One Day Nearer to Dying

The headspace gave me a pillow for my birthday. Not a fancy pillow, merely a plain white one. I've stopped trying to make sense of anything it does, ever.

Fake Moustaches and Glasses

Within the daemian community, Indy suggested an activity wherein each day we organise to swap forms with another member. It's nice to note it has been a resounding success; even daemons who are normally reluctant and uncomfortable with changing forms, like my Killy, seem to be getting into the swing of things, as evidenced by the mongoose sitting on my desk.

For amusement's sake, I present you with my week's schedule. (Thursday is absent as I'd like to be myself on my birthday.)

Sat: Dingo
Sun: Slender mongoose
Mon: Axolotl
Tues: Blue Jay
Wed: Raccoon
Fri: Ibizian hound

Sign Here Please

I received another letter recently - well, package more than letter. I was surprised, because although Alex has gone on another of his little sojourns into the deeper recesses of my mind, I did not think this was from him. Who it was from remains uncertain, as inside the plain white box was an impossible amount of bubble-wrap, and a single folded piece of blue cardboard, about an inch and a half square, with the word "Hi" handwritten on the inside. Killy and I spent a while wondering if it meant something significant before hesitantly deciding not everything had to have a purpose, and that sometimes my brain is just weird.

That decision became a lot more concrete when the postbox started offloading an alarming amount of fruit, forcing me to duck a wayward orange.

Moral of the story: do not install a postbox in your mind. It is far more trouble than it's worth.

Surf and Sand

If I were to ever doubt my love of the beach, I would only have to look to Kilmaeyon for proof otherwise. My coyote, my sardonic, brusque, occasionally caustic daemon...goes completely goofy. The moment we hit the sand he is alert, ears pricked forward and a loping bounce to his step. A section is claimed, towel placed down with keys carefully wrapped inside, and then we turn to the surf. He bounds amongst the shallow waves, snapping at the froth and shaking free of the rolling breakers, pushing forward until it is so deep he is forced to paddle, fur fanning from his body in a golden fringe.

It is then he changes. The restrictions we so frequently battle against are eased by the simple fact coyotes are not built for the sea, and soon enough there is a pale-furred sea otter floating alongside me, cresting low waves on his back only to bolt under the surface and dart about me as something bigger comes crashing down. He laughs, a solid sound compared to his quiet chuckles, chasing imaginary fish.

This last holiday I was fortunate to have the opportunity to spend several hours riding a family friend's jet ski; it is a canine's delightful dream, streaking across the surface of light-speckled water with the wind drying the spray from your face almost before it has landed. Killy accepted the challenge with no hesitation, a grey splash of dolphin easily keeping up, flicking his tail to arch through the air in glee, circling about us in impatient acrobatics should we be forced to slow. If we fell he would roll in encouragement, perhaps offer his own incentive by stretching his form into that of the shark, grinning a sinister approval as I scramble to climb aboard again. And when tired of this racing, desiring closeness, a damp scrap of harvest mouse clings to my shoulder just below my ear, thin tail streaming out behind.

It was also a holiday that followed a period where I have communicated with Alex more frequently than ever before, and so for the first time I was able to hear his opinion on the happenings, however brief. For all that he was born on the coast, he has no recollection of spending any time at beaches, and so seemed to regard the sea and its tumbling surf with apprehensive awe. He was not, unfortunately, remotely interested in sharing many related experiences, and indeed countered my request to "see what jet skiing's like!" with an alarmed "Why?"