still plugged

You’d think, being six pills into twenty-one, that I’d feel some lessening effect on the ear, but it seems to be the same. Worse, even.

I mean, that’s almost thirty percent of the way home, so there should be a corresponding thirty percent reduction in hearing loss? Instead, it feels like it’s gone the other way. It feels like my ear drum is swollen.

Hopefully that means those white blood cells are convening and doing their job.

Hearing aids are cool and all, but I’m a little to young for that yet, I would hope.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 2003 words, novel: Father Lightning

ear infection

Thank goodness it’s not a blown eardrum.

I like my music loud, after all. Partially because I’m partly deaf, but mostly, because music is best at volume, when it becomes your entire world, whether it’s softly crooning Fiona Apple or Loud As Love Soundgarden.

Doesn’t matter. It invades the space. Transports one.

At least, good music does. Bad music becomes little more than white noise, background filler for the task at hand.

Thanks, amoxicillin. Looking forward to being free and clear, right between the ears.

A little rhyme for the children, most of whom would never read this drivel.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 894 words, novel: Father Lightning

ear answers

I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon and I’ll find out if it’s a simple infection, the world’s most stubborn earwax or whether in blowing my nose, I blew my eardrum.

Either way, answers, or at least a step closer, if more tests are needed.

Man, this has gotten old quickly. For a guy who’s been half-deaf on one side since he was a child, I sure do miss being able to hear the little I do.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 449 words, novel: Father Lightning


It goes on and on and on. I think I’m going a little mad. Try to be nice to me. I probably can’t hear you.

I don’t want to go deaf. I’d miss music too much. I wouldn’t miss the sound of people’s voices.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1504 words, novel: Father Lightning

welcome back

Tinnitus is pretty bad, but I can hear again today, after spending an entire day wallowing around in the sound of silence, where everything got to feel like it’s underwater.

I can enjoy Fiona Apple again! Yay!

And I slept, sort of. With heavy drugs and a double dose of NyQuil.

Hopefully, this is me on the mend.

The dog loves my nieces. You should have seen her. Prancy dancing around the living room and foyer like she’d never seen anything more exciting in her life.

And yes, we have a foyer, but that’s because we bought a Chatham icon’s old house; the author of Romantic Kent built the place with servants and no plumbing. A hundred years later, it has plumbing, a secret set of what we call murder stairs beneath the shower and an endless stream of problems.

A money pit, really.

Bukowski would hate me, but we’d have some good times. We could talk about cats.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 415 words, novel: Father Lightning

another night

Another inability to sleep. I took two big swigs of NyQuil and a purple gummy my daughter swears is sleep-inducing and totally not weed.

I didn’t get stoned, so I guess she wasn’t lying.

Although, at this point, a little break from my brain might be kind of nice. I’m never big on the inability to focus when it comes to marijuana though; I’m more of a magic mushrooms and booze kind of guy.

Which reminds me. I read On Cats by Bukowski yesterday.

I have so far to go.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 2180 words, novel: Father Lightning


One step closer to the weekend; one more night of garbage sleep.

Ugh. This whatever this is (not COVID again, thankfully), it’s really making it difficult to sleep. Every night, within about an hour of going to bed, my nose plugs completely, ensuring that every time I drift off, I’ll choke on my own inability to draw breath anywhere except through my mouth.

That results in wild snoring, which keeps both me and my wife up (that’s right, I’m waking myself up).

The NyQuil doesn’t help. It’s congested up so high in my noise that no Kleenex can unblock it, and no amount of blowing does anything but pop my ears.

But it’s fine all day.

Go figure.

Here’s hoping this mini-nightmare breaks soon.

I have shit to do and sleep to have.

For those that say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, fuck you. I’d rather sleep now. Batteries need charging. Heads need to stop pounding. Bodies need to ache less. Recharging is nothing if not a wonder, and ignoring that is pure folly.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1615 words, novel: Father Lightning

back to the thing

To the work. Father Lightning is proceeding well. A first draft (aka, an excessively detailed outline) is almost done. Just a couple of scenes left to write (including the last scene, which I’m going to write three ways and see what feels right).

Then, onto the editing phase, which is always a delight.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 689 words, novel: Father Lightning

victoria day

I mean, I could give two shits about the queen and I tend to think of the Royal family as Overly Proper Kardashians, but I do appreciate the day off.

Maybe we should make it favour of the guy who discovered penicillin or Yuri Gagarin or something.

You know, instead of imperial leeches responsible for much suffering, much patriarchy and much waste of everyone’s time and money.

Fuck King Charles. That coronation was a waste of funds that could have been used in the healthcare system to save lives, or teach children, or generally make the world a better place, instead of propping up the egos of a family of straight parasites.

If Canada ever votes on getting rid of the monarchy, I know what my vote will be, without question.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1816 words, novel: Father Lightning