It is a little devastating how much anger is fear. Not all of it. But a lot. I was playing this game about anxiety. The anxiety is a wolf. You play as the wolf and try to get your human's energy bar down to zero. It has a really corny ending where the human thanks the wolf for protecting them, and anyway, it got me thinking—While people hate their anxiety, they generally love their anger. But even despite that, when do we ever take the time to be grateful for how it serves us? The reasons to be thankful for anger are perhaps different than the reasons to be thankful for anxiety. To treat it like a person, would give it humanity and accountability. Everyone knows anger is fallible, but are you able to communicate with it, moment to moment, on a complex level that reflects that? I dunno, food for thought I guess.
4/8/26, originally written 3/22/26
There is something to be said about how a lot of dreamcore and liminal aesthetics surround the most sanded down modern American middle class neighborhoods and houses, which makes sense because they are eerie. These houses in question are old looking enough to be nostalgic, plain enough to appeal to a modern minimal sensibilities, and the neighborhoods repetitive enough to be easily translated to an uncanny setting like that. Two story white house, or perhaps yellow, white picket fence, green lawn. I believe a lot of people who enjoy that aesthetic, have never lived in those homes. I haven't, at least. It's an old, dead, american, and hollow dream, I think we, at least, partially, recognize as such.
Liminal houses are like a carnivorous plant, there's not any way for them not to be. I think the awareness of this makes them Better, Actually. I'm not moralizing anyone's enjoyment. I'm saying you should get worse and more depressing about it. Not everything has to have meaning, but it could. Get a shovel.
4/8/26, originally written 4/1-6/26
Happy early new years, everyone! I'll be gone for a while so unfortunately I will not be able to update my site for a little while and I'll miss out on posting on the day. Anyhow I've been looking foward to and thinking about New Years and its significance a lot. The transition into New Beginnings, out of seasonal misery, coming off the rush and stress of more family oriented hollidays. Janus, the two-faced god of doorways. I would like to have some sort of ritual that lasts the month of January. I suppose we already have New Years resolutions, but god, does anybody ever stick to those? How about just dedicating January to bettering some part of your life? What if you spent every one of those thirty days doing something unusual? Perhaps this time could be spent reflecting on the previous year's journal entries. Candles naturally feel like they must be a part of any kind of "ritual", so I say put one on the window sill to welcome the new year "home", and burn your regrets and grudges written on a slip of paper on it. (I imagine doing that in/above a candle in a glass jar. Good luck not burning yourself or anything else, otherwise). I'm sure you can tell my thoughts are not coherent, I'm just throwing shit at the wall, but I was wondering what all of you thought and if you have any ideas. Doesn't have to be deeply serious. Lmk. Good year ya'll. (Stares into the distance with a deer-in-the-headlights look).
12/27/25
The dangerous summer of 2023 was the most quiet I've felt in ages. Nature was quiet too, or, at least, every time I went outside I was too hot to pay attention. I was particularly fixated on Serial Experiments Lain at the time. The sky was pale, sun glinted off the leaves like they were metal. Everything was white, bright, bleached. In Serial Experiments Lain there are many scenes where the scenery and sky is obfuscated by a merciless white sun, leaving very little washed out color, but casting these deep shadows filled with stars at the same time. This surreal dream-like scenery reflected how I felt in the real world. My outdoor world was minimized to a small island in a white void, only shadows, a computer and my own footsteps to keep me company. No wind.
(Liminal Summer)
There's a demon in the sun
Screaming, through the treetop leaves (white)
(Bright) (radio.
Silence.)
Peirced a hole right through us.
Still need to respond to my family,
12/25/25, poem written 9/19/23
To-do list:
2/25/25