Today, I am stuck. Every move, blocked. Every item, twisted.
Every step, stagger.
Today, my shoes are sodden with muck, sucking holes bearing downward into the mire.
It is as it always is, as it ever will be.
We are a death march.
Target: 500 words
Written: 587 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Art Of Non-Conformity, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Rat Queens 11-14
Music: Knives Out, RadioheadAfter successfully ripping off both Matt Fraction and Night Vale yesterday, I think I’ll take it a bit easier today. Laundry. Writing. Reading. Maybe some special “me” time (video games, jerks), in between a trip to the grocery store and a dog walk.
It’s funny, because all of that seems so relaxing, and yet, I think what I’d really like to do is go back to bed for several hours and then laze out all day on the couch, only getting up to pee, eat and hopefully, fuck.
What else could a guy need?
Depression and exhaustion are motherfuckers.
Target: 500 words
Written: 301 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Pride And Prejudice And Zombies, Jane Austen, probably
Comics: Rat Queens Preview 1, Rat Queens 1-3
Music: The King Of Limbs, RadioheadSo, I guess it’s possible to get published after all. Not that I had any doubts of my sister-in-law’s ability to do so, we’ve definitely gone about it in different ways. She’s networked her way to support for her book, and that’s the smart way to do it.
I’ve apparently opted for the struggling artist in silence, waiting for discovery somehow from the confines of my attic.
These two things are not particularly compatible. It is unlikely that I will ever be discovered, sending out screeds from my basement; it is a matter of personal disgust to whore myself out.
I know it’s about making a genuine connection with people, with those that may be into the things you’re creating. I know that.
Humanity hasn’t exactly been showing its best side lately and I wouldn’t even know where to look to find a tribe or like-minded folks without running into the kind of awful people I seek endlessly to avoid. I can’t do anymore myopic right-wingers or self-important snoots. I want genuine; I don’t want people who look down their nose at others, or those who want to drag everyone into the muck.
I can’t do it.
The time and energy commitment, when I have so little of either, is a real bummer; how could I possibly have less and survive?
I don’t know.
I am my own worst enemy.
I am my only protector.
Shit.
Target: 500 words
Written: 194 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Pride And Prejudice And Zombies, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: East Of West 36-39
Music: KillYrIdols, Sonic YouthIt fucking kicks you in the nuts.
Not to belabour the point this morning, but man, between lack of sleep, body aches, creeping depression bordering on full shutdown and a near constant stream of demands, I am on the verge of collapse today.
Of course, no one cares, because this world is now savagely devoid of empathy, compassion or basic attempts at understanding the struggles of our fellow humanity.
On the plus side, Donald Trump can’t post his bond, so there’s that. I have little faith that justice will prevail, of course, because if it was going to, the fucker would have been taken down years ago.
The rich fret not about consequence; all that matters is the score.
Target: 500 words
Written: 440 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Pride And Prejudice And Zombies, Seth-Grahame Smith
Comics: East Of West 28-31
Music: Killed The Radio Star, Closet MonsterI’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 WhoMaybe 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, RadioheadI 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, MC5Sorry 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)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)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?)