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Monday 6/14/21

I think the nicest thing you can say to an artist is to thank them for making their beautiful work of art because it touched you so much. I wish I could thank Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger for making A Canterbury Tale, a movie about miracles.

I walked five miles yesterday, ran three today in the rain, got my second vaccine.

A piece was supposed to run and it didn't, which is frustrating. I am desperate for money. There is nothing coming in right now, and then something that was a huge amount of work for what will be a pittance goes wrong because I didn't micromanage it all the way through. But then when you follow-up with someone else, because they view themselves as God, they'll ban you for life. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don't.

I wrote a 3300 word short story yesterday called "Catharsi," which is a story of linked stories that each involve a form of catharsis. One involves Satan and God, another a child with a decision to make, another the end of one relationship so that a different one can later start, another a professor and an ex-student, another the Beatles and the Rolling Stones in 1968, another a woman who wants to win Olympic Gold in hockey, and the last, which connects to the first, a man picking up chicken McNuggets for his daughter late at night. It is, as always, utterly unlike anything else. And gutting, hilarious, moving, beautiful, and so powerful.

Listened to Led Zeppelin II. And the Dead. I listen to the Dead every day now. If the god of reality came out from somewhere and told me the Dead and Joy Division were the two best rock and roll bands, I wouldn't be shocked. I wouldn't think the god of reality was awful at his job or in his cups. Then we'd go out and hump college girls. Calm yourself. I'm joking. Well, we'd have to see what happened. And they'd have to be really smart.

I need to get some money coming in. I'm just so spent. Like I'm fucking paste with a brain. Today I'm working on a film essay and I wrote the rest of that op-ed on Dracula, and who knows if any of it will come out or bring me any money. And it's like, "Be the ultimate mega-genius with this! And now with this! And now this! And now this other unrelated thing! And produce 10,000 words a day! And do the blog!" And none of it will fucking help, because you have no fucking chance. And you're not going to fucking get one. This is fucking death. It's living fucking death. And it is so fucking hard. And it's all for fucking nothing.

I also need to find homes for Cheer Pack, Become Your Own Hero, and Longer on the Inside. And the essay collection. I can't stall out on these books.

Wrote some bigots. But when don't I write some bigots?


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