Category: personal

focusin’

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I seem to slipping into the zone more easily this morning. Maybe it’s an illusion, but I killed my workout this morning, and focus seems to be top of the pops when I’m doing my morning work, my morning commute, as I would say.

Writing’s going well, I’m tuned in, tuned on, and the music flows through me without being a distraction, but a driver.

It’s nice. This doesn’t happen that often.

Maybe the funk is breaking. Hold on long enough and it will; all things pass, as they say, including the bad stuff.

Target: 500 words
Written: 365 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Art Of Non-Conformity, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Rat Queens 15-16, Rat Queens v2 1-2
Music: The Very Best, Nirvana

the day that got away

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Nothing happened, but the groceries, therapy (not mine, I would never burden a poor healthcare employee with such destruction), and then dog walks.

And just like, poof.

The day is gone.

Target: 500 words
Written: 1751 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Art Of Non-Conformity, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Rat Queens 8-10, Braga 1
Music: Verities & Balderdash, Harry Chapin

dance good

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My niece is a competitive dancer; she’s pretty darn good. I, on the other hand, do a passable white man at best.

I can sort of do the Carlton (and yes, I have a couple of favourite Tom Jones songs – probably the same ones as every other white boy).

I am a basic bitch.

But she is not. She is skilled to the point where maybe it could be a career. I’m not sure dancers make careers out of it for the cash, but rather, the love of the dance, the camaraderie, possibly even the travel.

And then, of course, a school. Teaching what can be taught to the willing and unwilling alike.

But it is the love of the thing that makes it worthwhile; it is a failure of our society not to reward the arts as it would any other profession. A dancer plays a role in society, with more love than some paper-pusher. It is refreshing to the soul, ours and the artist’s.

That’s worth something, is it not?

Target: 500 words
Written: 308 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Dancing Barefoot, Wil Wheaton
Comics: Rat Queens 4-7
Music: Venue Songs, They Might Be Giant (an entire album of hastily composed songs about the stages upon which they played on a particular tour?  Well, then.  Kind of brilliant, in a way.)

saturday

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After 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: Veni Vidi Vicious, The Hives (as wake-up music goes, none better.  I think Hate To Say I Told You So would be my entrance them if I were a WWE wrestler)

possible

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So, 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: Vans Presents: The General Strike EP, Anti-Flag, Popcorn, Muse, The Vegas Years, Everclear

when it rains

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It 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: V, Live, Vangelis: Delectus, Vangelis (you know what's weird... the Chariots of Fire riff that we're all familiar with barely actually happens in the song, and certainly not the way you remember it from the movie.  That's kind of messed up.)

happy st. birthday

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It’s my wife’s birthday and I think we did okay. We spent the weekend with the kids and our granddaughter, capped off by a fancy meal with her dad and some St. Patty’s celebrations at my sister’s.

You may have noticed… family is important to me.

Everyone’s situation is different and I don’t blame some people for cutting family members (or entire families) out of their lives; blood isn’t a panacea for bad behaviour, after all.

For me, though, my family’s pretty good; there are stylistic differences, and some breaks in priorities that can be frustrating at times, but overall, we make it work.

I love my family, and my wife in particular. I’m not sure there’d be a life without them.

So, happy birthday, baby, and many more to come.

Target: 500 words
Written: 1534 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
Comics: East Of West 24-27
Music: KROQ Weenie Roast/KUCI Ska Parade, Sublime, plus a voicemail from Kurt Cobain?

things that make the heart hurt

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My granddaughter got mad at me for yanking her arm. Granted, she was about to put her hand on a cast iron stove, but still.

It’s upsetting when they look at you like you’re a monster who hurt them.

Especially when you know there’s no choice.

It was that or a trip to the hospital for a severe burn.

She got over it, luckily, but man. It’s like a dagger to the heart; makes you feel straight rotten.

But still, the alternative. Hurt feelings that go away in twenty minutes or a first-degree burn?

I would make the same choice, and suffer the same pain.

Target: 500 words
Written: 242 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell (I appreciate juvenile humour sometimes, but I just can't get on board with the constant insults; making fun of ourselves is fine; pointing out our foibles is fine; I appreciate the liberal sensibility toward sex and all... I just can't do anything but be appalled and disappointed at the constant putdowns of people for generalities that only demonstrates one's insecure ego and lack of knowledge or empathy about the people around oneself.  I can't reward that).
Comics: East Of West 20-23
Music: KooKoo, Debbie Harry

grandaughterin’

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We are off to see that baby bundle of toddler joy once again, on a long weekend celebrating my wife’s birthday, my Irish background and the fact of my granddaughter’s existence, a miracle unto itself.

Of course, that we’re here at all is a miracle of chance and collision, an order within the chaos, neither of which could have come without the other.

Target: 500 words
Written: 194 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, Tucker Max
Comics: East Of West 16-19
Music: Know Your Enemy, Green Day (I do - apathy and greed, consumerism and the overarching need to feed, feed, feed)

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: Know-It-All, Alessia Cara (what can I say?  I dig introvert anthems.)