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In the lazy pitter patter hazy evening, Stubby dozes: Contemplating whatever it is that cats contemplate in the lazy pitter patter hazy evening.
Is it such a stretch to think of what that might be? Mice, hunted down; fresh food in the bowl; playing outside, defending his turf against all takers.
But it's November now, and that means being locked inside, where it's warm but boring. Trapped with the two older ones, who don't want to play in quite the same way. It's even too cold for the mice to come in, since they're either frozen or hiding somewhere else.
This is a little early for me, because I'm not going to be around later tonight. We're going to a friend's house to observe the Dead. Sometimes it's distressing that the Christians get to observe their holidays without question on the right holidays, but those of us with other beliefs and practices have to move them around or risk the questions at work. Then again, this isn't really the Day of the Ancestors in our own home worship anyway -- that's in February. This is just the day (well, Halloween) that our friends celebrate it, and a better night for it.
I'm working on a new project: The November Novel. As of this writing, I've got 5,000 words under my belt (after one day of writing). By the time this is read on 100words, either I'll have finished it (50,000 or more words), or I won't. That's an odd thing, the intermixing of the dates of these two exercises. I think that may even be the most supernatural aspect of the 100 words project, the way in which we write nearly blind to what's going to happen, committing to things that will have already happened by the time they're read about.
The camera pans in, focuses, and there on the stage: Our protagonist, laid out like a dishrag on the dry, poorly waxed wood planks. The room is silent, as it should be: This is death, this is life, this is the moment between wakefulness and sleep (or vice versa).
Enter the singing men. Enter the dancing girls. Highlight the midget: Let the tuba player play on. The lions and tigers will sit on the sidelines, preening like the royalty they think they are.
In the midst, our protagonist, perhaps dead, perhaps merely sleeping a deep sleep. We may never know.
I lost my job today. I was told I was being down-sized, and I suppose that's probably true, and I didn't really like the job very much anyway -- it wasn't what I'd been told it would be. But now, I have the anxiety... how long will it be before I get another job? How many compromises will I need to make? I was making a decent wage before, will I be able to replace it? Will the new job be just as mediocre as the old job? Right now, I'm philosophically content, but I don't know how long that lasts.
I don't understand where my youth went. I don't feel old, and yet at 34 I feel like I should feel older than a teenager. Maybe my entire generation is emotionally stunted, or maybe the entire world is emotionally stunted, and we're the only ones who feel compelled to grow up. The world around us is so complex: On the one hand, I enjoy all our inventions and toys, but on the other, I wonder if I wouldn't be happier, albeit shorter lived, if I'd live 5000 years ago. Or even 500. Maybe I'm just afraid of moving forward, then.
There's safety in numbers; that's why we hunt in packs, instead of one at a time.
We live in a tribe, and we hate the people in the other tribes. They are competition for us. It's very disturbing to have to live in a world where they also exist, but we don't have a choice. If we try to kill them, we might wind up dead instead.
And so it goes, from generation to generation, until we either grow together into a single entity or we destroy each other, and ourselves.
(Tonight is garbage night, here in the real world.)
This is my make-up for the month. I was naughty in October, and now it's only a third into November, and I'm slipping again. I need to get the inertia back, somehow, and the only way I can think to do that is to just do that. So here it is.
The November Novel is going well -- 14K after 8 days -- but it's also draining my other creative projects. I don't want to let any of them slip, but have I over-committed myself to things that are, ultimately, not really that important? And if so, what is important, then, anyway?
We watched Willy Wonka tonight, after spending the day at the mall. There were five of us in all, including Adrian (age 4). He wanted to play a game, rather emphatically, but we told him that all the XBox games (the only console we have) were too mature for him. Willy Wonka happened to be on the same shelf as the XBox games, so he settled for that. He'd never seen it before, and he seemed to enjoy it, even if he didn't get a lot of the jokes. Watching it with a child reminded me of the adult jokes.
Back on track -- did 2500 words for the Nov Novel today, pulling myself back ahead of pace (17000+ words, a third of the way through the month). I'm starting to hit some inspiration snags, but I think it'll come back to me if I just let it flow. I need some more subplots, so I'll come up with those when I sleep. It needs more meat to it, that's one thing, but I'll figure it out if I decide to go back and re-edit. If not, well, then it's what it is, and that's good enough for me. It's cool.
Placebo was singing about writing a novel just as I was writing my own. The lyrics seemed to suit: My novel feels pretentious, and cock-teasingly blue without actually getting into the actually grit of things. But that's ok, because it's what it is. Valerie wants me to go back to Aelfwart, and I will -- after November. Hopefully during that time, the Fey Realms have developed in the back of my mind, and will be ready to spill out onto the page. Hopefully, by then, I'll have a job again, too. Time will only tell, but so far, I'm avoiding panicking.
It's the middle of the night again. There's something about the middle of the night... everything gets so surreal, and the memory starts to slip into a dream without the body trying to join it. Maybe it's also a factor of being unemployed: The days have begun to shift into each other, and I'm in that point of job-hunting of wondering if I'm ever going to get a job again (the first point, at least: it's only been a week, I'm just impatient). I want to be working: It gives my life a structure that I haven't had this week.
Three AM, David Sylvian on the CD, my plastic eye stings from being overtired and dried out (I'm overtired, not the eye... that eye hasn't been tired in 33 years). I've written 68 pages in two weeks, trying to outpace my own disgust with the sheer mediocrity and aimlessness of it. If I keep going when I'm half awake, I won't realize how terrible it is (and maybe I can finish it before my inner critic convinces me that it's a total waste of time.
Ok, it's ten minutes to three, but I think it's close enough to call it.
I have Eminem's "Lose Yourself" stuck in my head right now, from the 8 Mile soundtrack. It's strange, living in or around Detroit all my life, feeling ashamed of the city -- when I was a child, it was still in the top ten for populated US cities, but it was also known as the Murder Capital of the World. Recently, though, it seems like Detroit is starting to have shimmers of its erstwhile pride, and it's strange to think that someone as vile as Eminem would be on the forefront of bringing that pride back... but his movie is #1.
my eyes sting, and this morning, everything i looked at had a red haze... one more in a series of troubles that just don't seem to be bothering me much. i am at some point of peace, and i hope that i can sustain it. the world is... ok. i had an odd dream about a gun, though: valerie and a stranger wrestled over a gun that the stranger had threatened me with, and valerie won. i took the gun, and discovered it had real bullets in it. needless to say, this bothered valerie in the dream, but not me.
This is the dawning of a new age of technology. This is the crime that caused the Caesar to cry tears of sadness as his dominions fell around him. This is the space between the walls and the insulation, where the termites hatch their eggs. This is the breath of a newborn child, inhaling then exhaling for the very first time. This is the dream of a young college graduate. This is the nightmare of a middle-aged businessman, collapsing from a stroke too soon, and yet too late. This is the end of everything there is. And this is life.
smoker choker don't you think i'd look good in a somking jacket and tie really i'd like to die just to see him once in a tourniquet or maybe a noose and then on the other side of yesterday i got swallowed up in my own pretensions and without taking a breath i flew up down all around doesn't it make your brown eyes blue and doesn't it make your brown eye tighten up oh please oh please tell me i'm almost near the end but of course do you mean the starting line or the finish line by that
I pressed my fingers to your bloodied lips, and wrote my name on your breasts. There was a darkness to it, an oppressive gothic j'n'sais quoi that both aroused and repulsed me, but I remembered that it was at your request that I was doing these things.
I do not want to be tolerant of views other than my own: I do so out of social pressure, but I want everyone to think as I do, which is on the fringes of sanity.
I like my knife, and I like my rope. I'm not sure if I like you anymore.
Well, it's the middle of the night again, but I've jumped ahead of my pace on the November Novel again, too. I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, and feel like I'm in the home stretch, with a little over 15000 words to go! Yay me! The September experiment on 100 words seems to have demonstrated itself to not have been a fluke: There, I wrote a 3000 word short story in 100 word episodes, and managed to end fairly non-abruptly. The November project is also working out at a nice pace to finish on time.
One thing that the November Novel and this 100 words project are both showing me is how self-conscious my writing is. I've known for a while that I seem to be obsessed with having a clear theme, a "lesson" that the piece of writing contains -- even though, when consuming entertainment myself, I prefer just simple entertainment. If I rewrite my November Novel, I think I'll make the characters more robust and diverse, but I'll soften the lecturing and stop taking all the characters so bloody seriously. That's something I'm working on as I go, actually -- getting back to writing right.
Then this is a clique for YOU... That's when the cheese was born. But that doesn't mean we think they're perfect. Research based on the new images is published in the journal Nature. I should go to these things more often. This change will be more than the upgrade of the past. Your IP address is kept securely and won't be available to other users. If you typed the page address in the Address bar, make sure that it is spelled correctly. Our company is in software development. Myth development is still very much alive as well. (I like cheese.)
another long knife night and in the hollow heydey of the middle of the night the colors run from the consciousness and dive deep delve down into the meandering multiple multitudes of the morning in michigan is long and hard won but somehow it will come again as it always does what it's told never does what it wants to do isn't that the way of the world is not enough to tell me how to find happiness and peace and joy and some days i miss the one i left behind and some days i think he's still here.
On the CD: Electronic's "Late at Night" from their "Twisted Tenderness" CD. It's hard to believe that it's been more than a decade since their first (of three, to date) CDs.
On the lap: Shelley the Wondercat, currently putting my leg to sleep. Weighing in at around 18 pounds or so, he has yet to catch on that he's not a five pound pussy, and that I really do need that ankle (and the arm he's resting on).
On the lam: Almost time for SNL, having actually produced my day's writing early. I'm getting into the habit again. Yay me.
This is the part where, normally, I let things slip away from me: 95% finished with my incredibly awful, pretentious, unfocussed, and inconsistent November Novel. The home stretch, the carrot is within reach, so now I'll sit around and play Taz: Wanted on the XBox for the rest of the week and screw up. Not this time. I'm putting a lot of stock in this by putting little stock in it... if that makes sense at all. If I make it so crucial to my life that I'll die without it, I'll never finish it. So it's what it is.
Well, that's done: And the holiday to spare, too. I think the weirdest thing is, I set the novel for the last week of November, that's when the events took place, and here it is, the last week of November. I didn't realize I'd have that reaction, as if maybe the events were taking place somewhere around me right now, and I didn't know it. Oh well. The theme of the book is how neurotic we all are, and especially me, at least that's how I feel. It was a nice way to purge some emotions. What is next, though?
There's a koan that reads, "If a post is made on the Internet, and nobody reads it, is it meaningful?"
All right, maybe there isn't, but I was struck thinking about this site (100words), about how many blogs there are on the Net, how many people writing every day, many of them with no evidence that anybody is actually reading what they have to say. We're creating information upon information, so that now things will be written never to be read. And the AI will make things that will never been seen by human eyes, even an author. And on...
And then, on the other side of midnight, there sat a great green man who snored too loudly and didn't quite know where to continue his dreams. Should he go south and, in so doing, risk nullifying what had become a valuable venture in real estate? Or should he go north, and leave to question the entire nature of reality? Neither option seemed particularly tasty to him, so he ultimately opted to remain exactly where he was, albeit not quite so embarassingly rooted in the netherworld. Could he survive under such conditions, or would he suffer from the weights there?
Infinitely rewritten, but still, it all comes down to the same three things. I don't recall what those are anymore, which is why I'm left so adrift. I need focus, I need direction, I need peace... but those aren't the three things I'm thinking of (I don't think). I need to rest. I need to sort things out, and decide what it is I want to do with my life... and then (most importantly) find a way to do it. I used to know, but now I'm not so sure, and the days, well, the days are slipping away now.
In the skullduggery of midnight, under the appeasement of the Western hemisphere, at the end of the charlatan's dance (as he wiggles out of his codpiece), there's something to be said for sanity. Not a lot, I grant you (after all, sanity in the absence of belligerence is simply a hollow shell of a reality), but something. Don't take it for granted that the subjectivity which you apply to the world is inherently subliminal, but don't let it be assumed either that everything is precisely what you make of it. There are secrets behind the secrets behind the bald-faced lies.
This might be my last post for a while. I haven't decided yet whether or not to do a batch in December: The winter has come on, and I'm starting to want to focus my creative energies on something more focuseed then this has been. The limitation has been both freeing and frustrating: Some days, I just haven't had 100 words to say, other days, I've wanted to yabber and yammer on and on. So ... here I am, only 20 words to go until the end of another month, wishing any readers a fond farewell, maybe I'll see you around.
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