ride on

I’m not ready for the forgiveness conversation. Not yet. I know what I want to say, up in the head, but for now, suffice it to say that a better slogan would be this:

Don’t ask permission; don’t need forgiveness.

Show us you’ve thought about the consequences of your actions. Show us you’ve thought about the people and world around you. And if the gatekeepers are still unfair, still blocking creation, still blocking joy or sustenance or the application of basic human decency, well, then, fuck ’em.

Fuck ’em all.

Target: 800 words
Written: 1633 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Grimm's Fairy Tales, Brothers Grimm
Comics: The Me You Love In The Dark 1-4
Music: Even More Live Crap I Have Lying Around, Pearl Jam

ask forgiveness, fuck you

I mean, that’s the gist of that phrase, right?

Its origins are obviously in the idea that certain people or organizations act as gatekeepers and therefore, the way to be successful in that field without these fucking creation cops is to just do it anyway and ask forgiveness after it works out.

The problem, like most other platitudes, is that it’s been co-opted (sort of) to become something worse.

Allow me to explain.

Not bothering to ask for permission has been adopted by the extortionists masquerading as capitalists and fascists masquerading as politicians – do whatever the fuck you want and if someone complains, well, then, they must be a whiner or a gatekeeper.

We’ve forgotten the ask forgiveness part.

We’re just doing whatever, fuck permission, and fuck you.

There’s more, much more to be said on that, but I went full marathon today and my brain is D-E-A-D.

Tomorrow, maybe.

Target: 800 words
Written: 2814 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King (so classic, but I'm a little irritated my Kindle copy updated and all the extras somehow disappeared - not what I fucking paid for, Amazon)
Comics: Middlewest 11-14
Music: Live Shit, Local FUCKING H (talk about bands that bring it live)

anyway, back at work

Perhaps we could just do away with the whole work thing and just kind of live?

I know that’s not really practical if we want, you know, stuff and food and shit.

But maybe we could make it less horrible, so it’s, you know, less horrible.

Less life stealing.

More enjoyable.

Better.

Please make it better.

Perhaps if we remove the profit incentive and just focus on making cool stuff that’s actually useful and providing for our needs?

Target: 800 words
Written: 654 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Brothers Of Earth, CJ Cherryh (finally, a bit of progress - it should never have taken this long for a 250 page book)
Comics: Bully Wars 1-4
Music: Random Covers, L7, Mudhoney

the long drive home

I’m going to miss it up there; I think it might be a final residence for me, if ever I can get to a level of independent wealth to be able to leave this situation.

My family may not relocate and what family I have there will probably be long gone by the time I get up there.

Hell, Torontonians will probably have invaded the place and ruined it, as they do with pretty much everything. Fucking Torontonians and their goddamn egos.

The older I get, the more I take issue with the presumed fact that cities are somehow more actually enlightened and their residents automatically better people than everyone else. The older I get, all I see is a sense of false superiority and unearned entitlement, over a desperate and sad posturing over status and cool.

How terribly boring cities must be, with their cookie cutter nervousness and template anxiety. Give me the calm and cruel quietude of nature any day. No bullshit in nature; only peace.

So, naturally, we’re killing it.

Everything humans touch dies.

Target: 800 words
Written: 483 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Brothers Of Earth, CJ Cherryh
Comics: The Crow / Hack/Slash 1-4 (ugh, I hate it when writers don't understand characters, and use them to push their own uninspired creations)
Music: Random Covers - Anti-Flag, CKY

morbid wonder

I suppose I’m giving the impression that I’m suicidal. I’m not, not really. I’ve too much I’ve not done in this life yet for that, though the depression’s relentless attacks on my ability to do any of it is wearing on me.

So, in that sense, yeah, maybe. There’s a lot of the time where giving up, half-assing it, letting go of any sort of potential for joy, all seems like the best path forward.

Sinking into mediocrity, a sort of mind-numbed endurance, its own special skill, though any and most of us have mastered it.

It’s called “waiting to die”.

Coming up here reminds me there is more to this world than our petty differences, our pointless bullshit.

There’s more than in-fighting.

There’s wonder.

One look at that sky, graded robin’s egg to to royal blue, stroked with tender brushes of clouds and one can’t help but be reminded: religion may be a fiction, but there is still a sense of the divine.

Of majesty and beauty, grandeur.

Holiness.

It has nothing to do with little men in the sky and everything to do with the sheer vastness of what’s beyond our own meager skulls.

It could be so easy to give it all up.

But then what?

Target: 800 words
Written: 584 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Brothers Of Earth, CJ Cherryh
Comics: The Crow: Skinning The Wolves 3, The Crow: Curare 1-3
Music: More Random Songs - Julian Plenti, Linkin Park, McCoy Brothers, Misfits, Overflow

remember me?

I’m increasingly beginning to think I’m playing lute for the damned.

The seemingly unstoppable march of fascism, climate change, gun violence, bigotry, overpopulation, war, fucking microplastics…

At this point, I’m thinking I could write humanity’s single greatest work of fiction, and it wouldn’t matter, because humanity itself will be gone before my lifetime is out.

My lifetime might be tomorrow.

Armageddon might be tomorrow.

I have works of staggering genius in me, but I fear that neither I nor anyone else will live to see them.

Nor will I ever get my head far enough out of my ass to complete them.

Is it still fatalism if it’s true?

Target: 800 words
Written: 535 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Adventures Of Captain Hatteras, Jules Verne (it's nice to feel cold in this heat)
Comics: The Crow: Flesh And Blood 3, The Crow: City Of Angels 1-3
Music: Undisclosed Desires, Muse (apropos, I suppropose) <-- that's the staggering genius I'm talking about.

change for the sake of change

I’m all for change; things change. It’s the only thing we can’t change.

But change for change’s sake, as pushed by tech companies and corporations filled with individuals who may have had a purpose at one point, but have now accomplished that task and are just trying to justify their existence?

Enshittification is a real thing, partially driven by greed, but partially, but idiocy and ego.

You design an app; it’s easy, it’s clean, it does what it’s intended to do and very well, all it requires is maintenance after that.

But then comes the lull. The people who built the app aren’t really necessary at that point; they’re really just there to fix bugs and security flaws. That means most of them can go. But they don’t want to lose their jobs, their prestige, so they start tweaking. This needs this unnecessary feature. What if we update the look?

Cornflower blue?

And next thing you know, the app is a mess, your users are disenchanted and the only thing you can do to keep them is to create more restrictive systems to try and lock them so they have no choice.

But all you had to do was maintain.

Someone should tell the bosses they are no longer needed. Coast, bitches. It’s fun, and it’s easier on everyone.

Target: 800 words
Written: 408 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Regiment, Farley Mowat
Comics: Postal: Night Shift 1
Music: Underground Network, Anti-Flag

exhaustion hunting

I made a note while thinking about the next revision this morning that referred to the book (and ultimately, life) as exhaustion hunting.

It runs us ragged, from one crisis to the next, shortcircuiting our brains with constant fight-or-flight responses, until we’re too weary to fight back.

Our entire system seems designed for that. Corporatism, the constant pushing of the incomplete narrative (in itself a truth, that we are all works in progress, for entirely different reasons, none of which can be solved with externals), the fear that you aren’t enough, and you need to push harder, harder, harder…

Is there any question that our current setup is more akin to exhaustion hunting than the acts of creation and production, with corporations and billionaires as the ones feeding off our carcasses when we finally drop dead?

We are grist for the mill. Worse, we’re effluent.

This world. With climate change and/or fascism about to kill us all, I think the notion of legacy is rapidly running down the drain. What impact when the world is gone? How can a body heal itself, when it’s already got stage 4 cancer, and thinks chemo and surgery are conspiracies?

How do we survive this?

I don’t think we do.

Target: 800 words
Written: 370 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Elfstones Of Shannara, Terry Brooks
Comics: Romulus 3, Postal 17-18, Think Tank: Animal 1
Music: King James Version, Harvey Danger (I was all "a Harvey Danger album I've never heard?  What?"  Then I listened to it and knew every lyric, and started having flashbacks of listening to it after the bar, in headphones, full blast.  The words were the same, but the music was not what I remember.  It's amazing what the mind edits and what it retains.)

echo chamber

There’s one in my head, and it rings with hopelessness. It sees the march of fascism, the flagrant entitlement of the world’s insipid victim mentality, and it knows the end of us is near.

There’s an external echo chamber as well, harming right and left, cutting off the ability to see any other perspective at all, let alone try to truly understand the other, which is the only method of finding resolution and peace.

I try to limit my external echo chamber. I don’t wish to be like my stepson’s friend who was heavily radicalized during the pandemic, to the point of losing a very good teaching position at an Ontario college because he bought into all the “vaccines are poison” nonsense.

Yesterday, he was posting about how a woman in Tennessee won her case and received three quarters of a million dollars for being fired for not getting one, making it sound as though a litany of similar lawsuits were about to bring the corporate world and government to their knees.

Of course, for a guy that I used to think was fairly smart, he sure didn’t much think it through. I’m not even sure he read the article he posted.

First, the woman won in deep red Tennessee. That has jack to do with Canadian law, and second, in the ruling, it specifically noted that the award was given not because the woman didn’t take the vaccine, because she’d had other vaccines, but rather, her religion opposed abortion and there were rumours (that at the time apparently had yet to be debunked) that the vaccine was made using fetus cells, and she felt, on religious grounds, she couldn’t inject that into her body.

Regardless of where I fall on the abortion issue (pro-choice), I can see why she’d be opposed to it.

It was noted in the article that the case was different than most other cases wending their way through the system, because the documentation proved without a doubt that the woman was doing it on religious grounds, not political or ideological ones. The vast majority of vaccine deniers can’t say that. All they can say is they were being selfish and stupid and would rather endanger other people’s lives than do something a liberal might support.

This was a one-off. Hardly the landslide this young man was celebrating.

It’s a weird thing to me, that prior to Trump and the Putin-pushed (and social media and mainstream media endorsed) disinformation pandemic, that perfectly intelligent, otherwise logical individuals could have gotten so locked into their echo chambers that the ability to reason, think or even want to question the information being presented to them has completely disappeared.

I understand the celebrities that do this; they’d been irrelevant before, and this buys them a fan base. It’s a grift.

But the average individual? Even the ones that had previously shown no hate in their hearts?

It’s terrifying to know how quickly someone can abdicate their own mind.

Garbage in, garbage out, as the saying goes.

Unfortunately, their willful myopia is likely to kill us all.

birds fall down upon / weighted wings they choose to fall / blindly into night

Target: 700 words
Written: 254 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Living Dead In Dallas, Charlaine Harris
Comics: Think Tank 8-11
Music: Ultimate Air Supply, Air Supply (why would I do this to myself?  Must be a masochism day.)