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Every summer as the sticky, fluidity of humidity moves into my apartment like some slithering unwelcome fog, I re-acquaint myself with that irrational emotion called fear. Ironically, it's something I do to myself and every summer I ask myself the same question: Why? And I come up with the same reply: Because I am compelled! The reason would naturally precede the question and the answer, and this is because I take ice-cold showers in the dead of night to help me fall asleep when the atmosphere is especially thick and heavy with humidity. Last week, as a prime example, our temperatures were unseasonably warm, crawling up to 36 Celsius, and lo and behold, I took my first late-night cold-shower.

And this is when my fears come home to roost. I shower with the bathroom door open and all the lights turned off (to keep my place as cool as possible); It's just me and my nakedness, the late night, and the eerily feeling I'm not alone in my apartment. For whenever I shower in the humidity at night, I'm drawn to the fear of facing Anthony Perkins from the 1960 classic film, Psycho, dressed in a shabby white dress with a ridiculous mop of a wig resting atop his crazy-ass head, and a monster-sized dagger coming down through the shower curtain, lacerating the very flesh off my bones. The fear is so very real that as I shower in the cold stream, shivering and loving the sensation of my skin prickling to the cold, I have to turn my body around in sections and every time I turn my back to the open door, I fear at any moment that Mr. Perkins will make a surprise visit. He is a diabolical character of twisted mind and evil-doing, made real and brought to life by The master of suspense, Mr. Hitchcock.

Time has passed in considerable blocks since this movie hit the screens and forever changed the way people thought about taking showers. But how can a reasonably logical and modern woman such as myself actually harbor fear over a fictional character? That is the power of fiction. Good fiction, laced with just enough suspense and a healthy does of subliminal undercurrent can leave enough of a residue that your own imagination says, "Thank you ever so much! Now leave the rest to me and I shall run with the ball... every so often I'll scare the bejeebers out of he or she who owns me...but keep in mind," says the imagination, "I, in fact, own your ass."

Janet Leigh, who played Marion Crane to Anthony Perkin's Norman Bates admitted that after filming the movie she could no longer take a shower without being absolutely petrified of someone sneaking up on her to kill her thru the shower curtain. If you've already seen this movie, then you'd know that you don't actually see the knife going into Leigh's body. But Mr. Hitchcock understood that the mere tickle of knowing a knife was being used, meant that a body would soon turn up, as blood swirled around the drain, then washed away with the water. [And to think it was filmed in black and white. Imagine how gruesome the blood would have looked if filmed in colour.]

I feel the shivers. I'm very scared, Mr. Perkins. Yet again, you've thwarted my sense of logic and wisdom in knowing that movies are just bloody movies. Being a writer of fantasy fiction, more specifically urban paranormal with regard to my Crimson novels, I should have better control over my imagination and be able to conjure up a lovely image while showering in the dead of night. But oh no! Imaginations are like feral animals, instinctual and ruthless, caring not for the normal or mundane but rather embracing all that goes bumpety bump in the night. Hands hold knives and stab, stab, stab and bodies fall down and die, die, die!

Go on! Tell me that I'm silly for these fears, and for continuing to shower in the dark, in the humidity, with the bathroom door open. It's made no difference when I close the door, either, in case you're wondering. My imagination still thinks the door handle will move and before I can cover my wet breasts and pull the shower curtain open to come face to face with pure psychotic evil, Norman has stabbed me several times and no one hears me screaming! No one! Not one single soul! [Bear in mind I've traveled into Middle Eastern countries, arriving by myself into airports, at 3 AM when all is dark and sketchy, which requires a degree of courage and maybe even a little bit of stupidity too.]

When you're afraid, you know you are alive. When you shower at night, you take your imagination by the hand and wrap a wet towel around your eyes. Be aware! Mr. Perkins thrives in your head where a special place has been reserved inside your imagination, a very special spot indeed - it is the place where fear gestates.

A favourite subject of mine is death, to which I shall return to, periodically. Why? Because I'm not frightened by the subject of death; rather it intrigues me. None of us knows when our time will cease to exist, notwithstanding those who take matters into their own hands. Pity, of course, but this is the human condition at its worst, and for some, at its best, because they've chosen to exit on their terms. And no one has the right to tell a terminally ill individual that you have to continue to endure your torment, because it makes 'us' feel better to be humane in the eyes of the courts... [but don't get me started on euthanasia].


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He has the lightest touch of whimsy
where his hand rests and gathers,
the sensations of my body.
My pulse is for him.

I absorb his hour of dreamy flesh
of wanton need, alive
I am for him, to tremble
over his scent.

I cannot account for the seconds.
Where do they go? Oh so gloriously,
are these moments with him.
We evaporate in the night.

Modernity and tradition make strange bedfellows. And injecting into modernity the ideal of genteel beliefs was a practice better attributed to the old traditional ways, a time when things appeared on the surface to be simpler but when in fact were not simple or equal, based on some persons not being permitted to work or own property, among other things.


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Never believe for a moment that you're above learning new ticks, for the moment you believe there's nothing new that can benefit you, well my dear readers for sure you'll be taught something, anything new. Our brains are the hungriest of entities sitting atop our shoulders, waiting to be fed with stuff, like words and images, new concepts and old re-worked thoughts. And yes, the brain is more than willing to allow you to pollute its thinking patterns with substances of a wild variety - alcohol to hashish, from anti-depressants to chocolate to cigarettes, high-fat foods and mountains of sugar. The brain welcomes it all, even when our inner voice tells us we shouldn't indulge in these destructive things. For some reason or another, our brain is willing to experiment with its own body, like it's speaking a silent language, "Hey, don't phucking argue with me. I'm your brain... just go along with my ulterior motives." I use the term ulterior because the reality is few utilize more than 5% of our brain capacity which means the other 95% of the brain is working behind-the-scenes, a subconscious level of activity that to the waking brain feels like being virtually asleep.


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Me oh my oh why am I a woman of weak character? I slept in well past my alarm this morning. Have no idea where my head was, probably lost in a twisted dream that had me running atop mountains covered in snow. Yesterday's dream, just before my alarm sounded off, I was rescuing three kittens, one of which was missing half of one leg. It's easy to be a hero in your dreams. 🤣


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Living without an air conditioner requires an emotional commitment to help lessen the use of energy. We hear it all the time from science environmentalists that the gross consumption of energy, natural resources and the unabated plundering of fossil fuels will surely bring about the downfall of the human race. Well, perhaps not the entire downfall. I'm sure there'll be some wily humans left on this planet, after we've completely destroyed our eco-system, and these humans will survive and thrive, even if they end up having three noses and four eyes from radiation poisoning. But as the temperature crawls upward, like it does every summer in the city where I live, touching at times the 40+ degree Celsius mark, the justification for purchasing air conditioning is easy to make.


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She pulled her hands out of the hot, soapy water and looked at me with the sincerity and seriousness of a woman who'd just had her last nerve stepped on with a heavy boot. "He wants to have sex but he doesn't want to have to work for it to get it... I mean come on! If he wants to coax me into having sex he should clean the bathroom or do the laundry."


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Prior to 2017, I used to subscribe to Scientific American Mind magazine and I loved it. While the magazine is no longer available in print form, you can access some of their occasional content posted on their site. I loved this magazine and always looked forward to its arrival in the mail. Subjects pertaining to the brain and all facets, i.e. consciousness, dreams, functioning, intuition and the like have fascinated me for as long as I can remember. One article has stuck with me and it has to do with brain damage and the predisposition toward addiction. Stand up and be counted, my friend. Yes, this means you! Who among us doesn't have an addiction?

Please read on...


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Last evening's foray into slumber land started out good. Before falling asleep, I had thought about my 3-month follow-up visit with my skin cancer surgeon, which took place last Friday. I crashed early and fell asleep right away, then woke up merely two hours later, and had trouble falling back asleep; perhaps the worst feeling is wanting to sleep but our brain doesn't want us to sleep, and never the twain shall they meet. Regardless, I've reason to celebrate! My surgeon was impressed with my healing and said so. And that in turn makes me feel on top of the world.


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