Category: relationships

the first day of school

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Not that this matters to me, not having young kids, but it seems to have stirred up a hornet’s nest. So many things happening.

I laid the birds fall haiku to rest; the reception has been fairly meager but divine, having garnered more reads than I would have expected (~1600 by my guesstimate), which is crazy.

Secondly, my wife’s work released v2 of their Pay Equity Act chart, which was unchanged from the first one and reiterated the vindictiveness the COO and his cronies have against certain people. I have a lot to say about that, but we’re still figuring out the best path forward.

And then, of course, unreasonable human beings being unreasonable, and catching poor, defenseless creatures who can’t speak for themselves in between. No one’s vanity should come over another being’s life. I’m disgusted by the whole thing, especially when there’s such an easy solution to be had, if only one particular party would stop being entirely unreasonable and give the tiniest little bit (or one would stand up for his damn self for once and realize none of this behaviour is appropriate, normal or healthy). The level of selfishness involved is appalling.

Let’s just say that entitlement and selfishness bother me most of the time in other people, but when it reaches this point, I’m at a loss for words. The whole thing is disgusting.

Yes, the first day of school made me want to scream. To rage. But against what? Injustice? This world gets less just every day. Selfishness? This is a good one, but the selfish don’t feel guilt like the rest of us. Only their own vanity, their own narcissism needs feeding.

Taking responsibility for one’s bad behaviour requires understanding that one has committed bad behaviour in the first place, and I’m sure that none of these people would be willing to admit that.

After all, that wouldn’t get them what they want, no matter the expense to others, and no matter how small and petty the behaviour was.

At the end of the day, I would like to reshape my life to exclude all of it, but circumstances being what they are, we must suffer through the shit; we cannot control the actions of others, only our reactions to them.

The question is: how much shit are we willing to take, to hold onto jobs, onto love, onto relationships with the innocent victims of another’s sociopathy?

How far must we go? How much must we endure?

And is it worth it for the scraps we are thrown from the table?

Anyway, fuck today and most of the people involved.

Maybe reason will rule the days to come, but I doubt it. We aren’t that lucky.

Target: 800 words
Written: 649 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hail To The Chin: Further Confessions Of A B Movie Actor, Bruce Campbell
Comics: I Hate Fairyland v2 7-9, Untold Tales Of I Hate Fairyland v2 1
Music: Standup, Bill Hicks (in which he destroys his own comedy recording and issues one of the angriest takedowns of a heckler ever, beautifully.  I'm not sure "I'm a drunk cunt!" wouldn't get him cancelled nowadays, but hey, I laughed)

the best laid plans

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Friday night and we’ve washed the dogs. It’s only six o’clock. We’ve already eaten. They’ve walked.

Everything is done.

That means time to read, time to play. Time to think of better dates with my wife than dogwashing and trips to the dump.

Something involving candlelight, wine and maybe lingerie and massage oils.

So, instead, my parents drop in, unplanned, for a porch drink.

Ah, well, as my wife says, who knows how long they have left? Apparently, we can fuck later.

Target: 800 words
Written: 674 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King (new book!  a classic!)
Comics: I Hate Fairyland 8-11
Music: Random Live Stuff, Creedence Clearwater Revival (except, it's not?  It's Eddie Vedder singing Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay?  How did that happen?)

of icons and disappointment

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I think I liked life better when my idols weren’t being constantly accused or exposed as total creeps.

You expect it from Republicans, but man, I wish so many of the people who I grew up thinking as good people, people to pattern oneself afterward, turn out to be assholes.

Or not.

So much of it is speculation and hearsay, so much of it divorced from reality and put upon with one’s own prejudices, that a person has no choice but to take it with a grain of salt.

It’s one thing when accuser after accuser comes out of the woodwork, because this shit tends to be serial among the rich and famous, but when it’s isolated, without evidence or corroboration… do we still believe every story?

I’m all for believing survivors, but to assume that every accusation is the god’s honest truth is downright naive, and actually malicious when put into practice. Weaponized outrage.

Some of the stuff coming out of all this has been truly horrific; some of it much more complicated than its rage conductors would have us believe. Blind belief never serves anyone. Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to be certain, as certain as one can be, and thereby discourage those who would wield outrage for personal gain, revenge or whatever against trotting out lies and thereby destroying someone’s life and career?

Anyway, thoughts on the day; I still side with women, in most cases, with the caveat that blind acceptance is always a bad idea. Myopia is never a good look. We owe it to ourselves and the presumption of innocence to at least wait for the facts before we condemn.

Target: 800 words
Written: 402 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Regiment, Farley Mowat
Comics: Postal 24-25, Postal: Mark 1, Postal: Laura 1
Music: Underclass Hero + Sampler, Sum 41

sometimes you gotta listen to your gut

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Or your colon. Or your horoscope.

Things are going bad to worse. I’ve been awake since three in the morning; a casualty of our rat terrier’s deathly fear of storms.

She’s from Texas, originally, which means she likes heat, spicy food and hates fucking storms, because I’m guessing she’s been through a few.

We don’t know the details of her background prior to our rescue; there’s been hints that it was a total hoarder situation, followed by a neglectful situation involving assholes kids.

My gut told me we needed her. Her gut tells me she can’t live without me.

She is my shadow. I am her helicopter parent.

We are in love.

My gut tells me, this one is going to hurt, when it finally comes, almost as much as the Pyrenees.

Or worse.

Target: 700 words
Written: 734 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Elfstones Of Shannara, Terry Brooks
Comics: Postal 13-14, Symmetry 6, Eden's Fall 1
Music: Uncle Anesthesia, Screaming Trees

how do i sell myself to you

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It’s a question I’ve wrestled with since the day I decided I wanted to be a writer.

I want to be authentic. Open. There should be nothing between you and my thoughts but the desire to keep other people’s secrets secret, because they’re not mine to expose.

Of course, we all present ourselves through a filter, either by intentional omission or unconscious deceit (or vice versa – intentional deceit and unconscious omission.)

I don’t like to do either, but at the same time, I don’t want to be a martyr anymore than I want to be a charlatan. I’d like to write for a living, but there are two non-negotiables:

First, what I write is what I want to write. I hate the idea of being tied to a particular genre, and I don’t want anyone else to dictate the content of my stories. No Hollywood motherfuckers who think they know better or need to “sex it up” (although I am heavily fixated on sex, so that seems like it might not be an issue), or publishers/editors who want a happier ending or something more “clever”.

Save me from clever art, as Palahniuk would say, while being weirdly over clever, yet somehow, managing to hold that instinctual, emotional raw nerve. (It is a brazen and wondrous talent, those who can do this, and I am in awe of it.)

Secondly, I don’t want to be someone I’m not. I’m not perfect; if anything, I’m terribly broken, complex and boring, typical and atypical simultaneously; unique, in the worst and most generic way.

I am a work in progress. I’m an ugly piece of granite, in the process of seeing what’s underneath.

It might be a toad.

It might be Psyche.

I don’t know, but I know what I’m trying for.

How on track I remain will determine whether I’ve the smooth and incredible detail of a Cellini or the clumsy stack of a inukchuk (although, given the spiritual connection to the land and to honouring what is, in nature and spirit, that is totally cool). Maybe shattered gravel would be a better metaphor.

Or a pile of crumbling mud.

Anyway, how to tell the world of what I’ve written, while not compromising my self into something I don’t want to be?

I want to be honest, in work and in life.

Anything else isn’t worth it, and bullshit.

Target: 700 words
Written: 98 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The $100 Startup, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Saga 49-52
Music: Outcesticide, Nirvana

lost in space

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My wife was a big fan of the original series; I was more of a Star Trek/Doctor Who guy growing up. My dad always looked down on Lost In Space. If we watched something from that era, it was Captain Kirk or Adam West.

That said, I adore the new one from Netflix and wish it went on much longer. Molly Parker and Parker Posey are two of my favourite actresses and they are terrific in this. I also have a visceral attraction to Molly Parker; I don’t know what it is, but man, she just does it for me.

Anyways, the point is that I recently started watching the original series, as a nod to my wife (sorry about the Molly Parker thing, honey), and I have to admit, I’m in. They do a good job of creating tension and doing that writerly thing of “keep them in danger”, even if it’s outlandish in the actual science part (as, admittedly, was Star Trek).

And Jonathan Harris, what can I say? Every time he shows up on screen, all I can think is “this motherfucker“, so I guess he’s doing what he’s supposed to do, in creating a perpetually evil villain. I suspect there’s a redemption arc for him, but I’m not that far into the series. Certainly, there was for Parker Posey’s Smith, who was also terrific, as she always is.

Anyway, out, bitches (and please picture that said in Parker Posey’s Dazed and Confused character), maybe followed by a stumbling “fuck all of you”, with some middle fingers and shit.

Target: 700 words
Written: 84 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The $100 Startup, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Saga 45-48
Music: Out Of Time, R.E.M. (Jesus, I forgot what an incredible album this was - one of the greatest all time.  I used to play it on repeat when it first came out, back when I was first losing my religion, literally.)

fifteen years

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Here we are, at Tony DiNapoli’s in New York City, my lovely wife and I (and our daughter), enjoying family style fettucine alfredo and baked ziti over a glass of Chianti, because we can.

Because we’ve been married for fifteen lovely years, together for seventeen. I don’t necessarily believe in the reality of monogamy (and I think the insistence causes a lot of unhappiness in the world), but I wouldn’t choose anyone else to share these years with.

I can, without any doubt, say that I am a better man today for her, and for me.

Happy anniversary, darling.

Target: 700 words
Written: 293 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: It Devours!, The Night Vale Guys
Comics: Danger Girl: Trinity 3-4, Danger Girl: The Chase 1-2
Music: Origin Of Symmetry, Muse

all i’m saying

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Is when you’re talking about suicide, depression and mental health around others, be aware that there may be sufferers nearby for whom your demonization or minimization of their struggle impacts negatively, reinforcing the very stereotypes about themselves that may be keeping in this state of diminished being.

Your words could spiral someone who was teetering, and you might not even know it.

Leave the place better than you found it. That’s all I’m saying.

And for Pete’s sake, if your only contribution to empathy is a social media post or bluster to friends, just stop pretending you give a shit, so everybody can know what an asshole you are, and not just those attuned to recognize hypocrisy and bullshit.

(Also, who’s Pete? Why are we doing things for Pete’s sake? Is Pete depressed? Should we be worried about Pete?)

Target: 700 words
Written: 41 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales (so.  goddamned.  long.)
Comics: American Vampire Second Cycle 11, American Vampire Anthology 2, American Vampire 1976 1-2
Music: One By One, Foo Fighters (the last great rock band - unless you count Jack White, which I don't after the White Stripes ended)

empathy-less

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A guy we don’t know through some people we don’t know through some people we do know killed himself recently.

I’m sure it’s not that uncommon; I suspect many unexpected deaths that they don’t list causes for in the newspaper are suicide-based, more than we care to admit.

What bothers me is the response.

The condemnation of this fellow is unanimous – what an asshole for leaving his wife and children, and in his own home!

This, from people who will advocate for nearly anyone who has a “disorder”, as long as they don’t know them personally. The homeless are just broken. Oh, you can’t hold them responsible for that. They have anxiety, and get this, DEPRESSION.

And yet, the condemnation of this poor fellow is ASSHOLE, LOSER, IDIOT, MONSTER.

I don’t know anything about the situation that led to all this, so I don’t know the man’s motivations or the attitudes and behaviours of those in his life, but I suspect if he was willing to go that far, his thoughts about himself probably ran much the same.

ASSHOLE, LOSER, IDIOT, MONSTER.

And as someone who has lived with depression since I was twelve and thought about snuffing it more times than I can count, I can tell you that someone showing a little empathy, some care and concern, could very well have turned it around.

My go-to is “this too shall pass”, which reminds me when I’m feeling like that just to keep moving and the situation will change. Sometimes, that takes days. Sometimes, it just needs one other person to say something nice, or to engage you in something that takes your mind off of it.

Writing helps. Better out than in.

I don’t know anything, again, and the man or his wife, his kids, his job, whatever. Maybe he just found out he had stage 4 cancer and didn’t want to put his family through that. Maybe he was into some shady shit and his whole world was about to blow apart. His reasons might be entirely different from my own.

I don’t know if she was supportive and he was suffering psychological issues beyond what she could deal with, but from the sound of it, it was fairly unexpected, so who knows?

Either way, I think some empathy is due. He felt enough pain to make the one choice that truly abdicates one’s responsibility toward this life in which we live. That, in itself, should trigger questions as to why, not condemnations. That solves nothing, and for the other people in your life that may suffer in depression, and may be thinking of self-harm, it sends a clear message – what a worthless, idiotic, monstrous asshole you would be for committing such an act, and by extension, even considering it (which we sufferers inevitably do).

I can guarantee, because I had the fucking thought, the reaction there from those who are still suffering, was “they don’t understand the pain”, followed by guilt and a further spiral of anger, because again, the world proves it does not care about you, that it devalues you, that you are a worthless, idiotic, asshole loser and now, yes, a MONSTER.

Of course, these same people show empathy when all it requires is meaningless words to people not involved or a post on social media, but when it comes to supporting or sympathizing with someone in reality?

That’s how you know these people are more interested in status and reputation and not in empathy or helping those who suffer.

So, sorry, guy I didn’t know. You were suffering to the point where you felt leaving this life was the only reasonable choice. You didn’t have (or didn’t know you had) people around you who would support you, who would help you and you made the ultimate choice.

And while we can debate endlessly the nature of the act – cowardice and irresponsibility versus relief and the end of suffering – we can spare a minute to think of the pain of those left behind and the departed.

He made a bad choice, driven by bad feelings, caught in the tunnel vision of despair, in which one sees no options and none are presented.

Perhaps if someone had taken the time to pay attention, and provide an option or a shoulder to cry on, instead of ASSHOLE, LOSER, IDIOT, MONSTER, he might not be gone at all.

Target: 700 words
Written: 63 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales
Comics: American Vampire: Second Cycle 7-10
Music: The One, Foo Fighters

off to see the baby

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Well, she’s about three now, so not really a baby, but I’m due for more childish glee and less adult drama.

Hell, nobody really wants drama, unless they’re enjoying fiction or missing something in their lives.

Peace is much more fulfilling.

Highest filling, next to a nice garlic cream sauce.

Target: 600 words
Written: 436 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: A New Earth, Eckhart Tolle
Comics: American Vampire 5-8
Music: Oil & Gold, Shriekback