No time for love, today.
Sick dogs, no time, devilled egg salad.
It’ll be a whirlwind.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 241 words, comic: Western Cradle #1
Read: The Vegetarian Myth, Lierre Keith
Comics: Chew 53-55, Chew: Demon Chicken Poyo #1
Music: New Born, Muse (ironic, for today, isn't it?)For all the things I wanted to do with my life, I probably would have had to start as a teenager.
Unfortunately, the lessons I needed to learn, the skills I had to grow (and am still growing), the mindset, the life experience, all that stuff… it unfolded a little slower than it probably should have.
Maybe I could have gone a more traditional route, and maybe I could have been content with that, but when have I ever been content with anything? In the moment, I can be, in the midst of a good meal or a great book or great sex, a nice moment in the sun while walking the dogs.
But isn’t that the only time ever?
I know it will take me probably until I’m a hundred and no longer able to function physically or mentally to do the work that I want to do, to see the places I wanted to see, to have all the experiences I’ve desired.
I probably won’t make it, barring terrific medical advances. Of course, I could live that long but the growing spectre of fascism, the threat of climate change, bigotry and hatred, the complete breakdown of both civility and the willingness to stand up for what is right, in action more than words, is likely to end this planet (or at least my life or the ability to do the things I desire to do), all that pretty well guarantees that this is a fool’s errand.
But what’s the alternative?
Giving up?
I know I’m a late bloomer, but hell. Fuck it.
There’s no do-overs, so it’s now or never, and if I die in the attempt, without making the impact I would have liked, well, there’s no shame in trying.
Only in giving up.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 1479 words, short story: Late Riser
Read: The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho (also, this has nothing to do with this book, it was garbage, like Eckhart Tolle fucked Hans Christian Andersen and their baby read The Secret on the way out - stuff like this is why people get stuck in their own heads thinking they just have think things into existence, or that all skill is just natural, instead doing the fucking work.)
Comics: Chew 42-44, Chew: Warrior Chicken Poyo (POYO!) 1
Music: The New Abnormal, The StrokesI’m up earlier than I wanted to be, but so is everyone else, which kills my time to meditate and read and put on headphones and plow through a random selection of music on my way to the second coffee of the day.
And I’m thinking about time.
I’m thinking about how frozen I am; how stuck; how the only barrier to me getting what I want and being the thing I want to be is myself and this mental block, this block behind the tires of the trailer that is my mind.
My wheels are spinnin’.
Moving beyond is terrifying; there’s so many bad things going on in the world right now to stop it from ever happening, but I cannot control those. I can only control what I need to do to get what’s in my head out of my head.
It’s getting past that that’s the real trick.
Can I get it done before I die? How does the world find it if I do?
Geez. I guess there really was a theme to all this.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 1273 words, short story: Late Riser
Read: The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
Comics: Chew 39-41, Chew/Revival 1
Music: Nevermind, Nirvana (in a day of uncertainty and terror, transcendence was necessary)That’s when I wrote a short story for the first time, about a caterpillar who’d fallen into a bowl of popcorn and couldn’t get out.
The sides were slick with butter and he had to dodge the hands that descended again and again, to avoid being eaten.
I guess metaphor was an early love, and an accurate one.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 977 words, short story: Broke Down Car
Read: Permanent Record, Edward Snowden
Comics: Chew 31-34
Music: Never Surrender (From Kickboxer), Stan Bush (if this is the best you got, surrender, immediately, because you suck)I don’t know what my purpose is; I know I have to write. I have to challenge – myself, the world, whatever.
Devil’s advocate, without a limit on the number of views he’s willing to explore, and the number he’ll excoriate.
Getting through this, doing the work, the canon.
That’s why I’m here. It’s all I care for. I pray I’ve enough time left to do it; I suspect no such favour is forthcoming.
I’ve driven pretty far to realize where I am; I only know this is the thing that screams inside me, and if everyone else could just give it a rest for a moment, that’d be great.
I know what must be done.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 563 words, short story: Broke Down Car
Read: Permanent Record, Edward Snowden
Comics: Chew: Secret Agent Poyo (POYO!) 1, Chew 28-30
Music: Never Saw A Thing Coming, Gregger Botting (a friend of mine - check him out)It tears at me. This urge to drive myself forward, to drive myself into something better, while simultaneously fighting not to give in to all the shit people of the world (and there are many).
It’s the dream of free people everywhere; it’s the slavering desire of every monster to put a stop to it.
It’s those close to us who behave in ways that benefit only themselves; who’d screw over their own blood for their own sick self-interest; who are so lost in their own little world that they fail to see that other people are not simply NPCs in the game of their lives, to be slaughtered or ignored as needed (or at a whim).
My biggest concern is that I’m one of them; my biggest fear is that I’m not serving myself by consistently taking myself out of the equation.
I know I need to help more. I know I barely have enough energy to hold my insides in. It’s a virtual certainty that if I stop holding it together, my body will burst and disintegrate, spilling my entrails to the floor.
Is it too much to ask for wings to emerge from the viscera?
I don’t believe in God or heaven, in no small part because it sounds fucking tedious and hypocritical, but I’d like to think peace is the end result, rather than an eternity of regret.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 432 words, poem: Feathers Falling
Read: Constellation Games, Leonard Richardson
Comics: Chew 20-23
Music: Never Let Me Down, David Bowie (apparently, he hated this album, which, like, okay, I guess it's less lyrically poignant than most of his others, but it's not exactly horrible, which just goes to show how good he was, I guess. If the work you hated is still pretty good, you must be doing something right.)I’m trying to be more hopeful in the face of a rising tide.
The forces that have colluded since Reagan to undermine freedom, integrity and basic human rights (AKA fascists, bigots and corporations) are peaking, and threatening to drag us all back to the fucking Stone Age.
I am trying to find the inner hope that says, this too shall pass.
We shall rise again, as we inevitably do.
As long as they don’t kill us all first.
Motherfuckers.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 108 words, poem: Feathers Falling
Read: Constellation Games, Leonard Richardson
Comics: Chew 17, 18, 27, 19 (what? I swear it's right)
Music: Never Is A Long Time/Love Of Your Life, Red Hot Chili PeppersRoses are red
Violets are blue
Hearts are black
And lungs bruised
Legs are weary
Head aches
I’ve gone too far
Before I wake
The road behind
Is trampled waste
Lessons learned
And lost in haste
Roses red
And dipped in black
Falling slowly
Down my back
Burning muscles
Acid lungs
I’ve come to know
My race is run
And if I die before I wake
May someone find
What I meant to make
Target: 1000 words
Written: 80 words, poem: Roses And Violets
Read: Constellation Games, Leonard Richardson
Comics: Chew 13-16
Music: Never Hear The End Of It, SloanI want to leave behind a body of work that people can dig into and enjoy, even if it’s just in the dissection of me as a person.
I’m sure it won’t all be flattering; I’ve behaved terribly at times.
Such is the life of a drunken wannabe punk kid from the small towns of Ontario. You’ll say and do shit to regret later; apologies don’t mean it didn’t happen.
It also doesn’t mean it’s who you ended up.
I don’t know how I’ll end up.
But I’m worried I don’t have the stamina or force of will for the long run.
Please don’t let me end up one of these cozy mystery writers, or some detective or spy novel fuck, churning out the same formulaic CSI bullshit each week.
It’s always the goddamned butler.
I want my legacy to be more complex than that.
More compelling; equally pathetic, mildly horrific, one long cringe punctuated by the occasional, “Okay, he’s growing on me.”
He’s getting better.
Please let me leave it behind.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 326 words, poem: Roses And Violets
Read: Constellation Games, Leonard Richardson
Comics: Chew 9-12
Music: Never Been On MTV, Dead KennedysIt’s time now to rest, to refocus and think about the next thing. In the meantime, it’ll be poems and short stories, maybe a comic or four, a new hip ditty and then…
Then.
It may seem relaxing, but I’m desperate to have had something of an impact. I don’t need to be Jesus or Buddha; I’ll take minor pantheon member. But hell, even though I’ve got so many plans, it still feels like my race is run, like the egg timer is about to go off and my goose will be officially cooked.
You know, the usual hair on fire stuff.
So, yeah. Back to work, back to the work. Downtime, with a side of poetry.
Also, selling The Mungk, but hey, every act of creation has its cross to bear.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 81 words, poem: Roses And Violets
Read: Constellation Games, Leonard Richardson
Comics: Chew 5-8
Music: Neutron Star Collision (Love Is Forever), Muse