I stayed up late reading a novel last night, which was bad since I'm meant to be revising. Anyway, I finished the book and uncoiled myself from my bed. My phone said it was coming up to 2.00am. Extraordinarily the reflection in the mirror on my dressing table, was of a young women wearing my crumpled clothes (pale yellow vintage Burburry jumper, tan coloured vintage '70s maxi skirt with black geometric design at the hem, black rimmed glasses). I don't know who I was expecting. But not a young- undeniable- woman.
That was imperceptable really. The shallow incline from being a girl into looking like- surely that means being?- an actual woman. Quite strange.
And if being an adult meant that fear/ loneliness/ sadness/ inadequacy were to be lifted (obviously like the entangled city put to sleep and woken again- on her [fated] birthday- by that stranger's kiss), then it didn't happen that way)
[why was I still suprised by this, when I've read so many books...?]
No, I'm a woman- although I'm scared of ghosts, of the dark behind the window at night, of the shadows in a room at night, of an open window at night, of every lurking evil- and I'm a woman, even though- god I just don't know!- what I'm meant to do with myself from when I start work until I retire (most of a lifetime from now). And I'm a woman although I'm lonely and would be less afraid- or not at all, I know- from experience- of ghosts in my room, if someone else were in my bed with me.
So, if I go to sleep thinking about saints (St Giles, the archangel Raphael) who may be petitioned against fear of night, fear of nightmares. Other things you don't have to worry about at all during the day time.
(at night, that inaccessable garden is blacked out behind the sash window, which open in the daytime to get rid of the nightsoured overbreathed slept-in air, is closed at night. No human could climb up the sheer side of the flats, or fit through the little gap. But I'm not afraid, at night, of humans. Instead I can just almost imagine a boneless awful unstoppable thing creeping over the windowsill to do me nothing but harm)
But, anyway. When my exams finish I have a string of horror stories which I'm going to write (only in the daytime), as a type of catharsis against night terror (and day terror).
It's a [Freudian] cliche to say that the fantastical is a way of giving expressable to the unconcious/ taboo elements of human life. Ghosts of course are memory (repressed, unreliable), mental illness, fragmentation of conciousness, repression.
Monsters are about the limits of scientific knowledge. It's about continuing past the end of the map or over the boundaries of medical ethics. Monsters are the sickening realisation that these boundaries are both socially constructed but also morally absolute- but that the fact they are morally absolute does not actually protect us from the fact that we can trespass over them. Monsters are where God should be; where God's hand fails to strike us down we meet monsters instead.
Vampires are just about sex.
(The stories I have planned are all ghost stories. It is another cliche that all writing- like our dreams- is autobiographical...)