Part of a text from Saturday:
I wake up in filth to do joyless work that will bring me little money and usually not be seen at all. Every day is the same. No point. No progress. Never any pleasure. Haven't even been touched in seven years. I look around me and see not only endless stupidity, but stupidity being rewarded. Everyone has a house, money, a mate, friends, support. No one wants to know me. I pay a price for greatness. That is the theme of my life. I used to feel like I would do anything to be ordinary. Just like everyone else. But I also don't know how I could willingly part with an ability and a mind that I know can create works of a goodness beyond anything else. It wouldn't matter anyway, because they are simple and stupid. They're lazy. They might not treat others poorly, but they will always treat me poorly, unless this changes, and then none of that reversed-course, subsequent treatment will be sincere or for the right reasons. I struggle to remain alive. Another day alone. Another day of a pointless life. For the best artist there has ever been. I don't get things done. It doesn't matter. Sometimes I buy things for houses I don't have. CDs, books, DVDs, I can't even take out of the packaging now. Not having done anything, I make huge lists of things to do starting tomorrow. Fifty blogs I need to write about evil people. Books to work on. Stories to complete and start. Nonfiction. Op-eds to write. The big list then contains 200 items. I know I can work on it all, that what I do can be the best of its kind ever, and it won't matter. I'll put something interesting on FB, Twitter, Instagram, and people won't hit the like button--and this is the only time they don't with people they know--for one reason: it's me. How am I supposed to live like this?
I've pretty much unfollowed everyone I'm "friends" with on Facebook over time. There are a few exceptions. And some things I monitor for information for these pages. But hardly anyone ever has anything interesting to say. It's just grab-ass and piss poor attempts at wit. There's no thinking, no intelligence, nothing I am ever glad to have seen. Or very rarely. Shouldn't that be the point? Why say anything otherwise? For grab-ass?
I put up a video on Twitter. It's an interesting video. A lot of people saw it. There's a counter. The video is of me on a ball field early yesterday morning. I make mention of how hard the day prior had been, to get through--as in, remain living--and also not to drink. But there I was, and I hadn't taken that drink either. In the video I show the Bunker Hill Monument, the USS Constitution, and the Tobin Bridge, all of which were visible from where I sat on this ball field, in-between sets of push-ups.
As I said, a lot of people watched that video. Not one of them hit the like button. It is always the same. It's because it's me. There is one person who always does, for the most part. They do that with a lot of people. It's something they do. It's not something I would ever do. "Just because." To just do it, I mean. I would do it if something was interesting, witty, admirable. The same thing plays out with almost everyone else. It's envy. It's fear. Resentment. Not because of what I've done to that person. There isn't anything like that. Why else wouldn't you hit that like button, with that one person, the way you do with everyone, anyone else? I have a friend who knows how deeply I hate some people who have no clue that I do. It's a hate beyond hate. Like a flame that's so blue it's clear. You can't even see it. And I just wait for the day. A payback day. Payback times. Because what those people do is in effect say to themselves, "It's Colin. This is amazing. And because it's him, I'm not going to even do what I do with anyone else." I know the thought process exactly. There is no legitimate excuse. It's that. And because I'm not like them. Whereas, everyone else is. So they punish me, in the most petty, childish ways. "I'll show him for being better."
A friend who knows the deal inside and out phones me today and we start talking about this. There are certain people I have to work with, with little to nothing coming back to me, that my friend won't even bring up unless necessary because it enrages both of us. Me especially, because it's happening to me, but him as well to a significant degree. And he said, "I wonder what would happen if you posted a photo of you with a whiskey bottle, saying you gave in and you were drunk. I bet you that would get likes. That would please people." He's absolutely correct. It definitely would. And no, none of this is in my head. I don't think anyone who reads these pages thinks that's remotely the case. This record is too level-headed, too emotionally balanced, the perspicacity too consistent.
Plus, one can go look at my Twitter right now. Go for it. Fascinating post after post. What do you see? You see zeros, right? You don't think these people find any of that super interesting? You think that's the issue? On all of those topics? That's plainly not what is happening. Let me put it to you this way. These people hit the like button for others without a thought. It's how they do it. It's like breathing. You don't think about breathing, do you? Now, there's no sincerity when they do hit the like button those other times. They don't actually like jack shit that they're "liking." Again, it's automatic. Then along comes the interesting person with the interesting things. Understatements. See what happens? Now it's like making a conscious choice to hold your breath.
After this, I have to smile and interact with some of these people like we're friendly. It's like something ripping through me. But there it is, right? What's not true? You can take screenshots of it. It's not up for debate. It's right there in front of anyone. And I'll tell you, it bothers me to no ends when I publicly thank people for things, which I don't have to do, and I go out of my way to say nice things about them, well-written nice things, too, and they can't say jack to me about my work or anything I do, even when it's on subjects they love.
Now, me writing on a given subject doesn't mean fuck all, because I'm not boxed in by subject. Anything I write transcends notions of "mere" subject. But if you love the Beatles, for example, and you you have no problem saying kind things about the works of others on social media, and you say those things about strangers, and I give you some shout out in my work, and I put up a link to a Beatles feature I wrote, which I know that person thinks is great, and you then make the point of not hitting the like button? What the hell is that? Seriously? What is that? And we're "friends"? How twisted is that? That's okay? What is your motivation in doing that? Or I'm scary because of my abilities? I'm so intimidating because of those abilities that you zip your lips and sit on your hands? It's the like button. No one's waiting on brilliant commentary. It's pressing a bloody button. And we're adults. We're not five-years-old.
And you know what? I "like" the things these people put up about their lives, their families. I reach out to them when things take a dip with considered words, I write them for their life events, congratulate them about their kids when the kid does something. I might comment on a post of theirs, and believe me, it's going to be the only intelligent, sane thing anyone comments, with many people just descending into bizarre, incongruous political rants. Some people cannot stop themselves from saying dumb political shit in discussions--I use the term loosely--that aren't political at all. Sweeping insanity. Manic obsession.
Today I wrote a story that is quite strong, though I need to work on it, called "Rosa," which is about a hippo who eats a pumpkin. It's about more than that. But Rosa is the hippo. This is a new piece in The Smart Set on 1962's Carnival of Souls, which will be in Watching Back: Writing on Films that Light Us Up. Put that on social media, too. Again, the usual happened. See the above. I'll be putting together a book of some of my writings on rock and roll. Looking at the title Double Tracked: Writing to Listen and Listening to Write (Rock and Roll Texts).
Anthony's, the breakfast place down the street where I often get coffee, has been closed for several weeks. There's no sign on the door that they went out of business or will be reopening. Some items have been taken off the walls. The tables pushed to the side and stacked. There are never any workers there, though, for a remodel or what have you.
I didn't do anything Saturday. I didn't even exercise. On Sunday I got up and ordered six bags of coffee. Inexpensive. Free shipping. Same coffee that is used at Anthony's. I walked three miles and did 500 push-ups, but only one circuit in the Monument. I had done three on Friday. That's not close to good enough. At least I was moving again.
In the middle of the night as Saturday became Sunday, I listened to five episodes of The Twilight Zone radio series: "A Stop at Willoughby," "Walking Distance," "The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street," "Will the Real Martian Please Stand Up?", and "Nick of Time." They're listenable, but not especially good. They're okay. I was glad to have them on.
Watched the 1962 Western--so a late period Western--Rider on a Dead Horse. Fast, smart, modern, highly effective.
Yesterday marked 2303 days, or 329 weeks, without a drink. Today I ran 1000 stairs and did 100 push-ups. Again, rather poor. Not enough to keep me, or get me, healthy. Enough to make sure I moved, though, and sweated a little.
I've been listening to a lot of Vivaldi--The Four Seasons. I watched some John Carpenter films. He's a nothing filmmaker. All surface, no substance, no ideas, just artifice. It's like biting into a piece of air. Listened to a BBC reading of Nigel Kneale's "The Pond" from 1980 which was evocative. Decent idea. The idea didn't really go further than the idea, if you know what I mean--as a gambit, in other words, the conceit for the story--but it was worth hearing.
Yesterday I saw on Twitter where someone put up a photo of the Twin Towers, and captioned it, "9/11 if Zack Wilson was driving the plane." Yes, they wrote driving. The "joke" was about his inaccuracy. I mentioned five-year-olds above. I thought about children when I saw the tweet. Sent this to somebody: "People are evil. They don't start evil, though. Or else the evil was already in there dormant and it germinates at a certain point and keeps growing. I can't conceive of making this 'joke'--for internet clout. And of course people like it. Say something intelligent, and no one will. This is our world now."
There are going to be a lot of entries going up on here. Do I sound like I'm in a mood to fuck around and be merry? Or do I sound like I am going to hold some people accountable? Like a man of the most limpid thoughts who is channeling the anger that would disassemble somebody else? Anger born of injustice, an injustice they would not be able to handle and continue to do what they needed to do because of the fitting rage that injustice produced. As I've said before, I will not allow anyone--certainly not publishing motherfuckers--to vitiate my purpose. So we're going to be looking at about twenty entries on here a week. Systematic exposing and head-lopping, one deserved person after another, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, and so forth, with no one being safe if they're in the wrong. While documenting what is happening, what is being made, the quest, the fight, the war, and all of the subjects that come up on here. For instance, there will soon be a post on the three scariest episodes of Suspense. Do you know why? Because without balance, there is nothing. Sometimes one must force one's self to make sure there is balance. That is called mental discipline. And also understanding one's quest so well as to take even that step not to allow anyone to vitiate one's purpose.
I have to send some things to a friend in Rhode Island. I've had these items sitting here forever, and now I can't find them. One of the items is a book of rarely seen Christmas ghost stories from the Victorian era, and I'd like to make sure to get them there for the holidays. It's been long enough.
I think I was starting to get sick last night, but I un-sicked myself. I should do a radio segment on that: C-Dawg's tips for un-sicking yourself. I am sure there is zero scientific basis in what I believe to be these repudiations of mine, but I do actually kind of believe they work. I think I do believe it.
My sister sent me a cute video of the kids at my niece's school leaving for the day in this kind of Halloween procession. My niece made a point of getting the attention of her little sister who was standing with my sister so she could wave to her. I thought that was really nice.
I don't ever really do nothing, even when I'm doing nothing, because I'm always thinking, and when I am thinking I am creating.
Also: the story is more than quite strong. I had a long phone conversation about it with someone today. God knows when anyone will ever see this story, though, or the other 600.
Lastly: I really like "Monster Mash." It caught on in a flash. A flash! I like the electrodes part, and also when the song was on Cheers. Gary!