Mr. Joyce Takes on the World

I apologize for the long delay in blog entries. It’s been a hectic time; work, school, writing things that aren’t my blog, and also trying to stay coherent through it all. Needless to say, I’ve felt trapped between that state that is neither waking nor sleeping. I believe it’s called, “Being undead.” Neither blood nor rum compels me to rise. It’s a mix of tea and stubbornness. I’m taking time out from the novel that will not end, so that I can make a Halloween post. I wasn’t sure what to write this year. I told a ghost story last year; one that my mother shared. This year, I have no ghosts to share. Sort of… Like most people interested in the macabre my exposure started at a young age. Like anyone else I don’t focus on it twenty-four-seven. I have a variety of interests, and yet I will often find myself gravitating toward the Gothic, the ghoulish, and ghostly. Partly it’s because so much of history is wrapped up in such things. But also, because it’s part of my ...

…A Time to be Born…A Time to Cook             It was on this day, one year ago, that my mother’s funeral happened. I read a eulogy that I’d written, and was the only one to do so.             I won’t recount that event here, as I’ve written about it before. Instead, I’m thinking about the strange parallels between that event, and today. For example, it rained the night before my mother’s funeral. It rained heavily last night. The morning started out cold, and then the day heated up. It did so again today. As I waited for some sign to emerge, I found it toward the end of my work day.             As I waited for public transport, I heard the growl of a motorcycle down the street. The stereo onboard that hog blasted one of Prince’s songs, Kiss . Mom would have liked that. If it had been Diamonds and Pearls ...

Yesterday             “I’m too aggressive.” My mother said. “She won’t come out for me.”             “Let me give it a try.” I said.             It was May of 2005, and my mother had just brought home our new cat. She came in a vented box, which was designed to look like a house with a red-shingled roof. On the side was written I’m going home. Yet, I hadn’t seen the occupant of the box. She was in hiding under a bed we had in a spare room. Mom had brought her home while I was at work, and so I wouldn’t be able to see her until that evening. My mother had informed me that, “She looks like Oscar the Grouch.” To which I replied, “You didn’t bring home a Muppet, did you? She doesn’t have green fur, does she?” Thankfully, she did not. I was twenty-five years old at the time, and couldn’t resist getting it on it video....

Plastic Lilacs It rained the night before my mother’s funeral. I had both seen and met Lindsey Stirling for the second time that night. That’s another story—one that included a mention of my mother by Sister Stirling, while in concert. She dedicated the song Take Flight to her memory that night, for which I’m greatly touched. I recalled that it rained the previous time I saw Lindsey. But this time I was escorted by the first of many viceroy butterflies. They would follow me for the rest of the summer—whether in America, or across the pond. They seemed to guide and comfort me. I’ve written about them before, yet they continue to mystify me.              Melanie, a friend from university, came to pick me up that morning. She had one of her children with her—the youngest boy, about a year old. He looked at me, as we sat in the funeral home parking lot. I had been all nerves on the way over, and now young Segin was onl...

Draper's Mourning for Icarus  Part of me is embarrassed by how I've felt in the past two months. Every insecurity I have has come to the surface. My greatest fear is that I'll drive people away with them. They are my imperfections that usually have caused relationships to end. Though, truth be told, the people who couldn't accept that I'm not perfect aren't the sort of people I should have been around anyway. Part of me is reminded of what Samuel Beckett once wrote, "I suffer, but cannot remain silent." Another part of me wishes I'd just kept my mouth shut, and stayed calm. Like I should have known better by this stage in life. It wasn't just my mother's death, but everything else that has followed it. The uncertainty has caused me to shift from my usual, rational self, to being somewhat irrational. I don't want people to see that side of me, ever. Sometimes I can't help it. I think I've experienced so much ...