Monday, December 05, 2016

Tired, grumpy, and miserable. And also happy, because I enjoy feeling bad once in a while. Nothing exists in itself, and I were to flatter myself that I am all over comfortable, and have been so for a long time, then I cannot be said to be comfortable any more.

I did zero hole-drilling this weekend. Yet I can't fight it much longer. Unperturbed drywall, bearing little other than itself, arrogant and red. It heaps me.

Walked 11 miles on Saturday. Then only 4 on Sunday. Sunday was malaisy, broodish, and thinly-lit. The twins came over and got really into Narnia game for the PS3, Prince Caspian I think. They proclaimed it the best game ever, until we all got stuck on this damn river-crossing part. I warned them about movie tie-in games, and now they're experiencing it again.

What now, then?

Feeling a bit closed in. The usual winter melancholy, probably. Or I could be getting sick. I'm so often allergic and so rarely sick, I forget what it feels like to truly need to take time to recuperate. Maybe I should go to bed earlier.

Disorder, perhaps. Generally I'm comfortable in it, only this time I lack the artistic credibility to justify it. A mere slovenly sloth, no suffering creator here. You want the next house over.

I worried sublimation would be a slippery slope.

Friday, December 02, 2016

Listening to The Dead Flag Blues. The song has dialogue from what may someday become a film. Most dialogue never becomes film.

It's moody and bleak and I am hesitant to write while it plays. Don't want to depress myself for no reason.

The dogs need a bath. I shall endeavor to bathe them this weekend, during the sunniest part of the day.

More ideas for remodeling are stirring about my head. I think some part of me got the impression that I have a workshop and can actually attempt these things. Alas, I do not. Maybe I can get a workbench at least. Ooh, and a vise. I love a good vise. Maybe a little anvil. Annoy the neighbors.

Thursday, December 01, 2016

Eight miles. Walked 8 miles and my shoulder hurts for some reason. Must have slept pretty hard last night.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

What is the measure of success? Having the fewest regrets? Not many objective measures once I leave the realms of biology, geology, and physics. Given how I feel moment-to-moment, I am wary of anything that factors in my emotional state. Some NPR article or perhaps a bumper sticker mentioned that when a person is on their deathbed, they always say they should have spent more time with their family and loved ones. I understand that sentiment, certainly. I think that's common because the people in question are at the end of their story and they can look at it with the eye of an editor instead of as the artist.

We only get the 1st draft of our life; after that it's up to the editors. If we're lucky maybe even a soundtrack. Your Life: The 2-Disc Album: A 120-Minute Slice of Forever. Or something equal parts epic and vague. We don't want people deciding if they should like it or not before they listen to it.

It just has to be experienced.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Didn't make it to 10 miles yesterday. Stopped a little after six. It was getting late. Maybe save the big walks for the weekends. Six miles takes about two hours.

I'm taking my work break a little earlier than usual. Some brain magazine about thinking stuff suggests that our meager human brains can go about 90 minutes before they get attention-fatigue and need a quick recharge. I go about 3 hours in between breaks. I'm aware that I check my phone more often at about Hour 2. Get more easily distracted. Or maybe my brain is at war with itself.

I like being focused. Perhaps my ability to suppress my rage at being interrupted diminishes as the day goes on. Also there are fewer coworkers about. My cubicle mate has a habit of taking personal calls at her desk. My noise-canceling headphones are good, but they're not as good at blocking out human voices. I should just get a motorcycle helmet. Safety first.

I spent some time last night reading old blog posts about Luis. Living at home was a wealth of Luis Lore. We'd laugh so much.

Last night I went over to my mom's house to get some stuffing. It's pretty much regular bread stuffing with sausage in it. Throw a couple over-easy eggs on it, you got yourself a stew. Barbara and the nephews came over too. I also snagged some flan. Bizarre desert, how I love you.

Monday, November 28, 2016

Ten miles walked on Saturday. Ten miles walked on Sunday. A little stiff and a little sore. Just have to do it 298 more times. Along the way I'll probably become the greatest Call of Duty player that ever walked 3,000 miles. Might have to start a league.

Blister is almost healed. There was spot that was rubbing my heel in my shoe. I covered it with a bit of duct tape and it hasn't bothered me since.

Thanksgiving has come and gone. I enjoyed spending time with my family, and Kelly's. I also went to a memorial for Kelly's grandfather on Saturday. It was at ASU, where he taught. It went well, I think. The grief was not as raw, it seemed.

I've started tinkering a bit around the house again. Time to get rid of some things, maybe drill some more holes in the wall. I bet I could squeeze a wall-mounted computer desk behind the treadmill. Walk walk walk, shower, then sit and write. Just like old times.

Something appealing about a cramped room.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

A town overrun by beasts. The people bar themselves inside at night and burn incense to ward away the nightmare creatures. I know the feeling.

Image of a man sitting in a small room, listening to soft ambient music and a police scanner.

Grin Verdigris.

Thanksgiving tomorrow. I think I promised to make something. But what? Hash browns would be good. Everyone loves those. Non-mash potatoes are in right now.

The miasma of the holidays does not lie as heavy upon me this year. I wonder why. The memory of Luis is still there. Some years ago, probably noted in this very blog, I contemplated giving my mom a compilation of the stories I wrote about Luis into a book for her. Hell, maybe I should just book the whole thing. The Story of Luis, interrupted many times by some dude writing about hisself. I'll title it Volume II. That'll drive people nuts.

Volume I could be the notebooks, and come out as Volume 3. The bibliography will be whatever happens between now and another ten years. Or my death, whichever comes first. Or the death of the written word, whichever comes firster.

Electrons go on strike.