in training

Back into it. I guess I must be doing okay at work, since they’re offering me extra work most people don’t get (or want, perhaps).

It’s not the greatest job, but as I learn more about who does what in the government and our division, I’m beginning to see that there may be other options.

I mean, as long as this writing thing isn’t paying the bills, which it’s not.

I’ve made exactly zero dollars thus far.

Of course, I don’t expect to make anything off poetry and short stories. Maybe comics. Maybe the hip little ditties if I compile them into a larger volume.

A book of short stories or poetry might work, but I’m a long way from that, and let’s face it – it’s not going to land me on the moon.

That’s the novel prerogative, and even then, it’s dicey. You gotta be good to be great and great to make any cash, which is bullshit.

We massively undervalue art in this world, always have. The absolute cream can make a living; the rest of us are scraping by.

And I don’t believe in the starving artist. I do believe that too much wealth corrupts.

But making a living?

That shouldn’t be something we have to fight for.

Target: 300 words
Written: 176 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Face It, Debbie Harry
Comics: Sex Criminals 5-8
Music: Jeremy - EP, Pearl Jam (have we deciphered the actual words to Yellow Ledbetter yet?)

so begins canon

I’ve been poking at it for a while. Haikus and flash fiction are all good, and comic book scripts and thinly veiled political rants are something else, but proof of life, proof of concept, of talent, skill, hard work, dedication, adaptability, open-mindedness, and good old fashioned sex appeal lay in the pudding.

(Or Jello wrestling mud pit, if we’re talking that last thing).

The point is, there’s no me, as I want me to be, without books. Reading is only halfway to completion. It’s the act of creation (which is really just exploration and discovery, connection and understanding), that’s the thing that fills the cup.

(Or Jello mud wrestling pit).

The bottom line is, me as I am now? I’m not happy with that person. That person sucks. That person write split-sentence haikus and pretentious shit about hats.

(I love them both dearly).

This person that I want to be? He gets dark. He gets into it. He understands subtext and trauma and helplessness in the face of adversity.

He knows how to crush you – your soul anyway.

(He’d likely lose in the Jello pit).

I want to make you uncomfortable; to remember that happy endings are not the only endings, and neither are grand tragedies.

Sometimes, it’s the little tragedies that wreck us whole.

Target: 300 words
Written: 794 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Getting Things Done, David Allen
Comics: Southern Bastards 9-12
Music: You Only Live Once, The Strokes (The Strokes with Eddie Vedder doing Marvin Gaye? Fuck me sideways, does it get better than that?)

romance #1

Everyone has a first. This is my first. Goofy, absurdist comedy with little point or depth, only there is point, there is depth, only no point, but interpretation of a point and Jesus, I’ve been listening to too much Night Vale.

All hail.

Target: 200 words
Written: 792 words, comic: Romance #1

Read: 5 Steps To Controlling High Blood Pressure, Mayo Clinic (not be confused with the Mustard Wellness Centre)
Comics: Mind The Gap 17 (damn it, McCann, give us the rest of the story! I'm hooked. I have questions! Questions that demand answers, damn it! Once more with feeling!)
Music: Question The Answers, Mighty Mighty Bosstones (that's fucking soulmusic right there - spaceless intended)

one man’s war

Is another person’s bowl of Corn Flakes he doesn’t even realize he’s eating.

I started writing Romance as a one-shot goof-off. Now, I realize it’s a one-shot goof-off as metaphor for how doing something in one person’s life can feel like fighting World War 3, while in another’s, it’s something they do by rote and forget they even did seconds later.

One man’s Everest is another man’s small puddle.

Probably why so many “nice” guys feel so entitled; the mental and emotional struggle, the days of build-up, the pining, the obsessing, the fantasies, the creation of a mythos around a particular girl that has no bearing in reality to who she is, what she’s done or what her motivations are… when it doesn’t work out, it’s devastating.

From the other side, the woman might be aware of the guy’s infatuation, she might not be. It might be an irritation to her or something that goes completely unnoticed because, you know, she has her own life and it’s not up to her to play the role of trophy for some dude. Unless she’s specifically using him for free shit or whatever, there’s no blame on the person for this (and I’ve known women like that – one in particular who knew damn well who had the hots for her and turned it to her advantage for all kinds of free shit).

Ultimately, it’s up to the dude to reconcile fantasy and reality; to control his mind so that he doesn’t put so much stock in something that likely isn’t attainable, or at the very least, won’t be what he thought it was. The onus isn’t on the woman. Even the user, taking advantage as she was – it was the boys that had the power, really.

They just had to decide she wasn’t such a big deal, that there were other opportunities, other women, ones more likely to be interested and to be compatible. You know, someone that actually wants to be with you and treats you well, and who you want to be with and treat well in return.

They exist.

They’re just not that one.

Target: 200 words
Written: 3756 words, comic: Romance #1

Read: 5 Steps To Controlling High Blood Pressure, Mayo Clinic
Comics: Mind The Gap 13-16
Music: Quake, Nine Inch Nails (why??)