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I am currently reading Perfume by Patrick Suskind. I donapos;t know how I had never heard of this book until recently. It is absolutely beautiful and interesting.

It is about a man, Grenouille, who was born with an incredible sense of smell. So incredible that he is able to speak more fluently with scent than language, that he can detect individual smells from miles away, from years ago. And yet he, himself, has no scent at all. He lives in several different places throughout the story, and each time he leaves somewhere, he leaves only death and destruction behind him, as a kind of aftertaste of his presence.

Grenouille, however, has no sense of humanity or god. He does not seek love or affection. He does not seek company at all or crave spirituality. In fact, when he finally leaves Paris, he realizes that he craves nothing but his own solitude. He lives in a cave which has never been inhabited by another living being, and thus leaves no scent of one, in a mountain for seven years.

I think this is interesting because the imagery of solitude on top of a mountain is usually reserved for prophets: for someone seeking to be closer with god and then bring down a message. However, in Grenouilleapos;s case, he seeks to day dream of his inner worlds, to categorize his library of scents that he has collected throughout his life. His heart was a purple castle..., Suskind writes, and this is where Grenouille spends practically all of his seven years there dwelling, going deeper and deeper within himself. So spoke Grenouille the Great and, while the peasantry of scent danced and celebrated beneath him, he glided with wide-stretched wings down from his golden clouds, across the nocturnal fields of his soul, and home to his heart. Grenouille does not seek God; he seeks his own ego.

There was also a movie made of the book, somewhat recently. To be sure, it is an okay movie. I enjoyed watching it. Dustin Hoffman is in it, though. It seems like whenever Hoffman makes an appearance at this point, the main point of comedy is just that Hoffman is making an appearance because heapos;s so damn goofy.

Anyway, despite my inadequate descriptions of the story, it is absolutely beautiful and the writing is exceptional.

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Rufus Sewell is a talented, striking actor, and this show has some very pretty cinematography.

I couldnapos;t sit through it, though. Dear heavens, will somebody tell the writers that having a character explain in explicit detail the nuances of their relationship with another character to a person they just met is the stupidist, most hamhanded and annoying "As you know, Bob" ever? I was OKAY with Rufus being made to explain to an FBI AGENT what DNA is (who in the audience is expected not to know this, fergodsakes?): science is moderately acceptable as an infodump. But relationships? Youapos;ve got forty-odd minutes, people, show, donapos;t tell

What a waste.

Will try to see if the second episode is less painful.
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Hello, I am new to this community and words cannot even express how good it feels to know that others share this same belief in Draconity in a spiritual and physical way. I thought I was all alone because Iapos;ve been to many sites and couldnapos;t find not one well, nothing but curiousity or ridicule from�humans. Anyway I must say that I am most grateful to have found this community here�and once more, I would like to greet my fellow scaled bretheren.....and sisteren lol.
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�I thought relatives were supposed to support you and help build you up. �Instead I have a drunken grandmother visiting who spends every minute telling me Iapos;m fat, my hair is hideous, and the newest assault is that if I�had chosen a different major in college, followed through with it, and was less of a huge disappointment these days my father would not have divorced us. �The fact that my parents divorced 5 years prior to my entering college is of little matter to her. �Now she wonders why I donapos;t want to be around her. �And of course now she calls for me to take her to get more liquor. �More later when I return.

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Antibiotics make me sleepy when I should be awake. Therefore when I sleep because of the antibotics I am awake half the night.

Waiting for free bus home from Tescos, as I was sitting there talking to a man with a kind face and a lovely staffy terrier, about dogs being banned, and what not, some grumpy faced bastard yelled at us, "Not to be rude, but can you stop yelling." WHA? We werent yelling, our voices raised a little as traffic went by but nothing more. I was wondering why he kept looking up at us. Old grumps had headphones on while reading a book. I didnt answer back, because I didnt know if heapos;d been drinking, or on drugs, a sane person, I can only imagine would not yell flat out at two people have a chat.

I have chicken in the oven.. All for me NOMNOMNOMNOMNOM
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So the idea of this blog is for me to find a place to organize my thoughts. If you know personally outside of the internet and you find this, I didn't really intend for this to be a social utility. Not that I'm against people adding me, it just isn't my priority that other people read this besides myself. In a way, its creating a history of myself, a documentation of my own existence. My memory is constantly being filled with new information to process, and because of this I end up forgetting all these other neat things that I feel are pertinent to my own internal discourse.

I also hope to get use to using my new, hand-me-down camera for further documentation. I don't have a lot of photos of all my experiences, so I'm going to try to change that.

This is a series of memories manifested into text.

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The shortest ghost story ever recorded in the field comes from Somerset, England. It goes like this:

"He woke up frightened and reached for the matches and the matches were put into his hand."

Nothing that short and simple should be that damn effective.

I think itapos;s because it�plays on�a couple of really elementary�fears�-�of the dark, of blindness, of our own minds... Or at least, that part of our mind beyond our control, that lies in wait until weapos;re in that most vulnerable of states and then�causes us to wake up in a cold sweat� - reaching for�that match.

Weapos;ve all�experienced that�gap of thirty seconds when�our perceptions�of the waking world havenapos;t quite caught up with the sensations of the nightmare�- thereapos;s that disquieting blending of the two states. Itapos;s the mental equivalent of twilight.

Hell. I just remembered what time of year it is. Thatapos;s why the�pagans�thought�this time�was so dangerous; thatapos;s�why they came out of their newly-built�churches to build their bonfires on the hilltops�and light up the night.�

It was because one world was bleeding into the next, and it scared the shit out of everyone. Winter into summer. Death into life. The other into the known. The uncontrollable element into order. The bonfires, the rituals, the corn dolls - theyapos;re just us, building up�dams against the darkness - a darkness thatapos;s so mindnumbingly scary because it boils up�out of our�own minds.

The Celts called�this time of year�one of the�thin places. I like that....

Theyapos;re the things that you see
When you wake up screaming
The cold things that follow you
Down the boreen
They live in the small ring of trees on the hill
Up at the top of the field

Remember this place
It is damp and itapos;s cold
The best place on earth
But itapos;s dark and itapos;s old
So lie near the wall
And cover your head
Good night and God bless
Now fuck off to bed.

I think a boreen is a narrow, unpaved road. Itapos;s definitely from Irish Gaelic boithrin.

The lyrics are from the song "Sit Down By the Fire" by the Pogues.


Hum. Iapos;m done now.



�

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