Category: depression

the smell of death

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I’m not sure what’s happened in my kitchen overnight, but it smells as though something has died.

I’m not sure where it’s coming from. I made peanut butter cookies last night. Could it be from the staling batter in the sink? The dishwasher was full, man. I don’t deserve the scent of rot for not emptying the whole thing late at night.

Sometimes, it feels like life is one calamity after another, a subtle and specially formed hell.

I fell on a skinny tree stump cut off at an absurdly pointed angle when I was eight and nearly died.

It’s becoming less and less of a question in my mind: did I actually die? Is this my hell? I mean, I stole some of those pink musclemen from a Toys ‘R’ Us when I was a child, but I felt horrible about it. Is that enough for the supposed god of mercy and love to sentence an eight year old to hell?

Or maybe I overdosed at some point. I’ve never done anything harder than mushrooms and LSD, but who knows? Laced with something? I drank a lot in my youth; maybe I aspirated out on the floor.

I don’t know, but every moment of joy seems calculated to serve as a reminder of what I’m losing as each new calamity piles on.

I think about death way more than I should.

Target: 500 words
Written: 316 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, Tucker Max
Comics: East Of West 13-15, East Of West: The World 1
Music: The Kids Are Alright, The Who

i guess i shouldn’t write at night

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Maybe late at night if it’s been a not-so-bad day, and I’m all keyed up and need a release.

But writing after a long day of a hard mental slog? It doesn’t leave much to be desired.

I had a thought about writing of wanting to be bigger than you are (on the inside! And not in the squishy, gooey, fatty way), but that’s too big for me now.

I am small.

My words are small. My works are small.

I am a haiku; flash fiction.

A one-shot comic.

A short story.

A novella, bordering on novelette.

What’s a novelette you say?

A book that wears heels and kicks up its legs in a line with its fellow works, all tits and fishnet, grinning to hide the awful realities behind it.

Target: 500 words
Written: 307 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, Night Valia (I did like it, but the near constant podcast references slowed it waaaaaaaaaaaay down, making me wish time was as weird as they say it is, and thereby I could skim through it a bit faster.  It got to be a bit of a slog.)
Comics: East Of West 5-8 (way, way into this)
Music: Kid A, Radiohead

rats, kenneth

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I started off today thinking things were going to be bad. I was distracted, couldn’t focus, following rabbit trails.

That bass started in Rats and suddenly, I was deep in. Pearl Jam is my jam (well, one of them), and that early work?

Shit. Follow it with a little R.E.M. and damn, son, things are looking up.

Except.

They didn’t.

Stuck drain, VPN outages, and a sinking sense of being on the way to being completely fucked… that’s my real jam, apparently.

Seriously, maybe fuck today?

Target: 400 words
Written: 280 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, those guys
Comics: East Of West 1-4
Music: Kick Out The Jams, MC5

yesterday

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Sorry about that. I guess maybe we’re not in a place where green apple splatters and sexual proclivities are ready to be discussed.

But…

This is the thing about this blog. I never started it intending to pretend to be someone else. I spent too many years full of shit and now, I am doing my best to transition into being someone who is honest, open and compassionate, who always makes the effort to see as many perspectives as he can, while not ignoring the simple realities of things.

A softy without blinders.

A man of honest assessment, without pretense or bullshit.

Because I don’t want to be an icon. I don’t want to be a role model, though I know, if I can live the way I would like, it would inevitably set an example. Of course, every way anyone behaves sets an example; whether it’s a good one or whether anyone follows it are separate questions.

I want to be honest, and that means warts. That means too much information. That means nothing is out of bounds, save the desires of those around me not to be discussed (filtered where appropriate). I respect the privacy of others. I am a private man myself, despite my admissions.

I don’t want people all up in my business, but neither do I want to hide my foibles.

I suppose I shouldn’t hide my successes either, but damned if I won’t try to downplay them; I don’t live for praise. I would just like people to be able to see my work.

I’m not a good networker.

These things are all true.

These things are all filtered, as is everything.

Cognitive filtration is automatic.

Target: 400 words
Written: 341 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, Cranor/Fink (Fink/Cranor?)
Comics: Tokyo Ghost 9-10 (seriously - maybe the best comic of all time.  It deserves to be in the conversation with Watchmen, Miller's Dark Knight, etc.)
Music: Kick, INXS (one of my all time favourites)

tedium

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So, the new training is SO. FUCKING. BORING.

I like to think I’ve lived a life free of trauma, though not drama, though it often feels like a trauma lurking around the corner.

Something repressed, guiding my moods and thoughts subconsciously, ready to jump out and smash the dinner spread just as I’m about to eat.

It feels like I’m barely allowed to eat, and alternately, stuffed of the point of nausea and vomiting.

Fucking mental illness… it’s a real son of a bitch, and the sneakiest motherfucker you know.

Target: 400 words
Written: 234 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, Joseph Fink/Jeffrey Cranor (did I spell that right?)
Comics: Tokyo Ghost 1-4 (FUCK.  YES.)
Music: KEROSENE HAT, Cracker (one of my favourite southern alternative albums ever, if not the top dog - fucking brilliant)

the squirts

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Does anyone else feel like we’re close enough to talk about bowel movements yet?

Is anyone reading this?

If I write about the green apple splatters in the woods, would anyone hear?

I don’t do the sound of one hand clapping; I long ago learned the trick from Balki Bartokomous.

Instead, it’s farts in an empty house.

Although these days, with Alexa, Siri and Google Home, the answer is always yes.

Your X-Box is listening to you pee. I don’t mean that as a joke; they really are.

Target: 400 words
Written: 279 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: If Chins Could Kill: Confessions Of A B Movie Actor, Bruce Campbell (I mean, who doesn't love this guy?)
Comics: The Wake 1-4
Music: Karma Police, Radiohead (I mean, these guys... not so much the later, more pretentious stuff, but everything up to OK Computer, right?)

sorry about that

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I know things got a little dark yesterday. Darker than they should after ten days of vacation.

Sometimes, excess food and booze can cause a depressive crash in me. Usually, if I have more than one or two on an evening or weekend, a couple of days later, I can feel the crash. It’s Tuesdays, usually, though Mondays aren’t better. If I don’t overindulge (or indulge at all in the case of alcohol), I usually feel pretty good by Thursday.

Bodies are weird, and even though I love a good beer, wine or cocktail, I’ve started wondering if I shouldn’t abstain for a while and see what it does for my mood, my motivation levels, my depression and my physical health.

Of course, that would run contrary to my self-destruction, but hey, what can you do?

Hasten the inevitable, probably.

Target: 400 words
Written: 365 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Fire Starter Sessions, Danielle Laporte
Comics: Nailbiter Returns 6-9
Music: Jump Back, The Rolling Stones (you know, you forget, sometimes, just how many great songs these guys have and you have to wonder... is the devil real? Did they make that deal? Is that how Keith Richards is still alive?)

back to work

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No rest for the weary. No breaks for the forlorn.

No quarter given to the depressed.

Life is a cruel motherfucker. Part of me wonders if I died when I was younger and this was my own personal hell, offering me chance after chance for happiness, but then inflicting such insecurity and depression to fuck them all up.

Life gives us joy only so we know the pain of taking it away (thanks, Kelly).

Life shows us joy so we know what we’re losing.

Target: 400 words
Written: 1030 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Fire Starter Sessions, Danielle Laporte
Comics: Nailbiter Returns 2-5
Music: Julian Plenti Is... Skyscraper (love, love, love the atmospheric nature of this album. Skyscraper is definitely getting use in the Mungk playlist)

spent

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It’s 7:34AM and I feel like I’m already spent.

Granted, my day starts typically at 4:50AM, so I’ve been up almost three hours.

I’ve written a bit, did some yoga and some meditation, thought about the state of world, wondered why the hell so many of these insane right wingers continue to get away with shit that is clearly illegal and no one appears to be even considering charges, wondered if I’m capable of writing humanity changing works, but it won’t matter because climate change and divisive, authoritarian politics will kill us all before it can make an impact, wondered if aliens would find these pages years later and not be able to understand a damn word, showered, maybe thought about sex a little (because I do so roughly every three minutes) and then peed, ate breakfast, made coffee, fed the dogs, let the dogs out, gave the dogs their joint medication, fed the cats, unloaded/loaded the dishwasher, played Wordle and Worldle, a game of Go on a 9×9 board with a 8 stone handicap (because I need it, apparently), then sat down and went over my to-do list, what’s left of it.

And I’ve a whole workday ahead of me.

Shit.

Target: 300 words
Written: 227 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Sex Criminals 17-20
Music: Janis Joplin Essentials, Janis Joplin (if you don't dig Janis, what the fuck are you even doing with your life?)

fun fun fun

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Until the daddy puts the T-Bird away, I think. Or, in this case, the granddaughter.

Man, that kid is something else. Total ham, smart as a whip. Freakin’ adorable.

Starting to go through that “big feelings” stage, where she’s trying to learn how to deal with things beyond the absolute basics.

Really didn’t like the idea of being a “pre-schooler” soon. I hope one day I’ll be successful enough as an author, so she can say, “My Bop-Bop wrote THIS” and then be ashamed by all its darkness.

Wait. Was this a good plan?

Target: 300 words
Written: 689 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Face It, Debbie Harry
Comics: The Necromancer 5-6, The Necromancer: Pilot Season 1
Music: Your New Favourite Band, The Hives (most appropriately named album title ever, possibly)