I guess you'll either learn how this works, or you won't and this page will be updated daily. You still have a choice to stop mentioning innocent people or I do this, and today you broke the rule so today, I do this. Note: The picture's original title was "bigcoat" apparently so that you wouldn't suspect his fluctuating weight for making him look bigger.
2001-02-18 -Four days before I go up to Racine, Wisconsin, to do a photography assignment with the plus size model, Carol Kelley. The motif would be that of something from what I have written into my horror writings -- the ideas that would be racing in my mind and the nervousness that would come and that day would be close to four days away. It was like the day that I had left for Canada, waited for three years of planning and when that day came -- it was the fourth of Decemeber. This would be the true test for me -- working with another person besides my cousin Micheal or good friend, Erica Thompson. The nervousness is there -- hoping that everything would be right. When one person waits a lifetime to do something and when that time times -- it is almost as a second.
���I have been doing a ton of reading from a magazine called Plots, and was watching HBO -- a documentary called Voices From The Grave. I had some nightmares from that one, and one of the dreams that I had was of walking through the house where the mother had brutally stabbed each of her children -- slashing them to death and then ultimately stabbing herself committing suicide. Something that would be material that would be, or is something that could of been in my fiction.
���Psychologically disturbing; the thought of a mother murdering her own children and finally herself. It was chilling because of something of the nature that was in Naperville, Illinois, of a mother killing her children by using her medications -- lethal dosage, and then trying to take her own life. Something that would be a dark shadow in Naperville, Illinois, darkened unspoken history. It is in the relative belief that one looks into the nightmares that would become of those who murder -- it is a walking riddle.
���That would remain of my dreams, looking into the written words of horror and the images that would flicker on a lighted screen in a darkened room. Of a twisted mind or another, everyone is a victim -- just another victim. That would be the blackest fears of each persons mind -- when it is their morbid fears. That what I write is of a sound mind, but the ideas are those belonging to the unsound mind. Of the nightmares that would be -- are those left unwritten in the eyes of tne ones trying to "save me" from what I write.
���Salvation is nothing that I need, only for them to gain understanding behind the nightmares that are written. The questions of the dead that would be from what they would dream while they are comatose. Those who would be reading this of my writings, I am one who looks at things from perpectives no one would every look at them from -- and that is from my eyes. One that would be without a voice, driven by their fears -- the horrors, of what is within their dreams.
The thoughts that would be haunting -- sitting alone in the mind are those that would be as I would fall asleep. Those nightmares are from the time when I had no place to call home -- the fear that would die there and no one would of known what had happened to me. That as I would take this into recollection -- a record from the things that would be in my nightmares and of my travels. I don't know what awaits as I would be going up to Racine, Wisconsin, and to Seattle, Washington, the things that would be of them -- the thoughts that would be in my darkest imagination.
With the climate that Seattle has now -- it reminds me more of how Sudbury, Ontario, was when I had first arrived to there on the night of the fourth of December. What my condition then was nervous as a mother fucker -- looking on at the strange almost alien city that was Tonronto. The day that they had the police called on me that day -- shaking like a leaf because that was the first time in another country alone. It was something was out of The Twilight Zone because I had known no one and when coming back to Chicago -- everyting that I came back with was almost missing, 25% of the shit was missing upon return.
The half hour with the Toronto Reginal Police was something that made me nervous because everytime I dealt with police in Wheaton and Naperville, more so Wheaton, I got frisked for weapons and drugs because I would be nocturnal. This was the case when I was in Sudbury -- getting stopped 40 feet from my motel room. One of those things that I have to watch for when I am backpacking in civilisation; sometimes they are wary of outsiders to their community especially in Sudbury when they noticed that I was from the United States. My accent -- being from the Midwest. The famos midwestern twang that Stephen King writes of in Misery, the cop that Anne Wilkes stabs on her front lawn.
Any writer reading this now, be very afraid when a woman takes you in and say they are their biggest fan; wanting you write a story just for them and only them. Of what is written -- I would still remain well read and travelled, even when my nightmares reflect when I am on the road. Under the blackened skies -- the many thoughts that would be there waiting until nightfall to become into their written form. Something that I would often think about when I would start packing up the hikers backpack and when I would lash up the sleeping bags -- what horrors would I come across.
I keep thinking about the things that I had seen on the discovery channel along with talk shows about bear maulings. The sight of the people who survived a horror as this leaves a chill in my viens because that is a backpackers worst fear. Being asleep in a tent and being jarred awake violently by a creature that is twice the size of a 150 pound human -- jaws much stronger, attacking the face and neck.
Nothing one can do to defend agaist the creatures agression, almost like the details out of a story that Paul DeMoon, an eagle scout from when I was in boy scouts had related in his story. I can still remember that story because I was tired that night and had a nightmare from that story. Something I would still remember almost ten years later as I write this. The images that would be there in the story -- one of an overwhelming horror that would sit in the back of my mind, thinking that something like that could happen in the upper midwest.
Writing as an outdoorsman, one can only say that there is always a horror story that would sit in their mind. In the back of their mind, there is always a horror story like The Blair Witch Project or Friday The 13th sitting in the back of their mind. Which is why many of them say their idea of camping is in a motel without eletricity or hot water -- when someone says beneath the open sky and without a tent they tend to get scared because of watching Friday The 13th or something of that nature. I laugh because they think that -- and when they take horror writers with them, it adds to the scare because their imaginations are fucking with them because the endless pranks that revolve around Jason Vohrees.