I've recently gotten a couple of e-mails from friends wanting to know why this blog is called the "ghost of communication". It's quite simple, really. This is a computer screen you're looking at right now, not a person. It is only a pale shadow of what a real conversation would be. There is no possibility of picking up the subtle nuances of facial expression and body language. There is no immediate reply. Physical contact is impossible. Our hands brush through the ether, grasping for the touch of skin, but all that we really feel are the cold, hard, plastic, letter-imprinted cubes on our keyboards. This is where communication goes when it dies. It is still felt by the living, but it is no longer alive.
I know that all sounds a bit negative, but if we only dwell on the positive, then the problems will never be fixed.
I've also gotten an interesting hit off of a google search: should you be afraid if you see a dead relative? I'd say that it depends on whether or not this dead relative is moving around or not. Even if they are, for some unknown reason, up and about, you may not have much to fear from them if your previous relationship was friendly. I hope this helps.

I'm still cleaning up around here. I've only got a couple of more days before Isabel and the boys arrive. I've let things get really dusty again. The garden is a riot of tangled green, but smells so fresh and earthy that I don't have the heart to weed it. I've always liked that slightly abandoned look anyway.
I've even e-mailed the head of the Sociology department at the university, with a rough outline of my new research idea. It needs a little tweaking, but I think I can pull it off. The trick is to make it seem like I'm hunting for something other than my real objective. On the surface, the project is going to be about self-fulfilling prophecy. We'll see how it goes.

It has been more than a month since the day that screams were heard in the woods. I mention this now because I omitted a detail of that day's events. I was interviewed by a TV reporter. It was little more than a soundbyte, really. It didn't seem important at the time.
I am reminded of this because I got a phone call from Isabel today. She had seen me on television - a brief clip of me voicing mild discomfort over woodland screams. She said it had taken her weeks to finally track me down - more due to business on her part than in any real snags in the process itself.
We spent several hours catching up. She's been doing some writing too. I elected to omit details of my experiences over the last month, especially the part about how I suspected that cannibals had stolen some of the notes for my latest project.
I did tell her about my wish. I had wished (just three days ago - it seems like much more time has passed) that she would come back into my life.
She told me that she had recently gotten divorced. She had come to the conclusion that an unhappy relationship would make for unhappy children, and do no good for anybody involved.
I asked her if she'd like to bring the kids up for the weekend. She immediately agreed. By the time we finally hung up our phones my head was spinning with the wonder of it all.
Full of anticipatory energy, I stopped by the school to see what the official word on Andy was. I was told that he was missing and that people were combing the woods for him. I offered to help, just because it seemed to be the proper thing to say, and was told that I was welcome to join in. I spent some time pretending to look, beating back bushes and calling Andy's name. I'm not sure why I didn't tell anybody I'd seen him. I think it's because I'd said I wouldn't. I always keep my promises, even when made in haste. On the surface, Andy is a boy in much need of help, but it seems to me that he's found his own sort of help. I feel sorry for anybody else who has wronged him. I suppose that deep down inside I'm scared of making him angry. If I told on him, would I wake up one night to find my house full of unwanted guests?
After what seemed like a reasonable amount of time "searching", I said my goodbyes and left, feeling half guilty and half satisfied about my exclusive information concerning the strange goings-on.
Then I got to thinking that maybe my information isn't so exclusive. Maybe more people know. Certainly there is plenty of incentive to keep quiet. Pick a reason. I wonder how many of the people who live in this neck of the woods know how to make wishes come true? It gives me an idea for another research project. I'll have to think how to set it up without making people suspicious.
I'll worry about all of that later though. Isabel and her boys will be here at the end of the week. I've got to clean the house for my long anticipated and hoped for company.

In the light of yesterday morning, as I soaked away my mental cobwebs with strong, black coffee, I decided that it was insane to have anything to do with Andy. Any talks with him would, no doubt, be closely scrutinized. The things I wished to ask him, if they were overheard, would probably lead me to some sort of involuntary vacation in a small padded room with no door knob on my side.
I decided to follow my cat instead, but when by 1:00 pm he hadn't moved except to follow the path of the sunbeam spilling across the floor in my study, I decided to go get my backpack. After all, I reasoned, I should take advantage of the sun. Maybe I would even find the courage to look around a little more.
As I set out, I thought of Isabel as I had last seen her: I thought of how the sun glinted in her tears as she kissed me goodbye. She moved upstate the next day to try to piece together her trainwreck of a marriage. Her kids rested at the heart of this decision. Who am I to argue with that? I pulled up anchor soon after. I tend to do that whenever something good in my life ends. It's my way of finding a new beginning. I remember moving out of my parent's house soon after a hard break-up. That first time must have helped, because it has become habit.
As I continued up the trail, I reflected on how time and circumstance change some things and leave others untouched. I wondered where she had gotten to in the world, and whether or not she still thought of me. The trees seemed to sense my mood and the stillness of the forest was almost eerie. After hiking for a half hour or so, I stopped in a clearing and sat down on a fallen log, drinking in the stillness.
Then, in a moment of whimsy, I leaned over towards the impassive, old redwood behind me, placed my hands on its rough skin, and made a wish.
Maybe that's all there is to it. I'd always thought that when wishes came true it could be chalked up to self-fulfilling prophecy. Subconscious action. Not Magic. But who knows for sure.
Feeling a slight chill, I stood and continued walking.
The coast, as it often is this time of year, was fogged in. The bright greens, browns, and blues became muted, merging together under a cool, grey blanket of airbourne liquid. My hair drooped wetly over my eyes as I trudged. My spirit sagged like a flooded roof, ready to collapse under its own weight. Still, I was committed, so I kept on.
I could hear the ocean crashing against the rocks at the base of the cliff to my left, adding sound to the heaviness I felt.
By the time I reached the little side trail and could see the domes of the boulders in the distance, I was exhausted. I slowly picked my way upwards, not feeling the scrape of branches against the exposed, goose-bumped skin of my arms.
It took my some time to re-orient myself and find the clearing. When I did find it, I nearly bumbled into something completely unexpected.
Have you ever come across a child playing when he or she thinks nobody is watching? There is such an innocence to these moments, especially when it involves role play - adult talk filtered through a child's perception, usually spoken in grave (no pun intended) terms. It gives us insight into how we, as adults, are perceived.
I suppose, in amongst the horror the scene facing me presented, there was more than a trace of this innocence.
I'm not sure how Andy got to this little clearing when he should have been under close watch. I'm not sure what had happened with him after he was found home alone. Maybe he'd been sent to a less-than-vigilent relative's house.
As to why he was here... he was here to resolve some issues with his parents.
He had to do the talking for them.

They had no tongues.

I heard his stern little voice moments before I would have burst into the clearing.
"Only little BABIES pee their pants. Are you a BABY Andy?"
Andy answered in his own voice. "I'm not any more. I've got some friends now who are nice to me. My friends don't like you at all. They think you're stupid!"
A slightly different voice answered. "Now look what you've made my do, you little brat!!"
These assumed voices were accompanied by a strange clicking sound.
I slowly pushed aside a branch. Andy was sitting near the grave. The mound had been disturbed. "I'm not a baby or a brat. I'm Good Old Andy!" he shouted. The skull in his hands gave no reply, its lower jaw hanging slack in surprise or outrage. Andy closed its mouth with a clicking of teeth. I could see extensive dental work. For a moment, all I could think was, didn't floss enough. Another skull was picked up and its mouth forced closed in similar fashion. As far as symbolism went, this was about as subtle as a first sexual encounter.
It was pretty brilliant for a little kid though... Andy was sitting next to a mound of bones. Most were cracked, like somebody or something had a taste for marrow.
Without thinking, I stepped into the clearing, my hands held out in front of me in a placating gesture. My defensive comedy impulse was to say something like, "time for bed, Andy. Put your parents away now."
As it turned out, Andy spoke first. "You know how to wish too, don't you? I can tell." He smiled a sad little smile and, like many people feel compelled to do when caught doing something strange, explained a few things. "My daddy told me a long time ago to stay out of the woods or the albino cannibals would get me. I think he did it just to be mean." As he spoke, he rolled one of the skulls away from him. "One day he did something very bad and I ran away to the woods and I wanted the albino cannibals to get me. But then I wanted them to get all of the people who were mean to me, so I made a wish. Now the cannibals are my friends. You're not going to be mean to me are you?"
I assured him that I had the best of intentions and that I was just looking for my backpack.
"It's not here anymore. They always keep the things they find." He smiled towards the surrounding undergrowth.
It would have been funny had it not been so upsetting: a sheet-white, file-toothed apparition bounding through the shrubbery wearing nothing but my backpack. I forced a smile and told Andy that I didn't really need it back, and made my leave as quickly and tactfully as I could, promising not to tell anybody that I had seen him.
Again, I have little recollection of returning home, other than the certainty that unseen eyes were tracking me.
I slept poorly that night (yesterday), and in my tossings and turnings came to the conclusion that justice, harsh though it may seem, had been done.
Did Andy eat his parents? It didn't seem possible. On the other hand, neither did any of the other explanations. When I did sleep, I dreamt of finding my half-eaten backpack in the woods, with my research notes spit out in soggy, masticated lumps.

I'll begin at the beginning - the words want to come pouring out of me in a frantic jumble. If this journal is to do me any good, I must maintain a semblance of order here.
When I got to the school, there were two police cars parked in the bus circle. At first I thought it might have something to do with Amy, but I was wrong.
The police were there because of Andy. It seems his parents have gone missing. Apparently (no pun intended) he'd been living alone quite contentedly for almost a week, not thinking to let anybody know his parents were gone. I can't say I blame him. It's probably a blessing for that boy to be on his own. I was relieved to know that he wasn't buried in the woods, but distressed to realize that the mystery had deepened on me.
I found a newspaper in the teacher's lounge and, as I expected, there was extensive coverage of Amy's death. I could sense a desire on the reporter's part to call it murder, but so far the evidence was inconclusive. More interesting was the back page rundown of other unexplained disappearances and deaths over the years. People seemed to have a habit of vanishing hereabouts. As far as I could tell from the article, there were no definite links between any of the cases, other than the fact that several of the victims(?) were not well liked. This makes me think, of course, of Andy's parents.
But what about Amy Sanderson? On a whim, I decided to ask the kids about her. I didn't know how the administration would react to this, so I simply marched out onto the playground during the lunch break and found some kids I recognized from previous visits. From all accounts, she was a popular girl. I almost regretted bringing up the subject, as it seemed to rekindle the fears that were most certainly brewing in the guts of the children. One girl broke down and wouldn't stop crying, so I decided to stop asking questions.
It was a chance comment that changed things. One of the older boys was talking to a friend as I took my leave. "I'll bet Andy won't miss her. She was so mean to him."
I asked the boy to elaborate. It turned out that she bullied Andy and a couple of the other "weird" kids quite mercilessly.
I thanked the boy and took my leave, stopping on the way off school grounds to have a chat with a police officer I recognized from the day that screams had come from the woods. From him, thanks to youthful rookie indescretion, why cause of death had not been determined in the Amy Sanderson case.
She had been partially eaten. The theory was that wild animals had found the body first. Apparently they had left quite a mess.
The officer, with the gravity of a confessing sinner, admitted that he had thrown up. He was quick to point out, however, that he hadn't been the only one to do so. As I left, his parting words were to "keep it under my hat." I nodded and thanked him, while my mind did what it does best: it invented.
Sometimes these inventions turn out to be closer to the truth than they have any right to be.
I decided to go home and mull things over. I got a surprise when I opened the front door. At first I thought I was having some sort of acid flashback. The floor was rippling - a queasy, white undulation that transformed, when I clicked on the light, into a carpet of rats. Never before have I seen such a concentration of vermin. ...And every one of them was sheet-white, including, strangely enough, their eyes.
I thought of the piercing black eyes of the rats impaled out in the woods, and fought for a moment with the screaming horrors. It was the cat that brought me back from the bad place my mind was taking me. He served as a focus point - a little dose of reality in the midst of something I could not accept.
If ever there was a kitty heaven, my cat had found the closest earthly equivalent. He was so busy pouncing and rending that for a long moment he didn't notice me at all, standing as I was with my eyes bulging and mouth gaping. When he finally did see me, he adopted a somewhat guilty expression and voiced that querelous little "mrrowl" that he usually reserved for the times he was caught on the counter or peeing in my shoes.
The rats started disappearing then, some running of behind furniture, and some just winking out of existence like burst soap bubbles.
The cat came up and rubbed against my legs in abject apology. I ran my fingers down his back in stern forgiveness, my eyes still darting after the quickly dwindling rat population of my living room.
I kept thinking that if a cat could wish for something, it would probably be either something to play with, or something to eat. Rats are both. How could such a wish be granted in this fashion? I could think of several things I would wish for, if given the chance. Too bad cats can't talk.
I was, however, starting to develop a feeling that there was at least one person who knew how to make wishes come true in this fashion - somebody a little less innocent in his desires. Somebody tormented.
What would an abused child wish for if given the opportunity? Escape? Revenge? If the revenge is of the fatal variety, then escape is a given. Stones and multiple birds.
I could even, with an intuitive leap, tie in the impaled rats. Children learn what they live, or so the old saying goes. Take your aggressions out on something defenseless... butterflies... rodents...
It seemed to make sense in an insane sort of way.
Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow I'm going to do, or try to do, two things: talk to Andy and go get my damn backpack. I say "try" because, given the situation, Andy is probably beyond my reach.
I'm thinking, or I guess I should say "wondering" as I type these lines, about what rats wish for.
I'm tired, and I'm starting to ramble again. I miss Isabel. I wish for her to come back into my life. I wish I knew how to make it come true.
The rats weren't real - the ones in my house. Amy's death was real.
I don't know what any of this means.

I know one thing now with certainty. Whoever is buried in that grave (if grave it is) is not Amy Sanderson.
Amy's body was found in a meadow near the edge of the forest a mile or so from the school. The news report I heard was chaotic and unhelpful, like most breaking news stories are. Cause of death has yet to be determined, or yet to be released to the media. It is a heartbreaking thing that I'm not surprised.
My episode of two days ago has taken on a tinge of unreality. Did it all really happen? I don't know enough about mental illness to be able to tell if I need help or not. It's not my area of expertise. Should I make an appointment with somebody?
I am afraid. I am sad. I don't recall whether or not I met Amy - so many kids in such a short time. Only a few really stand out. Good Old Andy stands out, but not for reasons that would make anybody proud - especially not, if I'm reading things right, his parents. I'm going to the school tomorrow to see if he's turned up. I won't be asking any more questions about songs. In light of recent events, my research project suddenly seems small and silly.
I think I'll go back and get my backpack too. It's something I have to do for myself. It doesn't matter that nobody was there to see my shameful panic. The way I behaved doesn't gel with the way I'd like to behave, so I'm going to hike out there and get my backpack after I stop by the school. I want to see Andy so I know that I wasn't running from his grave the other day.

Most people like to think that they would comport themselves with bravery when faced with a threatening or mysterious situation. Many people will not hesitate to let you know that, "things would have been different," if they had been there to take charge. These people are so full of shit... I stop here, not being able to think of a clever, unchildish way to finish this sentence. I notice that I am taking refuge in cheap humor again - a long running safety net for me.
I write the above as a preface to something that I must relate: my own cowardice.
I finally did go into the woods to quiet the insistent nagging of my gut. I didn't really expect to find anything. I think I went more out of a desire to reassure myself that all was well, that there wasn't anything ominous going on, than for any other reason.
I might as well have saved myself the trouble.
I set out around noon, with a daypack containing lunch and some of my research notes slung over my shoulders. The idea was to get a little work done out under the trees when I got tired of hiking.
The trees themselves were moist, with low branches sending miniature torrents of last night's rainwater down the back of my neck. The leaf covered forest floor was also treacherous, sending me slipping and sliding on several occasions. The air, however, was sweet with the wild smells of life: of pine and soil and a thousand other mingling smells. I inhaled forcefully as I strode along, feeling the tension of the last few days relax its hold upon me. It felt good to be doing something, even if I thought it would not end up enlightening me any further.
I walked for much longer than I ever had previously, steaming along as if the physical action were purging me of my fears and uncertainty. My whole body was humming like a gypsy dance tune. My mind was surprisingly serene. What seems like a big worry at home is much less so in the woods.
By afternoon, the trees thinned and I realized that I had walked all the way to the ocean. I could hear the distant booming of the surf and smell a salty tang underlying the scent of the evergreens.
Soon I was following a powdery little trail as it meandered through hardy sagebrush along a cliff edge overlooking the vast, misty grey expanse of the Pacific. I breathed deeply and exhaled my tension into the grey.
That's when things started to go wrong. I had begun to feel the effects of my mad march through the woods. My muscles were singing to me the sweet songs of the damned - a sound that, if indeed it were a sound, might resemble John Zorn being pushed off a cliff in the midst of a truckload of silverware. But I belabor the point...
There was a small trail leading away from the edge of the cliff, back into the larger bushes and, one would assume, eventually into the trees. I decided to follow it, as I could see several large, flattish boulders breasting the green tide of shrubbery. There's nothing to lubricate the pen quite like writing atop a boulder in sight of the ocean.
It was hard going at first. The shrubbery tore at my clothes, and my feet slid off chalky smoothe rocks. During the first fifty feet alone I must have been responsible for the sudden eviction of hundreds of spiders. This was obviously not a well travelled trail.
I eventually struggled my way up to one of the large boulders I had spotted from the main trail - a weathered, sandstone dome with little concavities on top filled with rainwater. I climbed up from the rear, and upon reaching the top, some ten feet off the ground, was rewarded with a spectacular view of the restless ocean beyond the cliffs. I could see why ancient peoples had thought of this as the edge of the world.
It was with these musings rattling around in my head that I finally sat and pulled out my notes. I tried and tried to enter a scholarly frame of mind. Tried and failed. Finally, I gave a mental shrug, put my materials away, squirmed into my backpack, and stood up.
Seconds later I caught my foot in one of those accursed bowls of rainwater and tumbled off the northern side of the boulder.
Fortunately, my fall was broken by shrubbery and I received only a few long, shallow scratches along my arms. The wind was knocked out of me and one of the straps on my backpack had torn off. I sat up slowly and came face to face with a large, blotchy slug.
It was such an impressive specimen that at first I failed to notice what it was crawling on. It was only as it moved onto a branch that I realized its original resting place was covered in moist, matted grey fur. I was looking at a rat, reduced to fur, skin, and bone by time and the elements; impaled on a stout juniper branch. Its yellowed incisors sneered dangerously a foot from my nose. Beady eyes, two wet points of blackness, regarded my dispassionately.
It took a second for this to sink in. Dessicated corpses shouldn't have beady eyes. I stood up quickly, a small cry of disgust escaping from my suddenly bone dry mouth. From my new vantage point I could see that the rat was not alone. Other rats, like grisly Christmas tree ornaments, hung on nearby bushes. All of them had sparkling, night-black eyes. All of them were rain-matted little lumps of fur draped loosely over bone.
They stared in silence. I can't begin to describe the feeling of panic that overtook me at this moment. I dropped my backpack and barreled through a relatively rat-less patch of shrub.
Thinking back, as I write these words, I wonder whether it was coincidence that the shrub I blindly pushed my way through was without rodents. ...Or was it planned that way? And if so, why? But I get ahead of myself...
The bushes snagged my clothes and left more long scratches on my arms. I pushed my way out of them and found myself in a small clearing carpeted with clovers and dotted with lichen covered rocks. My eyes were immediately drawn to a bare patch in the carpet - an area that had experienced recent upheaval. The area that had been disturbed was roughly two feet by six feet. Everything about it shouted "grave!", from the suggestively convex mound of dirt to the general feeling of solemnity that it somehow conveyed.
Here somebody had been buried in secret. Here, quite possibly, lay the very answer to the vague worries and questions that had been plaguing me. I thought of missing children. I thought of dreams.
Then I ran from that horrible place. Using the great dome of the boulder as a guide, I was soon pounding down the little trail towards the ocean. Tears blinded me - tears of shame at my cowardice. Tears for whoever slept uneasily beneath that secret mound of earth.
Little Amy Sanderson? Good Old Andy? ...Or was my imagination putting together puzzle pieces that didn't fit?
I didn't stop running until I was well away from the oceanside. My breath tore out of me like sandpaper, lacerating my lungs and esophagus. My legs eventually refused to keep up the pace. My hair was plastered to my face in clumps, like worms on a wet sidewalk.
Other than that, I have little recollection of my return home. It must have been near nightfall when I stumbled through my unlocked front door (had I forgotten to lock it?) and into bed. I didn't sleep. Here I am, at some ungodly hour of the morning, trying to sort this all out. I'm thinking of my backpack, full of my research notes and reference materials, resting uncomfortably within a circle of dead, staring rats. I feel ill. Did I really see what I think I saw? Do I need help?

When I woke up this morning the front door was ajar. It was locked and bolted when I went to bed, as you may well imagine given the strange goings on around here lately. As far as I can tell, nothing was taken or disturbed in any way. I've decided not to file a police report. They'd probably just tell me that I'd been mistaken about locking the door. Anyway, given the general moistness of the weather, if somebody had walked into my house they probably would have tracked in at least a leaf or two.
Still, it gives me pause to consider how easily the barriers I erect against the outside world are brushed aside. At least the physical barriers, anyway.
I notice that the spider in the corner benefited from the incident. There were two new shrouded corpses in his web, no doubt unwary wanderers looking for a dry place to spend the night. If insects have any thought processes indentifiable as such, I wonder what their last thoughts were.
The rain has eased up a bit, and now drifts down lazily, almost playfully, like it had all the time in the world. Nobody should ever make the mistake of believing they have all the time in the world.

The cat seems a little more smug than usual this evening. Maybe he's the one who opened the door. Nothing surprises me these days.

It's been pouring outside all day. I asked around at the school if there was any new information about Amy. Nobody has heard anything. Andy wasn't there today either. The other kids were too subdued by the somber mood of the teachers and the fierceness of the weather to sing me any more songs, so I gave up and went home early.
Something isn't right here - beyond the obvious, I mean. I've got the beginnings of another headache sinking its claws into the meat at the base of my skull, and a sick feeling inside which starts at the back of my throat and waterfalls into my gut. The sky spits rain against the back windows, blurring the contours of the trees into dreamy indistinctness.
Why do I feel... why am I certain that little Amy is out there in the woods? How do I know that she is not alone? Why can't I clear my head of these cobwebs? I thought of cobwebs just now because there is a spider up in the corner by the back door. I imagine a town criss-crossed with invisible spider webs. They stretch between old brick buildings and street lights. They wind their way down cluttered alleys. They form a taught mesh in drainage ditches. Every so often, a citizen blunders into one of these sticky strands, and vanishes into memory. Something beyond our sheltered experience, perhaps waiting just beyond the horizon, swells a little and casts aside a husk.
Of course, the spider by the door just eats insects, and is welcome in my house.

To me, one of the saddest things about reading or hearing about any sort of disappearance or disaster is to imagine that last moment of innocence. What was the person (or people) in question thinking right before the roadway collapsed? Or before the man with the gun stepped out of the doorway? Or during that last tick before the time bomb exploded? The thoughts were probably mundane. What am I going to eat for dinner tonight? Did I remember to feed the cat this morning? I wonder if it will rain tomorrow? If foreknowledge was granted, would the thoughts be any loftier?

Amy, wherever you are, know that people are bending their thoughts in your direction. Will it help? Who knows? The human mind is a strange and powerful thing.

Something utterly horrible is happening to somebody somewhere as I sit here staring at the computer monitor. Outside my study window, which faces the backyard, I can see a light drizzle moistening the world. Beyond my small yard, separated from it by the barest of ancient, wooden picket fences, the forest waits silent and gleaming and greener than green.
I wonder at my choice of words just now. I wrote that the forest "waits". Waits for what? For whom?
"For thee, young man!" my inner clown insists.

I had a beautiful dream in which Jen and I were making love in front of the fireplace, bathed in the glow of the flames. Even now I can feel her beneath me and see the pinpoints of flame reflected in her eyes. She has her arms stretched out above her head to brace herself against the hearth. She is so smoothe and perfect, washed in a comforting orange glow. We are each other's worlds in this moment.
...Until it is interrupted by the rattling of a doorknob.
I came awake with the rattling still in my head and my heart throbbing in my ears. I could still hear the rattling - the front door. I felt ice work its way down my back. The rattling went on for another minute or so, then ceased.
By the time I was awake enough to wonder why I was afraid, and had gone to check outside, I could find no one. There was a faint, pleasant smell in the air that caused a sense of deja vu.
Nothing else.
I went in and made coffee. I spent the rest of the day with a bad case of extremely unproductive nervous energy - starting many little tasks and finishing none of them. It's on days like this that I wish my real world and my dream world were reversed. There was no new news on Amy either, although (to be honest) I didn't spend more than fifteen minutes listening to the news.

I woke up with a relentless, pounding headache - like dwarves mining away inside my temples. No work got done today. I tried listening to the radio to occupy myself while the Tylenol kicked in, but had to shut it off after about ten minutes. ...But not before hearing about the missing child. One of the students at Stenbock has not been seen in two days. Police have questioned the resident registered sexual offenders, but "have no leads". I am disgusted with humanity. What kind of monster steals away a child? Is it the same kind of monster who would abuse his or her own child? Is it because children in our society are often treated as property? I am remembering a story I heard once. A woman went to a restaurant with her child, and when he ordered what he wanted, she cut him off and ordered what she wanted him to want. The waitress (a thousand blessings be upon her) brought him what he ordered, which angered the mom to no end. This seems frivolous in light of the news today, but I feel it's all part of the same problem - there's a thin line between those who dehumanize a segment of the population (be it children, women, racial minorities, or anybody else for that matter) and those who take it a step further and prey on people to satisfy some twisted "need" of their own..
I hope they find Amy Sanderson. I hope she's all right both physically and emotionally when she is found. I feel that my hopes are in vain. I curse the monsters of the world.

I had a nice, uneventful walk in the woods yesterday, followed by a dreamless (for once) sleep. The cat is winding his way around my ankles as I write, as if he knows I'm about to mention him. ...or maybe he just wants attention. To cats and kids, attention is attention. It doesn't matter if it's of the negative variety.
The events this morning were a little unsettling, to say the least. The cat brought home another present. This time I got a good look at it. It was a white rat. When I bent down and picked it up, it vanished. I was holding it by the tail when it simply wasn't there anymore. Since I consider myself a denizen of the real world, I spent way too much time looking for it - on the floor, under the little table by the door, out front - places it couldn't possibly have fallen. I finally came to the conclusion that it must have been still alive and that it had run away.
The only problem is that I don't really believe it. I'm starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. The human mind is capable of dismissing the unacceptable; of throwing away the puzzle pieces that don't quite fit. If enough pieces get thrown away, however, one finds that there is no puzzle left to assemble. I'm not sure what that really means... or what to do. Maybe tomorrow will shed new light on the problem.
At the moment, I feel like I'm in some sort of waking dream. I'm listening an old Townes Van Zandt record, and it has just occured to me that I'm listening to a ghost - the sad voice of a man who has passed on. His soul is wrapped up in these songs, and reaches weary fingers into this room to color my emotions. In my present state of mind, I find this truly haunting.

I'm feeling immobilized by memory today. Being around children often causes me to feel this way. I think of all the life choices I have made, or failed to make. There have been many times when I didn't speak up, leaving my future in the shaky hands of random chance. Things have mostly turned out okay, but with a little more action on my part, they might have turned out even better.
I see all of these children around me with their lives stretched out before them. They might not all live to become adults. It's an even bet that most of those who do grow up will do so at the cost of some integral part of themselves - maybe their imagination; most definitely their sense of wonder - that welcoming openness with which they greet the world. Many will lose their happiness. Worry will creep into their lives. All will lose their innocence. Some have already lost it in horrible ways.
I can almost remember what it was like to be a child - the newness of everything - the way time stretched on forever. Everything was so much simpler then. At least for me, it was. I try to hang on to my awareness of childhood. This is one of the main reasons I spend time with children.
This all leads me back to Andy, who showed up to school yesterday with a cut across his cheek and a bandage on his left arm. He ran away when he saw me coming, as if he knew I would ask questions he didn't want to answer. His teacher only shook her head sadly when I asked her about it. Andy's parents apparently hold some influence in this town. When I broached the subject to the school administrators, I was bluntly told by them that they were aware of the problem and were doing all they could. They also suggested that I not try to talk to Andy any further, intimating that he wouldn't be helpful for my study, as he tended to make things up.
I bit back a retort and left for the day. I felt that if I spent another minute around those damned cowards that I might do something that I would later regret. Now I'm sitting at home doing nothing except wallowing in my memories. I've been thinking about Isabel a lot lately - wondering where she is - wondering how she is. I'm occasionally haunted by the smell of her hair - a faint wafting of lavender mixing with the earthy smell of the forest outside my windows. It makes me feel alone, which makes me work harder. I've decided to spend some extra time at Stenbock because I have a feeling... I'm not sure how to describe it - a feeling that important events will occur here (or have occurred here, perhaps...).
Of course, I've gotten these feelings before in situations that remained mundane, but one never knows...
How set is the future? What combination of events must occur in order for one to be truly trapped? How many bad choices does it take? My negative thoughts are cannibalizing each other again. I think it's way past time to log off and go for a walk. Perhaps I'll venture into the woods again. One never knows what lurks in the woods.

I spent the morning trying to organize my notes, with limited success. After lunch, I took a walk in the woods to clear my head. It had rained overnight, and I breathed in the wonderful scent of wet pine. The slugs were out in force, and woodpeckers tapped away above my head, unseen in the evergreen density. I thought about Andy, and beneath my relaxation a certain tension grew. It's silly, of course, to let a folk tale or urban (no, not really urban, more rural) legend gnaw at me this way. I chalk this up to the strange combination of events over the last week. The screaming and the stories are feeding off of each other in my head, leaving me on edge. The woods, usually so serene, all of a sudden harboured hidden malevolence. Out of the corners of my eyes, the dark shadows underneath the bushes and trees seemed to roil suggestively, as if something were sneaking out after me. I'm sure this feeling will pass.

Mrs. Sardina, the fifth grade teacher, shared with me today that Andy had once been lost in the woods for a week. She hinted that he might have run away due to "family problems" but wouldn't elaborate. I didn't press the issue, but I think my initial impression of his home life is correct. His parents did what any parent would be expected to do in such a case. They plastered the community with posters and, with the help of volunteers, combed the woods. Why they were so sure he would be in the woods I don't know. The search found nothing, but Andy came back on his own nearly a week later. He wouldn't tell anybody where he'd been.
Mrs. Sardina told me that ever since that incident he'd become even more delusional than usual. There was a certain newfound smugness to his demeanor as well. I'll take her word for it. He didn't seem smug to me.

I met a child named Good Old Andy today, and I'm not sure what to make of him. The other kids think he's a nut, and treat him accordingly - calling him names and tripping him in the hallway. I thought it might be interesting to see if he had any songs to add to my collection, although I wasn't too hopeful because kids who exist on the fringes (or indeed, entirely outside) their social groups can't tap into the word-of-mouth process by which the songs are disseminated.
When I addressed him as Andy, he corrected me, insisting that he was "Good Old Andy". He claimed that other little "Good Old Andys" lived in his hands. He said that I'd have to take his word for it because they were invisible. There was a scabbed over cut across the bridge of his nose. I wondered if he was an abused child - still wonder, in fact. I've seen it before - the creation of an elaborate fantasy world to escape from problems at home.
Good Old Andy didn't have any songs. He did, however, have a story - a variation on one that I had heard at school when I was his age. It was the story about albinos in the woods. The version I had been told as a child dealt with satanic, cannibal albinos. Andy wasn't too sure about the details. He just knew that they were there. He insisted that he'd seen them. Maybe I can write an addendum to my study, dealing with folk tales. There's something a little unnerving about that boy though. Maybe it's because he reminds me of the kids I mercilessly picked on when I was younger. I wonder what kinds of scars this constant hazing leaves?

Some of the administrators at Stenbock Elementary School are still a little dubious about my research project. They can't see why anybody would want to record children singing childish mutations of "On Top of Old Smoky" and "Jingle Bells", much less write a scholarly treatise on the subject. I tried to explain to them why these songs represent the last bastion of folk music. I'm only doing what song collectors have been doing since the invention of recording devices - preserving regional variations of songs that are passed down through the generations by word of mouth. All of the other types of folk music have already been mined, collected, and professionally recorded. These funny little children's songs have slipped beneath the radar of the "serious" song collectors. I'm here to make sure that they aren't lost.
Today I captured a previously unheard version of "Jingle Bells, Batman Smells" in which it is the Penguin, and not the Joker, who gets away. The kids I've talked to so far can't believe that a grown-up is actually showing interest in their songs. Most of them were a little hesitant about singing them at first, fearing some sort of censure. It brings to mind other dominated cultures, where people aren't even allowed to follow their own traditions. The U.S. has a long history of stealing away Native American children and indoctrinating them in white man's schools. I think also of the Sami culture in Scandinavia, and the Ainu in Japan, and so many others who see their way of life sneered at and disallowed.
I'm hoping that I can help these children see the importance of the songs they sing. I aim to help them see the big picture - where they fit into the world. At the same time I'm well aware that theirs is a transitory culture, and one day it will be growth, not laws, that will distance them from their songs.
On a personal note, it feels good to be working again. I tend to drive myself crazy when I remain idle for too long.

I'm feeling very alone out here, and thinking about all of the people who have vanished from my life over the years. I tend to let friendships slide once geography becomes an issue. It's sad that "out of sight, out of mind" can apply to people. So here I am, isolated from my past and attempting to forge some sort of future. Sometimes I think that I bury myself in my work so that I have an excuse for not keeping friendships healthy. I'm living in the moment. The past sometimes seems like it happened to somebody else, and the future is a line of clouds on the horizon. Will it bring nourishing rain or a catastrophic storm? If I had my way, it would stay right where it is and grace me with a glorious sunset. ...but the evening breeze blows it incessantly shoreward.

There is one person who is gone from my life against my will. If the future holds a reunion, then let it come. Let the winds raise the waves from their beds and stir the golden leaves from under the trees.

Tomorrow I start the preliminary phase of my project. I still can't believe I managed to obtain a grant to do this! More soon...

I never did figure out what the cat brought - it's gone missing. Maybe he got upset at me when I didn't admire it loudly when he presented it to me. Maybe, being a touchy creature, he took it back. I can't think of a better explanation. Oh well, I'm sure he'll bring more...

I went for a walk yesterday evening up the road towards the summit, and saw five tarantulas, all heading in the same direction as I. They were all in the middle of the road, on the yellow dividing line, as if they knew it was relatively safe there. Maybe tarantulas walked this same path before there was a road here. I'm glad they're not letting a little asphalt and paint spoil their traditions.
The summit itself was beautifully desolate. The mountain was tamed years ago by a whip of asphalt, leaving behind the two-laned scar that I followed to the top. The scar culminates in a parking lot. On this particular evening it was deserted, except for a few wind driven leaves that scraped across its surface and a trio of wary skunks who melted into the underbrush as I approached. The air, having been recently scoured by wind, was clear enough to allow me to see all the way to the sea. Off in the distance dark clouds rose to meet the descending sun.

The cat came back! You may have noticed that I have never mentioned his name. Well, I don't know his name. I don't feel it's my place to assign names to other animals. I'm sure he has one for himself, but I can't understand his language. When he answers at all, he answers to "Cat". Anyway, as I was saying... He walked in all bedraggled and arrogant this morning, carrying something in his mouth I have yet to identify. He proudly dropped the thing at my feet before sauntering out onto the porch to sun himself. I just had time to scrape it up with a dust pan and plop it in a bucket when somebody started screaming out in the woods. I ran outside, but the screaming had stopped. Most of the rest of the day was taken up talking to the police, who I called to report what I'd heard. Several other people had called as well, and the cops came out and poked around. So far, nobody has found anything. I could do without this kind of excitement. Time to look at my "gift", I guess. More later...

When people ask me why I find beauty in the bleak and the barren, I ask them to describe the surface of the moon. what is more beautiful than a full moon? I was out looking for the cat again, but all I could see was the moon. It made me think of Isabel, who is far away, and in a way that is neither bleak nor barren, just as beautiful.

Where is that damn cat?

There's something about the unobtainable that also draws me - and I'm not talking about the cat here. The cat is just a pain in the ass.

It's a beautiful night out. The shadowy wisps of clouds have given way to darkness. Zbigniew Priesner's "Requiem for my Friend", a musical farewell to director Krzysztof Kieslowski, is on the stereo. The music hovers in the air like smoke and memories, adding new dimensions to the darkness outside my windows. Somewhere out in that darkness, perhaps hearing some hint of the same music, is my cat. I took a walk earlier in hopes of spotting the ungrateful little wretch, with no luck, of course. There are lots of thickly wooded areas around here for him to lose himself in.
Feeling a little lost myself, I've just started a fire in the old stone fireplace, and brewed up some tea. This usually relaxes me, but I'm feeling restless, like I have an itch that won't go away. Time for another walk?

A strange foreboding has taken hold of me. The plant on the windowsill has died, and the cat has disappeared again. Nothing new there, really. I know the cat will come back. He always does, with tales of his exploits that are lost on my ears. It's all just meowing to me.
I had the shark dream again last night. I was looking down on the harbour. The boats were gently tugging at their moorings, and the water was crystal. The shark swept by underneath, silent and unseen by everyone except me. It must have been forty feet long, and fishbelly white, like a ghost. A tingling chill leaked through me as I stood helplessly above the scene.
Why does this dream scare me so? What lies just underneath the surface? I can remember feeling this way only once before, and again it was because of a dream. I was reminded of this dream while listening to a spoken word piece on the radio a couple of nights ago. The performer - Bird? I think his name was Bird... was trying to describe something similar. He likened it to a dividing line between serenity and something indescribably ominous. All I remember from my dream was a calm, blank nothingness - like a perfect fog, suddenly being disrupted by stabbing shapes of blackness. This sudden chaos was accompanied by a vast intake of breath, almost as if the universe had noticed that I had done something monstrous, and was about to punish me in some way. The shark dream simultaneously embodies both of the feelings that accompanied this earlier dream. The clarity and serenity of the seaside is so real that I can smell the cool, salty air, and hear the creaking and clanking of the sailboats as they bob up and down on the gentle swells. The silent danger of the shark fills me with an archetypal fear that I find hard to verbalize. This is not an auspicious beginning to my research project. Maybe tomorrow will find me in a better frame of mind.