Stray Bitch

I met a guy once who told me he saw a ghost. And not just once in a dream, but on a regular basis: he’d come home and see it like you see your dog or someone you live with when they come up to say hello. And he said he grew used to seeing it after a while, and would say hello first, and start a conversation with it like he would with a human.

I looked at him wondering what the fuck he was talking about.

I still don’t know whether he meant it, or whether he wanted to say something else but chose to cloak it with a ghost-in-my-house tale, or whether he was just making fun of me. But as I have the choice (and nothing but the choice ’cause I’m probably not going to meet him again so as to be able to ask for explanation), I choose the second option.

‘Cause I also have a ghost in my room. And when I go to the bathroom, she goes after me. When I go to my homeplace, she gets on the train with me (bitch doesn’t pay for her ticket) and travels along with me and the other travellers, but no one except me can see her.

She’s my fear.

She doesn’t live in any particular place, so I don’t expect to see her when I come home, and I’m not in the habit of greeting her at any particular time of the day. She’s more like a dirty stray bitch that comes at irregular intervals, looks into my eyes and asks for food.

Sometimes she wakes me in the middle of the night. I put the light on and look into those old hungry eyes. We sit for a while, but I don’t feed her, just stroke her gently and tell her to go. And she goes.

It’s hard to talk, really, to a creature like this: not just unreal, but canine, so I can’t have conversations with my ghost like the guy I talked to did with his. But if he ever meant to actually tell me that ghosts are tamable — that’s what I just understood.

Ghost are perfectly tamable. Mine is just now learning not to leave her dirt on my sheets.

My First Post

If there is one thing about writing that I don’t like, that’s the one: I don’t like giving titles.

Explain yourself.

May I do that later? Actually, that’s another thing which I… perhaps do not dislike, but which makes me nervous. The requirement of explaining myself.

What are you here for?

What are your aims in life?

Why exactly don’t you like giving titles?

They make me nervous, the questions, cos I never know what to say. But recently I found I need just that: to explain myself. In terms as clear as I’m capable of now, which is probably not very clear. And that’s why I write (and rewrite).

And I just decided to let some of the things I write out of my hard disc. And I got a blog. Go take a walk, things.