New Author Site

 I have a new author site up at https://perfidiousscript.com/ 

A Guide for the Olfactory Tourist in Japan

     For those of us foreigners interested in Japanese incense the relationship (or obsession) must by necessity occur at a distance: purchasing boxes online with little sense of what might be inside, burning incense alone to avoid the quizzical looks of others or learning how to assemble an incense bowl from youtube videos and blurry diagrams. So for those fortunate enough to visit, a trip to Japan can be a revelation. The current strength of the dollar and growing prevalence of tax-free shops can lead to significant savings over purchase in the US. But with the obscurity and small size of many Japanese incense companies it can be difficult for the English speaker to find sites to visit or hands-on resources to learn more about the art. I was lucky enough to spend a month in Japan in 2019 and made it a priority to search out resources for buying and learning about Japanese incense. This is a short guide to the shops, classes and museums I found. While others may exist these are arguably some of the best - and most accessible - in the country.

Shoyeido, perhaps Japan’s most well known incense company, has stores all around the country, many of them tax free (https://www.shoyeido.co.jp/english/stores/index.html). Of the three stores in Tokyo the Shoyeido Aoyama branch (Pinevillage, 5-47-13, Jingu-mae, Tokyo 150-0001) offers English language assistance as well as occasional in-store lessons on how to prepare a koh bowl (¥1000 per person, max four, appointments can be made same day though it is probably best to reserve in advance). Like many other shops on this list the clerks are happy to allow you to sample sticks before you buy, simply point to a box and they will gladly light a small piece for you.

Kyoto, one major historical center of Japanese incense culture, sports numerous small incense shops and sites worth visiting. One of these, Tenkhodou, has a branch in the Arashiyama neighborhood (https://tenkhodou.com, 47 Katsurahisakata-cho, Nishigyo-ku, Kyoto-shi, Kyoto,) offering an array of fine stick-type incense, kneaded incense, aloeswood chips and sachets.

The Yamadamatsu head store (http://www.yamadamatsu.co.jp/en/, shimodachiuri-agaru, muromachi-dori kamigyo-ku - not far from the old imperial palace) is an elegant retail space surrounded by antique koh-doh implements and sizable pieces of raw jin-koh (aloeswood). The store offers two workshops (http://www.yamadamatsu.co.jp/en/exp/index.html) which should be reserved in advance. These are conducted solely in Japanese though a good quality English language pamphlet is available and reservations can be made in English via e-mail. The mon-koh workshop (¥1500 per person, max ten people) lasts about an hour and takes the form of an informal Genji-koh session in which participants attempt to distinguish five separate koh chips from one another. The experience is very accommodating and far more about the appreciation of fine incense then any sort of competition.

Kyoto’s monthly Flea markets are some of the great events in the city. Hundreds of stalls pop-up for the day (though it is always best to get there early) selling excellent street food, handmade crafts and antiques. Tenjin-san Flea Market at Kitano Tenmangu Shrine (Bakurocho, Kamigyo Ward, Kyoto, Kyoto Prefecture 602-8386) is held each month on the 25th. Among the chawan, statues and occasional taxidermied sea turtles can be found brass censers starting at ¥2000 and antique celadon censers starting around ¥10000. Stands selling incense can occasionally be found mostly with lower grade sticks though at reasonable prices.

For those looking for the finest products Kyoto has a branch of Kyukyodo a few blocks north of Nishiki market (520 Shimohonnojimaecho, Anekoji Agaru, Teramachi, Nakagyo-ku, Kyoto 604-8091, Kyoto Prefecture). Kyukyodo sells high end calligraphy products and washi alongside a variety of jin-koh chips, koh-do bowls, implements and other accoutrement. Prices range from the tens of thousands to many millions of yen. Products are artfully displayed so - even though some bowls cost more than an average travel budget - it is worth stepping inside just to gaze at these rare works of craftsmanship.

A whole other kind of olfactory and artistic appreciation can be found in the Kiseru, Japan’s contribution to the world of tobacco. The Kiseru is a long, narrow pipe with a vanishingly small bowl made of brass and bamboo which is used to smoke finely shredded tobacco called kizami. The Kiseru was used widely around Japan until the introduction of cigarettes in the late 19th century. The size and shape of the Kiseru as well as the kizami itself are all designed to minimize the effects of nicotine, shifting the focus of the smoking experience to the delicate and refined aroma of the tobacco itself. Once an indispensable accessory for the Samurai, Dandy, Kabuki actor and Geisha alike the Kiseru itself has been elevated to the status of art object and can be appreciated apart from any tobacco consumption. Only a handful of Kiseru artisans are still active today and the only store still selling the pipes, Tanigawa Seijiro Shoten, can be found in Kyoto (443 Tachibanacho (Gokomachidori), Shimogyo Ward, Kyoto, Kyoto Prefecture 600-8044). The storekeeper (also the craftsman of all the Kiseru sold in the shop) is a wellspring of knowledge about the history and cultural significance of the Kiseru, plus, if you purchase a pipe, he will be glad to show you how to smoke it, with hands-on practice. While the shop itself does not sell kizami it can be found at Kuriyama Daizenshu a short walk away (400 yen, 600-8001 Kyōto-fu, Kyōto-shi, Shimogyō-ku, Shinchō), the store keeper will be happy to draw out a map.

In the Onsen town of Beppu is the Oita Fragrance Museum (48-1 Kitaishigaki, Beppu, Ōita Prefecture 874-8501, http://oita-kaori.jp/ ¥1000 entrance fee). At three floors one could spend an hour or so here lounging among the historical incense containers and hundreds of ornate perfume bottles. Some of the text has English translations. Evenly split between the worlds of incense and perfume, the historical and contemporary, a wide range of topics are covered to a suitable depth. Highlights of the museum include historical Koh-doh implements, antique perfume stills and samples of raw perfume ingredients - including large chunks of ambergris, castoreum and musk - which can be sampled in isolation. The museum also holds a Make your own Perfume Class (¥2200 for a 30 mL vial, occasionally offered in English) where you can mix a range of ingredients yourself under the watchful eye of an expert.

Finally Buddhist temples around the country will occasionally compound their own incense which can only be purchased on site. This can be a little hit or miss but temples and sites where I found site-specific incense for sale include: Zojo-ji (４丁目-7-35 Shibakōen, Minato-ku, Tōkyō-to 105-0011), the Kyoto Imperial Palace gift shop (3 Kyōtogyoen, Kamigyō-ku, Kyōto-shi, Kyōto-fu 602-0881) and Senko-ji (15-1 Higashitsuchidōchō, Onomichi-shi, Hiroshima-ken 722-0033).

Lucid Dream

Had a stand out lucid dream last night.

I woke up about 2am and was awake for about an hour or so then I fell asleep again.

There was some lead-up to the lucid aspect. The lucid aspect started as I was standing outside of a building with a friend I have not had contact with for about ten years. We each entered separate doors to the building.

On entering I found myself in a tight, steep staircase. I noticed that the walls were old and yellowed and pitted. At that point I realized that I was dreaming. When I came to the top of the stairwell I entered a very close room whose walls were all covered with the sorts of doors that are on very old refrigerators, that have the thick metal latches on the side. The room had an air of being very old and somewhat dilapidated though I distinctly felt that I was not afriad and, somewhat strangely, had the distinct feeling that 'there was no one else around'.

I spent some time looking around the room. In one corner there was a box or bucket filled with tiny book. I didn't (or couldn't) read any of them, but felt like my purpose there was to get as many of those books as I could. I stuffed a few handfuls of the tiny books into my pockets.

I wandered around a bit more, and came to one more room that was filled with scale models of various things.  I was able to pick up one of them, something like a tank, and look at it very closely. There was a light in the room and I had to turn the model in order to see it clearly. The level of clarity and detail on the model was unusually high for a dream. I then walked into a hallway at which point everything turned black and I had a sensation of weightlessness which lasted for a few seconds at which I woke up in my bed.

Kind review of 'Gallaher Calls'

This kind tweet review of my story 'Gallaher Calls' by @robop_style:

"Two siblings pursue Totality through art; they have no contact with the world outside their mansion aside from the disgusting lawyer Gallaher. Evenson rewrites Edwin Mullhouse in a fever dream brought on by reading too much Straub. Excellent"

'Gallaher Calls' is included in Dim Shores Presents #1 

'Transcendant Creative Experience' Survey

I put together a short survey on 'transcendent creative experience', the feeling of having 'something else' work through you while engaging in a creative activity. This survey is open to anyone, and if you have ever engaged in creative work (whether as a hobby, professionally or otherwise) and whether or not you have even experienced something you would call a 'transcedant creative experience' I would love it if you took the survey! You can find the survey here: http://www.survey-maker.com/QAZNUV8H

Prayer/Exhortation

All hail the idiot king! All hail the idiot god! All hail! All hail!

All hail the executor pope! All hail the hand of god which calls down its host of righteous justice in the form of the church and its officers! All hail!

All hail the robber bureaucrats! All hail the legion of inspectors! The tax-collector soldiers! All hail! All hail the prostitute queen, the beggar prince, the orphan, outcast brood! All hail the philosopher prisoner, the musician heretic, the pitwasher priest. The Pitwasher Priest!

All hail, oh all hail.

Interview of Mark Gluth in Dennis Cooper's Blog

I spoke with Mark Gluth about his new novel 'Come Down to Us'.

You can read the interview, as well as excerpts from the novel and see photos by Steven Purtill on Dennis Cooper's blog.

'Dim Shores Present Vol. 1' now open for pre-orders

'Dim Shores Presents, Vol. 1' which will include my short story 'Gallaher Calls' is now open for preorders!

On perpetually drowning in the waters of solitude

Secretive bands, reclusive writers and sculptors and artists. Cults and cult like activity. Cults that are not just religious cults but that revolve around something that is totally unusual, like a set of sculptures or a pop star or a stock symbol. Anything like this. The public delusion. The masses pulled aside and into their heads. Hyperstition. Mass hysteria. Our capability to lie to ourselves, to create a great lie, so many great lies layered on on top of another. How we see other great lies and find them to be so ridiculous, rail against them, rage against them but then settle back happily into our own lies again and again. How this is not some aberration, but just the human condition. How this is not some fault, but just the way things are, just the base state of human society. How these lies have always existed, more or less, how their strength and influence and variety grow proportional to the size of a society and how we can easily look back and see them, and study them and critique them but are still ignorant (not even willfully, more like inherently) of our own. How the recluse can be a sort of delusion of one, or how solitude and isolation are perhaps the only way to fight against this, that only in solitude and isolation can be found the remedy, the antidote, the serum, the truth, the evasion of these delusions, of these lies and myths and insanities. 

Art, as it almost always must be—at some point or another—generated in solitude (the lone painter, writer, sculptor, director) is perhaps the only other escape from this. In another’s solitude, conveyed through sufficiently well made art, can we get a glimpse into this mind state. Of course not all art does this, in fact much of it falls into the old patterns, the old mass delusions. But that art that is created totally in solitude? Agnes Martin, Thoreau (even though his solitude was more fiction than fact, more veneer then vessel). Two examples, one good, one bad, but the heart is still there. Wordsworth and Stevens on their endless walks. Perhaps a window or the passing road, another voice far off, but so, so far off. The brief image of another body, but just a head or tuft of hair and then nothing. The wind, the rain maybe. Then the sun and the sun forever. The night sky. Ansel Adams and the endless west. A single body lodged in a place with no anchors. And then whatever you want to call it, so close and so near. The Carthusians, all of them. So many with words in their hearts which they know will be spoiled in the telling. The endless rage of the hermit, a rage born out of love and confusion. The door so close, and the door open! Trying to push back the noise, trying to outrun the noise. They sink and seep. We rub against each other like stones, but some stones hard and others soft. It is endlessly fascinating because it is endlessly exhaustible. This is because the hermit loses themselves in their solitude. The don’t focus on themselves, they focus on everything else. They lose focus. Being around others we find or form the boundaries on ourselves. We have these boundaries put into place. This in not an inherently bad thing, it is conducive to some things but not others. Beckett alone in his mother’s room. He had to be alone. If she were there he’d have had no epiphany. The epiphany can only come in solitude, the epiphany can only be found in perfect and absolute emptiness and emptiness. A single person in a room lit only by the low light of the rising sun filtered through a thick layer of clouds. It seems so dark but so much light can be let in there. Even the smallest sounds take on the weight of a great creature. Even the smallest changes hold a monumental gravity. 

Institutions are inherently antagonistic to this sort of thinking, to this sort of work. It might now seem so, but it is the case. We are drawn to these institutions out of fear, out of confusion, out of a thrashing and grasping. Like a drowning person. But the drowning is the thing. The drowning is the challenge. One must fully drown first. One must drown eternally in the solitude to enact something worthwhile, something great.

There are no sayings that can do this justice. No words or wisdom needed to support this. At every moment the true artist must feel the pain of the drowning and say: ‘This is what I came here for’. They must say, ‘I am doing my job, I have done my job. I have drowned in solitude and let the waters filled my lungs and died to the world.’ One must be totally inundated, but revel in the pain of solitude and the silence of the waters around them. It is the only way.

To grab at a life raft is to abscond (and this can only happen for a short while) from their true duty. It is to give up the work for a short while, to paddle at the surface, to waste energy struggling, kicking before the waters take over again. Perpetually drowning in the waters of solitude.

'Gallaher Calls' to be published in Dim Shores Presents #1

Very excited to announce that my weird, literary horror short story 'Gallaher Calls' will be included in Dim Shores press' 'Dim Shores Presents' #1.

https://mailchi.mp/ddf96ab02d35/dim-shores-update-2429057

Positive review of 'The Plague Victim'

In what might be the first ever 'review' of my work (really a comment on a blog post) D.F. Lewis has some very kind words for my story 'The Plague Victim' in this year's Nightscript.

You can read read Lewis' thoughts on 'The Plague Victim', and all the other stories in Nightscript V, here: https://dflewisreviews.wordpress.com/2019/10/04/nightscript-volume-v

Nightscript V is out!

My short story 'The Plague Victim' has been included in this year's volume of the annual literary horror anthology Nightscript, which is out now.


Nightscript V can be bought as an ebook or paperback here.

'Drug Lung' and 'Some Eastern Demon' up at decomP

Two flash pieces I wrote, 'Drug Lung' and 'Some Eastern Demon', have been published at decomP

Some Thoughts on 'Midsommar', 'Hereditary' and 'The Ritual' and Folk vs. Cosmic Horror

The most effective, and scariest, works of horror are those that are so 'clean' that they could just as easily be considered nonfiction as fiction. Those that seem like like nothing more than a window into our own world. Ari Aster has taken two somewhat different approaches in his two films 'Hereditary' and the recent 'Midsommar'. Some thoughts on these films, as well 'The Ritual'.

This is one large central craft choice in a work of horror that has a significant effect in its execution: whether or not to expose the supernatural or metaphysical aspect of the horror. In 'Hereditary' we get this pretty decent dose of the cult's practices and beliefs (something to the effect of "'Paymon' has been conjured by the grandmother who has passed his presence down through her lineage in order to get those in her coven benefits, like good familiars etc..."). It is a cool premise. In 'Midsommar' the metaphysics (if there are any) are a lot more impressionistic. Presumably the gods and forces have a  Scandinavian Pagan origin, but as they elders point out, their book of lore is always evolving, always growing, and are channeled through the 'unclouded mind' of the inbred savant Reuben. The reason behind the sacrifices is vaguely described as perpetuating the health of the community (maybe allowing nine more children to be born into the community(?)) but the mechanism here is kept obscure. There is sort of this cinematic parallel to what the viewer is afforded: in 'Hereditary' there is a scene where Annie opens one of her mother's books and flips through, getting a vague idea of the metaphysics of the cult (and the world) which provided the viewer with some insight, but in 'Midsommar' when Josh asks to read their book of lore, is provided entrance into their world and tries to plumb the mechanisms of their cult, the elder 'closes the book' and prevents Josh from reading it (and while he does take some pictures he - and we - never get to view them) and the metaphysics are closed off from us.

Granted Paymon is never shown in his true form in 'Hereditary' but there are enough little sparks flying around to ensure that the overt supernatural is meant to be considered an essential part of that world. Of course, too, the proximate comparison for 'Midsommar' is 'The Ritual' another recent Scendinavian folk horror film wherein the monster-god is clearly seen a half dozen times and the supernatural is clearly invoked. Inn 'Midsommar' we are primed a bit to expect something in that yellow house, something beyond the bounds of reality. But when everything is said and done any supernatural elements in 'Midsommar' can be foisted off onto the psychoactive herbs and mushrooms that are freely distributed to the attendees.

This is an interesting decision, and 'Midsommar' prevail and suffers in various ways because of it. The story of the Harga - its history, past and future - never feet fully fleshed out. We don't know if the commune is seeking some 'omega point' or if they just want to perpetuate their happy way. In some sense it is more ominous than the coven in 'Hereditary', it has a sort of 'Stepford Wives' forced utopianism about it. On the other hand it is far less menacing than this group that is actively moving to bring genuine agents of hell to earth.

As practitioners of supernatural horror, we generally have to make this choice. Revealing the supernatural is playing a strong card, one that cannot be unplayed. It has dual effects: we pull the reader further from this reality, which inevitably makes the story less believable (though not utterly so, if executed appropriately). The card must be played very judiciously. But then playing this card well can add so much depth to a story. By not playing it, by keeping things open, there is room provided for interpretation on the part of reader. There is a lot of arguing back and forth that can occur, and the option for greater depth in this way. What would have happened in 'Midsommar' if 'the source' had been revealed more fully? Would it have added more to the movie or detracted from it? Granted 'Midsommar' is more of an image driven film (not relative to 'Hereditary' which is deeply image drive, but just in general).

In an image driven work like 'Midsommar' overplayed metaphysics can detract from the work, in the sense that the images take primacy and a lot of backstory can get in the way of the elegant presentation of the images. Stated differently: the images and the metanarrative can compete for the reader's attention, and a strong set of images will, or may, be muted by a strong underlying structure.

'The Ritual' shows another, somewhat different take on this balance. The imagery is strong throughout the movie, having a sort of disconnected feeling at first, until near the end of the film where things congeal. The creature (described late in the film as 'a bastard child of Loki' who provides the rural group with eternal life in exchange for the sacrifice of outsiders) is only hinted at for much of the film but is then revealed, in full, in the last act where while pursuing the last living character. The film, in this case, seemed to suffer for it. While the monster is very cool - and pretty scary - by revealing its true nature, what it looks like and how it works, its lurking nature is replaced with a somewhat mundane explanation. It seems to to be bound by the confines of the remote forest in which it lives. In this case, the monster is 'bound'. It is not some cosmic entity that transcends the boundaries of the human mind, but one that is caught in the boundaries of human thought (inside the forest: unsafe; outside the forest: safe). This is not an uncommon trope folk horror, in fact it is sort of a hallmark of folk horror: when you are in the village you are bound by the village's rules, you are subject to the village's monsters, but outside the village you are freed from the village's traditions and can go about your way unharmed, unpursued. In Cosmic horror, almost by definition, you are never safe. The horrors are specifically unbound by human thought, because they are existentially outside of human thought, concerns and boundaries. A question arises: are folk horror and cosmic horror incompatible?

I loved this resonance in the endings of 'Midsommar' and 'Hereditary' this 'final room' with the bodies all blooming and rotten. The juxtaposition between the living and who we had thought were the dead, but are really the eternally living. Whether this is 'saying' anything or not is hard to decide, though it is a beautiful and horrifying image, the sort of thing that stick with the viewer long after the movie has ended. A dark alter. In 'Midsommar' the yellow house is burned down, the bodies (living and ritualized) are destroyed, or transmogrified into glory for the commune. It is a very folk horror ending, in line with 'The Wicker Man'. In 'Hereditary' the film ends on an ambiguous, or resonant note. Paymon is present in the treehouse with the cult and the bodies. Something new has come and the alter will persist even after the movie has ended. Its presence is present and inescapable. It is sort of a nod toward cosmic horror: the room is out there and it is also in us. It has planted its germ and it is only a matter of time before it spreads. We will never find the burned ashes of the yellow house in Halga: it has been tilled into the soil and it influence will stay there, the alter in the treehouse however is somewhere, and it is spreading. We may look for it and we may find it, but even if we try to hide from it, it is still there, somewhere, working its strange force.

The Dystopian Strangeness of being suspended on Twitter

I abhor these kinds of things, at this point pretty much on principle. I don't want to be one of those people that brags about not having social media, but I came to a point in 2014 where I realized they were not worth the effort and deleted Facebook and Twitter and maybe one or two others. It was a good thing.

I 'successfully' had a twitter account for maybe six months in 2013. I followed a few writers, a lot of dumb weird twitter accounts (is weird twitter still a thing?) and had the pinnacle of my social media fame when I just tweeted something like 'My favorite radical feminist is Andrea Twerkin' and got four likes.

At this point twitter feels almost like an anachronism. Like something that should be in the history books as having lived its life and now out to pasture. But there are a lot of interesting writers who post updates exclusively on twitter so, a few months back, I semi-grudgingly attempted to create a new twitter account, for the express purpose of following writers and journals that I found.

The process, of course, was very easy. I got on and went on a bit of a spree, following these folks that seemed interested. Shortly afterwards I was asked for me phone number, to validate my identity. Sure, fine, I put it in, but since I was in the middle of rural Utah I didn't have any service and couldn't respond to the verification code.

Twitter, being near the very bottom of my life priorities, was forgotten for a few weeks until I had phone service to verify the code. When I opened the page there was a notification that my account was suspended. If I remember correctly, it didn't actually tell me until I tried to follow someone, at which point the little banner popped up in the bottom of the screen. Again, low priorities, I forgot about it and figured it would resolve itself.

Yesterday I tried it again, filed an appeal, explained the situation which, I figured, was common and innocent enough that it would be sorted out without issue. How naive. I was informed, shortly after, in a terse and stern e-mail that my account had repeat violations of Twitter's policies (I had not sent out a single tweet) and that I should not attempt another appeal or seek further information.

So I am locked in this strange place, where I can see my account, click around on the page but am unable to send out, or receive any information (all the account that I followed have been unfollowed). I even attempted to deactivate the account, just, you know, sadly place my tail between my legs and limp out the back door. But the beautiful thing is, when I went to deactivate the account I was told that this is not allowed, because my account is suspended.

This, I feel, is where the absurd arrives. Unable to actually do anything, even the one benign thing I had hoped to do: learn about what other writers were up to, I am forced to wallow in shame at some sort of altercation. I'm not indignant. Life will go swiftly on without Twitter. It is just a strange place to be, turned away and locked out for no apparent reason, and unable to discover why.

'The Sculptor' accepted for publication in Vastarien

A short story I wrote titled 'The Sculptor' has been accepted for publication in an upcoming issue of the literary journal 'Vastarien'.

'The Sculptor' follows a journalist as he travels to interview a reclusive Sculptor whose work has a strange effect on those who view it. During their interview the Journalist realizes that the Sculptor has either gone totally insane, or is in contact with something much greater than he had originally realized.

The story is concerned with the power of art, the malignant deity and the meagre space that separates dream and reality.

Essay: The Proximity of Horror, and its therapeutic effect

There is a strange memory I have, the sort of memory that is so dreamlike in nature, yet so real in feeling, that I am not sure, after the intervening years, whether it actually happened or not. It's not uncommon to have these sort of things in our childhood, these memories that are likely either dreams, or so wildly distorted by mist of memory as to have taken on the tenor of a dream. But this event happened when I was eighteen, and I recollect it so well that I am almost positive that it happened.

Unpublished Story - The Detritus

[Over the past four years or so I have written a number of short stories. I submitted these stories to a magazines and literary journals but they were not accepted for publication. I figured I would put them up here.]

Edward had surrounded himself with the detritus of many ages. 

Not garbage but tools he did not know how to use yet. Old quiet cat cable and network switches. Fried display systems and half used packets of proprietary documentation stationary. In the bathroom, perched on the sink side: gallon jugs of laboratory calibration solution concentrate, long expired and off-color. Screw top vials, empty and clean. Cast off glass-headed vacuum tubes, chip boards and diodes. Notebooks and binders filled with sketches and observations. Hard-handed and cryptic ink. Obsolete, already transcribed and worthless. 

Unpublished Story - Wendy

[Over the past four years or so I have written a number of short stories. I submitted these stories to a magazines and literary journals but they were not accepted for publication. I figured I would put them up here.]

Nearing thirty, he found himself living a mundane and pointless life out in the forgotten expanse of the country. It was good, and he wasted his days reading and writing and not doing much at all. When he tried to remember how he had come out there, what decisions he had made that led him to that place, he had a vague recollection of escaping some strife, of trying to make a move for the better but these decisions seemed far off now and made by someone else entirely.

Insomnia 13 May 2019

Frequently I'll wake up in the middle of the night and lay in bed for an hour or two just thinking. I have heard this happens to old people a lot.

Mostly my thoughts are negative. This is probably not a good thing, to be stewing in your hatred in the dark like this for an extended period (or at all).

But it is sort of a bad and a good thing. Being all alone in the dark like that reminds you of the base state of life: inaction, solitude, emptiness. It is almost a religious state.

I hated it when this happened what I had a job: it meant I would wake up in the morning and still be exhausted but would have to go through all the motions of the day, push through the commute and work and small talk on reduced rest.

Now - when this insomnia happens - it is still offputting, but I can work with it.

I'll put down some of my thoughts here, thoughts that I had while in that state.

No claims that they are interesting. I figure it is sort of like looking through a kaleidoscope in an unlit room.