There Will Be A Slight Delay

I was washing my hair yesterday when suddenly, I thought of my NSOMNIASAUM blog. I couldn’t remember the last time this had happened (not the hair washing, silly!). So I looked at my blog, and…Holy Shit! I haven’t posted anything since April 1. Is this a joke? What happened? Where have I been? Why haven’t I been writing?

Well, to be fair, I have been writing loads of other stuff. I wrote articles for Points of Light Institute, State of Formation and Huffington Post. I wrote a long, boring document for the IRS explaining why Headwaters/Delta Interfaith ought to have tax-exempt status. I wrote 140 character tweets for various purposes and organizations. Mostly, I wrote to-do lists and then did the stuff on them, crossed the stuff off, and added more stuff. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But, still…April?

The other thing going on is that I feel like shit. I had surgery in January but by mid-April, my Endometriosis was acting up again. I don’t like writing about it. But I also don’t like NOT writing about it—you know, writing around it, pretending it’s not happening when it is happening. Plus, being in pain limits my energy so by the time my “real” work (whatever that means) is done, I’m pretty much done. Spending more time in front of the computer just to keep everyone up to date on how miserable I am…hmmm…that’s strangely unappealing. Go figure.

Also, as y’all know, I get pissed off, so I took an Anger Management class, and was SO excited to write about it…then (at the facilitator’s request), I sort of promised not to. It felt awkward to write about my life when I wasn’t able to discuss all the interesting internal crap that Anger Management stirred up, confronted, and redefined. But the class was a useful experience, and I met some marvelous, inspiring ladies. And OMG! Something profound happened, I didn’t blog about it, but…it was like it still actually happened! Who knew?

On top of all those lesser excuses, I’ve been incredibly busy being in love. Urban & I have been together for 17 years or something; now and then we’re ambushed by infatuation and can hardly tear ourselves away from each other. We stay up too late, have long deep conversations, make kissy faces, ignore our friends and exist in a goofy, magical bubble of our own. We stagger around feeling dazed, neglecting everything but each other. It’s awesome. And, right now, unexpected.  

When I’m in pain for a long time, it wears us both down. I’m shaky and exhausted for obvious reasons but it’s also a strain on him. Here are some things I can’t do when I’m in pain and/or doped up from being in pain: the dishes, feed/turn out/bring in the horses, cook dinner, drive myself anywhere, run errands, mow the lawn, weed the garden, vacuum, change the sheets, do laundry…and so on. When I’m not well, Urban picks up where I leave off, often after he’s worked a 10 hour day and not gotten enough sleep because I’m worse at night and he hates leaving me alone when I’m suffering.

Normally, by this point in my pain cycle, we are strained, crabby, and making an appointment to see our marriage counselor. But none of that is happening. Instead, Urban is being incredibly sweet and unbelievably strong: taking care of me, taking care of our animals and 10 acre property, keeping track of everything, and doing it all with grace and verve. He humbles me.

So despite the pain and the angst that inevitably accompanies it, we’re ridiculously happy. I’m sure some of that is because we are already missing each other: we’re going to be apart for 8 weeks while I’m visiting family & attending Summer Session out East. 

I’m both dreading and looking forward to the semester. I’ll admit that I’m worried about my ability to keep up with work and writing commitments and school while my body is screaming at me (SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN, SAUM! TAKE A NAP! STOP MOVING AROUND YOU BITCH, THAT HURTS!). But I love the luxury of being in a classroom rather than taking classes online, the challenge of Summer Session (16 week courses crammed into 7 weeks), and, face it, the libraries at Harvard are heavenly. Nerdvana! Besides the academic stuff, being in Cambridge is lots of fun, and I’m excited to (re)connect with some wonderful people I know in Boston, as well as make new friends. I resolve to socialize more and not to push myself so hard at school. I’ll let you know how that goes.

What I’m not resolving to do is blog here at NSOMNIASAUM. If I blog, I blog. If I don’t, I don’t. If you miss me, you can keep up with my rambling at State of Formation and Huff Post Religion. I’ll see you on Facebook and Twitter. You can call, too; anytime! You know me…I’ll probably be up.

Wait, who am I again?

I was sitting outside at Café Rose Nicaud on Frenchman Street, scribbling notes about my last meeting when I caught a glimpse of someone running toward me. I instinctively clutched my purse and looked up as a young woman dashed across the street, stumbled to a stop in front of me, and (loudly) blurted out “OH MY GOD! You’re that religion lady, right?” Since she was looking right at me, and I could indeed be identified as having something to do with religion, there didn’t seem to be any way to deny this.

People at neighboring tables were craning around to see what was going on, and a group of tourists paused to gawk.

“I thought it was you!” She said, “Tell me about religion!” 

I had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. I vaguely wondered if she had mistaken me for someone else, but she said she recognized me from my headshot at The Huffington Post, and seemed to know a little about my writing and Interfaith work. She was VERY excited to meet me and I was worried she was going to ask for my autograph or something. I was still trying to figure out how to respond to “Tell me about religion.”

I was pretty confused by her enthusiasm…I mean, I’m a religion blogger and whatever. Not really a celebrity-forming line of work. Luckily, she did most of the talking, and after a few minutes, she thanked me and left. (She had obviously been drinking, but was really sweet.) 

I was simultaneously weirded out at being recognized by a stranger; slightly embarrassed by the onlookers studiously looking elsewhere while clearly listening in; pleased that someone thought my work was so cool; and baffled by “Tell me about religion,” --which I as yet have no idea how to respond to.

It all happened very fast, so I was still befuddled when the guy at the table next to me leaned over and asked “So, who are you?”

I opened my mouth and this is what came out:
“I don’t know.”

Being Smart: A True Story

I am working on a post that isn’t quite ready, so in the meantime, I am going to tell you story. 

It is a true story.

*   *   *

Once, a lady decided to go back to college and finish her undergraduate degree. It was not enough for her to go to a regular college, so she got into Harvard.

She was surprised.

Before that, she had attended a small Community College. When she graduated with her Associate of Arts Degree and a 4.0 GPA, someone remarked that it couldn’t have been very difficult as it was just Community College. Even though many, many other people said nice things and assured her that she was bright and intelligent, she always wondered.  

Now, she thought, it is not just Community College. It is Harvard. I will find out if I am smart or not.

It was a long journey to Harvard, and she had to fly into the worst airport in the world, Logan in Boston. Then she had to take a taxi to Harvard and find her dorm, get an ID, and figure out many things. She had to eat cafeteria food.

On her very first day on her way to her very first class, she was overwhelmed by the Harvard-ness of it all. The trees, the buildings, the harried-looking students! The Harvard Lampoon building!  Harvard Yard! The statue of that guy in a chair! The dining hall that makes Hogwarts look like an underfunded public school!



It was exciting, but she worried that she wasn’t smart enough.

On the very first day in her very first class, her (Linguistics) professor casually mentioned an ongoing debate (regarding Linguistics) that he had with his colleague Noam Chomsky, who taught over at MIT. Holy crap! The lady nearly swallowed her tongue. Not only was she being taught (and graded) by someone who KNEW Noam Chomsky, she being taught (and graded) by someone who DISAGREED WITH HIM TO HIS FACE. Noam Chomsky, the Father of modern Linguistics. It’s like having a disagreement about science with your buddy Einstein. TO HIS FACE. 

Her Harvard-high plummeted when it became clear, on the very first day in her very first class, that the professors were very intimidating and the work was extremely challenging. She was even more concerned that she wasn’t smart enough, but she was determined to try and find out.

As she left the building after class, a flyer caught her eye. Salman Rushdie (one of her heroes) was giving a lecture over at MIT later that week. As she stood there, gazing at the colorful array of flyers and notices, she found herself thinking…huh. Salman Rushdie, over at MIT. Noam Chomsky, over at MIT. Oh my God. All the cool people are over at MIT! What am I doing at this cut-rate, second-class school? If I was really smart, I would be at MIT.

She felt terrible. This whole place was clearly a sham: no wonder they let her in; she wasn’t smart at all. But maybe, just maybe, if she could get into MIT…perhaps for Grad School…

As she trudged back to the dorm, she suddenly realized how silly she was being. It took a few blocks.

So it was, that on her very first day after her very first class, the lady admitted that she really wasn’t very smart…just not in the way she originally suspected.

*   *   *

Yes, of course that’s me.

I tell the story now and laugh at myself, but it’s an uneasy laugh…because even though I recognize the foolishness and danger of that kind of thinking, sometimes I can’t help myself from doing it.

I’m always a little suspicious that I’m not doing enough. Or that I’m not quite smart enough, or whatever. It seems that the minute I accomplish something, I conclude it was not worth much, and immediately start seeking the next hurdle…hoping that once I achieve that, I will feel I have achieved something. It never works; there’s this thing about trying to find happiness on the outside rather than within bla bla bla you know how it goes.  

The good news is: I do learn. The inner critic is quieter. I try to appreciate my accomplishments-- even bask in them a little. I am getting smarter about the things that matter.

But ok, ok, I’ll admit it, although after sharing that personal fable and tidy moral lesson, it is a bit embarrassing: my GPA at Harvard is 4.0.

I mean, it’s a good school and all, but there’s only so much it can teach me. I’m still struggling with the really hard lessons.

Namesake

(You can also read a more coherent and informative explanation of Shivarathri by my friend and colleague Anju.)



It’s Shivarathri—the Hindu festival of Shiva, Lord of the Himalaya, bringer of change, definer of contradictions: he is both detached ascetic and passionate sensualist, a flesh-and-blood man and a nebulous idea. He has a thousand and one names, and no name at all. He walks amid ancient civilizations on the banks of the Ganges and runs fierce in uncharted wilderness. He is the Lord of Animals and keeper of human hearts.  He is death and healing. Shiva dances amid flames, his long hair whipping around him, his drum a blur of savage sound, yet he sits eternally silent in stillness. He is an arrogant warrior that howls with a demon horde and a gentle sage who speaks quiet wisdom in heaven. He is the space between moments.

Live cobras are his adornments but he sits upon the striped skin of a dead tiger. He is arcane and recognized, shadowed and bright. Notorious and respected, perfect and flawed. Imbued with light and too dazzling to look at, he is only revealed in darkness.

He is celibacy and fertility: an impulsive, temperamental lover and a faithful, patient husband, a nomad and householder. The Goddess pines for him, her love unrequited; he throws himself at her feet. His love for her almost destroyed him, the Destroyer. Beholden to none but answerable to all, beyond existence but rooted in the soil of our world. He is the remote sweep of the Himalaya and the lush immediacy of the jungle. He is a bastard and a saint, brutality and compassion. Lord of the dark night, a crescent moon rests above his brow. Shiva is reveler and revealer, unraveler. My life-long patron.

I am named for the moon. Saumya: as gentle and serene as the moon. If you know me, you’re laughing.

The Deodar (Himalayan Cedar), is sacred to Shiva. They are second only to Redwoods in height. This is a rare “Trishul” Deodar, which represents Shiva’s trident.

Shiva moves me and stills the world. I am always sleepless around Shivarathri. Some degree of insomnia is my natural state (there’s a reason my blog is called nsomniasaum!) but in this month when the snow is heavy on the ground and the moon is waning away to nothing, sleep seems to abandon me completely. I feel called to wander, to dwell, to think late and deep. While my work is a natural extension of my spiritual principles, right now I feel the call of the primal. I lose interest in my responsibilities; it’s a struggle to stay hitched to reality. Last year I had the sense to take a vacation around Shivarathri: the jungle in South America was the perfect complement to my urges and mood. This year I am faced with an overflowing inbox, numerous half-completed tasks and a growing, growling restlessness. Rather than follow my instincts, I have stubbornly (and half-assedly) been bumbling around and trying to get stuff done. I did just take about a month off of work to have and recover from surgery, so there are pressing worldly matters to attend to.

But slowly, surely…my motivated, practical and driven nature is subsumed by the mystic in me.  I want to withdraw, to walk forest paths and follow my thoughts, to hear the wind and the wildness. I feel myself simultaneous rising beyond and sinking into myself. There is no stopping it.



The paths to my forest may be snowed in, but I don’t need my body to wander. My thoughts are sometimes wildfire, other times as quiet as the sky. Again and again, an ancient chant tolls in my mind:

Om Namah Shivaiya: Praise to Lord Shiva. I am the namesake of the moon in your hair: the crescent, cupping darkness. We are the same.

This is my current truth: I am the object of my own longing. Everything I reach for is contained within me. I am responsibility and chaos, fetters and freedom, spirit and flesh. Ever changing and never changing. Shiva and Saumya. The river full at my feet, an empty moon above. Darkness lights my way.

Recycling

To all my family & friends who have visited, called/messaged and especially tolerated my doped-up rambling, thank you.

This is a post about other posts. I’m recovering well from surgery, but I have to limit my time on the computer or it starts generating nausea-inducing special effects. Also, I’m re-reading David Foster Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again and his writing humbles me to the point of paralysis. Further justification for my laziness: while this blogging thing is wonderful, too often posts appear and disappear like calendar pages flipping by in old-timey movie montage of time passing. I wish some would stick around longer.

I had my first blogging anniversary while I was recovering, and looking back at posts from last year, there are two that stand out for me:

You Know Where You Are? You’re In The Jungle, Baby : This helped me forget that it’s February in MN for a few (much needed) minutes.

The Vargus Debacle of 2010: On dolphins and other dangerous dashboard creatures. And how funny Urban is.

They were both written around and about the time we went to Belize, which makes me wonder if we should be thinking about a vacation. You know, for the sake of my writing.

                    I can make sacrifices for my art


But true love is better than a vacation. Urban wrote a moving and romantic  post about my illness and his experience as a caregiver (he also threw in some helpful post-surgery care tips). Isn’t he sweet? Yeah, and more than that …

 
He’s trouble  

By turns funny, sweet and troublesome (i.e. perfect), lately Urban has just been really supportive. Not only with the surgery stuff, either.

I have an article at the Huffington Post that I’m very proud of, and not only for the obvious reasons. It’s the first thing I’ve submitted to the HuffPo that wasn’t self-consciously written for the HuffPo. Like, I just wrote it because I was going to fucking implode with rage if I didn’t. Deciding to send it in to my editor came later, and after some deliberation over how much of myself I really want to share with the public.  

There a lot more to say about all of that, but that is a post for anther day. I’m tired and the screen is getting all wiggly.

Thanks for the love, y’all.

The Witch of Endo pt.2 : It only hurts when I laugh

*I know a lot more people are reading this blog, so be warned: I swear. And I’m crabby. If that will bother you, go away. For inspiration and non-swearing, read my HuffPo stuff or look at pics of kittens.*

It’s time for the unique Haas holiday held in January: SAUM’S SURGERY-FEST! Practitioners of this tradition explain that its purpose is to drive out the malicious spirit “Endometriosis.” In ancient times, it was celebrated several times a year, but modern innovations such as controlled diet and Cranio-Sacral therapy have reduced this once quarterly observance to a mere annual event. The surgery in a hospital is only the beginning of this holiday; the bulk of the festival is observed at home and goes on for a week or two. It is characterized by curtailing professional responsibilities and social interactions, imbibing analgesic narcotic substances, and taking part in activities resonant of childhood: eating soft foods, reading comic books, watching animated cartoons and being cared for by a responsible adult (Urban). This way, the whole Haas family can celebrate together! 

Ok I’m done trying to be funny. Here’s the deal: the Endometriosis is back, I’m in pain all the time, and I’m having surgery next Thursday: one day shy of a year since my last surgery. My goal was to make it a year. I know, I know…almost. It should count. But still. ONE FUCKING DAY! Come ON.

I have no reproductive organs left so how come I still have a reproductive disease? 

Actually, that’s not true. I do have a cervix, although they want to take it out. I’ve drawn the line. Leave my cervix alone, you bastards. It’s mine and you can’t have it.

So, it’s nothing life-threatening or even organ-threatening. We are just doing another laparoscopic clean-up surgery: I think of it as being vacuumed out, but it’s much cooler because there are lasers involved! I’m like a superhero!

All-Natural Cleaning Supplies

It’s no big deal: I’ve done it at least a dozen times. But you know what? It sucks. I have health insurance, an incredibly supportive husband who takes care of me, I won’t get fired for being sick (plus I don’t make any money anyway), and it still fucking sucks. Every time.

My body doesn’t give a damn what I do or don’t have time for. I resent this. You’d think after all these years I’d have gotten a little better at acceptance, a little more graceful. Nope. I bitch and swear and stomp around (well, I cant really stomp right now but I would if I could.) I listen to loud music and sulk. I stay up all night and worry. I draw: traditionally, this has helped. I try not to lose my shit. I breathe. But still…

I took this semester off to focus on work. I have a huge amount of paperwork to do to get my 501(c)3 (non-profit organization) off the ground, the Healing Center is opening this spring which means I have to start paying rent, which means fundraising—Headwaters/Delta has a grand total of $20 right now. I can’t afford to lose (at least) two weeks of work. But I’m going to and that’s that.

And don’t give me that “my sister had a laparoscopic procedure and went back to work the next day!” crap. Fuck your sister.

Hair-Metal Wisdom

The worst part of this? I don’t like surgery, but I hate needles. I HATE hate them. My veins hate them too. When I was in the hospital in 2002 (or 2003? it blends together), they wanted to put the IV thingy IN MY JUGULAR because my other veins were so surly and uncooperative. I was like…nope. Sorry, before that happens I’m going home and I’m taking my un-punctured Jugular with me. Figure something else out or find someone else to operate on. They figured something else out. I still have the scar in the bend of my elbow.

Luckily I have surgery frequently enough that everybody in pre-op at Abbott knows me now. It’s wonderful to be greeted enthusiastically by my surgery team (“Spending much time in New Orleans these days?” “How’s school?” “How are the horses?”) but it’s sort of depressing, too. At least when I come in, they know to get Scottie: Magic IV-Starter Dude. Scottie begins with a massive shot of Novocain in my arm so he is free to dig around without me shrieking at him. So, that’s not too bad.

Ok, I’m tired now & I’ve had enough of trying to hammer this out in a way that might be comprehensible to other people. I don’t know if I’m trying to be expository or descriptive or what. If I could tell you one thing it would be: the absence of pain after sustained pain is not the lack of something. Being-without-pain is a full feeling. 

When I come to after surgery, even through the immediate pain of having my guts yanked around, I will feel a gorgeous sensation which signals that Endo is no longer eating me from the inside. I will be free. It will fucking rock.

For a year, at least.

The Witch of Endo

Short Fiction

I took a class on “Vampires in Literature in Film” this semester, and opted to write a short story rather than a term paper. It was harder than I thought it would be. I wanted to present the story entirely through Facebook updates, blog entries and texts, but my prof didn’t approve. Maybe I will re-work it someday.

This one’s for the guys. You know who you are.

* * *

October 7, 2010: The Portal

Midnight: a graveyard. The moon is full. You and your companions move cautiously through a cold mist. You’re not sure what manner of undead you’re hunting, but you’ve followed the victim’s blood trail to an elaborate marble tomb with a huge winged figure silhouetted on the top. The blood seems to disappear into the angel’s shadow. The tomb looks ancient and you cannot read the inscription. The entrance is a slice of darkness amid lesser darkness. The portal is open.

Are you going in?

Max leans back, re-reads, and hits publish. He doesn’t have much time before the new guy arrives, but he likes getting the blog synopsis of the last adventure session up before starting a new session. This adventure is not his best – Moose actually rolled his eyes and said “Undead again? Come on!” but he hopes a new player will stir things up. Get the blood moving. Or maybe it was time for someone else to run an adventure, if the guys thought his ideas were getting stale. They didn’t need to know how little he planned out in advance…he wasn’t even sure what kind of undead they were stalking. Vampire? Revenant? Some kind of zombie? He had a little time while they figured out how to get into the tomb—not as easy as it looks!-- and then there was the labyrinth to get through. He had lots of traps planned. Max was good at traps.

Half the time no-one was paying attention to the game anyway. Justin couldn’t stop texting that bitch he married. So they joked: the “bitch” was his job. His actual wife, who started the joke, walked out on him years ago. So now it was Justin and the bitch, together forever. Moose, on the other hand, really was married to a bitch. A vegetarian bitch who pitched a fit over the upcoming hunting weekend; poor pussy-whipped Moose would stay home and eat…tofu or whatever. Mock duck. But Al would be there, as he was every year. Al was womanless, a chronic condition that made him a more reliable friend. Max didn’t know how he would have made it this far without friends. Even tofu-eating ones.

He pushes his hair out of eyes and gets up to clear the crap off the dining table. He sets up the Dungeon Master’s screen, to keep the players from seeing his notes, hitches up his jeans, grabs his smokes, dice and couple of books. A beer. While he waits, he flips through the Dungeon Master’s Guide, looking for monsters.

* * *

October in Minnesota: it gets dark early, but there’s nowhere to go.

Refresh, refresh, refresh. The vampire hit it again. Nothing. Nothing interesting on the Twitter feed. Nothing on Facebook, where his name is Joseph Hulf; Joe to his 473 friends. A very American name, a name of the times. He even checks MySpace, predictably peopled by musicians and loose women; good for hunting but not much else. He had immersed himself in World of Warcraft for some time, but it had lost its appeal. There was only so much thrill to be had in pushing buttons, alone, no matter how pretty the action on the screen. He leans back and lights a cigarette; in his opinion, one of the few fringe benefits of immortality. He sighs. It was time to it return to his sanctuary, sleep off the boredom and re-emerge as a new man in a new age: another all-too-short fiction of a life that would last until people became suspicious. He had done this many times but it was getting harder; the internet was a retreat but also a trap of records too easily traced. He should disengage, wait it out. Hunt sparingly, rest. But he keeps putting it off. The years of in-between, of waiting to become again, were the loneliest; the most lifeless.

The computer chimes. A message from Max Madenson on Facebook: Glad you like the blog! If you’re still interested in trying Dungeons & Dragons, it’s really different from playing anything online. We’re meeting at 7. Sorry for the short notice. Come early and I can help you create a character.

He is interested.

* * *

October 12, 2010: Descent

You stand before the tomb with your companions: Godrich the elvin Priest, a scarred Fighter called Samuelle the Disowned, and a Mage: Morde Flamethrower III. You are joined by a latecomer, a Thief who offers to help in exchange for a share of the loot. Typical. He calls himself Xantos. You do not know if this is his real name; you never can tell with Thieves.

After making it past the gate guardian and disarming some traps, you descend stone steps. Moss grows on the walls; you can hear water dripping. Samuelle slips and is steadied by Godrich. You come to the bottom. This is no ordinary tomb, but a huge vaulted space: echoing, empty. There is a ripe smell of decay, and you find what’s left of the victim. There isn’t much.

There are three corridors before you. One is dimly lit by a greenish glow. One flickers with torchlight. One is dark.

After some debate, the adventuring party chooses the darkness.

Dice roll, monsters are slain. Mountain Dew is consumed and pot is smoked. Dick jokes are made. It gets late. Joe does not want to stop playing; he wants to know what will happen next. When he leaves the warmth of the house for the cold of the night, he hunts distractedly. That night, he dreams for the first time in many, many years. He is in a tomb. He is sly, stealthy. He has a lock-pick. He has friends. They are stalking the undead.

This is so much better than World of Warcraft.

* * *

October 20, 2010: Signs of Danger

You seem to have turned back more than you have gone forward. This accursed maze has dished up traps, zombies and other hazards, but you know there is something…bigger down here. Some powerful evil that eludes you. There are clues, if you are attentive enough to notice. Something seems to float alongside you in the dark, silent but watching, waiting. Hungry. You limp on.

The tunnel ceiling is so low that Samuelle keeps hitting his head. He takes one point of damage every time, not enough to slow him down, but he complains bitterly. Flamethower has produced a dimly glowing ball that lights the way. Xantos and Priest Godrich check for traps. They miss one.

You hear a whooshing sound as a blade sweeps the air in front of you, like a horizontal guillotine. Everyone ducks, rolls and jostles. The Mage-fire goes out. In the darkness, someone screams. Something warm hits your face and runs down your neck; you hear a spurting sound, a sprinkling sound, then the thud of a body hitting the ground. The stench of blood fills the air- thick, metallic—

There is a crash, and a gurgle. Al’s pop glugs over his character sheet as the can rolls its way to the edge of the table. There is a pause, then everyone scrambles for paper towels.

Joe mumbles “I’m so sorry…” and helps clean up.

“Motherfucker.” Al says, but without heat. Joe smiles sheepishly. Justin high-fives him.

“Yeah, Max gets a little gory.” Justin grins. “You squeamish?”

“I don’t think so.” Joe replies. “I never considered it.”

“Wanna go hunting?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Everybody cracks up at that. Joe’s alright, but he sounds like a professor.

“Grouse-hunting. We’re going up North Friday night, so we can get out early on Saturday.”

“No…” Joe says slowly, “I can’t.”

“Are you vegetarian, too?” Max can’t help himself. Moose gives him a dirty look.

“No.” Joe smiles. “I don’t think so.”

“Well you’re welcome to join us if you change your mind, as long as you can keep from killing us all.” Justin is grinning again.

Joe gapes, wide-eyed, and everyone laughs. Justin nods to the spot where the pop can was knocked over, “I mean, you’re pretty fucking clumsy, dude. I don’t know that I’d wanna be around if you were armed.”

Joe has a strange look on his face: amused, confused and…something else.

“Ok, ok.” Max lights a smokes, inhales, pauses. “Where were we? Ok, it’s dark, and someone –maybe more than one someone-- is badly injured. You can’t see anything. What do you do?”

* * *

November 18, 2010: Interlude

It’s been hard to find time to get together. Flamethrower is sick again –he’s had the flu for like, weeks, and the elf’s working overtime.

But the adventure is going great! Xantos is a good fit for the group. He’s inexperienced but enthusiastic and really gets into the game. His accent adds to his character. He’s from England but has lived here for a long time. He wants to meet more often, which isn’t going to work. I may be unemployed but (sadly?) other people have lives. Maybe Xantos can roll up another character and we can have a one-on-one adventure? Could be fun. He’s only free nights, but it’s not like I have a lot going on.

I’ve gotten feedback from readers. W00T! Nice to know someone is actually reading this. I’ve been asked if there is another character, the second-person “you” that is used in the narration. Well, reader, it is you. If you’ve played D&D before (if you’re reading this, I assume you have) or I guess even if you’ve ever really gotten into a book, there is a “you” that walks alongside your character. That’s you in real life, you the player, or in this case, you the reader. Your character acts, but you’re the actor. Or something. Get it?

I might experiment with other points of view. But it’s you that’s in the game, really, so it’s you I write for. It’s supposed to draw you into the adventure, make it more real. Is it working?

Max rubs his eyes and stares at the screen. He isn’t sleeping well. For the first time since he was a kid, he is having nightmares. Monster dreams. It’s embarrassing, but the adventure is haunting him. He knows what kind of undead they are hunting: it flits across his bloody dreams. He wants to get this adventure over with and start a new one with no undead. It’s creeping him out. Worse, it’s humiliating; what is he afraid of? Vampires? Good God. He needs to get out more. He’s barely been out of the house the last couple of weeks; it’s cold out and he just feels drained. Maybe he caught whatever Al has. He digs around for a smoke, and stares at it for a moment before lighting up. He should quit. But fuck it, who wants to live forever? He takes a drag and exhales deeply.

At this time of night, everything feels sad and sinister: unreal. He feels as if he’s faking something, like he is somehow pretending at life. He feels worthless; no job, no girlfriend. He’s living on unemployment. His friends made lives for themselves, someone to go home to or at least a career. He wishes he could start over. He would do it all differently this time: be a new man. Maybe he just needs to take a break from the D&D. Or get some sleep, or both.

* * *

November 29, 2010: A Glimpse of the Adversary

You come across a vast and beautiful chamber, with lavish furnishings and tapestries on the walls. A fountain burbles in the corner. Thick carpets are strewn across the floor. As you enter, you smell the stench of decay. Six zombies stagger out of the darkness on the far side of the room. They are followed by a pale, stately man in dark robes. His eyes are red.

“You presume to defy me?” he says scornfully. “You are more foolish than you look. You will fall, and rise, and join my undead army. You will be my servants.”

The zombies attack.

It is a vicious battle. Flamethrower the Mage falls, and at a word from the robed adversary, rises. He looks crumpled, reduced, undead. He (it?) attacks your companions. Zombies are weak though, and he (it) is quickly destroyed by the enraged Samuelle. The other zombies also fall, hacked to bits, never to rise again. When the battle is done, the pale man is nowhere to be seen. You search; he is gone. Vanished.

Godrich looks down at what was once his friend. “We must burn it.”

“NO!” Joe shouts, startling everyone. Al moves his pop out of harm’s way. “Resurrect him!” He turns to the Priest “Don’t you have a spell for that?”

“Sorry, man, I don’t.” Justin replies. “He’s dead for real. No worries; Al will just roll up a new character. Anyway, you can’t resurrect someone who’s been turned into a zombie.”

“Why ever not?”

“Well, you just can’t. They’ve been made into undead. Their soul is, like, destroyed.”

“Yes you can.” Moose insists, in an everybody-knows-that voice. “A resurrect or true resurrect spell—“

“NO YOU CAN’T.” Max thunders. “And anyway, it’s moot. Your Priest doesn’t have the spell. Forget it. You can’t just go around resurrecting people. Dead is dead this time.”

“But this is quite ridiculous!” Joe protests “Why do undead lose their souls? Is that in the rules?”

Everybody groans, anticipating a lengthy search through rulebooks. Max looks at him coolly.

“House rules. Sorry. Now, Godrich just started a fire…”

Joe snarls. They play on. The fire gets out of hand.

* * *

Joe paces impatiently. When will they start? The other guys are gathered over a Domino’s box; Moose eats pepperoni with a look of bliss while Al, gesticulating with his slice, tells a long-winded story about brake pads. Max is quiet. No one has heard from Justin since last week when he texted that he couldn’t make it and was going to be busy at work for awhile. Joe left in a huff; everyone else hung out and played Mario Kart.

“Ok, looks like we’re a player short.” Max finally says. “D&D or Wii?”

Everyone but Joe votes for Wii. He stops pacing and strides over to the table. Suddenly the room is quiet.

“Enough of this,” he says softly, “I want to play D&D, and I want to play now.”

Max is used to keeping the peace, but not this. He smiles uncertainly. Joe does not smile, but reaches out to snag Moose’s collar. Eyes still on Max, the vampire pulls Moose, squawking and flailing in surprise, towards him. Joe is considerably shorter than Moose and has to bend him over backwards to bite into his throat. The scream is bubbly. Joe raises his head, blood dripping, and spits out a piece of meat. Moose is making gurgling sounds; there is a lot of blood now. Joe lowers his head and drinks, deeply. Al, pizza in hand, watches with a look of bewilderment. A phone buzzes, vibrating blood-splattered dice on the table. Max faints.

The vampire feels better.

* * *

Max stares at the ceiling. He remembers the pump and spray of blood, the screams and grunts and snapping bones. He remembers his friends. He sits up, opens the Monster Manual and looks up “Undead.” He reads the description for “Vampire.” It is familiar. There is nothing here that can help him.

He flips open his laptop and starts to write.
December ?January?: Need Help

I’m alone. My friends are dead.

I’m in some kind of dungeon. It looks like a motel room. This is the only room with anything in it. Outside it are stone passages and empty stone rooms. There are bodies too, old ones, like skeletons. They don’t seem real. None of this does.

He brings me food. I don’t know where he comes from, how he gets in or out. I’ll look up, and he’s there. He looks like a corpse. Did he always?

I’m really tired, but sleep doesn’t help. I have awful dreams. I’ve lost track of time.

All he wants to do is play D&D. I’m running the rest of the adventure for Xantos the Thief; he is tracking the vampire, closing in. It’s sort of messing with my head. The adventuring makes him happy though. He says he just wants to be someone else for awhile.

Yeah, don’t we all?