Coming Attractions--2010 enters with fireworks!

by KJ Howe

Happy 2010 everyone!!! To kick off this auspicious year, let’s indulge in fireworks, streamers, horns, champagne, and a chock-full schedule of phenomenal authors. Get your day-timers ready as you don’t want to miss any of our exciting guests:

On January 4, Elizabeth Naughton will be visiting the lair. She will be talking with Trish (and everyone in Bandita-land) about the third in her Stolen series, Stolen Seduction.




On Tuesday, 5th January, brilliant debut author Courtney Milan www.courtneymilan.com is Anna Campbell's guest. She'll be talking about her wonderful romance PROOF BY SEDUCTION!





On January 6, Lair regular Barbara Monajem steps up to the plate for a chat that'll include her Harlequin Undone, Notorious Eliza.

On Thursday, 7th January, Anna Campbell hosts fantastic historical writer Beverley Kendall www.beverleykendall.com who will be discussing her debut book SINFUL SURRENDER.






On Jan. 8, Trish is hosting Helen Scott Taylor, whose second novel, The Phoenix Charm, comes out in January. It's a story filled with fairies, water nymphs, and other magical creatures.

On Jan. 9, Trish is hosting MJ Fredrick, whose latest romantic adventure, Breaking Daylight, will be out from Samhain on Jan. 5. It's a story of a sexy Special Forces hero and a beautiful woman whose been held prisoner by a drug lord, and their life-and-death trek through a South American jungle.





On January 12, RITA winner Catherine Mann joins us with Renegade, the third novel in her action-packed Dark Ops series from Berkley Sensation.

On January 13, Kensington Author Carrie Lofty visits The Lair to discuss her new historical release Scoundrel's Kiss.






On January 19, Misa Ramirez will be guesting with JoMama. She'll be talking about her second book in her Lola Cruz series, Hasta la Vista, Lola!










On January 21, author and writing teacher Mary Buckham joins us to discuss creativity.

On January 26, Blaze author Kathleen O'Reilly joins us with RT Top Pick and great New Year's story Midnight Resolutions.




On January 29, bestselling author NYT Bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson will be hosted by Suz!!!


There we have it…although I’m sure there’ll be a few other surprises thrown in to spice up our intro to 2010. Happy New Years from all the Banditas!!! I have the pleasure of giving away the first prize of 2010, a $10 (to celebrate the year!) gift certificate from Barnes and Noble. All you have to do is tell us what New Years resolution you won’t make because you know you won’t keep it. The most entertaining answer wins!



Now, we also want to celebrate big moments for the Banditas—one of our lovely of our Australian contingent, Anna Campbell, has just received the gorgeous Australian edition of CAPTIVE OF SIN. It's a lovely trade paperback that isn’t available overseas so she thought she'd share the joy. TWO people can choose which of Anna's four books they’d like to receive in the bigger version so the prize is a signed copy of either CLAIMING THE COURTESAN, UNTOUCHED, TEMPT THE DEVIL or CAPTIVE OF SIN. All you have to do is email Anna on anna@annacampbell.info with the title of her June 2010 release. You might find the answer in January’s Latest News. http://www.annacampbell.info/latest.html For more information, please visit Anna's contest page: http://www.annacampbell.info/contest.html

The Brain Fails Me

It's fucking cold.

I mean it's tremendously cold. Temperatures are down to the twenties and the windchill brings it down to the single digits. That's fucking cold. That's very cold. I get up and get ready. It's 8:00am and I've awoke with enough time to get to Metropolitan Hospital. The thought of braving the cold makes it an uphill journey. I wonder how I'm going to walk my blocks today. I get outside and down the hall to my building, waiting for the elevator when a woman comes down the stairs, grumbles and approaches me.

I frown. What am I going to have to do this morning, stomp a grown woman to the floor this morning? Where am I going to hide her crumpled body? I take a defensive posture. She walks right past me, pressing the elevator button. "Shit!" She exclaims. "It's not lighting up!" Referring to the elevator buttons. She is right. She returns to the stairs and I follow. The elevator is out of order. I walk downstairs with this vituperous old bitch, venting a stream of invectives all the way down from the Eighth floor.

I get outside and I'm hit by a blast of air so cold that it fuses my balls together, because I go through life now commando. Yeah, my weather testers are my two little testes, and they said that they didn't like today. Fuck. I knuckle under the wind and head to the bus which is pulling into the corner the minute that I get there. It takes something like eight minutes to get across town and the bus lets me off right in front of the hospital. How do you like that for convenience? I head on into the confusion, lobbies filled with milling people, nurses and doctors walking about, people pushing people in wheelchairs. Organized confusion.

I walk over to a guard station and ask for directions to the Mental Health depart- ment. Easy directions. I'm there in minutes. They give me a number, 12, and tell me to take a seat in a near empty waiting room. I sit here watching television until my number is called. They take my information, take my urine, take my vitals, give me a health review, and then back to the waiting room where the minute that I sit down does the psychiatrist call me into a room. I cop a squat and we talk. The usual mental interview. Do I want to kill anybody? Do I want to kill myself? What orifice on a woman do I like to fuck? No! Just kidding with the last one.

He finally sits back after a battery of questions. He is not going to change my drugs. I seem to be doing pretty good on them. Little does he know that I'm doing much better without them, save for the side effects of withdrawal. I chose not to tell him this because I don't want to eat my hat and have to go back on them again. That would not be fun. I hear where a lot of mental patients, thinking that they are normal, stop taking their meds, only to make things worse for them. I'm taking a big risk, but I think I can handle it. Let's see. I am escorted back to the waiting room, and I wait another minute for the director and the psychiatrist to invite me into a room.

This time she goes through some practice relaxation techniques that I find imme- diately helpful. I stay with then, learning these for another ten minutes, and I'm finally released to return to my own life. While walking out I find an eye doctor, and I go in and make an appointment. Everything in the coming weeks.

I hit the driving cold again. There is a bus right outside waiting for me. I take it back to Broadway, and then I strike down the avenue for my walk. I get no further than two blocks when a gust of cold blows this idea right out of my mind. I mean clear out. It is just THAT cold in Manhattan today. I head home, read emails and kill time. Tonight is the big reading at La Pregunta. I'm nodding off in my chair. I get tired and crawl into bed. No sooner do I drop off does the doorbell ring. I frown. The doorbell? I rise, open the door. On the other side are two of my counselors from the box. I am surprised to see them. I am in fact amazed. All smiles, they want to know what I'm doing, how things are. I am too ashamed. I'm not dressed and my room is a mess or I'd have them in. They said that it was okay, they were giving me my final check up. Did I like everything here? I had finally reached my year, and they were going to close the book on me. A Year? Already? Shit.

This was it. They bade me farewell and good luck. I was both frightened and sad. They turned, knocked on Paula's door, and I closed mine. Damn. I'm on my own now. I wonder what did that mean? Would I be manhandled now by the people of the Spot, now that the watchers over me from the Box were gone? Would things go neglected? Would I be treated roughly like a cougar in a boys camp?

Would this spell a turning of the screw? Would things now fall apart for me? I wonder. My year with them is over just as 2009 draws to a close. There is something about this that is interesting. What does the New Year hold? We are at the brink of 2010. I want to go small, to shrink, to find a corner of my room and withdraw. I want to stay home.

There is a spark. I jump up. Get dressed. Leave.

Hobobob

Dungeons and Dragons: Colors Of Magic

Some time ago, Akrasia posted his swords & sorcery house rules for Dungeons and Dragons. One of the things I like about those house rules is the classification of spells into three different magic colors (white, gray and black) to simulate a swords & sorcery magic system.

Have I previously mentioned my fondness for Avalon Hill’s Magic Realm? In that game, all magic is separated into five colors: White (boons granted from on high), Gray (manipulation of natural laws), Gold (elvish magic), Purple (command of raw elemental energies) and Black (powers bestowed by infernal agents). I have been giving some thought to applying those “Magic Realm” colors to the D&D spell lists. Here is my take on how the first level D&D spell-lists might look, using the Magic Realm color classification system.

White Magic

Protection From Evil
Bless
Command
Create Water
Cure Light Wounds
Purify Food & Drink
Remove Fear
Resist Cold
Sanctuary

Gray Magic

Comprehend Languages
Enlarge
Feather Fall
Friends
Hold Portal
Identify
Jump
Mending
Message
Push
Ventriloquism
Wall of Fog

Gold Magic

Charm Person
Dancing Lights
Magic Aura
Sleep
Animal Friendship
Entangle
Fairie Fire
Pass Without Trace
Predict Weather
Purify Water
Shillelagh
Speak With Animals

Purple Magic

Affect Normal Fires
Burning Hands
Light
Color Spray
Shocking Grasp
Shield
Audible Glamer

Black Magic

Curse
Find Familiar
Magic Missile
Cause Wounds
Cause Fear
Change Self
Darkness
Hypnotism

In Magic Realm, there are 10 magic-using characters: Druid, Elf, Magician, Pilgrim, Sorcerer, White Knight, Witch, Warlock, Wizard and Woodsgirl. None of the characters has access to all five colors of magic (some have access to two or three colors, and the Magician has access to four, but his control over any of those colors is tenuous). I like the idea of restricting characters to certain colors of magic, as the choice of magic-user class then affects what spells they can access. That is the reason I liked the 2E Specialist Mages approach.

The above re-classification of spells (into colors) puts the typical first level “combat spells” into the following categories:

White – Command
Grey – Friends
Gold – Charm Person, Sleep
Purple – Burning Hands, Shocking Grasp
Black – Cause Fear, Cause Wounds, Magic Missile

Playing with Magic Realm colors (and characters) would certainly change the way first level combat spells were selected.

Dungeons and Dragons: Colors Of Magic

Some time ago, Akrasia posted his swords & sorcery house rules for Dungeons and Dragons. One of the things I like about those house rules is the classification of spells into three different magic colors (white, gray and black) to simulate a swords & sorcery magic system.

Have I previously mentioned my fondness for Avalon Hill’s Magic Realm? In that game, all magic is separated into five colors: White (boons granted from on high), Gray (manipulation of natural laws), Gold (elvish magic), Purple (command of raw elemental energies) and Black (powers bestowed by infernal agents). I have been giving some thought to applying those “Magic Realm” colors to the D&D spell lists. Here is my take on how the first level D&D spell-lists might look, using the Magic Realm color classification system.

White Magic

Protection From Evil
Bless
Command
Create Water
Cure Light Wounds
Purify Food & Drink
Remove Fear
Resist Cold
Sanctuary

Gray Magic

Comprehend Languages
Enlarge
Feather Fall
Friends
Hold Portal
Identify
Jump
Mending
Message
Push
Ventriloquism
Wall of Fog

Gold Magic

Charm Person
Dancing Lights
Magic Aura
Sleep
Animal Friendship
Entangle
Fairie Fire
Pass Without Trace
Predict Weather
Purify Water
Shillelagh
Speak With Animals

Purple Magic

Affect Normal Fires
Burning Hands
Light
Color Spray
Shocking Grasp
Shield
Audible Glamer

Black Magic

Curse
Find Familiar
Magic Missile
Cause Wounds
Cause Fear
Change Self
Darkness
Hypnotism

In Magic Realm, there are 10 magic-using characters: Druid, Elf, Magician, Pilgrim, Sorcerer, White Knight, Witch, Warlock, Wizard and Woodsgirl. None of the characters has access to all five colors of magic (some have access to two or three colors, and the Magician has access to four, but his control over any of those colors is tenuous). I like the idea of restricting characters to certain colors of magic, as the choice of magic-user class then affects what spells they can access. That is the reason I liked the 2E Specialist Mages approach.

The above re-classification of spells (into colors) puts the typical first level “combat spells” into the following categories:

White – Command
Grey – Friends
Gold – Charm Person, Sleep
Purple – Burning Hands, Shocking Grasp
Black – Cause Fear, Cause Wounds, Magic Missile

Playing with Magic Realm colors (and characters) would certainly change the way first level combat spells were selected.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year, my darlings. Thank you so much for a wonderful year; it has been so much fun to have you here. Here are a few fun links...and see you in 2010! xoxo

A holiday birdfeeder.

Abbey's cuter-than-cute Christmas card.

Sherlock-Holmes chic.

Oooh, those LA views.

Times Square snowball fight.

A rad reindeer ad campaign.

Liking this sealife poster and nautical collection.

Plus, two videos:

A sweet wedding save-the-date.

Random but cute: A baby elephant who lived with a Russian family!

(Photo by Elisabeth Dunker)

Things At Which I Suck

by Susan Sey

Brace yourselves. This could be a long list.

Oh, fine. It's New Year's Eve. You probably have somewhere fabulous to be. I'll give you the abridged version. I need to be snoozing on the couch by 9 p.m. anyway.


Top Three Things At Which I Am Not Very Good:

1. Sales.
2. Synopses
3. Salads

(Sidenote: I never realized all the stuff I'm bad at started with an S. Huh. At least my awfulness is alliterative

I'll take them in reverse order

Salads: Yeah, it's embarassing but I can't made a salad. I think it's because I used to be a vegetarian. (FYI for all those steakhouses out there? You can take a pile of wilted iceberg lettuce, drown it in ranch dressing and call it dinner, but that doesn't make it so.) I suffered through enough of those iceberg disasters to have developed a knee-jerk aversion to the very concept of salad-as-dinner, & sadly cannot to this day make a proper salad. My heart just isn't in it. So if you ever invite me to a potluck, please understand. I'm not bringing salad, & if you force me into it, you'll be disappointed. Sorry.


Synopses: I can't write short to save my life. My hat is off to all you category writers out there because you ladies know how to tell a tight story. It's like poetry, where every word is perfectly chosen & pulls its weight. This is a skill I dearly wish I had but even my emails run into the hundreds of words. My grocery lists span two pages because I editorialize. ("Yellow onions. Sweet if you can find them. Not the white ones. Too strong! Not purple--funny color...") It's just that--okay, I'm cutting myself off because at this point, I'm only demonstrating the problem

Sales: My dad is a sales guy. He can talk to anybody. He can sell anything. He loves this work & he's wonderful at it. Apparently this isn't a hereditary talent because I get hives when I have to call the babysitter. (In case you were wondering, she's a thirteen year old girl, and I want to give her money. How hard could it be? But it's still calling up somebody who might have to tell me no, however kindly. It's torturous and I hate it.)

So here's my problem: I have a book coming out this summer. It's my first one & I'm deliriously happy about it. Or I would be if I didn't have to sell the damn thing.

Self-promotion. Another S word at which I suck.

There' s a lot of pressure on debut authors these days. In addition to writing a great book, you also have to have a great website. It should have fresh content all the time & offer lots of extra ways for readers to connect with you & your characters.

You should blog. A lot. Everywhere. You should be witty and warm and find ways to gently promote your work without coming off as a user who only dropped in to plug her book

You should do book signings and hold launch parties--things that involve walking into book stores, asking to speak (gulp) with the manager (who you don't know from adam,) and convincing him/her that you have enough friends & family to justify ordering a few copies of your book.

You will be required to print up bookmarks, postcards and a slew of adorable, charming, book-inspired tchotchkes (I'm drawing a complete blank on that one, by the way). They'll need to be distributed to any breathing person you might encounter for at least six months prior to your release date.

You'll need to make up a press packet, then call up a bunch of print journalists (gulp), radio announcers (gulp), and TV journalists (GULP) to see if they want to interview you. This is a) calling strangers and b) asking them to participate in your discomfort. The classic double whammy. Ouch.

Oh, & you'll definitely want to purchase some incredibly expensive ad space in each of half a dozen magazines.

And if you don't do even one of these things?

YOUR BOOK WILL FAIL, AND YOU WILL NEVER SELL ANOTHER THING AS LONG AS YOU LIVE. NOT UNDER THAT NAME, ANYWAY.

{pant, pant}

Okay, so maybe it's not that bad. Is it? Oh, lord, I feel a panic attack coming on. Is that a hive? Right there? On my neck? Oh god. I feel faint. Somebody hold me.

Clearly, I need help here. Besides writing a darn good book, what do you like to see an author do? Is it the blogging? The signings? The website? The ads? Is it accessibility? Is it a sparkling personality? And what turns you OFF? Is there anything an author could do (or fail to do) that would make you turn up your nose and toss their book (no matter how good) into the garbage disposal?

p.s. Oh crap. I forgot to mention my title, my release date or my publisher. Sheesh. I told you I was bad at this. Okay, take two. Ready?

Look for Money Honey by Susan Sey in July of 2010 from Berkley Sensation!

Whew. How'd I do?

FAST AWAY THE OLD YEAR PASSES!

Before this year and this decade fade into the past, I want to post this Christmas 2009 memory.  These are my grandkitties, Sox and Missy who are both a year and a half old.  Sox is the floofy brown male tabby with white socks, and Missy is the little girl tabby with white.

They both came over with their daddy (my son Ryan) for Christmas Day and stayed until after dinner.  They  travel very well and visit often enough that they have become accustomed to my home.  In fact, every time they come over, Ryan must run around looking for Sox when it's time to leave, because he never wants to go.  I mean he loves being in the car, so what other explanation could there be?

Could it be that grandma always has tons of food choices available, both wet and dry?  That catnip is always abundant, and there are a myriad of toys strewn here, there and everywhere?  Everything a cat could ever want.

Missy is the most dominant kitty I have ever encountered.  We sometimes call her "Hissy" because that is her preferred method of keeping everyone in order.  She keeps all three of my cats in line, too -- well, maybe except for Domino who just refuses to acknowledge her presence.  Domino's too dignified to even bother with her.

Anyway, here's Sox under the Christmas tree, and Missy sitting in the wing chair (normally Dante's favourite spot).

The next two pictures show Sox playing with the new Turbo Track that the 3-Ds got for Christmas!  You can see Missy approaching.  With just a look she displaced Sox, and took over the very spot he had been sitting.  Sox knows not to mess with her!

Anyway, the grandkitties had a marvelous time.  I can hardly wait until they come back to visit again -- in the near future I hope.

Of course, the near future is the New Year, so these memories, like 2009, are quickly fading into the past.  That's why it was important to record them here for PAWsterity!

Have a great New Year's Eve, efurryone!

Time and I are Not Friends

I wake up at 7:30.

And don't know how the fuck I do that. I just fell asleep. I look up at the clock on the microwave, my vision blurry. I can't believe the time. I think to move, but the other eye strays to the window. It is fucking dark out. I have no money. I have four dollars to my name, and I somehow have to get the money for subway fare uptown to La Pregunta tomorrow evening. Now I have to walk across town in the twilight morning to get to the Metropolitan Hospital.

I don't have bus fare. Fuck this. I have to walk in the near dark through Central Park, not a straight path, through barren trees, flora and fauna. Up and down hills, through damp tunnels and over rough bridges, along winding paths, just to get across it. That's just asking for trouble. I can't be robbed because I have no money but I can be sodomized at gunpoint, and that probably won't go to well with me, causing my dinosaur brain to either fight or flight. Translation: A bullet in the stomach, chest, or in the back, depending on which direction I take.

Not a cheery thought for the morning. I'll have to think of something. But while I'm thinking of all this the clock ticks along to the next second, which when I blink my eyes, is 10:30. I drifted off into a stone cold sleep so quick that I wasn't even aware of it. I roll over, blink my eyes, fondle myself. Why? Because it's there. I sit up. I am tired. I did not get enough sleep last night. I put on some coffee, have a slice of cheese and sit in front of the computer. I send an email off to Charliqua Lovebiscuit, my social worker, if that's what you want to fucking call her. They have another multi-syllable name for her at WECARE. I send her an email telling her I just got up and missed the 8:30 appointment. I'll try again tomorrow. I could not sleep last night.

There are no emails to me, not even from OBSIDIAN. We are supposed to touch base before Tuesday to plan to go to La Pregunta together for the Feature. If he doesn't get in touch with me, I'm going on my own. It's supposed to be a pretty big event. I am not hyped about it, but rather cool as a fan. It's like a job. Go in, think of the mission, get it done, get out. Then associate with the poets. Something that I have to work on. Something that I hope having less ABILIFY in my system will correct. I want to be sociable. I want to hang around and make new friends, new connections.

The clock ticks on, I am no longer a part of time. It moves on without me. It marched to its own beat. It is no longer concerned with me, it never was. It never cared for me. It does nothing but make me older, deprives me of bodily functions like my kidneys, pancreas, dick, removes my teeth, bends my back, enfeebles my limbs. It doesn't give a fuck about me, it just wants to kill me. I say: 'go the fuck on ahead. Have at it. Do your best job bitch.'

I get dressed, bundle up and hit the bricks. Cross the street, head down the avenue to 62nd street, turn around and come back. It feels just like that. I own these new muscles now. They work effortlessly in gouging out 72 blocks right out of the air. This is what I want. I want to keep adding and adding and adding, every day, day after day, pounding this body into shape. Hammer against anvil, fire and flame, molten steel versus alloyed metal. Forging this fat shit body into something attractive for the spring.


The Hobo is back. The man that I was returneth. I come, I saw, I stayed. I look at myself in the mirror naked when I return. There is little change for a month of walking. Considering two hours of exercise daily is pretty good. It's better than nothing. It takes time for the body to shape and form. It doesn't take overnight to go from in shape to out of shape, neither does it take a month to do the same, unless you're on ABILIFY. That shit will put weight on you so fucking fast it will make your head spin on a top. Easy come, bend over and kiss the crack of your own ass, hard to go. I want to be in shape for the first time in a long while. I am not succumbing to the whims of a drug and it's loss of focus.

ABILIFY had it's good side, it stopped the people from coming around. I kept the blondes from appearing and asking for directions just before disappearing. Shit I wish they made a habit of appearing, fuck like pornstars, THEN ask for directions before disappearing. Those would be good delusions. Nothing beats fucking a delusion. But no, these bitches appear and disappear. I think there were because of my drinking. Runaway alcoholism or the effects thereof compounded by continued heavy drinking. NALTREXONE solved that. I drink heavily no longer. So what the FUCK do I need to still take ABILIFY for? My bi-polar medications were making me...fucking bi-polar.

Now I find that there were other things that happened to me while under the influence of ABILIFY, more insidious, more crafty. Shorting out my attention span, increasing my sensitivity, lengthening my focus, warping my perception. It was raising havoc with my mind. I held on desperately on who I was, and I guess it was this internal force of self-realization that kept me from flying apart, from running down the street naked, with my cock in my hand, showing it off to all the pretty women walking down Broadway.

When returning home, I go to Duane Reade. Something tells me that there is money in my account today, and damn straight, there is. $80.00!!! When you have no money, this is a kings fortune. I'm going to use $10.00 to by food, and the other to get my ass across town to the Metropolitan Hospital in the morning. No strolling through the park, looking to be knifed or shot. I love it when shit works out in my favor.

I am still tired after my walk, I jump into bed and close my eyes, drifting right off to sleep, vanishing from the face of the world, ceasing to exist for two hours. When I awake I get back behind the computer and read email and blog. There again is no one out there, no one sending emails, no one contacting me, other than DJ. So I shouldn't say no one now should I? I mean the number of emails has dropped for some reason. Probably people are celebrating the holidays still, unlike me, unlike the real Scrooge.

Tomorrow is the Metropolitan Hospital.

I wonder what that shit is going to be like?

Hobobob

The Shining

On Monday evening, Alex convinced me that it was a good idea for us to turn off all the lights and watch The Shining. Needless to say, I totally freaked out and had to check under the bed before going to sleep that night (seriously) (I'm 30). So, yesterday, Alex showed me this hilarious spoof trailer from 2006, which makes the movie look like a romantic comedy. I was dying laughing. Now that's more my speed.

Do you like scary movies?

Home Inspiration: Frame Walls

We're slowly but surely starting to put together a nursery (exciting!). I love the idea of having a frame wall, so the baby can look up from its crib and see all its loved ones smiling down on him or her. So, I think we're going to roll up our sleeves and make one! Here are two photos I'm using for inspiration. xo

(Top photo by Todd Selby; bottom photo by Annie Schlechter/Domino)

Put The Champagne On Ice

What the fuck am I doing?

Sunday, the sun rises. The sun sets. A charcoal line is drawn against the walls of my room, moving every hour, light into dark, day into night. Nothing makes noise, nothing stirs. I lay in bed, peeping at the world through one eye, hoping something cataclysmic befalls mankind to put some color in my world. There is nothing for me to do. I am insanely bored.

I go into my bag and pull out the SHOUT OUT paperwork, going through it, going to the computer, keying in, typing up, sorting out, emailing. I am busy for but only a short period of time, but it's rewarding work. I finish. It's like a curtain falling. The dull ache that is my life returns. I sit back in my chair, staring at the computer screen. I fight back entropy with my mind. I read.

I read old emails. I go back, reading me in the past. Reading how I responded to this stimulus, how I reacted to that one. I am surprised for some reason. This person, this ME is balanced, he's coherent, he's...whoa! But here he's out of control. What? I am teetering, obsessive, demanding, vindictive. Something is wrong. This is not me. Steeped in turmoil, confused, stunned, hurt, withdrawn, obsessive again. Raging here and there. I am not familiar with this person. I don't know who he is. He is out of balance, and yet, he is me.

I stop reading. I can't take it anymore. The revelations are coming too quick. I see myself, through emails, withdrawing away from the poets, becoming more and more of a hermit, having less and less to say, declining more and more invitations until even they stop. I am engineering my world. I am building my tomb. I am creating my final resting place.

I have to stop. In apology I write a number of long emails, that I do not mail. I blog old posts. I can't write this one. I am too deep in my own disbelief. I am not the man that I was before. ABILIFY is one powerful drug, almost too powerful. It has held my thinking tightly, crippling the soul but leaving the flesh to dance about. A cancer from within, unbeknownst to close friends, barely discernable to those even closer. My mind has been descending down a winding staircase, and in retrospect, I am staring in horror.

I want my mind back! I want my thinking back! I am left with a blank slate, and the only way that I can find myself, the only way that I can refresh the memory, is through reading my old emails. Preferably those emails that were written before the introduction of the ABILIFY. I am in awe of the chemical and it's effect on the brain. I am in awe of the destruction and the recuperative abilities of the final frontier, the mind, specifically my mind.

I am up late, very late, IMing. Talking, talking, talking. I am responding to stimuli, chatting with Betty, making a night out of it. I'm not tired. But I have to get up early in the morning and out and across town by 8:30 to the Metropolitan Hospital to search for a therapist. I need to get some sleep. I sign off, turn of the computer and crawl into bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling. Something runs across my leg. I grope at it, my fingers come away with empty air. Something crawls up my back. I reach for it, finding nothing. I close my eyes and bugs are crawling all over me. I jump up out of bed, turn on the lights, search the sheets, tear them off to search the bed. Nothing. Nothing. I stand up naked into the light. There is nothing crawling on my body. I put everything back in order, crawl back into bed. I close my eyes. The maddening crawling returns. I toss, turn, slap, grope, jump from the bed and take a seat in front of the computer, turning it on, turning on the radio and stare at my screensaver scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, to music. The crawling is still going on, up and down my legs, up and down my arms, across my face, in my ears, around my back and balls.

I am refusing to go crazy. It turns into four in the morning. My head nods. I am tired. I keep the computer on, the music going, to take my mind off my skin, and close my eyes. I drift off to a fitful sleep.

Hobobob