Author: admin

ride on

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I’m not ready for the forgiveness conversation. Not yet. I know what I want to say, up in the head, but for now, suffice it to say that a better slogan would be this:

Don’t ask permission; don’t need forgiveness.

Show us you’ve thought about the consequences of your actions. Show us you’ve thought about the people and world around you. And if the gatekeepers are still unfair, still blocking creation, still blocking joy or sustenance or the application of basic human decency, well, then, fuck ’em.

Fuck ’em all.

Target: 800 words
Written: 1633 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Grimm's Fairy Tales, Brothers Grimm
Comics: The Me You Love In The Dark 1-4
Music: Underground V4.0, Linkin Park

friday, finally

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This weekend, we’ll dive deeper on the whole “ask forgiveness, not permission” thing, but for now, today, it’s migraine o’clock with a full work day ahead of me.

The seventh draft begins, like a seventh seal broken, and things can only go down from here.

Target: 800 words
Written: 259 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Tao Te Ching (Ursula Leguin edition)
Comics: Middlewest 15-18
Music: Underground Network, Anti-Flag

ask forgiveness, fuck you

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I mean, that’s the gist of that phrase, right?

Its origins are obviously in the idea that certain people or organizations act as gatekeepers and therefore, the way to be successful in that field without these fucking creation cops is just to do it anyway and ask forgiveness after it works out.

The problem, like most other platitudes, is that it’s been co-opted (sort of) to become something worse.

Allow me to explain.

Not bothering to ask for permission has been adopted by the extortionists masquerading as capitalists and fascists masquerading as politicians – do whatever the fuck you want and if someone complains, well, then, they must be a whiner or a gatekeeper.

We’ve forgotten the ask forgiveness part.

We’re just doing whatever, fuck permission, and fuck you.

There’s more, much more to be said on that, but I went full marathon today and my brain is D-E-A-D.

Tomorrow, maybe.

Target: 800 words
Written: 2814 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King (so classic, but I'm a little irritated my Kindle copy updated and all the extras somehow disappeared - not what I fucking paid for, Amazon)
Comics: Middlewest 11-14
Music: Underground 6.0, Linkin Park

blood pressure

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I’ve been tracking my blood pressure for a bit now, trying to figure out if I’m about to have a stroke or an aneurysm or heart attack or something fun like that.

I’ve started noticing a rise whenever I’m in the office. I’m not eating differently, not really, so that’s not really a factor. If anything, because there’s more walking involved, I’m getting more exercise.

Is there an inherent level of stress involved in any work that isn’t soul work that automatically puts our health at risk?

I think we’d be hard pressed to say no.

Motherfuckers.

Target: 800 words
Written: 734 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King
Comics: Middlewest 3-6
Music: Underclass Hero, Sum 41

in office days

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They are the worst. There’s really no reason to be there. All it does is raise my tension levels, trigger my natural introvert’s social anxiety and make me work slower and worse.

I will not understand the reasons they want us to go in more often; the reason given was “camaraderie”, but fuck that. I’m not trading the peace and focus of quietude at home for a fucking high five from a co-worker.

Seriously. That was used as an example of why it’s worth coming into the office.

A fucking.

High.

Five.

Fuck that shit, Treasury Board. You’re either drunk, incompetent or power hungry.

None of these things qualify you for making decisions about other people’s lives.

If anything, they disqualify you.

Time to replace the leadership, methinks.

Target: 800 words
Written: 1230 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King
Comics: I Hate Fairyland 19-20, Middlewest 1-2
Music: Under The Covers, Red Hot Chili Peppers

sadly, i know alcohol

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Listen, it’s not actually an issue. I don’t show up drunk for my niece’s recitals or sneak whiskey shots from my desk drawer at the office.

But it’s there.

It’s a part of life.

I likely don’t exceed a six pack a week, and maybe a couple of glasses of wine. Like, a drink a night (although a lot of nights, I don’t have anything).

But what I am struggling with is whether a seven year old would call Jim Beam Mr. Beam or mis-hear it as Mr. Bean.

But do I want Rowan Atkinson in this? I love the character, but the connection is incongruous with what I’m trying to do.

Mr. Beam, Mr. Bean, Mr. Beam.

Safer to stick to what you know, I guess, and Jim Beam ain’t it.

Nasty stuff, that. I’ll never understand Americans and their obsession with bourbon. It pales in comparison to true whiskey or scotch. Playdough to cement. Koolaid to an Old Fashioned. Sure, it’ll get you drunk, but damn, don’t you want it to taste halfway decent while you do it?

Target: 800 words
Written: 632 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King
Comics: I Hate Fairyland 15-18
Music: Under The Bridge, Red Hot Chili Peppers

saturday

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Maybe today, we don’t have anything to do. I mean, it’s supposed to rain, so no point leaving early to go to the pool…

Or wait. Nope. Out at one. Gone. Reading time ripped away like an old, cruddy bandaid.

Save me from other people’s needs, universe. They are smothering my own.

Target: 800 words
Written: 985 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King
Comics: I Hate Image 1, I Hate Fairyland 12-14
Music: Under Attack (B-Sides), Linkin Park

the best laid plans

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Friday night and we’ve washed the dogs. It’s only six o’clock. We’ve already eaten. They’ve walked.

Everything is done.

That means time to read, time to play. Time to think of better dates with my wife than dogwashing and trips to the dump.

Something involving candlelight, wine and maybe lingerie and massage oils.

Instead, my parents drop in, unplanned, for a porch drink.

Ah, well, as my wife says, who knows how long they have left? Apparently, we can fuck later. Who knows how long we have?

Target: 800 words
Written: 674 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King (new book!  a classic!)
Comics: I Hate Fairyland 8-11
Music: Under A Billion Suns, Mudhoney

brothers of earth

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It’s really irritating when you find a good book (and I adore C.J. Cherryh’s worldbuilding and characterization), and no one gives you a second to read it. Sure, it’s a bit denser because of the created language and customs and all, so it might have read longer and more difficult than the average two hundred and fifty page book, but damn, son.

Give me time.

Two pages a day is no fucking success.

Thankfully, I’ve been able to steal time from work to dive in, and finally, I’ve managed to complete it. It was a bit less revelatory than Gate Of Ivrel, but still.

One of the best, in my opinion. One of the absolute best.

Target: 800 words
Written: 483 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Brothers Of Earth, CJ Cherryh (complete!)
Comics: I Hate Fairyland 4-7
Music: Uncle Anesthesia, Screaming Trees