It’s pretty fun (an a little embarrassing) to look back on my first forays into the impenetrable jungle of fiction writing. I was like a guy on vacation in the tropics who wanders off the path from the hotel to the beach, takes a wrong turn and finds himself in a stew pot surrounded by cannibals (where did they get this huge pot, anyway?).
The circumstances behind these vignettes have been discussed elsewhere on this blog, but even the knowledge that much of this creativity was spurred by a combination of loneliness and intoxication does little to ameliorate the strangeness of some of them.
Without further adieu , this week’s Überhaus Diary:
October 14, 1998
I keep waking up and finding these bruises on me. I’m not talking about little ones from minor knocks. No, these are mammoth purple bruises which are so dark as to be black in the center, huge dark violations of my skin that look like the bones beneath have been crushed.
And they don’t hurt. Not at all.
It’s really weird because when they first started showing up I thought I was sleepwalking and jumping off bridges or getting run over by taxis. I asked a couple of my friends about it and they didn’t believe me, thought I’d covered myself with permanent markers or paint or something.
I can’t explain it myself. See, they fade like regular bruises. In two weeks they are yellowish and you can see the cells healing beneath the skin. Then a new one appears, sometimes on my abdomen, sometimes on my arms. The worst was one which was on my back, a huge purple lesion which covered one whole shoulder and part of my neck. You could see it through my shirt, it was so dark.
People at work thought I was a drug addict or something. They’re like kids, really. When they see something they don’t understand they usually say it was drugs just like their ancestors probably blamed things on witches.
I wish it was that easy.