Welcome to the Pain Circus

I crashed into the Pain Circus when a rock cracked my skin and flashed a shinbone the color of blood-shrouded teeth in a ragged mouth crimsoned by rouge pumped out of my heart. I screamed for the audience, believing my pain to be unique in its wrath.

Innocence and ignorance are kissing cousins. Reality’s an unwanted child that shits all over your best suit while giggling at you. But you accept the little bastard because you (and the rest of us) can’t thrive without its crap.

I live in my Pain Circus, collecting screams, ripping art out of agony’s gut, spelling hurts, using rage and will to feed the fire fueling my ink.

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the wee notes…
– inspired by my first memory of excruciating physical pain. Before that, I had suffered a burn or 3, and had lived with a skin disease that could’ve probably won me a shambling role in The Walking Dead, but… the shock of seeing my tibia exposed has made this incident one of my most vivid memories of physical pain. I’ve suffered more serious injuries since, but for some reason this one always bleeds brighter than the rest. No idea why…
– for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

these deliciously creepy postcards, by Mizna Wada,
are a gift from my sweetest and dearest, Mistress Emma,
of Groovy Gothic. Thanks a bunch, Emma love.

I Was Wild, Savage, Human

Red is soothing (to me). The same is true of sex, laughter, creative ripping (paper or fabric), and of reading and writing containing the aforesaid bits. So, when my flesh and bones hurt so bad that sleep is an unbelievable dream that could only happen to extremely lucky fictitious characters, I call on red and we go wild.

I’ve been in ridiculous pain for a few days. The throbbing started under my left scapula, then it spread to my left hip, my left gluteus maximus (I’ve always loved that word), the back of my left leg… all the way to my toes *red, red, red*.

Still, I’m not unhappy. I’ve had moments when I was angrier than a mantis in heat who has just discovered he is a male, but not unhappy. I’ve written a lot of fiction, stitched several poem bits, and blacked out (red-out?) seven or nine pieces.

There were tense moments when I cursed Comfort (in creatively ripped red):

Another time, I crafted a blackout poem that is all sex (joy and sweat and screams and bliss-filled old lies howled out of pleasure-drunk-panting lips):

Earlier, when pain made me shake and shrouded my all in chills, I laughed (crying cackle-coated tears), lay on the bathroom floor—cool tiles *and the right book* are such a blessing… Then, after Laural Merlington finished narrating the 3rd chapter of A Stroke of Midnight, I dragged my flesh and bones to my writing space, and with hands that barely shook, I red-out a note about Pain and Me:

*the background is from Vampiros, illustrated by Meritxell Ribas Puigmal*

Things are better. Some of my bits are still screaming. But something tells me that tonight, I’ll kiss the Sandman on the mouth… and will both like it.