It's Sunday. Sent a pitch to The Daily Beast this AM on a ghost film Orson Welles had a hand in during the shooting of Othello. Said film was made in Ireland. Short film, twenty-three minutes, but good, atmospheric. Don't think this will be assigned. Have a back-up Halloween plan. I'm trying to do two Halloween pieces there, for two different editors. Already writing on humorous ghost stories for one of them.
854 days without a drink. Each Sunday, I add seven to my earlier total. I count by the Sundays. That's the day my streak started. Shaved for the first time in five days. New week. Walked five miles yesterday. Having been screening episodes of The Outer Limits--meaning, I'm rescreening, as it has been a while--for a 3500 word essay I need to do quickly for The Weekly Standard. Sent an op-ed idea out yesterday. This piece on a soul-jazz album from fifty years ago was published in JazzTimes. And a Daily Beast piece ran. More on that later.
It's Monday morning. I have to hurry. A lazy, disgrace of a weekend. I did nothing. Very little work besides coming up with a few ideas and sending out some pitches, and trying to get organized by making lists--that seemed endless--of the impossible amount of things I have to do in a short time. I need to go on a run of productivity that has not been previously approached by anyone before, after which I fear they will double down on me once more, and now I'll have that many more works-to-last that will just sit here with me in this filth, with more hate from the run of production. No running, no climbing, no concerts, no museums, no theatre this weekend. I was supposed to go to see Rebel without a Cause at the movie theater near Fenway in the afternoon yesterday, but I didn't. I drank a lot of coffee, I watched some episodes of The Outer Limits for a 3500 word essay I need to do fast-fast-faster, I cried a lot. I'm a kind of down that is akin to holding on to a tiny sapling that is all from keeping me going over a cliff. These evil, bigoted people have me beat, it feels like. I cannot be here to lose to them, though. There are days I could just kill myself with the greatest ease, just be done with this endless struggle against this blockade, in a world where the worst thing, the bogey man, seems to be a white male genius. I have to find a way to keep going. God, this apartment, the filth, the mold, the piles of everything everywhere, it's like it's my prison cell in hell. Came up with the idea that I'll discuss on Downtown on Tuesday. Followed-up with NPR. Watched the Patriots get absolutely beat down last night. Interacted with twenty women I could not have had less interest in in terms of so much as meeting for a coffee. I need someone brilliant, dynamic, someone historic, someone capable of being part of history, someone with character, wit. Where the bloody hell are you? Are you out there?
On a lighter note, autumnal Colin has returned. Even if I've been a lazy pig man for several days. The return of autumnal Colin is marked by the first time I wear my cap each year. To wit: