Fiddle, oh ballabber-minstel!

Clandestine openings and slamming departures!

Boxed, taped up, like a bastard son in a rug of family resentment, there is no home on this plane of existence for the loveless. Bridge gaps in your teeth as though they were whores, paid and sent away, the cards have been dealt well but the bidding poor. Where is that bridge now?

I burn in the fiery passion of utter apathetic inner resonance. I would like to stand on my own somewhere until I am retrieved by my rushing father, the father of the word. Then I will be happy, or maybe not, because happiness is a humanly applied quality.

Then, at least, I might know what’s going on.

Season's Huggings

MERRY MERRY MERRY CHRISTMAS!

I AM FILLED WITH LOVE FOR THEE, AND I SPLURGE IT ALL OVER YOUR BODIES, SOMETIMES FACES, TIME PERMITTING.

May you all be healthy, happy, sickened and saddened, in the perfect balance of life for another year, and may you prosper where necessary, always, always LOVE.

Tis the Season

My credibility as a person who has something valuable to add to this discussion is waning like a mooning teenager at a four-night disco party.

I feel like a large, empty colon, which normally speweth forth energy.

STUPID WORK. TAKE AWAY MY HOURS OF DOING SHIT ALL TIME.

Ok, so, here’s the crux, I’ve hit a new record low of productivity ever since I’ve been working at my new job. I have written ONE HALF of a song, and it’s not even particularly good, a few lines of this play me and Scaifey are supposed to be editing, and JUST scraped a couple of comic strips in, each of them a day late. Budda bing budda what the fuck is wrong with my creativity gland.
In the middle of doing nothing TEE time, I was writing 3000 words a day at a minimum, I’ll be lucky if I can read more than a few pages of my current novel and then wham, sleep, and do it all again the next day.

I do enjoy preparing food for money though. It’s pretty interesting compared to all the other shit options available, such as the joy of delivery driving, and working at KFC. Suckers. The money is nice too. I’m finally rich enough to buy people Christmas presents. Which I still haven’t done, because I don’t have the time.

Merry Bitchmas.

Life

“I’ve invented this great new board game; it’s called ‘Life’”

“Cool, what do you do?”

“You move these little pieces around this circular board by throwing some dice.”

“How do you win?”

“You don’t.”

“Well that’s well and good, but how does the game finish?”

“Someone gets frustrated going in circles and sets fire to the board.”

“If the game has no point, then why don’t you just burn the board at the beginning?”

“First, I didn’t say it had no point, I said there was no winner, and second, because then you miss all the good stuff of playing the game!”

“WHAT GOOD STUFF!?”

“Well… there’s the burning part I guess. That’s cool.”

“‘Life’ sucks.”

“Can say that again.”

Some words

So I was reading this interview, with a man who I greatly respect, and he mentioned a name that I hadn’t heard; Jack Trevor Story.

He gave him great props as a writer. I’m currently reading one of his novels… he’s insane! Utterly amazing. He writes dialogue in narrative form, so it comes out like this:

“‘Old Uncle Andrew was crazy’ Bertha used to say,” Rhonda used to say.

The way he plays with language is intense. Not James Joyce intense, but lightly and beautifully friendly intense.

Stendhal

Where do the Princes go to cheat?
For when I am court jester I will weight their cards.
And the mornings are dark now
But the nights over-lit.
Who will be left to remember us when we are gone?

Where do Demons go to eat?
For when I worship false idols I will serve their food.
And the games are meaningless
The philosophizing empty
Who will be left to remember us when we are gone?

I’m rather in a peaceable state right now, and I’m worried that I might get stuck here. My job is comfortable, friendly, and filled with new things and money… my women fast and futile… my writing possessed and my brain begging to get out and do something different.

My whole being is telling me to move away, far away, and get a change of scene, take a new name, a new personality, find a different life and abandon everything. I’m feeling stuck down in a reasonable year of pleasant occurrences.

Some dances are not meant to be danced.

Where do we go from here?

There is so much in the world to be discovered. So many people whom history forgets. I would like to pin them to a wall and write a small plaque about the triviality of the search for meaning.

In other news, I’ve found my meaning. By which mean I know what I have to do, I just don’t know what that things is yet.
(Hell makes sense.)

Let me re-phrase. I want to latch on to the next thing. I need to find something new, the next medium, that I can be the Balzac of, or the Shakespeare, or the Cervantes or the Beatles of. I need to find something that’s in its juvenile years, like Orson Welles did with cinema, or the early Broadway greats…
That’s where I’ll be at home. I’ll know it when I find it, but it’s an astounding thing to think that my place in the world has not been invented yet. I’m pretty sure of that. Or maybe it has, I’m just gonna fuck around with it so much you won’t recognize it.

My job is hard work but fun. Plus I get a 25% discount at King of Knives! I’m the dish-washing, chopping shit up MASTA.

Babies.