In this evenings game of Arkham Horror there was an incident. The big bad was Yog-Sothoth, and my librarian —  of course — went into the Abyss and the tentacles… They left me with one in stamina. One! Insanity! Except that my sanity was full so I guess “typically ironic” would be a better phrase. Also, a shot-gun wielding librarian loaded up with magical spells, that’s the very definition of kick-ass. There are things you don’t taunt, even if you’re an Outer God that lurks between time and space. As Ash said in one of the cuts of Army of Darkness: “Good? Bad? I’m the guy with the gun.”

It telling that all my nightmares lately has been of music. The last one, I’m a bit ashamed of it really, as it is quite stupid. Not the thing that normally gets passed around as nightmare

Many of my friends went to see the Mekons live without telling me, I missed that they should play and then I found out that they even played at my favourite venue on a date I was out of the country. In Hungary. It makes no sense. Hungary? Why?

Sure, I like the language even if I understand nothing, and there are a few talented photographers from there — the whole Eastern block actually has lots of photographers who’s style makes me tick. But back to the dream.

I was devastated. Why didn’t anyone tell me this? Of course everyone thought the Mekons’ were excellent and I started to cry. Do I have to spell out that the pillow was a bit wet? Hello mental stability, you’re welcome to drop in anytime…

My nose is colder than the rest of my body. Last night it was really cold, you know, as a wet dog nose? Like that. I was thinking about getting a hat for it, knitted and with cute flaps, but no, then I remembered. All nose-wear are the property of clowns, and I don’t want to be associated with that lot. And I really don’t want to stab my face when I see myself in a reflection — which would happen if I even for a second thought I was a clown. Horrible beasts.

The most important meal of the day? The midnight bowl of Ramen noodles. But don’t take my word for it, trust the popular culture. Would J. Pauline Spaghetti, the billionaire noodle queen, in the old Batman tv-show be so rich if it wasn’t good for you? I think not.

There has been a restless drift inherent in most of my blogging since the beginning. (I still remember the greymatter interface fondly.) I started up Lost Pages in the summer of 2001 and shut it down around 2004 when I switched to textpattern and was far more interested in writing about comics. I cut down on the number of non-comicblogs I followed, and later, even more as I stopped writing in English all in all. When I did this, I also lost track of many other people whom I loved to read.

I have no real explanation why, I just know that it happened. I still feel a bit bad about it. I lost contact with people I liked. I still haven’t found everyone — the easiest one’s that still cling to the same domains was easy when I dug up the old link-lists. But the others? I feel as if I abandoned them. This guilt make me both try a bit too hard at interacting here I think, as well as keeping the distance. Yeah, those two shouldn’t work together at all but they do. I don’t want to miss everyone. Not again.

It’s a bit surprising that I now and then I’d stumble over a few of these wayward people here. The Internet is only as large and vast as one makes it — it can be a very small place. I like that. And even if you might not remember me, I do remember you. I hope. It would be a bit awkward otherwise, but I’m all for that as well.

The worst part of dropping cookies on the floor?  As Bunk says: “Murder stay murder.” I feel like a fugitive from crimes I didn’t mean to commit. I was young, man. I didn’t know.

It was on the floor in the apartment but only because the sofa was taken. There were several people around and someone — I’ve forgotten who — asked “which one is the best spaceship?” This is a dangerous question. Even more so than the one about where the fine line between cyborg and robot is, most people get bored with the technicalities.

But this one, people began to say their own preferences and why, and the others tsk and say “that’s not a spaceship, that’s a moonshaped space station.” That is until Rikard threw himself into it. I’m not sure, but I think he defined it like this: a spaceship is mass-produced, if it’s a one-off it’s just a dumb boat. And then he listed the top five mass-produced spaceships of all time. I don’t remember the list and I’m sure we didn’t agree in every detail. It was a great list though, I remember that much.

These are the friends I miss the most.

The night before last night, there was an incident. I sat up far too long and drew stuff and lost track of time (at step one it’s 5:45 AM). This is important, because this explains what happened. I was tired. Very tired.

1. I take the medicine, swallow it down with water. Then I think: that glass was half-full. Why?
2. Was it because I had a sandwich or did I take a pill before?
3. This can’t be good. Unless it was due to the sandwich. But I don’t know! Have I doubled up?
4. I look at the chart and see three missing pills. Didn’t I open the new chart yesterday? But then again, it might have been the day before. This does not help at all.
5. The instruction paper. I need that now! Oh no. It’s in Norwegian?! That doesn’t give the help I need, they thing “serious” is “fun” for fuck sake.
6. Found the Swedish, it was on the other side of the paper. Apparently I’m still within the safe amount even though it’s way beyond the regular dosage.
7. But I probably just took one. Yeah. But… What if not…? Is that the heart speeding up? Do I have trouble breathing? Should the head hit the wall like that? This anxiety isn’t going to let me sleep. The hand! It feels numb at the finger! No, that’s because of holding the pen. Nevermind.
8. My God, this fishing programme on the tv is so fucking boring I might…
9. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

This was the first time I had this problem. I don’t intend to do it again, my nerves are pretty tender as it is.

I’m really trying to savour Molly Young’s Troubleshooting. It is a bit easier than you’d think because I go back and re-read while I’m still on the first way through. Silly, a bit, yes. Everything is easily explainable though: it’s damn good. Really, really damn good. Damn gooder than many other things.

Entrance Exam, I think I’ve read that one five times now. It’s the first one in the book. It begins like this:

“When you spend a lot of time around other people, you’re not really alone until you’re alone for a while.”

Two paragraphs later when I reach the end of the page, I sigh a quiet “yes.” If I ever meet her, I have to ask her to marry me. It would be awkward to say the least but some things needs to be done no matter what the fallout.

I like music. Quite a lot actually, sometimes perhaps too much. I don’t really care about genres any more, or what others listen to. It’s sort of borderline autistic I think, this disregard and homing in on details. This is why I have far more with Fu Manchu than Metallica, think that the beats of Cunninlynguists’ weaker songs still outclasses most other hiphop acts by far, that the Kills still is more fun than the White Stripes, why the most interesting thing out of the 80s was Dead Scouts, and that more people should listen to the Mekons and Sally Crewe.

I used to be good at finding new music. Last year I let it slide down and didn’t really look or pay attention. It didn’t feel good, not now afterwards. So that has to change back, dig deeper. And no, new music isn’t exactly new, it can be old as fuck only I’ve never noticed it before. Feel free to give pointers. I won’t laugh or scoff — I think.