat" and several other tales.

But now we've settled with something that I've been preoccupied with lately:

Ursula Le Guin's novel, The Lathe of Heaven, took its title from a mistranslation of Chuang Tzu's Taoist writings. Specifically this passage from the Legge translation: "To let understanding stop at what cannot be understood is a high attainment. Those who cannot do it will be destroyed on the lathe of heaven." Whereas, the Watson translation:"
The man swivels his chair to consider you and you can see his eyes focus. His eyes squint at your eyes, like his brain is pawing at your brain...trying to poke it with a stick.

"Understanding that rests in what it cannot understand is the finest. If you do not attain this goal, then Heaven the Equalizer will destroy you."

He swivels back to his keyboard and his fingers fly over the keys as he continues talking. If you wish to stop listening, Click Back. If you wish to keep listening, Read On.

ON


"My chihuahua, Ozzy, has canine dementia. He wanders into the kitchen and stands, staring at the cabinets. He tends to follow me around, unsure of what else to do. He'll go and sniff at the door, but refuses to leave the house.

My grandfather, patrilineal, was affected by the human version of this as well. Constantly referring to me as Ronnie, which I promise you, is not my name. He came in the living room once, I remember, with pink hair. He had gotten my sister's barbie toothpaste and evidently believed it to be some sort of shampoo. He screamed at us for keeping dead batteries, instead of throwing them away to buy fresh ones, when what he was referring to were albuterol canisters. He always talked about the little black dog and how it followed him around. At the time, we only had a white Highland Terrier.

My aunt, matrilineal, was so bad, I stayed with her and nursed her for two years. We had about twelve conversations in those two years. We smoked cigarettes and had the same twelve conversations, practically every day, without fail.

My father now, is showing mild signs of it. He's all that I have left, these days. I don't really have to wonder if this will be my fate, too. My mind is already like this... It's not write. It doesn't interpret things correctly and as a consequence... I haven't left this Ranch for nearly twelve years, except for dire emergencies. I pass it off as being a hermit. But no... I'm broken in the head. I take medication. I have an appointment with a psychiatrist in just two weeks. It's my God-knows-how-manyth one. The words that get thrown my way in that office are big and don't feel like ones that I inhabit.

But I have to wonder... The things that I write down in this journal. They happened to me! I swear to God, they did. But I have no idea if they really happened. I don't know anymore. I'll tell them the way they happened to me. And if I can find proof for them, I swear I'll put them in these entries.

I'm planning something absolutely insane. I'm going into the Ertan Deep this fall. Once the ticks and snakes have hid for the year. I'll take a camera, machete, parchment and crayons. I'll show you I'm not making it up. All these things, I can prove, I will. But, just now...

He turns his head towards you and levels his gaze at you.
"But do you believe me?"

You consider for a moment. He seems insistent, but he's already outed himself as an unreliable narrator. But in the last entry he did provide a photo. But that photo was just a photo of a blue t-shirt and doesn't really lend credence. Plus his blog posts are more in the style of creative writing than actual reporting or a journal. If you believe him, Turn to 62. If you doubt him, Turn to 103. Either way, lying is a
-$in

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Author
Sinister
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