12-2-17 (The World, Hunters, Homesteading, Remodeling, Family, Photos)

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The World. Two dogs about to fight, while the pack swarms around them, riled with the spirit of it. Except, they’re not really dogs at all. Screaming steel eagles, with Easter eggs, for hell’s pleasure, tucked in under the wings. They screech through space, saying much simply; we are here.

 

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Hunter stopped by, napped a good one. Young buck, right through the heart. Helped me drag it to the back of the pick-up, requested the antlers, told me to spray it out, pack it out with a 10lb bag of ice.

Hands stunk after, and you couldn’t help but smell them. Stare at it. I had to flip it around in the truck to wash it out. Through out the day, bits of blood and spit coagulated on the bumper.

Was told the butcher was a religious man, would only be open for a couple hours in the evening. Call up there to see when. Four to six, a pleasant sounding woman said on the recording, shotgun season. It laid there packed with ice, under my tree, while I finished applying polyurethane to the trim pieces,  intended for the coagulating living room.

Unusually warm, maybe sixty in the sun, a last whisper from Fall. Reflection is the spirit. It’s been over a year, since we’ve had that living room space, couch, table, TV. A place to just sit around and relax. It’s all still surreal, someone’s life I have stolen, or rather a role I’ve snuck into somehow. I walk around the house, can’t imagine all the work I’ve done, and there’s still so much to do, but there’s that light, a new normal, new nest in front of us.

 

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All day, I was sort of nervous about taking the deer to the butcher. Nervous at the newness, I guess. Never hunted. Never washed out a giant deer carcass. Never ran down a highway going sixty with hooves dangling. Figured it would be a spectacle and it was. Whole town filled with trucks, loaded up with deer. Anxious, focused masculine energy. Guy behind me critiqued that they should just have a stack of forms to hand out, make a faster line. Speed it up. It was fine though, lady was nice enough, eighty bucks to be boned and bagged. I plan to process the rest, stews, jerky, etc. Excited for that, spending a winter smoking meat, and doing sunflower shoots inside. Spring feels right around the corner.

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Britney cooks tortillas below me. They make an extra pleasant smell in the cast iron skillet. Ended up with a propane stove out here. Something about that real heat, it’s special, and cooks so much better. Hunters might bring us another deer, that and the pig we got, will almost fill our freezer. Including all our canned stuff, we hold a solid six months worth of food on hand, and really more like a year’s worth. And what’s extra cool, is there’s a lot of food processing in all that, which is expanding our homesteading skills, like learning how to make sausage.

Watched a video on how to butcher a deer today. Didn’t seems so hard. Neighbor said I was welcome to hunt his land. Said just go right over the hill there. Help yourself. Go in the morning. Set up before 6AM, when they come in to bed for the day. Don’t smell like nothing fancy, and be quiet. Aim for the heart. You want a younger, smaller animal for quality of meat. And make the shot clean, so the animal feels no unnecessary fear or suffering. Fear ruins it.

 

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11-16-17 Philosophy Through Family (In Praise of Patriarchy)

 

A Musical Accompaniment

I love and hate mankind in portions which may seem unhealthy. That’s the thing, they’ve made the basic human experience abnormal. Normal activity, inexplicable wave like emotions and experiences, which prompt change and growth,  have become negative attributes. Disruption is the critical marker, but then everything is disruptive, isn’t it? The empty fuel tank light, the nutrient deficient belly after dinner, traffic, red lights, bosses, children.

Parenting is the template to understand everything, Nature, God, whatever you want to call it. It answers all wandering philosophical questions, most importantly God’s alleged apathy. It’s not that nature doesn’t care about us, it’s that we are evolving life forms, who begin life dependent, but must be wired to separate from this life-source and function “independently” and keep the goddam wheels on the thing. I guess, cause that’s the problem, there is an element of illusion in that, limits on free choice, limits on our true independence.

Male and female, and they are real things, provide the solution to the paradox. The positive and the negative give balance to the story. Comedy and Tragedy. Adults are rounded out, settled down through parenting. Patience. Principles. Purpose. These are skills you have to have for Nature to flower and flourish.

There is so much illness and insanity in our culture, you can’t help but analyze some of the basics things, food, sex, employment, and recognize these are the problem areas. As a Father, it seems only right that I view these things through often critical lens. And frankly, when I take that position, it immediately draws you into conflict with the world. Power. Patriarchy. Pride. Potential. Dangerous, possibly prohibited words these days.

It’s easy and right to slip into an US vs. Them mentality though, which objectively isn’t historically the best stuff, but frankly in the small social scale is fundamental.

You should hold your family above others. Or even more yourself above the general thing. I remember that demented thought experiment (that’s basically the best of philosophy, imagine nightmare scenarios and make deductions from them) presented in some college ethic course, imagine you’re on the Titanic, shit goes down, and everyone’s drowning, you see your one kid floating away one direction, but there are like twelve other kids close by, drowning on a bit of wardrobe, who you could save immediately, but then your own kid’s gets a seat in Davy Jones’ locker. What do you do?

No question for me. I’m going for my kid. And curse the boat builder and god itself as I did it, and forever. But it can’t be any other way and it isn’t. More or less we all recognize, there’s nothing we can really do about “it”, is there? What’s worse, this problem is what has society at large in the tank. And it’s because from some quarters (rich and familial) has come the argument of over-population, and the value and pleasure in narcissistic mores of life. Which in reality amounts to shitty television, shitty food, and jerking off. But these apparently are enough, until inevitably they’re not, and so we try to drag the old crusty, models, the skeletons now, out of the heap in the backyard, but they don’t stand right, and we don’t have the tools, nor skills to build them again. Shit…can someone get a six-pack, maybe stop at Mcdonalds, maybe pick Grandpa up from the home, he loves tinkering with this shit….

10-29-17 Ramblings from the homestead…

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(Morning) Yesterday, talked about suffering on the way to see my Grandma, she just turned 86. Brit said the line, about dying being positive, in the sense that a person’s suffering is finally over. I let it rest for a moment. Sit in its truth. Then I said, well isn’t all existence suffering. She had to agree to that too. What does it add up too then? Maybe you say all existence is suffering isn’t true. Try to go a day without eating, or drinking. Doesn’t the alarm clock torture, the traffic, the monotony, the ticking clock of mortality, potential for loss, unresolved desires, etc.?

My Grammy is dying. She doesn’t like it. She kept at it hard for eighty years, but then she busted her hip and everything seemed to go to hell. She was real bad there for a period, had to go do assisted living type thing. I remember visiting her there at lunch. With all the other sick and old people. A younger-older man, late forties, bleached old with death, smiling, a simmering ball of anger and hurt underneath. Smiling at me, at my life, how good that looks from that angle, children, a head of hair. She was bad then, hard to even talk to. I wanted to roll her back to her room, but its sort of like a jail visitation, you know the person’s a ward of the facility, smiling nurse aids. Thank you for coming, for caring.

She made it home though, a miracle, but now she always feels it, chasing her, stopping her. She complains about how she used to just get up and go, how it sucks it isn’t like that anymore. Talks about how she needs a haircut, and that when she goes out she grabs her teeth, those came a year or two ago. Her teeth had rotted with jarrring rapidity. She stopped eating. Everyone was mad at her about that, not eating. She’d drink those lil canned drinks, Insure, Ensure, Censure, I don’t know exactly what. But also it was being on all that dope. Tragedy that, Grandma getting a dope education in the eighties. And now she has that burned out quality, wide eyes, confused. Like a child.

Can’t explain it really can you? An other’s experience. Experiences that haven’t been experienced yet. We’ve decided to anesthetize ourselves to the Greater Mysteries, birth and death. They stab the women in the lower back, numbing the base chakra, the birth canal. Of course this also leads to them having to slice the abdomen open and rip the life from the belly, then it has to be whisked away, so Mom can be sutured, baby transported for measurement and catalogue. Death they’ve damage the body, and dulled the spirit in life itself, the door cannot be traversed, soberly or naturally. We’re ripped back from the brink, forced back into the material realm, the hospital bed, counterfeit dope occulting the predestined cerebral cornucopia of DMT and dopamine. How will we traverse the trans mortal-plane? And not float down to the floor of limbo?

Great Gma Gene, the one who danced with butcher knives in the moonlight, was do not resuscitate. And when the devious white coat ignored the order, he was met with an admonishing Lazarus, let me go! She went right afterwards that. I would like to face it like that. Full in the face. I want the time to savor it, to feel the soft carpet under my foot, run my hand along the drywall, as I walk down that dark hallway. Not ripped like my Aunt was, run down by a semi on an interstate exit ramp. A snap of the finger, a screech of metal and rubber, then nothing, but warm nothing, then real nothing, maybe.

I’m not so sure about it all, to be honest. The way people spit in the face of it, ignore it. Recently in my area, a family of three was killed by a fucker passing on a tight country highway. Mom, kid, Grandma snuffed out in flash, because some piece of shit had to pass on the two lane, to do what? Not be late to work? Get home to scratch his ass? Get to his bar stool before Henry stole it? The fucker was still in the hospital, people working frantically to save him. Something rolls in me, a dark spirit, it yearns for a simpler justice, a simpler morality…

Later, after 9PM, homestead is in full effect. Neighbor invited us to the rest of their apples, amounted to quite the haul, 60-70lbs, so for the last few days we’ve been making apple sauce and apple butter, canning it in the water bath. We have a noteworthy canned stash of tomatoes and applesauce, one jar of pickles, a bunch of jalapeño jelly. There’s something magical about this last year, the wins, the losses. I planted two more hazelnut tree this previous week. I’m rooting for them, but the cold is coming on, and the winds been blowing like its pissed. I buried them in a nice pile of hay though, and I take the water from the canner the night before and give them a drink, waking them up in the morning. We canned a bunch of little jars of apple-butter for gifts for the approaching holidays.

My Dad came over tonight for a Birthday dinner. Britney made beef stew and homemade biscuits, along with our usual three loaves of wild yeast sourdough bread for the week. For a treat we had pumpkin bars, made from delicious pie pumpkins we scored from a noteworthy farm in the area. Had twenty or more different kinds of squash and pumpkins. Everything is like that, infinite number of varieties, manifesting an infinity of different characteristics. Just got to take notice. The pie pumpkin is smaller then your stereotypical pumpkins. You roasted them in the oven, after saving the seeds for your own next year, of course. You’ll be surprised how much pumpkin stuff you get from one. Use it and you’ll realize you can’t go back to that canned stuff. Doesn’t quite taste right anymore.

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10-21-17

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10-21-17

I had to give up on the Bear Story. It was too much. Too fresh. Felt like trying to get a grip on a slippery boulder, only to have to try to lift it to an impossible height. Got tired of writing in 2017, an unfortunate development for sure. Part of it is that there is no external incentive, money, adoration, whatever, in it for me. It’s also cause the Farm/Homestead has become the dominant call. Our initial goal was more food than we can eat, and the bed of radishes I’m feeding my chickens right now is evidence of the achievement of that goal. The writer, content producer in me can’t help but scoff, all this good life material and I’m not even sharing it.

I stand sort of bewildered and blown out, by the world. I think that’s an apt description of approaching middle age itself. Sometimes solitude and time to self feel like a deathly needed glass of water in Death Valley, but when it’s finally gripped, you yearn for the others. There’s god in that.

Finally saw that In The Wild movie, didn’t see it when it initially came out, the hype was nauseating, but I think I read an article telling his story. Even knowing it was coming, the ending made me cry. Having to put down my nine year old laberdoodle Cujo recently has done that to me, made me all blubbery. It sits right there behind a thin film of ego constructed stoicism. I’m still in the truck weeks ago, driving him that beautiful, sunny morning, music blaring, insane. Petting him and crying. Songs were all poignant, topical. Hendrix Along the Watchtower, Audioslave Like A Stone. The later carried a hidden poignancy since I first heard it.  I knew it would pop up like that in the future, its meaning and purpose foreshadowed, long ago and into the future, both at once.

The need to write is strong. But the avenue seems obstructed. I keep trying to restart the journal like one of my cheap, alway needing repaired, riding mowers. It feels like life itself, things work, they break, you work to fix them, defeat, try again, and again, then it works, for a while.

Everything is connected. A sort of sentence you’d read in a self-help book or maybe on a t-shirt. We’ve done that, popularized everything, reduced everything to the “essentials.” When you get that grip though, the correct angle and lens, it can sparkle, however briefly, a light projected through the angles of the mass. It’s all spinning together, one humongous organic organism, withering away in some crippled search for meaning. Crippled because its been detached from any natural process. And you realize, you ride on the mass, staring back at yourself, a reflection of a person, forever pulled and yanked by the whole. Your screams can neither be categorized as exaltation or lamentation, only your ego in breaths between, can look with a selfie-stick of self, and try to make sense of it.

Parenthood shows this. It’s a tragic drama. Child, tabula rosa, utterly dependent, push parent self to its highest, most mature forms, but then roles gradually reverse and deteriorate, around seven or eight, now it’s about learning to let go, letting them be their own person, learning to shut off that attachment, and move on. It’s about control, and your lack of it. You end up back where you were before, you have to cultivate a detachment to it all, recognize it all goes on just fine without you. That becomes a horror of adulthood I think, watching when people die and everyone just goes on about their business.

Writing interrupted, call from Aunt D, my Grandama’s sister. Women. Old women. The way of talking about illness and the burdens of others like it’s somehow your fault. The sort of blame that creeps in your bones, and makes you want to shake it off like a dog. But you know they love you, mean well, but something bad is in that. Time. Saturn. The supposed End. For years been hearing about how Grandma’s going down hill, sort of bugging everyone with it. What do you say? You can almost feel embarrassed if you’re in a good mood, or enjoying yourself. Feel I get that a lot, people being negative and it bugging me. “Being negative” that’s another t-shit type thought, isn’t it? Or the inverse, Be Positive. Like a battery terminal, or an electron. Turned on. And it feels like that doesn’t it, an added something, a buzz, a good mood. Collectively, we’ve had ours stolen, replaced with false promises of shitty food, silicone breasts and tentative safety. Talk about your dreams with others, they’ll ask about health insurance. Man doesn’t live on health insurance, right?

So that’s about where I’m at. Feels good banging the keys. Letting the fingers play. The words are there, but to what end? Half contemplating, saying fuck it and doing Nanowrimo again. Got this character percolating, Horus Rizen. Think middle aged Holden Caulfield. I know that’s a little ahistorical, he’s an old dead fucker by now. But I think the world is very much middle aged Holden Caulfield, or is it Charlie Manson? Actually it’s more like Holden Caulfield’s kid, after Holden got with a hippie chick, ate a little LSD, and ended up working for a software start-up. Holden’s at death’s store (door), he’s flipped, realized how grand life is, and frantically works at plugging his brain/soul into a computer, like Ray Kurzweil. Horus can’t do anything but drink organic coffee from Chiapis and scroll through the terrorizing news thread on his Ipad…anyway, you tell me.

 

Snippets 80

Neil Gaiman-Trigger Warning-From Short Story “The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury”

I learned your books. Burned them into my mind. In case the firemen come to town.

But who you are is gone. I wait for it to return to me. Just as I waited for my dictionary or for my radio, or for my boots, and with as meager a result.

All I have left is the space in my mind where you used to be.

And I am not so certain about even that. (139)

Moon-Day Musings

First thing in the morning, found a dead rabbit next to the truck. Seems like a bad omen. I note it, but pushed forward ont he emergency coffee run. What else can you do?

I grab it later, with a latex glove on. I get my two little guys into the truck without them seeing it. Cold and heavy, it still looks alive as it lays there. Sort of freaks me out. I expect it to maybe jump up when I grab it, but of course it doesn’t. March back to the border lands, toss it into the bush. Maybe whatever got it can finish it or something else.
World getting tense, but I feel a positive shift personally. Maybe, let’s not jinx it.

Stacked the reading list with shorter works, or what I like to call, “padding the reading list”. A dangerous technique, that I’ve discussed before. I’ve taken down twenty-eight book for the year, which leaves me two behind on my goal of thirty six.  Just finished Trigger Warning by Neil Gaiman. That was great. Got me in the mood to write a bunch of short stories. There a lot easier to finish too, which is fun. Maybe I’ll share them here.

Monday, Moon-Day. I like Mondays. Really like the moon too. Read today, about this corporation Moon Express, which is making the first private company to have the US governments approval to conduct business on the moon. What sort of business you might ask? Oh you know collect some moon dust, transport items for other parties, like satellites or even infrastructure for other moon missions. At best sound like a bunch of non-sense, at worst it seems very strange and almost smoke screen-ish. First of all don’t think an inflated bubble market on moon dust helps anyone. Secondly, the moon is beneficial to the Earth itself so just sort of having an open door policy to a private corporation to mine it, sounds like a bad idea. Obviously in the short term they would be talking about mining small amounts. But history proves this sort of thinking is fraught with peril. Once possession and precedent are established its very hard to get people’s greedy little paws of it. The worst element is that this doesn’t make a bit of fucking sense!!!

NASA is taking a secondary, non-enforceable, advising role in the endeavor. Also the idea that a company is acting privately, but had to be explicitly approved by a bunch of Federal agencies, seems contradictory in way. More over why hasn’t NASA and the government itself capitalized on these potential earning and developments. From this article:

While the challenges of getting to the moon today pale in comparison to the Apollo program—Moon Express’s first mission will cost about $25 million versus the more than $100 billion spent the first time—many legal hurdles remain. Earth orbit and outer space are governed by UN treaties made when reaching the moon was a herculean national task, not a challenge for entrepreneurs with VC funding.

I am a simple person. But this doesn’t make sense. I went and checked the wiki and total budget from 1958-2015 is sort of 526 Billion and some change, or about 9 billion a year. And when you read further it’s actually edging on a trillion! A fucking trillion dollars in sixty some years. Wrap you nugget around that! And you really believe they are just putzing along, doing some math and chemistry in some basement somewhere? And now finally, as there are numerous private entities rushing into the space business, and slowly people just keep waking up to the cosmos and the fantastic reality around them, they just decide to let this lucky company Moon Express make this big step forward. The clear headed begin to say this doesn’t make sense. Again, simple, stupid man questions. But after the first successful Apollo mission, why didn’t we go back? Somewhere in the that trillion. Once even, to get this elusive Moon-Dust business up and running? Anyway, the Moon is amazing. A lot of great stuff out there about it. Check out Richard C. Hoagland and Mike Bara’s book Dark Mission, for further reading.

Morning Musings

Saw a bus advertisement yesterday said, “Blankety Blank Investment Firm: Not Run by Robots”, and had a picture of a cartoonish, 50’s robot on it. I pinched myself. Was this real life? Had I crossed over into a 1980s Sci-Fi movie? I’m well aware that stocks and all that sort of thing are largely, mostly, ran by computers, with artificial intelligence. So I also couldn’t help but ask, would I really want to go with the people on something like that? I mean the machines had to have the edge. Right?

Summer, popped up from the grave, grabbed our collective wrists yesterday. It was over 80 degrees out. People sported shorts, grabbed another tank of propane. We have had half a dozen viewing of our house in its first month. A little slow, but we also just got it listed as FHA available so I think that should pick things up. Also got an open house tomorrow. The house has never looked so clean. So yesterday evening the whole gang went up to the park. Me in truck with Dante and Cujo. Mom driving the three boys in the Honda.

The park is idyllic. My gang and the other kids at the park incorporate effortlessly under the warm night sky. I do laps with Cujo at the park. Coen, two years old, walks next to me giggling the whole time. He loves dogs. Loves seeing the dog at the park. The park is next to a the community center. While walking, I notice someone getting out of the car with a giant Amish hat. Sort of like a pilgrim hat, but wider brim, dome on top. I love it. The anachronism, the symbol. The other-worldliness of beliefs like that. I like to imagine that person staring at a purple haired punked teenager with a can of Four Loko. Lock them in a giant garage together, feed her hospital grade amphetamines and give him endless woodworking projects. See who changes who, you know?

Driving later, windows down, fresh air mixing with hot dog slobber, and Sam Bush on the radio. I see a lady, wearing the same hat. I get a nice long look at the stout and dignified optics. The hat fills the car, it fills everything, a blackness. Her tight white mug rolls under it, squished down until she’s nothing but a mouth, dense, bone, uncracking, never hitting a Coca-Cola in her life. She’s tougher then me, could probably take me. Knows more about living and life, then I could ever know. But there’s that blackness filling the car. I heard somewhere those hats symbolize the planet Saturn. That with many the Judeo-Christian and other religious sects, it’s all one big ode to Saturn. The little black boxes on the center of the foreheads. The Kaaba itself. The Kaaba is wild. So are the hats.

8:02AM I go upstairs, look out our freshly cleaned window. Do you know how big a difference a freshly cleaned window makes? Winters coming so it was dark well into seven o clock in the morning. I look out and everything has a pink Polaroid feeling. We eat our breakfast together. At one point, Coen, does one of his new bits were he takes juice in his mouth, parades it around, building dramatic tension, and then spits it on the ground. We are working on cultivating positivism, so Mom tries to manage the situation calmly. Ultimately, she’s forced to put the cup in the fridge. Then, and note the cosmic nudge of fuckery, she knocks last night’s chocolate-milk cup out, spilling. The forces work for the children. She grunts, shakes a fist. I call to her through the deep. Don’t do it. Turn back. Stress. Remember what we said.

She sits down on the table. The fuzz clears. We start to breathe. Coen smiles. Equilibrium achieved. He continues, ornery, until we find a bit we can all get into. Enter the Man-Eating Table. More like Toddler eating table. It begins as Coen stars to slide under the table, from the big chair. I start to feign terror. “On no! The table is eating Coen! Somebody helps him!” He take the cue, continues to slide under. Britney joins in tries to save him. Chay runs around the table tries to help, but it doesn’t work. Then the next thing you know the table eats him too. Thing have reached a critical mass. We’ve been halved. Mom goes next. Kein rushes to save her, but fails. We stare at each other over the warn eatery expanse. I feel one of its tentacles grab my ankle. “On no, my boy,” I yell to him. “It’s got me too! Save your self!”

Five of us pack in under there, like Jonah in the belly of leviathan. It feels like that, dark, warm, damp. Everyone sort of scared, but happy too. We realize the only solution is for Kein to slap the belly of the whale. To for it to throw us up. Keep it simple. We spill out. Saved in the nick of time. 8:30AM

Morning View

6:00AM It all streams together, days, weeks, and I imagine soon years. 6AM Coen, almost 2, a monkey in the bed. He pats us both, “nice, nice, nice.” Then he tries to scare me with a boo, but he hasn’t quite mastered the technique to it. I give him the zombie moan and he dives into bed next to Mom, then sits up waits to hear it again, I oblige, he dives back down. We snuggle, smooch, try to steal a little more rest from the bed. The sheets were all clean last night, and the bed was quickly made up, so no little feet could track dirt or crumbs into it during their movie night.

Got in over a a thousand words on work on progress tentatively titled WK. Before that yesterday, same 6AM, I was able to edit the last several pages of Draft 2 of Kill The Television. Draft 2 saw plenty of chopping and rearranging. I have this thing, over-attachment issues I guess you’d call them. It makes me do things the hardest way possible. Like in High School, I almost didn’t graduate, it was half way through senior year I was behind two or three whole courses. My Mom had married this douchebag and moved us forty-five minutes away from my school. A newly received drivers license brought that extra boost of freedom, so senior year was spent in a abominable haze.

One day I was sleeping it off in the basement in Winterset. The door opened and down the steps came real Dad. I don’t remember what he said. It was something about school and how there was a possibility I wouldn’t graduate. I remember I cried. Still like a kid I tried to mount some muddled defense. I’m sure I didn’t communicate the why very well, and oddly enough I realized as my tears dried, and my heart slowed down, he was embarrassed too, by making me cry, everything. A double frustration being misunderstood and embarrassed. Point of the wander is I ended up taking several community college courses, along with a full load through regular high school. During lunch I would have to go in do all these assignments and readings at once. And since I felt like I was being challenged, that the tempo was finally turned up, I tore through the material. I remember the counselor, how she felt like a breath of fresh air, looked and talked to me like a human being. Smiling, teasing me that I was too smart to be in this position.

I think I’m doing the same thing with my writing. I feel very little impetus, outside perhaps this blog, and a few of the other things that have come up, to actually distribute what I am working on. I’m becoming a hoarder of words and novels. I have hard time objectively evaluating whether or not they are any good, a feeling which grows as they reach a stage of completion. I feel like I’m achieving some balance in the editing and writing question, but the retail end still doesn’t seem clear or obvious. It sounds corny, but its true, I don’t work well with others. I started with a writing group, attended a meeting. Was invited back to submit my work, did, read and prepared comments for all the other members, but then when the day the second meeting came, I cancelled like a dickhead. I don’t even know why. I liked all the other authors. They were friendly and entertaining. I liked the meetings too, enjoyed myself, enjoyed reading their stories. That Wednesday I was tired from the routine, and noise, and other things, and I just bailed out. I sent an email apologizing, mea culpa. The response was beyond understanding, so not a huge deal, but I’m just noting the self-sabotaging aspect of my personality.

Writing is my goal and dream and I think I shouldn’t be waiting for the real Dad to come stomping down the stairs telling me to get my shit together. That’s my point. You got to be great for yourself, in whatever way fits you. That’s the lesson. Be a hard case if you got to be, just don’t lie about it, to yourself or others. 7:36AM

9:52AM Breakfast sausage, eggs, hot coffee, doughnut bites Britney made last night. Me and the gang wrestle. My kids learn to take bumps at twelve months. They play there part well. I’ll be Apocalypto or whoever, get one, rassle him down. Then bro comes flying in with an elbow drop, freeing the other guy. They battle in combo. I teach them the art of fake wrestling, just real enough to make it work, but not real enough to hurt. They do pretty good at it, most the time. Eventually someone will get hurt, a missed grabbed, twisted up in some legs. We stop the show, dust off, and usually go back to it. Mom likes it but doesn’t quite get it. I snatched her exposed leg at one point, go zombie. It inflames the pirate gang. The kick, and smack trying to save Mommy from the Zombie Daddy, to no avail…

Reading: Robert Galbraith Career of Evil

This great song….

Led me to this great song…

Platform of the No-Vote Party

It feels like a dirty thing to say, half of me loves that, the other half is embarrassed, but since Obama Part 1, I am firm member of the No-Vote Party. There are fairly elaborate Constitutional, Legal and Natural Rights based theories that I could offer in support of this position. I instead, as an artist, will turn to analogy and metaphor. Move to a new house and discover two gangs own your neighborhood, they employ basic strong-arm tactics pay us a fee, and we will protect you from the other guys. Both gangs seem to have equal force, and they have established a Mafia strong hold for decades. You can pledge either gang and receive a sort of pass, you won’t be directly targeted, but because it’s a gangland, things aren’t that great. And the amount of the pay-off is always changing, and sometimes the street level guys grab your wife around the shoulders, ask her if she wants go get a drink. And you got to send your kids to the gang’s school, where both gangs send their kids, and before you know it they come home pledging a party line. You get the idea. This is the American political structure. To participate is insanity. The only option is to withdraw consent and run.

On purely Democratic ground the No-Vote party is the strongest, with almost 60% of the population, made up of mainly non-white poor people. I’m basically white, but doubly poor, so I still feel an accepted member. There are some unfavorable sorts, felons I mean, but at least they are interesting and know how to hold their liquor. There are no other collective platforms or beliefs of the No-Vote Party. I would like to suggest the somewhat literary mascot and slogan, from Melville’s Bartleby, “I would prefer not to.” Much like the ingenious character I suggest a similar course. Stay but withdraw your will. Withdrawal your will from a system run by crooks and liars, by wealthy special interest groups, by big money that doesn’t care about you, or this land. I would like to hope the compatriots in the No-Vote party feel the same. Realistically, I know that apathy fuels this majority, but I like to think it is an apathy produced by the realization that every four years this farce of a choice is played out with the same exact names and faces and agenda. All a sane person can do is sit back and say boldly, “I’d prefer not.”

herman_melville_1885

Stood Up

8:37 Night thoughts. Got stood up on our first showing. Was scheduled late like 71:15-7:45PM. Drove around for half an hour with Dante and Cujo Corvette pumping, hot anxious breath on my neck and back. Since having kids, driving at night, or just in general being out at after darj, always feels strange, surreal. The night hides things, people. I like it. Made me blue though.

I pick it apart, realize that it’s nothing in particular even just the chemical deposit of blue. Nighttime, my thoughts tends to get sadder, less self-assure then during the daytime. Almost felt like manufacturing nostalgia, maybe like the good part of the trip of nostalgia. My house all cleaned and shined up, kids chilling before bedtime. The way Cujo perfectly fits on the landing of the stairs, that I finished one day, years too late, with pallet wood painted blue. He lays out on it perfectly calm, flat, a living effigy mound.

Tell Britney its not the house that’s special, but the family. She says that’s right. Ultimately that’s true, but then why did I stand at the top of those steps before I locked up and say an Our Father and a Hail Mary, and do the sign of the Cross, and then hold my hand on my heart, and then rubbed the wall next to me, told it thank you for housing and protecting my family, that I would make sure it found someone nice. No offense.

Truth is though, there’s no turning back. The shipped has sailed on the moving goal. One way or another, Lord willing, that is the plan. Life has no guarantees, I know. A passing feeling of blue, a sense of security, they are not goals which ultimately satisfy, I note. I need my hands in the dirt. Need some space of my own outdoors, where my family and I can embrace a lifestyle we yearn for. As I drove down a road in the country, I smelled burning leaves. I thought about the fire tender sitting out there, enjoying the cool fall air. Made me appreciate the choice we were making. There was power and place on the road too. My blood and genes seemed to nod in recognition. You’ve been without home before, it’s okay, move, there’s another place down the road. 9:01PM