Fuck it and fuck ’em.
My brain needs a break, so naturally, during my ONE DAY OFF, I have been tasked with cleaning the entire house, cutting the grass and taking dogs and cats to the vet.
What do people not understand about fucking REST?
Target: 900 words
Written: 671 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram: The Singles Club 3-6
Music: Black Friday Rule, Flogging MollyLike this one.
Most of the time, I want to write about what I’m feeling, what I’m going through, and I know it comes across as probably depressing, or angry, or manic depressive, a bit bipolar.
I’ve never been diagnosed with anything, but that’s because I refuse to go, mostly. I suffer from depression, I know it, but like I said, nothing formal.
I went once to a therapist when I broke down at work and had to take some time off, but all he wanted to do was ask me questions about internet pricing. I wonder if he ever wondered why I didn’t come back, or why I was staring at him with abhorrent disgust on my face.
That’s a guy who should not be practicing psychiatry, not if he thinks an initial session should be to talk about how much bandwidth he might get at his place, rather than what brought me in that day.
So, that’s my experience with therapists. I’m sure there’s better out there, but fuck, who has the time or money?
That’s the thing this new touchy feely existence of ours forgets – it’s offset against the horror of unrelenting capitalism, which leaves us with neither the time nor the funds to be able to engage in any of the things they want to sell us, unless we’re rich.
And ain’t none of us rich, baby.
Target: 900 words
Written: 940 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram 5-6, Phonogram: The Singles Club 1-2 (if I ever need to point to a work of utter pretentiousness, the exact kind of bullshit clever art we should all avoid, this is it - never read fiction written by someone whose interface with music is critical instead of connecting.)
Music: Unsupervised, Mono PuffI fear for some women.
Look, I like a thin woman as much as anyone, but there is a point where it’s gone too far and the concern stops being “is she fit and attractive?” to “are you okay?”
“Do you need help?”
The pressure women are under to look perfect is unbearable. Better to be happy than thin; better to be overweight than unhealthy.
Positive body image is wonderful; obesity is still a threat.
I’m fat. Obese, if you believe the Wii Fit I stand on for ‘exercise’ each morning. I have no authority to judge. I care not for fashion. I dress mostly like I’ve been working around the house or lounging around in my sweats (though I rarely wear sweats – I mostly stick to band/beer/superhero t-shirts and board shorts).
I don’t like shoes.
I am not anti-fashion; that would be more like Kurt Cobain. I’m more like non-fashion. I don’t exist in fashion.
I am fashion-pathetic, as well as apathetic.
(A pathetic?)
Anyway, this weather woman looks beyond unhealthy; if it’s not an eating disorder, it’s veganism.
Or meth.
She’s definitely missing something in her diet. She would have been attractive twenty pounds ago; now, she’s more crypt-keeper than svelte.
Anyway, I’m concerned for her. It’s none of my business, obviously, and I’m sure many a folk will cancel me for daring to say so, but I’m just very concerned.
I just want to ask:
“Are you okay?”
Because I’m sure as hell not.
Target: 900 words
Written: 1177 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Sylvie And Bruno, Lewis Carroll
Comics: Phonogram 1-4
Music: Unreleased: From A Basement On A Hill II, Elliott SmithLotto Max hit eighty million, so I thought I’d take a shot.
I never buy lotto tickets, so hopefully that’s a luck factor.
I mean, the whole thing is bullshit, and there’s a fraction of a fraction of a percent chance that I win, but hey.
It’s nice to think about who I’d give it to and who I’d set up meetings with, just so I could tell them to pound salt.
It’s a nice distraction anyway. A quaint fantasy of do-gooding and revenge.
As if they were exclusive.
Target: 900 words
Written: 628 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Sylvie And Bruno, Lewis Carroll (why do I do this to myself?)
Comics: The Magdalena v4 4
Music: Unreleased Decca Live Album, The Rolling StonesI got a little ahead of myself for a bit again, with the longer edits, but now, I’m back to having to meet actual targets again.
Hence the bump in target words.
I’ve been trying to build it like a muscle. Every once in a while, bump the target up, increase the reps, the duration, the requirements for the cardio and endurance and lifting power of the thing.
Hell, it’s everything I do.
Slow increase in exercise, in meditation, in the difficulty of the material.
More beautiful desolation. More tragic pathos.
More little nobodies, thinking they’re somebodies.
More me, thinking I’m not nothing.
Feeling empty and alone, the best and worst feeling in the world.
Target: 900 words
Written: 888 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Hilarity Ensues, Tucker Max
Comics: The Magdalena: Seventh Sacrament 1, The Magdalena v4 1-3
Music: Unreleased Album, Screaming Trees (so underrated, these guys - Lanegan's brilliant)Broke down and bought a mattress and one of those fancy frames yesterday.
It won’t be here until the twenty-fifth, but hey, maybe real sleep?
Please?
Target: 900 words
Written: 414 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Hilarity Ensues, Tucker Max
Comics: The Magdalena v3 9-12
Music: Never Worked That Hard, The Tragically HipMy blood pressure is up. I’m on the front porch, enjoying one of the last few nice mornings we’ll have to be out here and write.
My dogs, as always, are here, relaxing and waiting, for the inevitable growls or barks that will accompany another dog or a random person walking by.
We’ll have to throw Mazy in, because despite being such a sweet dog (at a hundred and twenty pounds), if she can’t immediately go up and sniff another dog, she’ll start barking like a madwoman.
She’s the definition of all bark, no bite.
Sofi will bark at anyone or anything, sometimes so violently, it’s like she’s Michael Bolton, singing, well, anything. I swear a blood vessel is going to burst on her one of these days when my father-in-law comes into the house.
Sami’s out here too, lounging, enjoying belly rubs, somehow completely unfazed by Mazy as he walks underneath her. Ares is here as well, sitting on his little grey mat, walking the squirrels search for spoils in the grass. They’ve acclimated well to the invasion of dogs into this cat house. Isis and Raiden, not as well, though Raiden has Mazy cowed and both will easily put aside any fear if they’re hungry or want petting.
This is peace, compromised. We don’t bring these fuzzies in for ornamentation; we want to live with them, to love them, to have them snuggle to us while we read or write or watch TV. We want them to curl up with us in bed. We want to take long walks with them. We want them to play.
We want to rub bellies.
The barking is just part of it, sometimes. The break in peace had to happen, sometimes.
Target: 900 words
Written: 683 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Hilarity Ensues, Tucker Max
Comics: The Magdalena v3 5-8
Music: Cutthroat, InterpolThank the universe, finally a day I can get behind.
I’ve always had luck with this number, probably being born on it (and its opposite, seven), so I feel like my entire life is a good luck, bad luck story, but with most of the luck actually being supplied by my own decision making and the unfortunate decision making of others.
Plus, you know, random fate.
We control our response, our decisions, our behaviour.
When we talk of freedom, this is what we mean.
Total freedom isn’t freedom from responsibility or consequence.
It’s giving in absolutely to the knowledge that total freedom means total responsibility.
We are responsible for the consequences of our choices, our actions, our words, our behaviour.
Sure, we can have neuroses and trauma and all that informing it, but we are not helpless.
Don’t believe anyone who says you are, or that you just have to snap your fingers and you can move past it.
It’s not easy; but not impossible. Total freedom means total acceptance of what is, and making the decisions and taking the actions that you want to take, and understanding that if you make poor decisions or demonstrate shitty behaviour, there will be consequences for that.
That’s what Republicans and Conservatives don’t seem to understand: freedom is not freedom from consequences. It is not a license to behave as irresponsibly as you want without any fear of retaliation or judgment.
Guess what? You can say whatever your want, and act however you want, but you live within the world; the world can (and probably will) push back.
Target: 800 words
Written: 530 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Hilarity Ensues, Tucker Max (I recognize the irony of this blog post versus this book)
Comics: The Magdalena v3 1-4
Music: The Unraveling, Rise AgainstNot only did I not get a good sleep, I got to feel super groggy all day.
Sleep is my enemy.
Is it the Mungk, after me in real world manifestation?
I think I might be losing it.
Target: 800 words
Written: 713 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your House, Jeffrey Cranor/Joseph Fink
Comics: Monster War 2-4 (ugh), The Magdalena/Daredevil 1
Music: Unplugged In Sweden, Chris Cornell (talk about albums that leave you breathless - after Nirvana's MTV Unplugged, the best acoustic album, possibly ever)I don’t know if I’m not getting deep enough sleep, or if the light is playing on my eyelids, but I’ve been having some very vivid dreams lately.
I can’t remember any (something about coffee filters and the jungle), but they feel like they’re going all night long.
Is it possible to exhaust oneself by doing too much in one’s dreams?
Are our dreams detrimental to our health?
Are my dreams killing me?
Well, fuck.
Target: 800 words
Written: 422 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your House, Fink/Cranor
Comics: The Magdalena v2 4, Witchblade/Magdalena/Vampirella 1, The Magdalena/Vampirella v2 1, Monster War 1
Music: Unplugged And Undrugged, Pearl Jam