The Blank Space And The Blinky-blinky. 

Of course, I’ve got no idea what to say. Not a god damn thing. This is just another Monday survived. I knew I was coming into a shit show. I knew all weekend that a potential horror show was waiting for me. I handled it. I held on. That’s all. Tomorrow is another day and there will be another day after that and another day after that and so on until I die. 

Yeah. That’s all. 

Some days just are. No sugar. No flowers. They just are there to age you. 

Frank Turner - 1933

‘1933’ is the first track from my new album ‘Be More Kind’ - available to pre-order now on CD, gatefold vinyl, deluxe boxset & digitally: https://FrankTurner...

This song. So god damn much. My god. 

It’s starting to become not enough to just write. I’ve written semi-diligently almost every single day. I want to say something. I want to get close to the inexpressible and get kinda close to expressing it. I want to get so close that god damn it, I actually fucking expressed it. 

Dog-whistling Dixie. That phrase kept occurring to me on my drive home today. Dog whistling Dixie. Dog whistling Dixie. I dunno. 

I’m actually close to having read an entire book in I don’t know how long. I got to spend a lot of time just reading at my desk today. That was nice. Seriously. I took care of some minor shit here and there but most of the time, I just got to read. We’re not talking anything that literary. It’s The Great Divide by Matt Taibbi. It talks a lot about the machinations of the financial collapse of 2008. I barely remember that. Seriously, I think maybe I was barely conscious. That event touched everything though. It was a complicated shell game that ended up torching the lives of so many people and no one was ever really held accountable for it. That’s crime on a massive scale. There’s crime and then there’s crime. 

Something that can send me into a rage is local news broadcasts because of all the “crime” stories. Maybe they’ll have some story about some thieves that are stealing packages on people’s doorsteps. I remember once seeing a video on some local news station’s Facebook page of some package thief nicking a package and then slipping and falling and the comments were all, “KARMA! IT’S A BIIIIITCH AND SO AM I,” and “THEY WAS LUCKY I WASN’T THERE WITH MY GUN CUZ I WOULDA GONE PUNISHER ON HER FAT ASS.” All this ire for some desperate petty criminal but where is the rage for the banker who ripped off their pension fund on Wall Street with a nose full of cocaine while getting head from a barely legal prostie? C’mon man. I know it’s not the 80s any more but I’m pretty sure Wall Street still runs on cocaine. You ever see that episode of Cops where they were stopping and frisking people outside of a luxury apartment complex and hitting Wall Streeters with coke possession charges? No you don’t because it never happened and it doesn’t happen. Nah, if you are one of the brain dead idiots who enjoys a show like Cops, you are treated to shirtless folk in trailer parks getting busted for meth and domestic violence and monologues from boring motherfuckers with crew cuts talking about how they are like a 4th generation pig or some shit as they drive along on patrol with their eyes peeled for people of color. 

I will be going in and seeing a therapist on Monday. Fuck! A god damn Monday. So, I am going to be groggy and ready to just go to bed after a long day but I can’t just go home. I gotta go talk to some guy I’ve talked to exactly twice. I better think about what it is I’m going to say. Damn. I wonder how honest I really am going to be in there. I’ve got to make at least some attempt to be honest or there really is no point, right?  So, what is it really? 

Hmm. So. Here’s what it is. I’m really fucking bored, lonely and I can get really anxious. Look, I’m doing better than I have in a long time but god damn it, what else should I be doing? 

Therapy

Second therapy session today. 

I don’t really give a fuck what anyone says. You are only going to be so comfortable telling a stranger that you’re paying about your life. 

It’s a weird thing to say, “This is the type of childhood that I had, this is what school was like for me and this is where I ended up as a result.” 

I get asked the question, “You like to write yet you work in IT. How does that happen?”

Yeah man. It just kinda fucking happened and I don’t know how to get paid to do anything else. 

I’ve been trying to read more. The journalist Seymour Hersh was on an episode Intercepted (By the way, if you listen to podcasts and you do not listen to Intercepted, you need to be listening to it.) and he said that before you write, you need to read. Of course, Sy Hersh was talking about journalism but it applies even if you aren’t a journalist. 

I’ve been struggling with reading for a few years. One thing that has helped is reducing subvocalization when I’m silently reading. No, I’m not becoming some kind of freak who is obsessed with speed reading but it makes things flow a lot more smoothly if I am not reading shit to myself in my head. It never occurred to me to try and cut that out. It’s something that I’ve done since I was a kid but no, I don’t need to do that. I can just sort of look at the words and fit everything together. Almost feels like a superpower actually. It’s weird. I’m re-discovering a love for reading, I think. 

I randomly bought a poetry collection to expose myself to verse. It’s garbage.

The Day Job I Ain’t Quitting

I do not feel like doing this today. The only thing that seems to be possible is dog shit doggerel. 

I will try today and I will be proud that I tried and then maybe I’ll try tomorrow and maybe the next day after that and then I’ll give up and feel this maddening restlessness.

I fear this whole thing becoming like my diary. The diary that some of you happen to get to read. Is it so bad if it does become like that? Maybe not. 

Okay. Focus, dog. Focus. 

Does it really fucking matter if I focus? This isn’t an article in Rolling Stone. I’m not Matt Taibbi chronicling the unraveling of the American economy back in 2008. I read shit like that and I think, “Fuck. I wish I could have done this.” I’m not Chris Hedges writing some beautiful Jeremiad about all the ways America is spiritually bankrupt. 

Fuck that. I’m not going to talk about what I’m not and what I’m never going to be. That doesn’t matter. I’m going to talk about what I am. What do I do?

I’m some company’s computer guy. They need IT (I.T. not the clown), they come to me. It’s me. Just me. It’s a one man band. Maybe some day it will be the basis of some narly off, off Broadway one man show about how the office computer guy slowly becomes this crazed motherfucker who hears the voice of God. What does God say? Death to capitalism. Ya know, if God said that then I would have to conclude that he truly is God. Anyway. Focus. 

Focus. 

I can take a computer apart and almost put it back together. It’s not hard. If you come to me with a computer issue, I can usually zero in fairly quickly on what exactly is broken. Look, it’s like this, okay? I’m not some wizard that is going to code some app that is going to make me insanely rich. No idea how to do that. The computer stuff is my most practical skill. That’s just about the only thing I can do that I’ve figured out how to monetize. I think that’s about the only thing I can do that makes money. 

This current gig is the most responsibility I’ve ever had in any job. It’s just me. There is no one to pick up my slack. I don’t call in sick even if I feel like it. I’m not going to bullshit you. I’m barely a computer guy. Sometimes I have no idea what the fuck is going on. Thing is though, I make up for that with my people skills. I build rapport. I charm. I play the role. I look the part. Stocky nerd with glasses but with passable personal hygiene. 

I go in and recede into the required persona. Friendly nerd with okay computer skills who idolizes MacGyver. They got no idea. They don’t need to have any idea what I really am. 

It could be worse. Seriously. I could be someone with nothing at all that is marketable. 

I hate that I even have to think that. Shit. I hate that anyone has to think that. 

Yeah. I’m underpaid. If I had a choice, I’d never work for a wage another day of my life. 

I’ll tell you what though. Somebody comes to me all stressed the fuck out over something that is going to keep them from getting their work done and I fix it? Shit. I think on that too much, I kinda feel myself getting misty. I’ll walk through the halls and get the respectful nod from people I’ve pulled out of the fire in the past and it kinda makes it worth it. 

Look, you gotta understand. You are reading the words of a guy who has not held down a job for more than 6 months since 2012. Do you have any idea what happens to the soul of a person who can’t hold down a job in 21st Century America? I can say that it rots but that’s not accurate. I can’t describe it.

Fuck. I really wish that the ability to work was not a prerequisite for dignity. 

I can feel myself getting angrier by the minute because I feel like I’m still accepting the precepts of this insidious and inhumane capitalist system. I feel like I’m weaving this tale of a man who was a flake but who battoned down the hatches and became not a flake. I went from a flake to a good employee. 

FUCK THAT. 

I get to have dignity cuz I breathe. I get to have dignity cuz I’m here and I didn’t ask to be here. I get to have dignity cuz I can bleed and I can cry. 

Fuck you, Ben Shapiro. I just felt like saying that. Fuck that guy. 

I have a day job that I can sorta stand. 

I don’t know if I believe in miracles but that’s pretty close. 

https://youtu.be/8hTRb-OQdKU

This track always goes right to my heart for some reason.

“The borders should be illegal instead of the people / That were here before the Bible and all of its sequels.”

Thing with dreams is 

sometimes they are just too shiny 

and they blind you. 

Dreams burned into your brain 

by people who finished school 

and always work late

and you can never tell the difference 

between yours 

and theirs. 

That kills. 

Don’t Wish it Was Sunday

Tomorrow is just another manic Monday. I don’t like Sundays. That’s not new. I suppose it’s not so bad. Things have been a lot worse. I could use some paid vacation though. I could use some time to chill, just be and kinda get my head right. 

I tracked down the number of an old therapist. I’m thinking about giving him a call this week. I figure it can’t hurt. I’ve got some things I need to figure out. There’s only so much that I can figure out on my own. Not to sound all emo and self-absorbed here but this exercise here has me all up in my feelings and it occurs to me that I should probably be talking to someone. If you’ve been regularly watching this space or if you know me at all, you’re probably inclined to agree. 

It occurred to me last night how taxing it is for my mental health to reside in Trump’s America. Shit is fucked up and I honestly feel like we are all being gas lit when people pretend that it isn’t incredibly fucked up. I feel a tremendous amount of guilt about the fact I can choose to ignore this horror show if I so choose. Others do not have that luxury but god damn it, I’m not doing anyone any favors by making myself miserable. 

You’ll notice that I played around with my poetic meditation on the word ‘fuck.’ Not sure how I feel about it. Might play with it more. 

Why I’m Not a Good Writer

It’s tempting as hell to just half-ass this and say that at least I tried today.

This is one of those days where I feel like I have absolutely nothing to say. In fact, I don’t know that I ever have anything to say. I think to myself sometimes that I will run out of things to say.

It’s not the end of the world if I do. It’s not like I’m needing to do this to pay the bills. I do need to do this though. It seems to make life a little more bearable. I feel more present. I feel like I’ve done something with my day. My head feels a little less foggy.

At this point, this is little more than a bit of self-help.

My pledge is this: Write even if my head feels dull and even if I feel no hate, love or any fucking thing at all. Just have to do it. It will probably be shit but even in the midst of the shit, there have to be moments of perfection, right?

So, I’m not a terrible writer. I know I’m not. I’m not a particularly good writer either. Why? I’m gonna tell you.

I don’t do a ton other than work, play some games and sleep. I don’t have a ton of mileage on me. I haven’t done a ton with my life. I’m short on experiences. Sometimes I think maybe I should just go to bars and talk to people, anybody and see what the fuck happens. A friend of mine told me he is driving across this fucked up country of ours just for the hell of it. I need to do that but the thought of doing something like that scares the shit out of me. I got serious social anxiety. I’ve never quite been at peace with the fact that I’m a human being. Is it as weird for you as it is for me? Probably not in the exact same way.

I’ve already mentioned I’m deficient as hell when it comes to focus and self-discipline. Finishing a book is a near impossible feat for me these days. In fact, the other day, I thought maybe I’d read Umberto Eco’s essay Ur-Fascism which I guess is about the qualities of eternal fascism. Fascism is ultra relevant these days. So many countries on this earth seem to be lurching towards it. I’ve tried getting through the essay twice but without success. My just wanders. I need to read more. What should I be reading? Not real sure but I’m almost positive that I should be reading more.

I don’t know a lot. I’ve got a vague idea about a lot of things but there is not a single subject on the face of this earth that I can call myself an expert on. You can see that in my screed entitled ‘What I See.’ Most of that flowed from emotion. I was talking about the real world so I feel that perhaps I needed to show my work a bit more and maybe cite sources like I was back in school or something.

I get these ideas for creative pursuits and then I just abandon them. I’ve started two short-lived podcasts. One was a political show that I began in the wake of Trump’s election and another was just me talking about random things or.. something. Who the fuck knows what I was doing with the second one? I don’t follow through. I’m a flaky son of a bitch.

I’m lazy and I don’t put in work.

There are probably other reasons why I’m not a particularly good writer but those are the most fatal symptoms in my estimation.

In the back of my mind, I have to wonder if this is just filler to put off going into the stuff that really makes me look like a god damn loser.

We’ll get there though.