Can one just be temporarily dead for a while? Like, skip me a few years until this neo-fascist bullshit is over?
Thanks.
Target: 900 words
Written: 749 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe
Comics: 100 Bullets: Lono 1-4
Music: Upstairs At Eric's, Yaz
Other than maybe Y: The Last Man, I’ve never read anything that doesn’t so perfectly beg to be made into something onscreen.
Of course, they fucked up Y: The Last Man apparently, because it was cancelled after one season, but hey, gender identity politics do kind of make that a tough sell in the current climate. Dichotomy was sort of the thing before; spectrum doesn’t really play to the story as well.
But still.
100 Bullets.
Are you fucking kidding me?
GET IT DONE.
Target: 900 words
Written: 983 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Hepatitis Bathtub And Other Stories, NOFX
Comics: 100 Bullets 97-100
Music: Uprising, Muse (what we need right now)
So, I’ve been writing for a long time. I’ve published a couple of things, written many that I’ve never sent anywhere, but I’ve never run into a piece that I wrote, but of which, I have absolutely no recollection.
Like none.
And here’s the thing. It’s fucking tight. It’s polished. It’s not revelatory or mindbending or anything, but it’s very good, for what it is.
And I remember absolutely nothing about it.
Even the topic isn’t one I’d usually write on – a serial dater who falls madly in love, then loses love, goes into a Young Werther style depression, then meets the next one and does the same thing.
It’s not long, but the characters are well fleshed out, the story has solid details and telling moments. The whole thing comes a nice full circle.
And as far as I can tell, I went into a fugue state to write it, printed it off, gave it to my wife to read and then wiped it from my memory so completely, I might as well be one of those walking, tired tropes from a Hallmark movie, that gets bonked on the head and loses the ability to remember anything except the skills they had and how to speak English.
Fucking. Weird.
And yet. Still somehow good enough to be published?
What. The. Fuck.
Target: 900 words
Written: 921 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Hepatitis Bathtub And Other Stories, NOFX
Comics: 100 Bullets 93-96 (so close, I'm practically giddy)
Music: The Uplift Mofo Party Plan, Red Hot Chili Peppers
I’m just going to write and read and figure out how to be happy.
Maybe I’ll get it by the time I die of old age.
Maybe I’ll die before then and never know, but then, at least it will be over.
Target: 900 words
Written: 832 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Hepatitis Bathtub And Other Stories, NOFX
Comics: 100 Bullets 89-92
Music: Up To Here, The Tragically Hip (fucking seminal, man - if Gord Downie is ever outed as a rapist or racist or whatever, I will lose all faith in humanity.)
The knowledge that we’re about to plunged into a hellscape has made me withdraw a little.
I was hoping we were finally done with these assholes, but nope. At least another four years (and who knows how much longer because the fuck wants to do away with elections) of them.
So, I’m taking a break. I’ve got probably a month or less before I’ve got a presentable version of The Mungk (at least, that’s the target). I’m going to focus on that for now before rejoining the fight in the only way I know how.
Writing, and not being a complete piece of shit.
I mean, I’m a little turd, but maybe there’s some leftover corn in me?
Anyway, not a total piece of shit, like those guys.
Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em forever.
Target: 900 words
Written: 331 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Hepatitis Bathtub And Other Stories, NOFX
Comics: 100 Bullets 85-88
Music: Up On The Sun, Meat Puppets
I’ve mostly felt ill and drunk, like I’m outside reality.
All kinds of thoughts have screamed through my head, up to and including saying fuck it and snuffing it.
Who wants to live through that shit?
And I’d rather die than become one of them.
I won’t though, because that doesn’t let me protect my family and whoever else I can, even though that may not be something I’m able to do.
Focus on survival; focus on forward.
Focus on transcending.
Even if that means this life.
Target: 900 words
Written: 651 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Shining, Stephen King
Comics: 100 Bullets 81-84
Music: Up From The Catacombs, Jane's Addiction
I would like to believe this is the beginning of a great wave of enlightenment, but the stupidity of our neighbours to the south has been proven time and time again.
Are we headed back to the Stone Age, straight into World War III, civil war, an era of hatred and bigotry and the unchecked greed of billionaires over the other 99.9999999999999999999% of the planet?
Or are we finally headed in the direction of sanity?
We will not know, not likely today, not likely even tomorrow.
And as a neighbour only, I can only hope that the ruckus next door isn’t prelude to disaster.
Target: 900 words
Written: 1240 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Shining, Stephen King
Comics: 100 Bullets 73-76
Music: Black Friday Rule, Flogging Molly (or Tuesday, in this case)
If it’s not clear, FUCK DONALD TRUMP. FUCK REPUBLICANS. FUCK THE RIGHT WING.
I almost misspelled that as talk. Freudian slip, anyone?
But I do mean walk. I’d like to throw some shit on, grab the only things important to me, and just start walking.
Just. Gone. Tramping down foreign roads with a backpack and a laptop, a Kindle full of books.
In peace. Listening to the birds sing.
Praying for nature to remain unsavage.
It’s savage enough out here.
Target: 900 words
Written: 466 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Shining, Stephen King
Comics: 100 Bullets 65-68
Music: Unreleased: From A Basement On A Hill II, Elliott Smith