Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Not such a bad guy...

Notes on a Bukowski quote about contemplating suicide, whereupon he decided that for good or for bad, his body and his life were his own... and I'm sure the passage was delivered with his usual sardonic humor, but he decided he was fond of both. I've come down a similar path to the same conclusion.

I remember nights in the despair or boredom, too soon to sleep, but too late and too drunk to reboot that particular 24 hours, thinking well this is fucking pointless. Here I am again, and gawdalmighty this is dull. Sitting in a soggy diaper of repetition. Tedium can be greater trauma than driving into a lightpole. What else was there to do but change things up? There were no new drugs. And I figured I wasn't such a bad guy. Being boring isn't a sin.

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Current mood...

With no real reason so we can assume these are 2017 feelings that had been filed away to deal with at a later time.

Monday, January 08, 2018

Nothing changes if nothing changes.

And the real meaning of this old adage comes to light, so to speak, upon finding myself watching video footage of a young man who accidentally sets his cat afire while lighting a fart. Don't ask for explanation. The point is that something has to change. No, I have to change something. I didn't get sober to spend my time watching pets torched by their asshole owners, or their owners' assholes in this case. 

I can't do this. 

Don't ask for a link to the video. Fucking Google it yourself. 

Saturday, January 06, 2018

Damn dawgs...

Drinking a lot of red wine around here!

Sunday, December 31, 2017

Old man, take a look at my life...


The headaches circled back through in the late afternoon, severe, but as gone as quickly as they arrived. The crash trajectory was nowhere as steep, but still ended further down the mountain than even this morning. I'm not making midnight. The trusty dawg will be snoring next to me and lights will be out.

So long 2017.

Inventory taken, I'm ahead of the game and I did give as good as I got. If I helped you, well, the weight I put into keeping you propped up kept me propped up. Gravity is cool that way sometimes. But a big shout-out to everyone who picked me up every time I took a header. I'd make a list of names, but we don't do that, do we?

It's all good.

Sarah Manguso 4: from 300 Arguments

"Many bird names are onomatopoetic -- they name themselves. Fish, on the other hand, have to float there and take what they get."

I suppose the lesson here is that it's better to be a bird than to be a fish. I recall writing an introduction, years ago, to my earliest memoir project. I said, "You'd better get to telling your own story before someone else tells it for you and their's becomes the definitive version." I know now that can happen no matter who strikes first, but at least if you get moving you have a fighting chance to explain yourself in your own words, as accurately as possible (hopefully).

So name yourself or be named by the noises you make. 

In other stories today, I'm reminded that my mood and my physical well-being are always closely connected. The second incidence of cluster headaches came down like hammer blows somewhere in the wee hours of this morning. The first had just been a foreshadowing of the more serious quake to come. The worst of the pain subsided but the crash has been much less than subtle. I'm wrung out physically and emotionally with very little vacation time left to recover. 

Hello New Years Eve...

There were no plans anyway, but that's not the point, is it?  I was hoping to wander out to something that might take me away from some feelings. It's entirely plausible that every year doesn't have to end with the rendering of an account, but 2017 is demanding it.  It was an eventful 12 months and took away at least one of the people without whom the 12+ before them would have been a lot more difficult. The same might be said for the next 12 as I'll be moving forward without them... without her. 

Natalie... it almost feels sometimes as if you were entirely of my imagination.  I've not been able to write since shortly after you died. You really died, didn't you? It's like a switch was thrown. The power was turned off.  You, of course, wouldn't want to hear this and you'd make a face and call me foolish, and you would be right. My legs got heavy, like running into the surf from the beach.

More later.  I can't do this now.