The Gothic Proclivity.

The urge to write seems to have fallen dormant lately, which is a shame because writing is the only thing which charges my batteries. Everything else is either a chore or something to be dreaded.Today I considered telling the little tale of the busker, the homeless man and the £5 note, but it seemed too insubstantial (which is a little odd considering the mass of even less substantial drivel I used to commit to this piece of cyberspace back in the early days.) And the story might have suggested a note of sanctimonious self-congratulation, which simply wouldn’t do.

Apart from that, the only thing worth mentioning tonight is the fact that the full moon is peering through the branches of the ash tree behind my house, apparently keeping a furtive watch on me through the smaller of the two windows in my office. That’s the one Mel keeps telling me needs a curtain because it’s creepy. To me, the sight of a furtive moon peering through the branches of a tree is merely gothic.

I like gothic. Seeing a full moon being alternately hidden and revealed by scudding clouds is also gothic. I’ve always had a yen to be one of a party of strangers trapped in an old dark house by a storm, while mysterious goings on scare the willies out of everybody but me. It won’t happen, of course. All I ever get are black dogs leaping at me out of my bedroom wall and startling dreams of an arm reaching over my shoulder to grab whatever is in front of me. (It happened twice a few nights ago.) And in those situations I’m always alone, which isn’t ideal. It’s an odd fact that interaction with strangers, while being unwelcome in most situations, is vital to the gothic experience. I’ve no idea why; it just is.