Category: personal

letting it slide

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And so I did. Let it all slide.

Everything but the writing and reading.

Meditation? Nope.

Exercise? Nope.

I even forgot to walk the dogs, and neither my wife or I noticed until it was bedtime.

Good thing we wore them out the previous couple of days.

Now, if only someone would allow me a day of rest.

My “sick” day, taken for rest, wasn’t exactly restful. I’m tired of the constant go.

I need hibernation. I need newness. I need to get laid.

I need to be out of this routine, and committed (in either sense of the word).

Target: 900 words
Written: 649 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Happiest Days Of Our Lives, Wil Wheaton (ironic, ain't it?)
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 8-11
Music: Up On The Sun, Meat Puppets

headaches and light beers

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And being behind.

I let stuff go off the rails yesterday. I could have done better, but I didn’t.

Blame it on lack of motivation, lack of sleep (another storm, another night up with Sofi Jo), lack of willpower, depression, hopelessness, fatalism, whatever.

But I shit the bed on everything but writing and drinking yesterday, so here we are.

Behind. In pain.

Pray for me, children. This headache shall not last.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1023 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 4-7
Music: Up From The Catacombs, Jane's Addiction

crowfest

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I feel like it’s such a cool idea that needs better execution. Vendors, buskers, but like what about the other public stuff? I’m sure the gala was cool, but that’s limited to whoever can afford tickets.

Beyond that, there should be dark movies in the park, dark dances, dark whatever.

Like early Hallowe’en, but crow themed.

Anyway, I had a couple of nice glasses of wine while people watching, and the dogs were happy, even when our waitress tripped over her.

On a side note: that boss clearly has a type and one must ask in this day and age, is it still okay only to hire nothing but attractive girls and put them in the shortest miniskirts possible? Like, I understand the need for uniforms in a customer service business, and she was great, knew what she was doing and seemed very nice and all that, but yeah. I hope her and her fellow waitresses don’t have to put up with a lecherous owner or manager. With all the stories that have come out over the last few years, one has to wonder.

Anyway, all in all, Crowfest, in its third year (and finally having realized that if you’re going to have people outside, you don’t want it in late October/November) remains a nugget of untapped potential, going who knows where.

Sounds familiar.

Target: 900 words
Written: 2923 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram: The Singles Club 7, The Wicked + The Divine 1-3
Music: Up, R.E.M.

sick day

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Fuck it and fuck ’em.

My brain needs a break, so naturally, during my ONE DAY OFF, I have been tasked with cleaning the entire house, cutting the grass and taking dogs and cats to the vet.

What do people not understand about fucking REST?

Target: 900 words
Written: 671 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram: The Singles Club 3-6
Music: Black Friday Rule, Flogging Molly

when good sites go bad

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Like this one.

Most of the time, I want to write about what I’m feeling, what I’m going through, and I know it comes across as probably depressing, or angry, or manic depressive, a bit bipolar.

I’ve never been diagnosed with anything, but that’s because I refuse to go, mostly. I suffer from depression, I know it, but like I said, nothing formal.

I went once to a therapist when I broke down at work and had to take some time off, but all he wanted to do was ask me questions about internet pricing. I wonder if he ever wondered why I didn’t come back, or why I was staring at him with abhorrent disgust on my face.

That’s a guy who should not be practicing psychiatry, not if he thinks an initial session should be to talk about how much bandwidth he might get at his place, rather than what brought me in that day.

So, that’s my experience with therapists. I’m sure there’s better out there, but fuck, who has the time or money?

That’s the thing this new touchy feely existence of ours forgets – it’s offset against the horror of unrelenting capitalism, which leaves us with neither the time nor the funds to be able to engage in any of the things they want to sell us, unless we’re rich.

And ain’t none of us rich, baby.

Target: 900 words
Written: 940 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram 5-6, Phonogram: The Singles Club 1-2 (if I ever need to point to a work of utter pretentiousness, the exact kind of bullshit clever art we should all avoid, this is it - never read fiction written by someone whose interface with music is critical instead of connecting.)
Music: Unsupervised, Mono Puff

fat/skinny

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I fear for some women.

Look, I like a thin woman as much as anyone, but there is a point where it’s gone too far and the concern stops being “is she fit and attractive?” to “are you okay?”

“Do you need help?”

The pressure women are under to look perfect is unbearable. Better to be happy than thin; better to be overweight than unhealthy.

Positive body image is wonderful; obesity is still a threat.

I’m fat. Obese, if you believe the Wii Fit I stand on for ‘exercise’ each morning. I have no authority to judge. I care not for fashion. I dress mostly like I’ve been working around the house or lounging around in my sweats (though I rarely wear sweats – I mostly stick to band/beer/superhero t-shirts and board shorts).

I don’t like shoes.

I am not anti-fashion; that would be more like Kurt Cobain. I’m more like non-fashion. I don’t exist in fashion.

I am fashion-pathetic, as well as apathetic.

(A pathetic?)

Anyway, this weather woman looks beyond unhealthy; if it’s not an eating disorder, it’s veganism.

Or meth.

She’s definitely missing something in her diet. She would have been attractive twenty pounds ago; now, she’s more crypt-keeper than svelte.

Anyway, I’m concerned for her. It’s none of my business, obviously, and I’m sure many a folk will cancel me for daring to say so, but I’m just very concerned.

I just want to ask:

“Are you okay?”

Because I’m sure as hell not.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1177 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sylvie And Bruno, Lewis Carroll
Comics: Phonogram 1-4
Music: Unreleased: From A Basement On A Hill II, Elliott Smith

80 mil

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Lotto Max hit eighty million, so I thought I’d take a shot.

I never buy lotto tickets, so hopefully that’s a luck factor.

I mean, the whole thing is bullshit, and there’s a fraction of a fraction of a percent chance that I win, but hey.

It’s nice to think about who I’d give it to and who I’d set up meetings with, just so I could tell them to pound salt.

It’s a nice distraction anyway. A quaint fantasy of do-gooding and revenge.

As if they were exclusive.

Target: 900 words
Written: 628 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sylvie And Bruno, Lewis Carroll (why do I do this to myself?)
Comics: The Magdalena v4 4
Music: Unreleased Decca Live Album, The Rolling Stones

back to workin’

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I got a little ahead of myself for a bit again, with the longer edits, but now, I’m back to having to meet actual targets again.

Hence the bump in target words.

I’ve been trying to build it like a muscle. Every once in a while, bump the target up, increase the reps, the duration, the requirements for the cardio and endurance and lifting power of the thing.

Hell, it’s everything I do.

Slow increase in exercise, in meditation, in the difficulty of the material.

More beautiful desolation. More tragic pathos.

More little nobodies, thinking they’re somebodies.

More me, thinking I’m not nothing.

Feeling empty and alone, the best and worst feeling in the world.

Target: 900 words
Written: 888 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hilarity Ensues, Tucker Max
Comics: The Magdalena: Seventh Sacrament 1, The Magdalena v4 1-3
Music: Unreleased Album, Screaming Trees (so underrated, these guys - Lanegan's brilliant)

sleep incoming?

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Broke down and bought a mattress and one of those fancy frames yesterday.

It won’t be here until the twenty-fifth, but hey, maybe real sleep?

Please?

Target: 900 words
Written: 414 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hilarity Ensues, Tucker Max
Comics: The Magdalena v3 9-12
Music: Never Worked That Hard, The Tragically Hip

head back down

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My blood pressure is up. I’m on the front porch, enjoying one of the last few nice mornings we’ll have to be out here and write.

My dogs, as always, are here, relaxing and waiting, for the inevitable growls or barks that will accompany another dog or a random person walking by.

We’ll have to throw Mazy in, because despite being such a sweet dog (at a hundred and twenty pounds), if she can’t immediately go up and sniff another dog, she’ll start barking like a madwoman.

She’s the definition of all bark, no bite.

Sofi will bark at anyone or anything, sometimes so violently, it’s like she’s Michael Bolton, singing, well, anything. I swear a blood vessel is going to burst on her one of these days when my father-in-law comes into the house.

Sami’s out here too, lounging, enjoying belly rubs, somehow completely unfazed by Mazy as he walks underneath her. Ares is here as well, sitting on his little grey mat, walking the squirrels search for spoils in the grass. They’ve acclimated well to the invasion of dogs into this cat house. Isis and Raiden, not as well, though Raiden has Mazy cowed and both will easily put aside any fear if they’re hungry or want petting.

This is peace, compromised. We don’t bring these fuzzies in for ornamentation; we want to live with them, to love them, to have them snuggle to us while we read or write or watch TV. We want them to curl up with us in bed. We want to take long walks with them. We want them to play.

We want to rub bellies.

The barking is just part of it, sometimes. The break in peace had to happen, sometimes.

Target: 900 words
Written: 683 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hilarity Ensues, Tucker Max
Comics: The Magdalena v3 5-8
Music: Cutthroat, Interpol