Prepare

Camouflage this secret door to your secret room with secret and sad words written in invisible blood from lies that were never told as you prepare yourself beneath sheets and dust and rotting furniture in an house that has washed onto the bank of the River Lethe. Hide from Time who is afraid to enter. Mnemonically siphon what you can from those three days of darkness that became thirty-three days that became three hundred and thirty-three that became three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three, and synthesize an antidote to transmute the toxins of antitime so you can remember whom you are and whom you used to be and what you are supposed to do. Prepare your beast and your armor and your shield and your sword. Prepare to ride out and for your great battle, and prepare for your holy crusade without a God and without a Devil.

Protection Spell Against Sleep Parasites

You need to stay on your side with your empty eye sockets and open wounds. You jumped the fence and you belong over there with your cruel kind. If you return, you will be torn to pieces by my dogs. Your bloody sheet will catch and tear on my patches of briar, thorn and horn and your true form will be exposed to the light of the moon, you will weaken and perish by the morning star. You are lost and need to stay over there with those other ones. These words will burn you as I speak them to you if you do not return to where you came from, even if you pray to your dead god of dead deconstructed things. You can kneel in your own blood as you pray. Return to your own blasted house that has been burnt, drowned and buried. Find your blunt and broken sword, your rusted armor and your skeletal beast and return. My dogs hair will stand on end and turn to needles if they sense your trespassing. It would be unwise for you to come back and whisper decomposing pictures into my ears while I sleep. They will protect me as these words protect me. They will dispell your form as these words dissolve your integrity and will.

Kissing

I have kissed Purgatory and now it is on fire. Time for sleepwalking down Jacob's upside down, inside out ladder. Heaven is for dragon chasers and lonely messiahs and I simply cannot see it anymore.

observation 001

Mile marker 178 on 65 South is exactly 1/2 the distance from my house to my Mother's house. Traveling either North or South on 65, there is a time change (from CST to EST) that occurs between markers 198 and 204.

God is Ground

Ground is ground,

and sky is sky.

Devil is Devil,

and God is God.

There are hierarchies above,

and there are hierarchies below.

There are starry towers of white fire,

and there are chthonic pits of black water.

There is a house at the centre, inside out,

and there is a house in-between, upside down.

In this house, there is a ladder that goes up into the sleeping sky,

and in this house, there is a tunnel that goes down into the dreaming ground.

Floor is floor,

and ceiling is ceiling.

God is Devil,

and Devil is God.

I am me,

and me am I.

Log 005

Today, concludes my final week in the sanatorium. I have made almost a full recovery according to my doctor and nurse. Later this afternoon, I will be released under my own recognizance. The nurse who has cared for me over these many days will regularly stop in until I am able to function without assistance. There is over a week of undocumented activity prior to my entering the R. Carter Hospital that alludes my waking dreams, any medical or police records, and particularly worries me to a state of panic.

My groundskeeper and many concerned neighbors brought me here six weeks ago. Apparently, I was wandering the South access road in a semi-catatonic state. I was wearing a suit utterly in taters and my hands were cut to ribbons. I was dragging a briefcase filled with raw antimony and salt. I cannot wait to leave this place and get back to the house.

I am a bit weak, but that is to be expected. When I was entered as a patient, my blood pressure was dangerously fluctuating and the palms of my hands had been severely lacerated. Until last week, bandages have bound both hands, and now I can see the multitude of stitches that have held my flesh together. They glisten with antibiotic suave, smell of iodine and are somewhat numb. My stitches will come out in another week and I will probably need many weeks of physical therapy, if my healing is on track, and if I am to regain full use of my hands.

I was unable to write until now. As I sit here for the first time in over a month, a reunited slave to my obsessive notations and diagrams, like a junkie riding the dragon after a long hiatus of false, self reform, the remains of my belongings are being brought to my room and laid a top the hospital dresser.  I was just told that the suit I was found in was unsalvageable and was discarded. My shoes and pocket watch suffered the same fate. They have allowed me to keep my patient’s wardrobe for my trip back to the house. My only memento from my almost suicidal, amnesiac trek is a briefcase. Earlier this morning, one of the physicians on staff came in to talk to me about the large amount of unrefined antimony I had had in the briefcase. He avoided asking me why and how, since he knew I would be unable to provide him a suitable, non-fabricated answer, but I could tell he was holding many questions back and also seemed to be reluctant to sign the release form for me today. He also stated that he is recommending blood work over the course of the year, to make sure that no abnormalities appear from my exposure to the large amount of raw antimony that I was carrying in the briefcase.

I immediately recognized that this was my father’s briefcase (and it was very refreshing to have a strong, solid memory after so long) and sat there for almost thirty minutes, engaging in an exhausting struggle to remember something more significant about this keepsake that was evading the searchlight of my mind’s eye. Invisible, but still present, I could feel it. I opened the case, and began running my hands across the surface of the interior.  It was like a successful, witching-hour scry, something just “clicked.” Maybe it was the smell of the leather fused with the scent of my father from over the decades he carried the case. Maybe it was the texture of the lining or maybe the visage of my father’s family crest insigned on the whale bone handle. All I know is that a deep and old memory was triggered. A memory from my childhood, when I was about twelve, and I was, what seemed to be, physically transported to my father’s study some twenty seven years ago. He was showing me the new case he had had hand constructed in a ritual-city in the jungles of Southeast Asia. He opened the case and then closed it. He told me there was more than one way to open this case and more than one way to access its contents. He showed me many special ways to activate the hidden mechanisms present in the case, many secret ways. The only one that I could pull from this recall exposed a compartment located inside at its base.

I sat in my room for another fifteen minute before I was able to regain control of my motor functions from this intensely, lucid flashback and shake off this incapacitating drug-like huz. Instead of a syringe of synthesized opiates, it was the purity of a simple recollection that held me in a state of paralysis. Maybe the doctor was too generous with his signature of approval earlier today. As the scene of my father’s study faded away and was replaced by my actual surroundings, I realized that the base compartment of the case was open and three pieces of 81/2 by 11 parchment covered with inked notations were being held by my ragged hands of surgical thread and scab.  Just as my cat-killing curiosity was about to take over, the nurse came in to inform me that the taxi to take me back to the house had just pulled up. I quickly placed the triad of papers back in their secret compartment and closed the case. I will savior the mystery of theses documents when I am far away from this place. Time to go to the house. Time to go home.

Log 004

...this evening, I woke up on a train running underground and did not even know where I was...as usual, a haunting, tingling perception of unknown purpose consumed my heart, brain and soul...though I felt an overwhelming sensation of the familiar, the train route I was currently a passenger upon was utterly unknown to my cognitive self...I had to wait until the tunnel reached the surface, and decided to exit the train at the first stop. As I was walking toward a railway attendant, I realized I was carrying a very old briefcase that had belonged to my father when he use to travel abroad to lecture at conservatories and universities. I was also dressed in one of my best suites (actually, one of my only remaining items not riddled by moth holes or mold in the summer house) cuff links, pocket watch and all... as I caught sight of my reflection in the window of the attendant's booth, I did not see myself, but only my father's profile and tired brow...it has been years since I have been this dressed up and I even shaved. The last time I had cared this much about my appearance was when I was interviewing for a position in the department of Folklore and Mythology at Miskatonic University...I wonder what really lead me down this somnambulist excursion so far away from the house. I am very far from where I should have been when I woke and according to the station manager, I am over 120 miles away. It is too late now to return back to the house, so I  have located a room to rent until I can catch the first, morning train. I am curious to what items I have filled my father's old case with for this sleepwalk commute. It actually seems quite full and is somewhat heavy. I should be terrified about finding myself in this unsettling situation, but I am simply too curious about why I have made myself come to this place...