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:"
"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."
"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...