We are falling
falling down
falling under
rising up
The wind lifts us
a tempest against a fading storm
We spread our feathers
a wild beating of wings
Against the throngs below
they are not us
they are ages old
They wish a return
We wish a future
And time is on our side
If they haven’t used it all up
They cannot last forever
We have flown so far
We have seen the moon and the stars
We have risen
We will not be dragged low
We spread our feathers
a wild beating of wings
They cannot contain us
We will soarTarget: 1000 words Written: 108 words, poem: Feathers Falling Read: Permanent Record, Edward Snowden Comics: Chew 24-26, 27.2 Music: Never Mind The Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols (it's such a shame that Johnny Rotten turned out to be a nazi punk, instead of, you know, the good kind.)
Category: philosophy
the pushpull
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.)hopeful
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 Pepperslegacy
I 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 Kennedysthe mungk
It started off as a riff on a couple of classics, as so many of my things do: the monster under the bed and it was a dark and stormy night…
I can’t seem to help postulating on other ways to see things; it’s a gift and a curse. The need to play devil’s advocate and constantly ask what other ways a thing can be seen is so ingrained in me, it’s just about impossible to keep from indulgence.
The monster under the bed merged with the concept of little things draining the life and verve you’re born with, and grew to encompass loss, abandonment and trauma.
The Mungk is a meditation on the birth of resignation, of fatalism.
Hopelessness, as seen through the guise of a children’s story.
It’s an exploration of how, as we grow, the world reveals itself to be far less well-meaning and static than we presume as children, where parents are gods, friends are forever and it’s one adventure after the other.
I won’t claim to have been abandoned or abused or any of that good stuff. My parents were pretty good. We had our fights, but nothing like what other poor souls have been through. I was disemboweled by a tree when I was eight; it didn’t make me grow up vowing revenge against improperly cut stumps.
(What a shitty superhero that would have been – the Leveller!)
I was more traumatized by the loss of faith; as I’ve said before, if you want to lose your religion, read the Bible. If you’re not out by Leviticus, there’s something wrong with your basic human decency.
The Mungk is trauma on trauma on trauma.
It’s overwhelming, it’s so much bigger than something we can deal with, in a child’s parable.
I’m sorry to unleash this on the world, but well, it’s the thing I’m most proud of, to this point. It’s good.
I think it’s great.
I could be wrong.
That’s the risk a person takes in creating anything. We build, we create, we connect the dots. We put it out into the world and now, it’s something for the jackals. Their noses twitch, their lips pull back from their teeth.
They pounce.
Anyway, the Mungk is born, for better or worse.
Only time will tell if this post is the beginning of something huge, or just another whisper in a storm.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 1618 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Mindset: The New Psychology Of Success, Carol Dweck
Comics: Chew 1-4
Music: Neutral Milk Hotel Essentials, Neutral Milk Hotelaccording to my calculations
The Mungk should be finished in ten to fourteen days.
Then, onto the scarier phase – trying to fucking sell it.
Writing it is the easy part, compared to all the gladhanding and sending and trying to build audiences and dealing with the constant rejection.
And it’s a lot of rejection.
I think maybe sometimes that the whole universe has looked at me with the most cursory glance and said, nah. Not interested.
Dismissed out of hand by god.
The question is do we disappear, or do we get pissed and say, oh yeah? Look at me now, while smashing everything around them.
How you like me now?
Target: 1000 words
Written: 1173 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: I'll Be Gone In The Dark, Michelle McNamara
Comics: The Boys 47, The Boys: Highland Laddie 1-3
Music: Nazi Punks Fuck Off, Dead Kennedys (because, you know, fuck 'em. Fuck all the Nazis. I'm looking at you, Conservatives and Republicans.)ultimate draft
This is it.
The separation of M.T. Williams and his first grand creation (though not his first creation).
We are on the last draft prior to manuscript.
A dozen misfires and then the final blow.
Kind of exciting, if not also terrifying.
Funny how those two always seem to be in cahoots. Everything exciting should scare the shit out of you, right?
Right?
Hello?
Target: 1000 words
Written: 2040 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Good Sex, Jessica Graham (not been helpful for focus, but hell on the libido)
Comics: The Boys 43-46
Music: Navy Blues, Sloan (feelin' Canuck the last couple of days)a slim chance of hope
Every day, I tell myself the same thing:
This, too, is the way. This, too, shall pass.
It’s a mantra that keeps me from screaming, or worse.
It’s ringing a little hollow these days. Perhaps it’s just another way to avoid taking action on the things that haunt me.
Perhaps.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 2287 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Uncertainty: Turning Fear And Doubt Into Fuel For Brilliance, Jonathan Fields
Comics: The Boys 31-34
Music: Natural Born Killers, Nine Inch Nailsbetter already
Man, sometimes, you just have to suck it up and take your medicine (if you can afford the medicine, which is a whole other issue, and thank goodness, I live in Canada, at least until Poilievre gets in, which he looks increasingly likely to do, the slimy, deceitful fuck).
Sofi’s better already. Two doses of antibiotic and some probiotic and she’s already pooped, slept through the night and seems so much more content.
Poor baby.
I wish she didn’t have to go through that. Would that no one would, but I suppose it shapes character.
Still, that’s kind of bullshit. We can learn through happiness as much as we can through sorrow.
We just don’t.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 1872 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Words For Pictures, Brian Michael Bendis
Comics; The Boys 17-20
Music: Use Your Illusion II, Guns 'n' Rosesshocked
So, like, I used a sink hand plunger and in less than ten seconds, the clog was gone, and I had the rest of my day back.
I was so confused; things never go that easy.
I was prepared to hacksaw off the stripped P-Trap and replace it, and all this good crazy shit; I thought my whole day was shot.
Naturally, I couldn’t believe my luck – things never work out like that for me.
There had to be another shoe, waiting, hanging.
And there was. Sofi was up all night, going outside and straining, unable to poop. I slept a grand total of one and a half hours.
Nice one, universe. Fuck you.
Target: 1000 words
Written: 2258 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Swiss Family Robinson, Johann David Wyss
Comics: The Boys 9-12
Music: Use Your Fingers, Bloodhound Gang