New Year's Eve still. Plan on hanging out on the Discord server with the Game Knights. Since we can't hang out and play games in person. 

I'll walk as usual, regular routine. Then maybe have a glass of Plantation Rum. Do some dishes. Clean up in general. There's boxes of things to go through. Stuff I should let go of. There's a curtain rod I've been meaning to hang. I'd have to move some things out of the way to get access to it which is why I haven't done it before. It's certainly time.

I'm watching a British detective mystery show. Very interesting stuff. Everyone's like. "Pardon me, I think you are the murderer; won't you join me in the sitting room and we can discuss it?" It's as if they're operating under the premise that everyone has One Bad Thing they're allowed to do and once it's used up there's nothing to worry about. It's like the mystery is who ate the pie cooling on the window sill. Can't get eaten twice now, kennit? 

Was there anything I planned to do this year? I don't remember. Oh yes, there was a wedding but that has been postponed. Doesn't really count as the type of planning I meant. Goals, accomplishments, that sort of thing. The things we do in rebellion of time's inevitable march. Mostly I've been holding steady. 

That's a good thing, I think. I prefer it anyway, to the other thing. Chaos. Mostly.

Time is another things humans are bad at. New Year's Eve celebrations try to help. Being surrounded by snacks also helps. 

I dreamed last night, and enjoyed my dreams, and now I'm left with the feeling but no memory. How long has it been since I've had a nightmare, I wonder? I've felt afraid in dreams, surely, but I don't recall waking up and still being afraid in many years. 

Maybe because I have dogs and they demand my attention as soon as I wake. And food. No time for lingering emotion; there are practical matters which must be attended to.

I cannot explain the shore. The shore does not need me to explain it. The strand will wind, and so will I, and unwind also, should it please us.

Ocean of ideas stranding.

New Year's Eve approaches. Tomorrow I think will be for staying home and drinking online with friends. That should be fun. 

I dreamed last night. Quite a bit. A somewhat comical bit about people and animals switching minds so the animals were sitting around checking their phones and the people were bounding through meadows. 

In the waking world, there is a vintage/antique shop where fur clothing can be purchased very inexpensively. I pondered the idea of purchasing some, not to to wear, but to make into a kind of book, like a book of carpet samples, but of fur. To be able to feel fox and mink and other animal fur, for science? Seems like a better use of the fur than as a decorative article of clothing. I'm not intrinsically against the use of fur; in my own way I regret my disdain for cotton clothing and my own preference for synthetic materials. No plant-based clothing here, I demand oil. I suppose I do wear my clothing for a very long time; my oldest pair of pants is probably at 8 years?

The Big Book of Portable Animals: For Petting and Pondering

I rode an elephant once. I was excited to touch the animal, but I regret riding it now. I don't know if the elephant was really bothered; this was at the Phoenix Zoo. 

Elephants cost a lot to feed, so maybe charging well-meaning fools for rides isn't too bad in the grand conservation scheme of things.

I was talking to a friend about the kind of horror stories I read these days. Thomas Ligotti, for instance, I've been enjoying because the stories have a way of making you feel like you're losing your mind. He does kind of a baroque thing, repetition with variation, that is a perfect distillation of that feeling when I pick up a book with no bookmark in it and try to find the place where I left off. A moment where the act of reading is almost secondary and I'm outside myself a little, trying to see if I'm recognizing it. Memory being so closely tied to emotion; have I felt this before?

It's unsettling and good. Makes me empathize with the protagonist and that feeling that I'm missing something very important right at the edge of my understanding. And then, even more unnerving, is the feeling that I'm NOT missing anything and what is happening is just what's happening and I'll never get an answer.

It's unsettling and good.

There's a lot of disease of the body analogy to disease of the mind. Stomach problems. Which is a perfect, I think, because there's a sort of impending unknown fear with stomach pain. Your body still works, but something in the fuel of the self is corrupted and there's no limit to how far it can spread. Every new or imagined pain could be related to it, or not. Could be cramps, could be cancer. Could be anything, except anything good.

Lovecraft and Darwin both had digestion issues, didn't they? Hmm....

 

Instagram artist I follow draws to work through their mental issues. Writing can do that too, I think. One writing class I took said don't write creatively as a form of therapy. Or maybe it was just some list of things not to do while writing stories. Like have an opening scene with the character waking up to an alarm. I did have one professor who didn't allow vampire stories. Or at least he said he didn't allow them; as far as I know, no one tested him on it. He was a boisterous man at times, and he said "No vampires!" in the way a dad might say "Don't set anything on fire!"

Writing can be therapeutic; I think wherever I heard that was conveying that if you're trying to write for someone other than you, it's not a good idea to blur those lines. If you're expecting to get feedback on it as a story anyway. I can imagine a comedian telling a bad joke and no one laughing and then saying "That was my mother's favorite joke. She told it to me before she died." Which could be funny. "I'm glad she's not here to see it bomb so hard. I told her it wasn't funny. It was her dying wish that I use it my act. So that was for you Mom. I'm sure you're laughing. In Hell."

Using writing as therapy. Tricky indeed. Very easy to slip into that escapism. And a dangerous kind, because humans seem to be able to overwrite their own memories. There are times when I am reminiscing and I think "Stop. You can't live here." Okay not just reminiscing, but thinking of other paths I could have taken. Garden of Forking Paths indeed. It's the mental equivalent of using my finger to hold my place in a Choose Your Own Adventure book, except using all my fingers.

Touching all these moments of love and loss, while I try to turn the pages with my nose.

I was reading my little brother Luis's blog yesterday. He had no regard for punctuation. He wrote lots of scenes, like in a play. Dialogues. Mostly. In one post he invites all my friends to come to his going-away party for a trip. "I hear you boy," I said softly as I read that.

He loved my friends. And they loved him. They were very good to him, and much more patient with the boy than I was. 

I was trying to track down one of his friends from the Best Buddies program named Bri, who I had met in person. To apologize, actually. Me and Luis were fighting online on Facebook (making fun of each other) and she had been worried that I meant what I was saying about locking him in the trunk of the car or something absurd, and had notified people in the program and they had blocked me from Luis's profile. I had written an extremely sarcastic, totally unnecessary email to her. Because I was being an ass. After Luis's funeral, which I did not attend, she wrote a very nice email with her condolences. It was written in reply to my jerk-ass email from maybe a year or more before. I never responded to her; I hadn't responded to any of the thoughtful messages sent to me by many of my friends either, which I also regret.

After years of regret, I decided to do something about it. (Is this my style now? I hope not...) I emailed her back, but of course, it bounced because I only had her Best Buddies email.

Briana Marshall, if you're out there somewhere, here's the email I sent you in response to your email from March 2, 2009:

"Hi Bri,

I was putting together some stories about Luis for my mom for Mother's Day and I came across this email. 

I wish I had told you then you how much this email meant to me at the time. I was so devastated at the time, and messages like this were like little stars twinkling in the darkness. 

I hope you're well. 

Thank you again,

Memo"

Things that annoy me/Things I consider bad in Horror Movies and movies in general

1. The forgotten wound. When a character gets an injury and proceeds completely or mostly unhindered. There's an argument that can be made for extreme wounds that might temporarily not feel as severe at first, or obtained during a moment of high stress. Even in that case, the pain itself would not be the only problem. The ability to fully use your limbs when you've been stabbed by something should not be the same as it was pre-stabbing. It's an even bigger issue with main characters because if otherwise the story is good and I'm feeling empathy or just invested in the character, I'm more aware of their injuries. 

2. The forgotten weapon. Usual example is the scene in which the hero fights back against the armed villain or goons. I'm so tired of seeing a character with a gun get knocked out, and then the hero does not immediately take the gun. Usually they run or go attack someone else. Then the person we're not watching gets the gun back, and that's that. If the characters in a movie are American, I assure you they would be going for the gun. 

3. The forgotten threat/antagonist. Similar to the forgotten weapon. The hero will push over/knock out the villain and then go to rescue their friend without eliminating the threat of the villain. Then of course the villain comes back to attack them in the middle of their rescue. Who could have seen it coming? Um, anyone who has been in a fight, seen a fight, or known people who have thought about fighting. 

Yes, people do stupid stuff when they panic, and make bad decisions while in crazy situations. Even regular situations. Like me making this list that will change nothing.

Holidays still bum me out a little. I miss my littlest brother, Luis. He was hilarious. He was frustrating as hell, too. 

Totally worth it.

Found it: http://enterthelopez.blogspot.com/

Sitting here, icing my foot, listening to more techno music and thinking about my mind. There are different names for different types of electronic-based music, but it's all techno to me. It's what I use because I know there are more accurate ways to describe it, but I don't care to learn it. I suspect the names of music genres are arbitrary. Very strongly suspect.

I don't eat much at work these days. I used to bring stuff to make sandwiches. Now I have a bag of cashews, a bag of pistachios, and some other trail mixes. If this trend continues, I'll soon be dipping my head into an open sack of grain like a horse.

Neigh. Hey, I'm the pony express over here. 

I've given zero thought to purchasing that device that lets me type and nothing else. Okay, not zero thought, but zero merit. This laptop works well enough. Although the security issues of carrying around just a typing device are probably fewer. I have some basic encryption on this laptop. If an agent of nefariousness were targeting me while I was traveling, they'd certainly go for the laptop. The typing device, not so much. They might, I suppose, if they wanted to steal my screenplay.

Except I have exactly zero screenplays.

I have exactly two ideas for tele-stories. One in which an insurance agent in the future goes around assessing risk across the galaxy for their job. (It's basically Futurama.) The other is a version of Moby Dick, mockumentary style. I think it would be the best way to showcase the humor. Oh, only of Ishmael. I'm picturing the older Ishmael talking to the camera as he tells the story. One of the things that makes Moby Dick hilarious is that Ishmael is older and more "dignified" when he is describing his youthful self and has a clinical detachment, but clearly he was freaking out when these events occurred. Lot less chill.

For example, when he's on Starbuck's whale-boat and it gets smashed up by a whale, Cool Ishmael describes himself saying stuff like "Am I to understand that this is a rather common occurrence and that I am to be expected to continue this endeavor?" when he is pulled from the water. This is where it would cut to the young Ishmael on the Pequod losing his shit while everyone else is acting like it's no big deal. He would be dripping out, demanding to be placed with a less reckless mate, when someone will explain that Starbuck is fairly conservative and known for safety, for a whaler. Then back to old Ishmael, who will pull out a copy of the will he drew up that night (yes, he probably loses everything when the ship sinks, but it could be corked up in a small bottle (as he planned on this possibility as well)) and then say something like "I leave all my possessions to my mom and Queequeg" and old Ishmael can smile and say "I see no need to update it just yet." 

Spin-off Series: The Book of Queequeg

There is a smart alarm on my smart watch that will smartly decide when it's the best time for me to wake up in the morning. I've never used it because if it were really that smart, it will know that I would try to eke out every last minute of being in bed and attempting to get me up any earlier would be futile.

Those moments I am warm and remember my dreams are precious to me. I remember one month where I decided not to use a snooze alarm. I could do it, but it was odd. Now, I split the difference. I have two alarms set. One goes off twenty minutes before I have to get up, so I get the feeling of waking up and staying in bed in quiet defiance of the waking world. Then the second one goes off and I get up without hitting a snooze or anything. 

What does this say about me, I wonder? No I don't. In the mornings I am past wondering. Sleep or get off the pot. No sleep til sleep. Ask not for whom the sleeper dreams; he dreams for thee.

Just listened to Motion II (feat. Les Siecles, Francois-Xavier Roth, Vanessa Wagner) & Vanessa Wagner. Now I feel like I need to be on an adventure. Gearing up for a mission. Sharpening my sword and wit, polishing my armor and panache, waxing my handlebar mustache. Packing a light snack to keep my energy up. I mean, I can go for days without food, but I much prefer not to.

There's a writer I've just come across, Thomas Ligotti. He does Lovecraft-esque stuff, in his own way. I'm enjoying what I've read so far. I think of the corporate working world as a sort of Lovecraftian nightmare. My day starts trying to do a thing, but usually before I'm halfway through some other dreary horror rises from the depths of email to demand to be dealt with. It's good training.

Yes, the Lovecraftian horror of being mildly annoyed all day while still being relatively comfortable. I can even control the air conditioning.

My medical professional friends are getting their vaccines for Covid now. First step in the slow trickle of remedy. This comes to mind because perhaps I will have office mates again. How long has it been? I don't remember. Me, alone, with the buzzing of the overhead lights. Jokes on you, corporate nightmare, I don't mind being alone. Nothing will change, really. I still dress and act as if other people are in the office. Mostly. I guess sometimes I do listen to music not through my headphones. 

Well, it will likely still be months before behavioral patterns reestablish themselves. If they ever do, now that people know what is possible. 

Work from home, learn from home, love from home. 

Play recorded sounds of buzzing overhead lights from home. 

Watching blooper reels of comedy shows laughing during their own bits. I'm in the Hugh Laurie school of thought that says you should be miserable when making comedy. Having fun is a bad sign. 

Which makes sense to me. When you're having fun, things seem funnier than they are. This is different from the work being rewarding. It's also different from performing with someone who is genuinely making you laugh from their performance. 

Still not a good sign. 

* * *

I ended up just asking my mom what she would like for Christmas. She said she wanted Miss Dior perfume or a duster for her window blinds. Dammit Mom. I got her the perfume.

* * *

I still sing songs to Watson. After ten years of inserting his name into whatever random song pops into my head, I don't expect this to stop anytime soon. I suppose his ashes are in our house, so technically he's still around, but I don't think of his ashes as him. It does amuse me how odd it would seem to an outside observer. Singing to the ashes of my hound.

Don't know what to get my Mom for Christmas. She'll be happy with anything; which makes it worse. I loathe my inclination to get her "mom" stuff. Tupperware! Baking stuff! An extra-thick leather butt-whooping belt! Ha, yeah right. My mom would have to hit me with a car to do any damage these days. She just doesn't have that old child-smacking strength that comes from raising five kids. Hmm...unless she went for the eyes. 

I sent her a text message asking her what she would like. We talked on the phone last night and she scolded me for acting like a stranger. I told her that people are dying all over the place so I'm not going to come over until she gets vaccinated. She went on about mouthwash and a good diet curing Covid and I yelled that this is no time for magical thinking and to stay away from people. We never change the other's mind with our yelling but maybe it will work, this time.

Maybe I am taking things too literally these days.

Random Facebook Status Updates:

I've been helping my nephews with their homework for "To Kill A Mockingbird". I'm convinced schools teach it all wrong. I present it as murder mystery. My opener was: "Picture this: In the pitch-black darkness of night, a young boy is unconscious on the ground under a tree, his arm broken. There is a little girl there too, dressed up as a giant ham. Between them, a dead man lies in the dirt; a knife buried in his chest. Can you figure out who the killer is?"

Also I tell them to keep track of how many times Scout hands someone their ass. Physically and verbally.

I didn't care for the book the first couple times I read it, but I blame the way it's taught. I love the book now. Yes, there's all kinds of meaning in it, but can't we just enjoy it on the surface level first before we start dissecting it? You know this book's got jokes

* * * *

Last night I dreamed I was walking through a grove of great trees. Giraffes were everywhere, eating the leaves. A blue giraffe broke away from the group and began walking next to me. In my dream I said "Blue giraffe, huh? I wonder if this means anything."

* * * *

Public Service Announcement (aka reminder to myself): Never try to step over your pets. Always go around or make them move out of your way. This isn't a dominance/alpha thing (I don't subscribe to that hypothesis); it's a safety thing. What inevitably happens is I'll start to step over the dog, the dog will then be inspired to move out of the way, and suddenly I'm doing The Twist to a soundtrack of my swears, trying not to step on the hapless hound or fall on my own preposterous posterior.

Stepping over pets: JUST DON'T DO IT

Tinkering in my savings. Just looking around really. I save a lot for retirement now because I never saved before. Put in 12% of each paycheck into my S&P index fund. By "tinkering" I mean I projected out twenty years assuming nothing changes in my life. Potentially, I'd have a million dollars in the index fund. Could I retire? Maybe. It's complicated. Again, assuming nothing changes, the interest alone could make me between 30-50 thousand a year depending on how I use it. Certainly comfortable, assuming I have no debt at that point, which is certainly the plan.

I'm not sure how I feel about any of this. There's a grudging optimism, because this system is clearly designed to keep me working for decades and then my wealth will still serve the function of making someone else wealthier. More fuel for the machine to crush other workers.

Briefly, I considered purchasing my childhood home from my mother and renting that out for income. Which could work, if I don't mind being part of the problem.  

One of my in-laws took a loan out against their retirement savings to put into remodeling their house. Which I saw as unwise...well, I still see it as unwise but I suppose a much older person might feel like it's too late to really build up to that self-sustaining amount and just dump it all into something they enjoy now. Then draw on Social Security and hope for the best.

I've been working since I was 16. If I had a job like this back then, I would have my million dollars saved already. And what then? What would I do if I retired right now? Is it even something I need to wait to retire to do? 

My fear is that I've been in this head-down, plod-forward mode because historically, it's been difficult for me to live consistently. I worry about anything tipping me off-balance. Eliminate variables.

But I love the variables. Don't I?

Through patience, I see life.

I dreamed of flying. No, not flying. Jumping incredibly high. Almost like flying, I just had to decide where I wanted to end up before I left the ground.

This an ornament the puppies stole from the Christmas tree, and partially chewed. 

On the table are 3 croissants. I ate one. 

My foot and knee only ache a little today. Unexpected.

The puppies also got a Kylo Ren ornament, but don't appear to have damaged it. They remind me of cats in some ways. Especially when they perch on the arms of the couch. 

I miss Watson. 

Started looking at my view counts per post before I started writing. These numbers are important to me because I like to think that people should be working but instead are reading my nonsense. From what I understand, this qualifies as sticking it to The Man. It's not quite the level of pooping while on the job...yet. 

Sorry to all of you self-employed people who found their way here. No one's saying you can't stick it to yourself, of course. Sometimes you just gotta start sticking.

And some days you should be a good employee to yourself. 

There's a rainbow of rebellion to choose from; now go forth and paint the world. Also there are wavelengths that can't be seen by the human eye; try to work those in as well.

Sometimes I think the act of writing is playing a song. Then I remember that I don't know how to write a song and I stop thinking that. I'll think it again, later, despite myself.

Oh yeah, the vaccine for the plague has arrived. Unlikely I'll have access to it for months. I wonder if I should get tested to see if I have antibodies? I swear I felt a little off for a couple weeks in a way that did not feel like my typical brain hi-jinks. 

Perhaps I'm getting creative. Brain must be picking up on all this stick-it-to-The-Man talk going on around here. Too easily influenced. 

 

I've returned from my 6-Day Weekend adventure in idleness. I did not accomplish much. The house is cleaner. And the the furniture has been re-arranged. New light bulbs obtained. 

Christmas shopping seems a bit hollow this year. Must remember that the gesture is important. Even if it's crap we don't really need.

I did get rid of some of that. Some clothing I rarely wear. Donate it along. I think I meant to organize a bit more, but I did not.

It was a little sad vacuuming up Watson's fur tumbleweeds. His fur is till pretty much everywhere. There are strands on my big black coat. And who knows if my car will ever be completely fur-free. 

I'm going to start a new thing where I will get up on the weekends around 7 and go sleep on the couch in the living room. Get all the sunlight coming in from the windows. The couch is comfy but not as comfy as my bed, so I can get a jump start on my day. I hate that I sleep in so late. 

We'll see if it works to get me moving earlier. There's a lot of trouble to get in to, if only I put my mind to it.

I've been helping my nephews with their homework for "To Kill A Mockingbird". I'm convinced schools teach it all wrong. I present it as murder mystery. My opener was: "Picture this: In the pitch-black darkness of night, a young boy is unconscious on the ground under a tree, his arm broken. There is a little girl there too, dressed up as a giant ham. Between them, a dead man lies in the dirt; a knife buried in his chest. Can you figure out who the killer is?"

Also I tell them to keep track of how many times Scout hands someone their ass. Physically and verbally. 

I didn't care for the book the first couple times I read it, but I blame the way it's taught. I love the book now. Yes, there's all kinds of meaning in it, but can't we just enjoy it on the surface level first before we start dissecting it? You know this book's got jokes.

Tonight we will waltz, the steps the same, the songs on shuffle. 

I've been thinking about consciousness, but not really. My thoughts and my idea of myself as an emergent property of some cobbled-together biochemical components.  I don't feel it's necessary for me to understand the distinction exactly. It could be useful, certainly, but this isn't exactly a brains kind of operation.

Everyone has a secret place in their soul. So that's nice.

I'm running around thinking that if my brain was uploaded into a robot body I'd not consider it the same as the bio-me. Until someone writes a hangry algorithm.

I miss my dog. Even with three other mutts running around, the house feels empty without Watson. 

We picked up his ashes from the animal crematorium. There's a box sitting on a bookshelf with his remains. I don't like the idea of his carbon all locked up. His carbon should be out there causing trouble. 

The idea of someone using my skull for pranks delights me to no end. Maybe have it sitting on the bookshelf and when people come over just hand it to them. Obviously I won't be able to see the expressions on their face when they learn it is my actual factual skull but I can imagine it now. Maybe a robot-me would be useful to have around for that purpose, and only that purpose. I would want it to have a 1950's robot voice. 

"Careful with my skull, you jive turkey!"

Sunday Morning Ritual: The First

It's Sunday morning and I'm lying in bed. Oh, I've gotten up and eaten and went potty and now I'm back in bed to get my nothing done. It's a cold morning, which is perfect for that.

It's usually a slow news day. 

I am comfy but I don't want to just fall back asleep or anything. Just be cozy and peaceful. 

Nothing big planned for today either. Sundays I do my walking, and I do my laundry. The rest is just icing on the delicious cake of laziness. 

Writing on my phone is different. I use a tracing function on my phone's keyboard (as opposed to tapping individual letters) which can lead to some interesting errors. There's also the predictive text that will suggest the next word I'm likely to use. Which is irksome in its own way, despite being helpful when I'm replying to small talk. 

Which defeats the purpose, I think. Small talk is a *unobtrusive way of checking on someone. There's subtle clues to one's mindset. For me (to use the closest and coziest example), I have different small talk for work then I do for the rest of the world. I almost never volunteer any personal information. I also don't inquire about the personal activities of the other person that they didn't bring up first. 

I'm not sure when I started doing that. Probably sometime after working at the animal rescue.

* Oh that asterisk I made. That was to remind me to look up the style rules for using "an" before a word that starts with the a similar sound. I feel like the rule is based on the spoken aesthetic, but grammar. Like when I was studying Italian and there are rules just to make the language sound more musical.

I pronounce "an" like "uhn" so when I say "that's an unusual thing to say" the words start with the same sound and I don't like it. 

I could start pronouncing "an" like the beginning of "and" so it sounds different... But I ain't changing my phonemicals fer nobody.

It also annoys me when people say "It's truly a honor" because yes, there's a written consonant but it's a vowel sound so throw the "an" in there dammit. 

And the cosmic ballet between prescriptive and descriptive grammar goes on.

I am getting too worked up over this on a morn-

It's noon?! Okay that's lazy even for me. Time to shower, have second breakfast, and hop on the treadmill. 

I like how I can look at a picture of the sun on the horizon and decide on my own if it's a sunrise or a sunset. [nerd voice] "Technically, it's both because the Earth is revolving."

I've got most of next week off. Tuesday through Friday. Woo-hoo, a 6-day weekend! I have no set plans for this time period, except maybe clean up the backyard. The puppies have found everything that can be torn apart and strewn it all over the yard. They got into a cushion for one of the outdoor chairs and it almost looks like snow.

I guess I'll need to purchase a rake. 

I also need to get to the turf shop and buy some scraps of turf. To put turf over the entire yard is a large expense. But scraps of turf throughout the yard might at least give the pups something to lie on while they sun themselves, although they are quite content to lie in the dirt. I pet them and it's just a cloud of dust.

Wary though. Will still need shade for the summer. Turf can get hot. Maybe I'll design it and go from there. Pretty little pictures. 

 I feel much better today. According to my future-watch I got over five hours of deep sleep. Yesterday I'd had just below three. I used to keep better track of these things. If I had less than 4 hours of deep sleep, I knew to avoid anything too complicated.

Nothing written in my pocket notebook yet. Er, I did write something it just now because I remembered what I'd meant to put in there earlier. 

In my work, ye olde field of Medycal Supply, I encounter various situations. Often I merely brush by them like a feather on a pillar of granite. Sometimes, I become aware of a 38-year-old in the late stages of cancer. I thought, "Hey, I'm 38. Should I be thinking about my own mortality?"

And the answer is I've always been thinking of my own mortality. Not in the finale, so to speak, but in the chapters leading up to it. Every day a page.

Only The Book of Sand is infinite. So I hear. I search ancient libraries for it, but I have yet to find it. 

Do I know any stories? Maybe. Once I asked an author what advice he would give to his character at a certain point during his story. After his answer, I reached across the table and grabbed his shoulders. Shaking him I yelled, "Then why didn't you!?" until I was dragged away by the Literary Security Force. They took me behind the library and smacked me with rolled-up periodicals, right on my snout.

But I think I got my point across.

So that's in my journal now. Cancer patient, 38. I'm not sure if this is a real memory, but I feel like some people back in ye olde day thought cancer was contagious. If they did, maybe it was because stuff in the environment was causing the cancer and that's why clusters of people seemed to get it. 

But maybe that's not a real memory.

 Weary today. Feeling hollow, worn-down, frayed. Note to self: go to bed earlier. 

Maybe I dreamed too hard. There was something about a car accident. 

Heavy is the head that avoids the crown.

One of the puppies snuck onto the bed; maybe that's what interrupted my usual rest. 

Time to go into "dumb-mode," where I perform only the most basic tasks and avoid anything requiring more than two layers of thought. 

 Wore my big black coat this morning. Didn't really need to; but I wanted to. Why suffer mild discomfort for the 6 steps from my door to my car, and then the 8 steps from my car to my office door.

I don't hate snow, I realize. I just hate stuff getting in my way.

Being cold is also okay; just not at work because my fingers get cold and I type even worse than I normally do. 

I should wash the puppies today. Will they immediately go out and roll around in the dirt? Yes. But they'll be clean for a moment. 

The walls in my office are thin. In addition to smelling the delicious breakfast cooking in the cafe next door every morning, I can hear muffled conversations from the office on my other side. Sometimes singing.

It's fine, really. Mainly the only distraction in here is me.

And the breathing of charlatan shadows. (This doesn't mean anything; I'm putting words together to listen to the sounds. I wonder how I would write if I were born deaf? Alliteration and all that might not mean much. Languages like Chinese might have the advantage, with their "logographics" (I looked that up just now).)

I created a user name called "DustDriftsUpward" because I liked the sound of it. And I imagined that playing online people might call me Dust. Nobody does, because I rarely use that account, and I almost never talk when I play multiplayer. The other players see a little speaker icon next to my name and know that I can talk, if I wanted to. Then again, they don't really know if I can talk. Maybe I was born deaf but I have some sci-fi headset that sits on my entire head like a spiderweb and vibrates to indicate sounds. Like if someone was sneaking up behind me it would vibrate their steps softly and then louder as they got close.

Inventing a device like that wouldn't be too hard; probably already exists. Probably the hard part would be programming the software so the head-net knows how to translate each types of sound. And maybe getting everyone to shave their heads. 

I'll get the team working on it. What team? Note to self: get a team to so I can develop inventions.

Could probably make something like a sonar blind people too. They could ping ultra-high frequency sounds for the headset to pick up. I pity the poor fool with sensitive hearing who thinks they're going mad. 

My limbs become trees. 

You call that an abyss? I got voids within voids.

Drown myself in my work, I guess. Have I been? Maybe. I've certainly been more productive. Dogged determinism. (Yes, I mean determinism.)

The grief is vast, but I appear to be floating on it this time.

I woke up this morning at 6 am, a full hour before I needed to be awake. Again, if I remember correctly. Perhaps I'm internalizing some sort of mangled daylight savings time. Darkness saving time. 

There is much to do, I feel. House stuff, I think. Draining the hot water heater. That's a thing people do. Or cleaning the lint hose for the clothes dryer. That's important because it could catch fire when drying out piles of oily rags and old newspapers.

Wayward hounds bound beyond.

 I have forgotten to bring my pocket notebook. I remember what was in it; a note from years ago about getting Rouba some supplies for the kittens she was fostering. So....long time ago.

I woke up early this morning, around 4 am. Reminded me of the times I used to get up that early to work at the animal shelter. And also when I used to come to work early, at this job, and write in my journal. Trying to fill up one of my beautiful ones. Which I did. One of them anyway.

Probably time to scan everything from my journals so I have a digital copy of them. Darwin's notebooks were scanned, and although they appear to have been stolen, the world still has the scans. Pretty sure nothing of universal import is in my journals, however someone could potentially read them and think "That's a particularly poor turn of phrase, now that I've suffered through reading it, I shall avoid ever writing anything like that myself."

And thus, I will have done a small good.

Strawberries in the summertime.

I've eaten a lot of meat because of Thanksgiving. I'd been pretty content with my diet of rice, beans, cheese, and tortillas, and the occasional egg. An added bonus was not having to spend any time thinking about what I'm going to have for dinner. Is there a word for someone who loves food, but doesn't like thinking about food? Porcine? I also don't watch cooking shows or food competitions. I do watch food videos where someone is recreating a food from a fictional program. 

I'm going to cancel my Amazon Prime account after Christmas. I'm going back to the week-long free shipping, which gives me enough time to regret and cancel whatever nonsense I've purchased. 

A negligible improvement to my life, but a recurring one. All these recurring costs....each one another thread on the worm gear of the meat grinder.

Or whatever I used to call it. The Crush? This whole system that keeps me making money for investors while I earn enough to survive and spend the rest on passing desires. I can see the appeal of drugs at this point. Buy em, use em, move on. You don't end up with a garage of clutter. Just the regrets.

Time to start my church for dogs. St. Francis of Assisi's Home for Wayward Hounds. Supreme Court is just giving away all the religious rights these days; it's the way to go. 

Modeled after the Catholic Church, of course. We'll have doggy church, and perform the holy rite of the Poocharist: a dog treat and a sip of gravy from a golden dog bowl/chalice.

 The city burns. Not my city. Broad Ripple is burning, according to this song. I think maybe this isn't about literal fire.

The house is quieter with only 3 dogs. Watson was the watchdog. Marceline does a decent job, but she lacks the preternatural awareness of any movement outside the house that usually comes standard with dogs. 

The puppies just think everyone is their friend. They also aren't afraid of the vacuum cleaner. Correlation or Causation? This merits further study.

I am at work, and I am busy. End of month is when I am most popular. Hard to get away for even a short break. Hard for most people, anyway. I remember when I used to never take breaks. That was some time ago. I don't regret it; I learned a lot from trying things with all my might. 

I was listening to the "Amelie" soundtrack and looked into the composer, Yann Tiersen. Seems like the association I have with the music as the eternal soundtrack of a whimsical romantic pseudo-Paris is not what he was going for when he wrote the music originally.

Then again, there has always been a deep longing and melancholy in the music, like it was building to a joy that would never come, that I would pick up on sometimes. Like the moment when you wake up from a dream of a loved one that has died. 

Will we come out of this plague different? Seizing the day all over the place? Or will we just go back to living our lives as before. I think of this movie...can't recall right now. The main character says of being a parent "When you have kids, you say you'll do anything for them. The words feel right on you lips. But mostly, you just go on living your life." Something like that. 

Will we rebuild Broad Ripple the same way it was, after it's done burning? 

Watson L. Dog died Thursday morning, Thanksgiving Day, November 26, 2020. That night before we had him up on the bed for his nightly cuddles, just like always. Very early, around 4:30 am, he made noise like he was trying to get up but couldn't. Kelly held him and he quieted down, then he died in her arms. 

I took him to a pet crematorium this morning. Kelly wasn't thrilled by my ossuary idea, so we'll just get his ashes. 

The house is much quieter now. Even with Marceline and the two other pups running around, it's different. Mabel doesn't bark much, and Bun-Bun has yet to do more than whine and growl. 

He was a good dog. I'll miss him. 

I've been surprisingly okay. It's different with him because we'd known about his condition for over a 16 months, and at that time we didn't think he'd make it another full year. Full of surprises, that dog. 

I could weep. I feel it, behind my eyes. I suppose another difference was the practical matters of handling the body once he had died. I placed his body in a couple of plastic bags, and then in a cardboard box. 

The pet crematorium place was pleasant. It was in an older part of Phoenix, which is an odd mix of industrial workplaces and small houses that used to be homes but have since been converted into small businesses. At least I think they've been converted. I'm used the idea of a business looking like it should be part of a strip mall, but I guess that's not a rule or anything. 

I don't feel the need to sum up Watson's life. I've chronicled our adventures in many other places. Perhaps I should try anyway.

Watson was given to me free from HALO Animal Rescue, because he was troublemaker and no one wanted him. He could jump any fence and break free of any kennel, although he was housebroken and good with other dogs, cats, and children. He had probably had a home at some point; when he came to the rescue he was already neutered and in pretty good shape. Probably got out of his original owner's backyard and went on an adventure. 

He also loved to chew. He chewed the shelter wall through his kennel once. 

I was new at the animal shelter, so one of my duties was to exercise the dogs that couldn't be out in the yards with all the other dogs. So I'd take him out and play fetch with him. That dog could run. That was his greyhound part. The chewing was probably his pitbull part. I don't know where he got his smarts, because he was certainly that.

We taught him to say "Mama". We taught him to speak, and we noticed that he'd do this mutter sometimes that wasn't quite a bark or a growl. After he learned how to talk he never shut up because he wanted treats for it. Clever boy.

He chewed up many things. Some of those things he'd chewed and eaten would get stuck in his stomach and need surgical intervention. Three times. 

I'd jokingly take a belt, and swing and snap it menacingly at him. And he would attack me. He wasn't fooled.

He was an excellent cuddler. We'd snuggle all the time. Except that he hated to be sniffed. He'd get real mad if you sniffed his ears. And he'd muzzle-punch you in the face if you didn't heed his growls of warning. 

I'll miss him. I'll see him in dreams though. That will be nice. 

 Scheduled an at-home euthanasia service for Watson L. Dog this Friday afternoon. He doesn't want to eat, barely even wants to bite my face. 

Last night I opened the front door and he laid there staring out through the security screen for a while. Gave me an idea for a puppy porch. Kind of an Arizona room but for the front of the house so the dogs can go outside and see what's going on. That'll keep away them pesky gophers.

It's not really a new idea; people have outside spaces like that for indoor cats. So they can kind of pretend they're outside without the risks.

I was interrupted in my writing by some work. Returning now, on my lunch break, to see what I was rambling about earlier today. 

This is why writing is always referred to in the present tense. There could be universes formed and created in those blank spaces between words and paragraphs.

Oh that's right I was sad about my dog. I was wearing my grief like a snuggie, or its knock-off cousin the slanket. 

My poor pup felt cold last night so I covered him up with a blanket. Marceline went over and slept next to him.

Dog body temperatures are higher than a human's. Normally.

At least he saw the ocean. He did love the ocean. 

Was I going to practice folding time in half today? Or was that tomorrow? Yes it's tomorrow, or 30 years from now really. 

I wonder if he'll live until Friday. He's a stubborn boy. 

I prefer running around barefoot but slippers seem like a good idea. Why filthy up my feet in between my shower and going to bed. Why?

I'll add "fluffy Croc slippers" to my Christmas list. In case I need to run outside for some reason. With dogs that's always a concern, so these things need to be sturdy. Also the puppies love chewing on my existing, non-fluffy Crocs. They've survived Watson's chewing and now the puppy teeth. Mostly survived. Watson did get through one of the straps and I've removed them. 

Today I forgot the pen I keep in my collar. I'll have to keep a little notebook too. That's what I used to do; jot down the fragments of thought, plant them, and see if they sprout. Or rather, I see if they burrow deeper down, like plump little moles, snuffling through the darkness and rooting up hidden revelations and treasured memories. Juicy earthworms of ideas, and other mythological creature metaphors for inspiration. Whatever else moles eat. Ifrit? Pegasusses? (Do not tell me that isn't the plural of Pegasus; I won't hear it.)

Is it the music? Is it the sadness? Is it the not scrolling through my cell phone so much? All of these things? Or maybe...all five?

Future thoughts: The only octopus I ever met (a giant Pacific I fed in Portland) is probably dead. My fingers still smell a tiny bit like the garlic cloves I used to cook pinto beans in the ancient crock pot that Kelly's mom gave us. It was her grandmother's, and it's bad-ass. Allegedly you can roast a whole chicken in the thing because it gets that hot. Probably constructed of ancient metals and legendary ceramics. The rubber probably came from a tree. 

Kelly didn't go for the burying Watson in the yard idea. Or the ossuary. Or the voodoo shrine to summon the elder gods. I assured her they probably wouldn't even show up, the way 2020 is going. They'll gaze upon us from their abyss, see how things are going, and be like "Naw, you good fam."

I'll nod courteously in undiscovered directions, just in case.

 There is one comic on Instagram to which I subscribe that is about friendly characters having pleasant adventures. Like a frog making a bowl of soup, or a mouse learning magic to conjure cheese. A turnip that comes to life and makes friends with everyone. 

Mostly the other comics I follow are not like that.

Time to think about what I want for Christmas. Shelving? Yeah, I think that's it. And a dishwasher. Maybe a new bed frame. 

Bun-Bun keeps sneaking up on the bed at night. I think she gets cold because she snuggles up against me. And then spends ten minutes trying to get comfortable. 

I kick her out eventually, but I appreciate the sentiment.

Speaking of dogs, our usual vet has all sorts of anti-Covid precautions in place so euthanasia will be tricky. Fortunately, this is Arizona and there are at-home pet euthanasia services that will still show up. It's hard to intellectualize the idea, since it's my Watson dog. I am very familiar with the process, and I know it's an incredibly quick process. It's the pentobarbital injection, the dog passes out almost instantly, and then in a minute or two they die. 

The speed was surprising to me the first time I witnessed the process. I expect I'll weep. I should dig a grave tonight. Yeah, I can put mulch and stuff over it. Then when it breaks down, I can put his bones in an ossuary until we figure out his final spot. 

Then we'll make a statue of him. And when you sniff it, it will bite your face. He'd love that.

 Mostly lies, but they're draped on a skeleton of truth.

There are shoes on my feet but they never feel snug enough. I'll find the person who's bringing tomorrow and ask them what they know.

Knock on the door but I already know who's there.

I dreamed I opened my clothes washer and found a mass of tangled string. "That can't be good for the filter," I thought.

There was a woman who said it was just easier to believe in every god.

Two general conflicts: Person wants to change, but can't. Person doesn't want to change, but must. Fold together with wooden spatula in large metal bowl, and season to taste.

I remember carrying my babies and I miss it. 

She stole me with her laugh. 

Blogger has new formatting tools, like "Paragraph" where one swift thump on the Return key adds a space. I turned it off and went back to the old way. 

I formats hows I wants to formats, dang it.

I read a comic called "Sweet Tooth" by Jeff Lemire. Published by Vertigo, those old scamps. I forget how I heard of it, but I remember being intrigued by the premise of a half-boy/half-deer just trying to get by in a world of angry humans. Immediately I hunted for a plot summary and explanation, the "why" of the story. I didn't find it. I ended up buying all the books and reading it. I'm not saying that knowing the central mystery would have changed my enjoyment of the book, but I'm glad I didn't know it.

So if you're out there hunting for the meaning of Sweet Tooth and why children are suddenly being born as half-animal hybrids, I say to you STOP! 

There is a reason, but that's not the story. 

 The music is good. Takes me away from the constant phone-checking. I feel like I check the phone as if there's something in it that I will find satisfying, but there rarely is. Reminds me of checking the fridge over and over. Still the same stuff that was there before. There will be new things when I put in new things.

Music puts in new things. Or at least shuffles around the existing things so when I open the door of my mind the little bulb illuminates things that were always there but I hadn't been noticing. I suppose I could experiment with different types of music. What I'm listening to now is mostly moody and melancholy. Songs about time not existing and going back to the night we met. 

Maybe we met more than once. Many nights, under many moons.

They sing at me and I want to talk to them, to tell them what I think and what's on my mind. This is new. New-ish. When all media became experienced together, like watching a play in a crowded theater. My my my. I know not yet if it's bad or good. I only know that it's different to watch something when it can watch you back. And when you can feel all the other minds processing it. 

Throwing every meaning at it.

 Time is a liar?

I'm icing my foot right now. My heel aches. Inflammation of the plantar fascia. Walking every day. A lot.

I try not to take days off because if I take one day off, I'll take two days off. And so on. 

Watson the dog is eating very little now. Getting very thin. Low energy. Still growls if you sniff him and still enjoys a walk. My boy is getting ready to go.

I took him for walk last night to the big park. It's farther away and I wasn't sure if he was up for it, but he was. I left him off-leash and we roamed around like we used to. It was good. The walk back was very slow.

I always knew he would break my heart. He's not sorry, and neither am I. 

I wonder if I'll ever see a sperm whale. I'm not wondering what I need to do to see a sperm whale, or the practical steps I could take to see a sperm whale. There are many paths to the sea. Follow a river. Become a marine wildlife photographer. Board the whaling ship of a one-legged monomaniac. I just wonder if I'll ever see one, that's all. 

 Thanksgiving is next week. My families are gathering, although I have chosen not to attend. Kind of sad, as my mother is hosting and she loves Thanksgiving. I think it makes her feel very American. 

 Not that there's any definitive evidence of it, but there is some correlation with mental illness episodes occurring after people recover from Covid. Early on there were some indications of muddled thinking and memory issues when people had the active virus. What I was musing about with my friend Jake was that Americans would probably take the virus a lot more seriously if it didn't just cause death. What if it gave you terrible acne? Or shrank your penis size? Caused you to speak Spanish? Caused your trigger fingers to fall off?

We'd be wearing masks on masks on masks....

"So may the sunrise bring hope Where it once was forgotten. Sons are like birds Flying upward over the mountain."  -song I'm listening to. Because music colors time, and writing colors time too. 

I love you.

Fun* Facts About Me, Accurate As Of Right Now

1. The total number of jeans I own is zero. I find jeans cold in the winter, hot in the summer, they afford virtually no warmth if they get wet, and they take forever to dry. They're also bulky, and I don't like travelling with more than a single backpack of clothing. Cutting-edge garment for say, gold-mining in the 1800's, an activity and era I spend very little time in. 2. Tattoos of words annoy me. Similar to the feeling I might get if I were viewing an abstract painting that had the words "Abstract Painting" written on it. I guess when it's a tattoo it feels like the person is saying it over and over and over again. That's how it feels to my brain anyway. On principle tattoos I believe tattoos can be whatever the person wants because it's their body. 3. I miss my friend kermit. She used to blog. We were blog friends. *facts may not be fun

What has a decade of escapism done to my mind? A jagged temperament tumbled smooth as river rock. Tethered to a life-support skein of addiction engines. Paying for the privilege, subscription, one month at a time. Every possible future towering over me demanding more money, a cavernous hand outstretched for gold, the other attaching leeches like a plague doctor. Don't dwell on discontent; earn more to buy more and all will be well. Love in the time of Covid-19. Still hunting for an expression device. The promise of a device, as if I never used a notebook and pen. There's a month, this month, for people to write entire books. There's a life, this life, for people to write entire books. A month could be enough. A day could be enough. The story of a day, an uninterrupted stretch of consciousness between sleep. In one of the Alice In Wonderland stories, or spin-offs, or plays, the flowers can speak because they are not asleep. The ground is hard and so they wake. A theme perhaps, of suffering leading to self-awareness. Must it be physical? Cold showers, lumpy mattresses, bland foods? The hunt. I'm over tattoos, or so I thought. Maybe I should get that Bloodborne tattoo of the hunter's rune. They hunt, grow skilled, go mad, get killed. Maybe if I hunt art instead of beasts I can avoid that last bit.

I'm most interesting when I'm dreaming. In the waking world, I am constantly disappointed by the rigidity of it all. No mythological creatures, no countries that never existed, no perspective but my own. 

I'm writing this on my phone. Even this marvelous ability doesn't mean everything it could. 

Let the pups sleep on the bed in the hopes that I could sleep in bit. Mixed results. Bun-Bun heads right for the pillows, but Mabel absolutely must sleep on me or at least curled up next to me. For those that don't know, I don't like being touched while I'm seriously trying to sleep. It's not entirely selfish; I toss and turn and even kick. I'm concerned for your safety, you see. 

I'll snuggle during a nap, because I'm not expecting to fall into a deep sleep.

So it looks like we're napping now. 

Watson and Marceline are also up here but they know the deal. Marceline will even get up and leave if I'm moving around too much. 

These pups have a lot to learn. 

Every night...well, almost every night, I fall asleep listening to old horror stories. Mostly H. P. Lovecraft. I don't watch a lot of horror movies these days. But I still enjoy the literature.

It's been years since I booted up this old computer. Mostly I use my chromebook. But after the boys stopped coming over every day because of Ye Olde Pandemic, I've done some remodeling of the game room. Put up some shelves. Got a VGA to HDMI convertor to use this 39 inch TV as a monitor. It's too big. Or rather, I'm too small. I feel like a child sitting too close to the TV. The words...are huge. Intimidating. I could close my eyes. Type away. Listening to Max Richter re-mixing them sweet Vivaldi tunes. 

All my old iTunes playlists are still here. Still have all the playlists I made for the twins. Feist, Fleet Foxes, Imogen Heap, They Might Be Giants, Sigur Ros, Iron and Wine. I think they liked them. 

I remember getting them a CD player, because I wanted them to play an album all the way through. Interact with the music. Spend some time with it. Not be overwhelmed with choices. 

Oh yeah, I turned 38. How interesting, to be 38. It feels very much like being any other age. And I find that interesting.

In some ways, I'm stronger than I've ever been. In other ways, not as strong as I have been. My knee still hurts when I run, but it's been like that for a long time. Hard to remember when it didn't.

What else...oh yeah, sometimes my lower back hurts. Not as bad as that time I was doing back handsprings in the club and I messed up some disk in my back. At least I think that's what it was; I didn't have insurance so I just kept dancing. 

I don't dwell on it much. I don't really remember my age. When people ask, it takes me a second. Like I said, every age feels the same. 

Ah, the reason I dug this machine out of the closet was for role-playing (roll-playing?) on D20. The chromebook was struggling. Playing "Call of Cthulhu", seventh edition, I think? Putting some of my slumbertime studying to good use. So far I've survived/won every game (of all 3 games I've played so far) but the thing about Lovecraft, and life I suppose, is that if you play long enough you'll run into something you can't beat.

I opened my eyes again. The words don't seem so big anymore. Bright though. 

I thought I had a program on here called Greenscreen or something like that. Word-processor-type program that looked like an old 80's computer. Green letters on black background. I knew them, briefly. Also I worked at an insurance company that had an archive directory that still used DOS.

Dark Room! That's it. Ooh, I still have it. Could be very useful for night-writing. 

In case I ever do that again.

Hot Take: Americans, taken as a whole, are not great at understanding science. Accordingly, we're not great about explaining science.

Scientific observation tells me that an illness that may require hospitalization is spreading in a population. The population isn't vaccinated against it, so we can't rely on herd immunity to protect the most vulnerable people like we do with other diseases.

Discussions on the lethality of the virus are something we can have, but it's not necessary. It's not zero percent, is the point.

The ability of our healthcare system to treat the people who need to be treated to prevent their death is not 100 percent.

Somewhere in between those two numbers is where our differences of opinion lie.

I'm not worried about myself, for example, but I am worried about the same people that I'd be worried about if they got the flu.

I'm also worried that if they all get sick at the same time, they won't get the help they need.

Pick a hundred people you care about. Now pick 2 you're okay with being hospitalized.

Now pick one of those to be turned away from a hospital because there's no room for them.

My personal goal is to slow the spread of the disease so it doesn't overwhelm our healthcare services. If I get sick personally, I have stuff like insurance, personal savings, sick time at work, and generally good health on my side.

I almost just deleted this post because I was thinking what's the point. I guess the point is that I think I understand why you feel the way you do, and that whatever happens, I'm planning on trying to help you through this. Nothing is certain, whatever happens happens, and I am on the watch. For whatever that's worth. It's not zero percent, at least.

The golden age of blogging. Writing for no reason, it wasn't really monetized yet, and pictures were used sparingly, if at all.

Also my laptop was too slow to work on other stuff at the same time. I'd throw on a CD, sit at my desk, and write. Not having to be up early in the morning was also useful.

Where can I go from here?

There was a bit of a collective online astonishment over the publication of some article about some people having no internal monologue. I felt little surprise because as far as I can remember, I've considered it to be something I would call "the narrative voice." Our thoughts (I believe) are like a thunderstorm, and what we recognize as narrative voice is only the lightning.

The refinement of thought into a distinct form. It's the art we make in our own heads. One of the arts.