Oh the seas of nighttime shifting; finally the dreams become rich and vivid again.
The visitations from my aunt who died two years ago after a ten year battle with cancer, the dead girl in my closet who i have painted onto a canvas in order to hide her, the wading in green flood waters surrounded by snakes of power lines and rescuing wandering elusive baby sons.
Perhaps it's the mixture of the experiences some of you have sent along with the bizarre and fantatstic writing of prolific author Dean Koontz. I have been reading "Odd Thomas". This is my first time ever reading Dean Koontz. I tend to shy away from the stars of the writing world. I know this has something to do with my disdain for mass produced items. A few weeks ago when I was locked in the witness room of the courthouse for an unexpected nine hours, I was fortunate to be in the company of Neanderthal Lenny. NL is as much of a bookworm as I am, and much better prepared. Perhaps this says something about his familiarity with the court thing because he brought three magazines , two novels and one "how to" book on treating dogs for psychosis or perhaps arthritis. I picked up Odd Thomas and began to read. I began to read paragraphs over and over again, not because I din't understand them but because I loved the way they were written. NL gave his testimony before me and then he waited for me to say my piece. NL went home; I declined a ride to my house. He said I could borrow his book when he had finished reading it.He took the book home. I would have to wait.
One week later, NL threw a big party at his house on the river. In my party banter, which is usually tough for me because I don't know how to be superficial, I brought up the topic of Dean Koontz. Martha said, "Dean Koontz is like Stephen King on acid."
True, really. I bought the book last Sunday.
Here's one I marked; "If someone invented a thermometer that measured weirdness, it would melt under my tongue. . . "