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Springs, scales, shirts, special story

Saturday 9/5/20

* Someone threw away a bag of my clothes. They were downstairs in the laundry and I had forgotten about them. I barely function, one must understand. I seem so alive, and yet in many real ways I am near that thin line where you cross to death. I've been beaten down for so many years, and so alone, so without joy or hope, that I can look at my toothbrush and honestly wonder how I can lift it. You need to be some serious asshole though to throw away someone's clothes. Or put a sign up on the door downstairs. It was just one bag. But in that bag was my favorite Rockport sweatshirt, and you take something Rockport-related from me and naturally it feels like trauma, so that was fun to have an anxiety attack into the night, which meant I was up until nearly twelve. Also my It's a Wonderful Life T-shirt, a Live Poultry Fresh Killed T-shirt from a strange local business, a green and white collared shirt, a pair of sweatpants. And it's not like I can afford to have clothes thrown away.


* Do you know how desperate I am for good news? Just something that can get me excited for a day, give me a little hope. Just something really cool to happen. Even if it's something that should have happened ten years ago, or with a story I had two summers back. I'm praying for something like that at this point.


* Yesterday I did work on "Fitty" some more. Wasn't drastic, but I was thorough. I did change that time issue, which centered on the period in which Carlene is out of her classroom and why. The length is now completely believable, and the reason why is so bang on the money with who she is and what the story is doing. Then I read the whole thing through a half dozen times. There has not been a time that story has not made me cry. In these fourteen months since it was created, I've looked at it hundreds of times. If I see any of it, I cry. That's how powerful it is. If you are seeking to stop the world from seeing this story, you are committing a tragic mistake. It's almost a crime against humanity to stop people from seeing this story because you don't like me or whatever. It's such an important work. And God is it tight. I think you could read it 200 times and it would never get old. You savor it. You savor every last word. And the engineering of this story? The design? I wish people would see it now, can see it soon, because I know they'll love it. It actually ended up being really important deciding to jump back in and see if the story needed to be changed, which I think I began mulling around this time last week. After I had read it those half dozen times, I took a quick five mile walk to clear my head. So I could come back and read it again. I did, and there was nothing more to do.


* I'd do anything to be out of this period, man. I'd give anything minus my ability or my soul. I want to call someone and be unburdened, you know? I want to hear about stupid blase life shit, like their kid is having swimming lessons for the first time, or what do I think about Cam Newton, and not always be carrying this mountain of rock on my shoulders, and this fear and terror, really, and hopelessness and and a lifestyle that has no stability, no comfort, not even a nice clean bed to get into and watch a film on a big TV in a clean place. Just that, you know?


* I continue to copy and paste the individual journal entries into a Word doc. I've made it to early August 2018. Suffice it to say, this goes slowly. One thing I notice just from glancing down to see if I've already done an entry or whatever, is how much I wrote. Write. Every day it's like, "Wrote 3500 on such and such," "Wrote two new stories today," "Just banged out a 1600 word piece." Yes, I can see how other writers would hate to see that. One might that work to suck, but then you see it--later entries have the links to it--and you think "fuck this guy." There are a few lines in Clifford Simak's Way Station that go, "He had no illusions about what they might do, for he knew the breed, vindictive in their smallness--the little vicious insects of the human race." Next to it, my marginalia simply reads, "publishing."


* Yesterday I saw where someone I know and like and work with posted something on FB saying, essentially, "If you don't agree with this political reporting, have nothing to do with me, you're garbage, go away." I didn't agree with it. Further, I know exactly how the place that did the so-called reporting works. That place is one I've thus far refrained from documenting on here, because I try to keep a window open because I need money, and this place could be a good fit for something else of mine that doesn't concern the people I have dealt with there over many years. Were I to put up the information and emails I have, it'd be a doozy. It'd be shocking. The person who made this comment on FB knows nothing of this, nor would they entertain that that's how the world works, and certainly just the norm of media. Very few people in media are interested in telling you the truth. They don't care about truth. They don't know what truth is. They can't recognize it. They have an agenda and they want clicks. When you sell out to agenda and clicks, you think you're saving your business (and it also requires less effort and commitment), but your short term panic is what actually will make you go under. And will have you go under. Plus, the reliance on cronyism, race and gender-based hires, the back turned upon merit, talent, ideas, freshness. I like this person. But what I saw meant that they don't like me, and they have no respect for who I am as a person. If I chose to look at it that way, which I don't. I've worked with this person for years now, giving generously of my time, and I think they'd tell you that out of all of the people they work with, my intelligence and character stands apart from everyone else. Every week, as it were. Maybe those kinds of statements aren't that efficacious. Maybe you should think a little more before making them. Maybe you shouldn't make them at all. Maybe you should choose your words differently, with a little more sagacity. Because I'd love for this person to look me in the eye and try to tell me that I'm a moron and an immoral one. But I say nothing, because what would the point be? As I said, I like this individual, and this isn't a battle for me worth fighting. I know what my real battles are. And obviously I have more than enough of them when I'm at a place in life when the toothbrush is a struggle. But it's just not a good way to be with your fellow human.


* Suffering will teach you about the nuances of life in ways that little else will. If you allow it to. If you can face it. If you do not respond only or primarily with anger. You'll learn nothing from anger. Which isn't to say that anger doesn't have purpose--it can get you moving, have you throw yourself into something that needs throwing into. But it won't teach you anything. Anger can be springs in the heels, but it's also scales over the eyes.


* I have not been working out much. I had three days this past week where I walked five miles, and I ran but only once and it was like a mile and a half because the traffic was backed up and it was going to take a while to cross that damn road by the bridge with the construction.


* All right. Up and at 'em. You're meant to fight, not succumb. You battle the door.