Tag Archives: Writers

Here’s a catchy title with the word “blood” in it. Intrigued? What’s it about? Hmm. Find out?

Went to Walmart so that I could get an outdoor mat to have one for each door. A blood van was there. It wasn’t the American Red Cross: it was The Blood Connection. They asked if I’d give some blood, and I said I would.

I was pretty anxious. I’m used to blood and needles from going to the doctor as a kid. But I was afraid they’d find something wrong with me (I’ll get into this later). I tried to calm my anxiety, however, because I thought that might skew the results somehow. She said my blood pressure was a little high, but that’s no surprise. Smart people who think about the world get stressed. I just dismissed it. I have been working on managing my stress, however, because it has finally started to become too much for me. Fascinating how the outdoors relieve stress. I think it has something to do with the fact that it is out of our control. The trees grow, and produce air, outside of our control. That’s comforting.

She said something, maybe hemoglobin, was 17, and it should be between 13 and 20. Everything seemed good.

Answered some questions beforehand. Read about AIDS, and needles, and shit. Scary stuff. Finally went to the chair to donate. “Are their needles clean?” I was thinking. Whatever. If I catch something, I catch something. Just relax. The van probably isn’t outside of Walmart to give people diseases. They’re probably trying to do good for people who need blood. People need blood. It does them good. People need it, for reasons I don’t care to fully understand. You can have it.

It took a little while. Some sugar beforehand, some sugar after. Waited in the van for a little bit, then walked out. Thought about going full “Cody mode”, but that wasn’t going to work. Walked slowly. Stay calm. Everything was fine. Got my mat, and left.

I thought about Dad. Dad always gave blood. It feels good to give blood. I hope somebody can use it. I figure that as long as I’m healthy enough to give blood, that means I’m doing good. Dad reached a point where they asked him not to donate anymore. I guess as long as I’m still healthy enough to give blood, I’m doing good.

There are two kinds of people in this world: people who never see a problem until it is too late, and those that constantly see problems when there are none there. I watched a video yesterday that Jordan Peterson was in (I don’t care for finding the exact timestamp. Sorry), and he confirmed something that I’ve always believed. My history regarding how I view health is pretty complicated. Religion did some pretty shitty things with how I view health, but I won’t get into all of that here. Suffice it to say that I’ve always felt guilty for being healthy, or smart. I’ve had to retrain myself philosophically to think about health differently. If I pity those who are unhealthy, what does that mean? That means I want them to be healthy. So why shouldn’t I be happy for myself, or anyone else who is healthy? Why should I feel guilty for having what I want everyone to have? The reasons for guilt are depressing. Basically, religion is, all too often, synonymous with guilt. I have deep problems with that.

I will do my best to not be someone who doesn’t accept a problem until it is too late. Prevention, prevention, prevention. Shit happens. But I don’t want to wait until it is too late. I don’t want to be someone who trains for marathons, but I’m going to think about my health. If that adds extra stress to me, then so be it. “Cody, too much stress is unhealthy-” Please shut the fuck up.

The two kinds of people in this world, that I mentioned above, are affected by everything. People who never see a problem until it is too late help create Nazi Germany. I won’t be one of those people. I’d rather be a person who sees every tiny encroachment of liberty as a step towards Nazi Germany. Sure, I’ll have to deal with people calling me “nasty names”. But it’s worth it. Fuck you, and fuck Nazi Germany. Fuck not taking care of yourself. Fuck the State. And fuck the idiots.

As I was going through the mats, I thought of something. I’ve always had a problem with speaking well. People in the South don’t like good talkers. Their inferiority complexes make them uncomfortable. This, of course, affects everyone from time to time: not just “Southerners”. I single out “the South” because I have a lot of problems with the culture I grew up in. But I realized, as I was picking up a mat, just how important words are. It’s important to speak well. You can’t make arguments without language. Language is very powerful. It is important. It is a tool. A tool that can be improved. It is sad when people manipulate with their language. But I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime. I “experimented” with lying when I first got a computer: getting up the courage to “talk” (lol) to women. Telling them what they wanted to hear. And hating every fucking second of it. I thought about that, and thought about “the news” from when I was growing up. There was always some story where someone was involved in a scandal, and they always said they were innocent. Constantly. Somebody was always lying. I thought “Why are these people making the world worse?” And that furthered my hatred for lying. I wanted to stop lying. Honesty was therapeutic. And that’s where I am today.

Of course, with honesty comes responsibility. You can honestly do some horrible things by accident. Honesty doesn’t mean you can escape the consequences. That’s scary to me. I try to think about making sure I don’t put myself in positions where I could accidentally do something reprehensible. The thought of going to jail is frightening. The thought of being innocent and going to jail is even more frightening. But a clear conscience goes a long, LONG way. That’s one reason that I hate religious conservatism so fucking much.

I realized that speaking out means other people will speak out as well. I don’t like people. I humorously thought today, while sitting in the parking lot, that I’m part of the “autism spectrum”. I honestly hate people. To my fucking core. But I don’t want them imprisoned. I don’t want them sick. I want them to have what I have. And I want to leave them alone because I want to be left alone.

I briefly thought about someone saying “You talk fine! Why are you so worried about it?” What’s wrong with desiring to improve? Why are you so worried about my desire to improve?

I hate talking because I am bad at it. I don’t like being around angry people. I don’t like arguments. I’ve often found myself in a position retracting from a debate where the other person was actually enjoying it. A misread communicatory signal. Must be that spectrum in me. But I realized that a large reason why I don’t like talking to people is that I’m not a good arguer. I’m not good enough with language. There’s SO much room for improvement. I guess a lot of people don’t care that much. That’s why they call you “smarty-pants”, or whatever. But I need language. I need this. I don’t fully understand why. But I need it. And I need to improve upon it. It’s simply a tool. It cleanses my spirit, and helps me navigate socially. It will still be my goal to avoid socializing as much as possible, but when I can’t, I need to be able to speak for myself.

It’s all a process. All improvement.

That’s all it is.

Thanks for reading.

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A Message From A Shitty Writer

A young man gets bored, and decides to write a story. He decides to write a story about the most exciting thing he can imagine. Along the way, he discovers that he isn’t very good at it. He’s created the literary equivalent of a McDonald’s hamburger: it’s food, but not very sustenary; full of shitty preservatives and filler that only the most careless would consume, let alone enjoy.

As time goes by, he realizes that the health-nuts were right. It’s shit. And anyone who likes it is a deadly idiot.

More time passes, and yet, the shit remains. Undissolved, in the pit of his stomach. Making him sick. More and more, he realizes how important it is to take care of his health. To take care of his mind. And to take care of his stories.

But man has to fight against his own nature when he diets and exercises. All the truth in the world won’t change a stubborn man into action. At least, not necessarily.

The voices tell him that he himself needs to speak. Their triumphs arouse in him his desire to succeed himself. A best friend’s favorite author, and one of the most heralded pieces of political fiction ever written, call out within him the desire to scream. The exhaustion and dissatisfaction comes rapidly. It isn’t that the words aren’t good. But it’s that his heart screams out to speak. He can’t take it anymore. He screams out loud, to only a few. His words will fade into obscurity. Can’t the young man focus on these resonating words? For some reason, only a little. And that reason, it appears to be, is the desire to scream himself.

The youth are cursed with ignorance. But, strangely enough, the young man is smart enough to realize this. But, as an old country song used to sing, “still too young to care“. Besides, the confidence in youth can lead to contentment in old age. There will be no shortage of sages making you aware of their own failures. But why they assume that their shortcomings will be your own remain a mystery.

Speaking of mysteries, I don’t care how good of a writer John D. MacDonald is, I’m not a big fan of them.

The main thing that is going to get me to read is going to be my desire to improve as a writer. I suppose there will be moments when I am bored enough to read rather compulsively. But as I read, I realize that I am dissatisfied with my own abilities as a storyteller. It matters not to me that these writers are better than I. What matters is that my heart is dissatisfied with my inability to communicate as often, and as effectively, as I wish.

I can hear many old sayings about how those who wish to speak the most often, and the loudest, are the dumbest. My goal is to be a bright exception to that rule. Despite the fact that, by almost every standard, my words are abjectly elementary and juvenile, the beast within my heart waits to be awakened. Bilbo and Smaug both want the gold. And my goal is to make sure they both get it.

Of course, it’s a long journey. But journeys are best when they aren’t directed by an outsider. When they are directed by the self. When the reason for them is clear within the mind of the one taking the journey. That is part of my journey. Being able to say things beautifully, and creatively, and witfully. Beautiful, well-written stories of tragedy, horror, adventure, and heartbreak. Isn’t it ironic how that is what the heart wants? Heartbreak?

I mean no disrespect to any author that has come before me, or will come after me. But you’re all tools. I’m going to use you. Your existence is for my selfishness. Your words are going to become mine. I can appreciate the fact that, sometime throughout your life, you felt just as compelled to scream as me. But beyond that, I wish, myself, to scream. Maybe I’ll catch a faint holler in the distance, of the message you wished for me to absorb. But that whisper is saying to me “Scream, dammit. Scream. Learn how to scream for yourself. And use us to do it.”

The only trouble is screaming coherency, or even better still, charm, and wit, instead of nonsense.

Sometimes, the hardest part of screaming is the screaming. Other times, the hardest part of screaming is the message. But I think as long as I’m able to scream, I’m going to relish that gift, that right, right along with other screamers. I appreciate your screams, and I long to join in on the hauntingly beautiful chorus…

Long live the written word, and may we chant this from the sulphury pits of Hell if we must.

Message.

Murray Rothbard on sports.

“Of all areas of life, sports should be the arena least touched by politics. For the glory of being a sports fan is precisely that we are engaging in fun and play, that we are permitted to be ‘irrational’; that is, to be Yankee or Mets fans, to love our team and to hate the enemy, without having to ground these passions in systematic, moral or metaphysical theory. So it is particularity obnoxious when the gaggle of left Puritans invades and takes over the field of sports. Which they have done, of course, with a vengeance.

The Hate Thought squad has run rampant in sports for years. Veteran and respected sports figures, such as Al Campaneris and Jimmy the Greek, have seen their careers destroyed because they gave one politically improper answer to an interviewer’s question. No one dares even explore whether or not the answers were correct; their very expression is a hate-thought-crime; unlike other, seemingly graver, crimes, from their punishment there is no reprieve.

I like to think that sports writers are above politics’ that sports and only sports fill their minds. But now, they too have succumbed, and are, in fact, viciously leftist whenever politics is deemed relevant to sports.”

The Irrepresible Rothbard pdf.

More Murray Rothbard.

Even more Murray Rothbard.

Sports.

Anarch.

Review of Stephen King’s “It”

It’s too damn long. Part of the problem is seeing the movie before reading the book. I knew there was going to be a spider, so I wanted to get to that part. That probably diminished some of my enjoyment of the story. Not entirely, however. I like King’s horror and gruesomeness, but I didn’t like many of his similes and metaphors in this book. They made me cringe throughout.

You can tell Stephen King grew up in the ’60s. “Far out, man”, and whatnot. Didn’t really have a problem with it, per se. Just chuckled. It was fine. It always stood out to me like when I witnessed it.

There’s a lot of themes in the book. Friendship. The romantic situation was very interesting. Not clear-cut at all. Everyone thinks Bev is pretty but Ritchie never really makes any moves on her and Ben loves her but she’s more into Bill but Bill is more consumed by getting revenge for Georgie even though he likes Bev as well. At first, I didn’t like it. But, thinking it over, childhood (hell, even adulthood) is confusing like that, isn’t it? The complicated love triangle was a nice touch. Very funny to contrast that with all of the gruesomeness throughout.

Interesting how they all leave each other after the horror of their childhood and Bill ends up with a woman that looks like Bev. Then he cheats on her with Bev? Ok. Then, at the end, he ends back up with her, and they live happily ever after? Is he ever gonna tell Audra or not? Ok.

Why is Mike the one that stayed in Derry? Why didn’t “It” ever get him? What’s the significance of the fact that Mike stayed in Derry? Does it have to do with the fact that he’s black? Serious question. He’s used to seeing horror so he can stay? It bothered me that I couldn’t figure that out.

The tragedy in the book is terrific. I’m thinking of Bev’s father and Henry’s father in particular. So tragic. Children being raised horribly. I really enjoyed those parts of the book. Particularly Bev’s. Incredibly powerful.

I had a problem with the way King talked about their friendship, to paraphrase, “coming together”, “they felt the final cog click into place”. Please. You’re being way too obvious. Stop beating me over the head with it. Why did they need those “cogs” if one of them killed himself before the final confrontation? Was Stan really necessary? And what did I miss about the birds? What relevance did the birds have besides making an appearance? Stan’s character existed simply for one of them to commit suicide. I guess that’s fine. But that has to be the stated reason for his existence. Stop telling me that all seven of them are needed when they clearly aren’t. I did not feel as if he existed for any other reason than to create drama about their “unit” being weakened, and to really drive home the point that what they witnessed as children was so horrible that one of them killed himself because of it. I think I enjoyed the way I just explained it more than the way King explained it in the book. It was just annoying, because Stan just tagged along (he’s an introvert, I get it). But Stan really annoyed me. I guess his suicide was the best part.

I liked Ritchie as a character. Mike as a character. Ben, and Bev. Eddie was annoying. “He sucks on his inhaler. He sucks on his inhaler. He sucks on his inhaler.” I FUCKING GET IT. GIVE SOMEONE ELSE MORE PAGE TIME. Swap Stan and Eddie, or something. Sure, it’s great when you learn the inhaler was a placebo. But for fuck’s sake, I got tired of reading about Eddie’s goddamned asthma. Bill’s character was interesting. He grew on me. At first, I thought he was stale. But he grew on me. He kind of made me wonder why some of the other kids were really necessary. I know groups have “leaders”, but a lot of time was given to Bill. And I couldn’t figure him out as a character. Obviously, he was motivated by justice. But how much of his character would’ve been “serious” if Georgie hadn’t died? How much of it was his natural personality and how much of it was revenge for Georgie? It bothered me that I couldn’t figure that out. Not really a problem with King, I guess. Just something personal.

I get that Henry was the antagonist that needed the most page time. It makes sense. He’s a loudmouth. I didn’t have any problem with Henry Bowers. I liked his storylines. But man, was I disappointed when Patrick Hottstetter’s story was over as quickly as it was. That was one of my favorite parts of the whole book. Patrick’s killing animals and has them in a refrigerator? Holy fuck! That’s great! Slugs that jab into your eyes? Awesome! I’m not saying that Patrick should’ve been the main villain over “It”, nor did I have a problem with how much time Henry was given. But I was disappointed that his beautiful depravity was over with so soon. Henry being the leader of this fucked up kid, who was probably entirely capable of killing Henry. What an interesting character, Patrick Hottstetter was. Shame I didn’t get to see more of him. I’m glad he died, though. In the sewers. Apropos.

And everyone ends up fucking Bev in the sewer? Really? I mean, ALL of them? Stan, Mike, Ritchie, everyone? That part was hilarious. I loved it. I guess, looking back, it’s really tragic. What was Bev thinking? Did she become a whore because of an abusive father? Or was there truly something deeper that she did, in fact, share with all of them? I’m leaning more towards whore because of her father, personally. Women don’t just go around fucking all of their friends. That’s the only way she really knew how to show her love, because that’s how her father showed her love. Sweet, because she loves them. Heartbreaking, because she’s fucking them because of her own sexual abuse (I’m sure), and hilarious and disgusting because they are all down in a sewer when they fuck. King can’t be preaching about ANYTHING “in real life”, political, because of that. Well, it depends. King virtue-signalling about Trump is pathetic. But I’m not going to get into that here.

But the main themes of the book, about childhood and growing up, were terrific. The final couple of pages made me tear up. I loved it. Fascinating how the kids fought “It” by accepting that “It” was an illusion. Kids conquering their fear of the dark. That was very nice. But why did any kid ever die then? How can kids die from giving in to an “illusion”? At what point does the illusion become real? I really like all of the parts were King drives home that horrible things in one’s childhood fucks one up for life. All of them repressing what happened to them in the sewer as kids. Stan killing himself, Henry and Bev that I already mentioned, etc. What happened with the Hottstetter kid that made him how he was? Who knows. Enjoyable. The town ignoring the problems of the kids? Also nice. But I’m confused: why did only some kids die, and not all of the kids? Why was anyone allowed to grow up to become an adult? Why did “It” choose who it chose? That also bothered me. Maybe I’m a bad reader and all of this just flew over my head.

And what’s the deal with Pennywise? There’s something old. It manifests itself to what children fear. It’s an illusion. What is its “final” form? I guess I missed that, too. I wish that Pennywise wasn’t just some prop or tool, the “bait” form of It, I guess. I’m fine with a clown turning into a spider. But I was disappointed that the clown just goes around talking in people’s heads. I guess he doesn’t have to kill anyone. But it’s kind of a let down to me when Pennywise is around for the whole story but he’s (or that form of “It” is) kind of meaningless in the end.

And why Derry? Why nowhere else? What was it about Derry which made “It” reside in the sewers for so long? No big city at all? I thought “It” was going to be a metaphor for evil as a whole. But it only resides in Derry? News crews from major cities come to Derry afterwards? Why did “It” choose Derry? I get it. That’s the “mystery”, I guess. But it annoys me. I liked the parts that talked about Derry. The small town life, the people around. It was funny to read about people going down to fix the sewers when they overflowed. Interesting. But why does “It” live in a sewer in a small town? Sewer, fine. But why Derry? “That’s the whole point, that’s the mystery”, blah blah blah. It annoys me, personally. I like shit to make sense. I get that entertainment doesn’t have to make sense, but in times like these, it is going to bother me, and I am going to say so, because that is how I am. Lol (And I’m not just saying that it has to be in “bigger” towns and not “smaller” towns, but why only one small town? Why no other “small town” but Derry, Maine?)

And I’m fucking glad I’m probably never going to see the word “Kenduskeag” ever-a-fucking-gain.

I’d definitely recommend “It”. But, in my opinion, it is overrated. People love it for the gruesomeness. Which I agree with. But I have a lot of problems with this story. There’s way too many problems and not enough good gruesomeness in this one for my taste.

And I think I would enjoy it more if it was cut in about half.

Review of 2017’s “It”.

The Apparent Conflict Between “Practicality” and “Art”

I’m not sure if my best friend, Devin Stevens, wishes me to make this public or not. But I think I will, anyway. My best friend, Devin Stevens, has a habit of walking back and forth, talking to himself. It is interesting, and some might even say peculiar. I really only paid attention to it when trying to talk to him, only to be ignored. A boy lost in his own head. Consumed by his own thoughts. The outside world, be damned. How it has always been, how it will always be. No hard feelings, of course. But I did find it quite interesting.

And now, here I sit, these several years later. A post opened, writing down words. Struggling to find exactly how to say what I wish to say, and how I want to say it. So what do I do? Why, I pace back and forth, and start talking to myself, of course. Why? Well, as I paced back and forth, talking to myself, I realized something. What am I doing when I talk to myself, walking back and forth? Well, I’m thinking, and I’m communicating. I’m thinking, organizing, and communicating it back to myself. And what is writing? Writing is thinking and communicating. So, in other words, they are the same. Thoughts come out of nowhere, and then, the will acts upon them. The thoughts come, effort is put into them as far as organizing and developing are concerned, and the end goal is some conclusion. Some conclusion to the sequence of thoughts that have occurred. At that point, one can decide whether or not to communicate those ideas: in what form, to whom, and how. Then, the communicatee goes through the same process, and back and forth it goes.

So what is the point of communication? The point is whatever the communicators want it to be. In other words, why does anyone ever talk to anyone at all? Because they want to; have decided to, for whatever reason. And these reasons are varied. So why do I communicate? For various reasons. The main one being that I want to. And why do I want to? I do not know. I think thoughts, I like them, and I want other people to be aware of them. “Do you like them, too?” I suppose that’s the main point. “Do you like my thoughts, too? Do you enjoy them as much as I do? Because I’ve really enjoyed them. They’ve made me happy. Do they make you happy?”

I realize that this is humorous to say, but, of course, I am not the only person who thinks, and I am not the only person who communicates. Everyone does this. When people communicate with me, I listen, and think. And then, I communicate back. And there have been very few people who I have communicated with who enjoy writing as much as I do. The main one is my best friend. And I don’t think our love for writing and our friendship status are separable.

Most of the people I have communicated with have skills that I don’t have. They tell me that I should learn those skills, as they have, because it would be helpful. My natural instinct is just to pay someone else to do it. It’s easier. I do something else for money, and give you the money to fix my problem that I don’t want to learn how to fix. It’s understandable how blasphemous it is to someone who does “fix their own problems” (arguably, I am fixing mine by paying someone else to fix it for me). But I don’t think those people love writing as much as I do. I never hear them talk about stories that they wish to write. Or treatises. It never seems to come up. Not once. They might mention a book that they’ve read, that someone else has written. But they never say “Hey, I want to write a book.” I realize that people don’t live in a fantasy-land where they can do whatever they want when there is money that has to be made, things that must be fixed, food that must be obtained to be eaten, etc. But starving artists have always, and will always, balance between making the money that they need to make and doing what their heart really wants to do. And that is a very difficult struggle. Artists often choose their art over more money. Non-artists don’t really have to make that decision: they just pick the money, no questions asked. It’s a matter of personal preference.

Some people seem to have accepted that “it doesn’t matter” what their heart really wants. But how many of them are happy? And yet, they’d respond that their happiness doesn’t matter. I reject that philosophy from many fronts. I have a lot to say about it. I’ve written about it some, and I’m sure I’ll have more to say about it in the future. But I reject the way that basic truths are applied by “the public”. I disagree with the way “most people” seem to apply reality. I can’t really get into it all here. I think that it will be a “life’s work” that I work toward; explaining my philosophies.

So how do I talk to anyone when they do not desire to write much of anything (for various reasons), when I do desire to write fictional stories or “treatises”? That’s the hard part. Talk gets small, even if important. It never comes to what I love. (Why “should” it? Well, why should I listen to anyone talk about anything at all? Why should I listen to someone, even a friend or family member, talk about their children? Or their health? Or the health of someone else that they care about? Well, it is simple. They have decided to tell me these things because it matters to them. And I listen, because I am either their friend or family member, and that’s what friends and family members DO. So why should the conversation ever come to what I love: writing? Well, why should any conversation ever come to anything that ANYONE loves?)

I suppose it rarely gets to what they love, either. Other things take precedent over dreams. One has to be able to eat, after all. And there ain’t gonna be any food if there’s none grown or raised. But my will, my decision, is to write. That’s what matters to me on this planet. I may not know how to fix my own car, or my own plumbing. But who is going to write if I don’t? Mechanics and plumbers won’t be writing. If everyone was a mechanic or a plumber, there’d be no books. I want to create books for mechanics and plumbers and everyone else to read. That is important to me. I’m more than happy to pay someone else to fix my problems if that means I don’t have to spend the time and energy learning how to do them when I could be reading or writing instead (or Hell, even listening to music, or playing video games, or whatever else that I want to do). It’s worth it to me to pay that price.

But it’s honestly my fault that conversations that I am in never include my love for writing. Why? It is very simple. Because the very skill that I’m lacking is the very thing that I love to do. In other words, what I love to do is to communicate. But I’m not good enough at it yet to actually do it. So I can’t accurately communicate to others that what I love to do is to communicate. I struggle constantly with that. Of course, questions are begged: “What kind of communication?”, etc. And there’s a million different pieces of advice that I will not take. I will do communication in my own way; in a way which brings me happiness. And I can’t accurately explain why it is that I’m going to do that at the moment, and thus, the frustration continues. It never really truly ends.

Writing is very hard. There is no way around it. It’s hard and it will be hard until you finish it. And you can say “Thank God” when it is done. But getting anything done is just hard, and there’s no way around it. If you want it done, it’s going to be hard. And if you don’t do it, it won’t get done. So it is either “hard” or nothing at all. As is every area of life. And that’s why being alive is such a son-of-a-bitch situation to BE in.

Everything looks easy when someone else is doing it. But doing something for yourself will always show you how hard it really is to do. I’ve always enjoyed learning that for myself, because once I learn how hard something is to do, I don’t sit around, envious of others, saying “I could do that. Life isn’t fair.” I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime, and I’m done surrounding myself with people that think that way. “It’s not fair that person has muscles and I’m fat. Welp, let’s start eating right and exercising. Hey, I exercised for a week. That’s pretty good. Where are my results? What? You’re telling me I have to do this CONSTANTLY? And I’ve got to drastically alter my diet? Uhh…so my choices are to either drastically change my lifestyle and get the muscles, or keep my lifestyle and either stay envious that I don’t have muscles or just say ‘Fuck the muscles’? I think it’s time to move on.” I personally could not handle anymore envy than I had in my late teens. It was unbearable. Muscles and money, muscles and money. My envy of those with more money than me reached a breaking point, and that’s when I decided to learn what the fuck was going on. To me, my choices were to either “Rip everybody off like everybody else is doing who has a lot of money”, or be “A good person who will inevitably be poor”. I thought those were my only two options. And at that point, I broke. My life changed forever from that day. That was as low as I had been in a while, but things changed for me that day. I know it was a religious experience. Everything has been completely different since then. And I’ve never looked back.

I’ve made some philosophical life choices over the years. At one point, I chose to be nihilistic because I thought it was “cool”. The completely idiotic “split” between religion and science made me choose science because science made sense, and if religion said science was bullshit, then I knew religion was bullshit. But thinking that science had every answer known to man made me angry and depressed when it, inevitably, was given questions that it simply couldn’t answer. Something was missing. “Science” was not enough of a framework to me. Thinking of how to “scientifically” explain light waves every time you turn on a light bulb isn’t healthy. With one caveat. It isn’t healthy if you DON’T LIKE IT. That is what I finally realized, with some help from my best friend, Devin Stevens. Devin introduced me to some religious ideas that I had never considered before. And I pondered them, and pondered them. And the more he told me, the more things made sense. And my life has completely changed, for the better, because of him. Without a single doubt. My perspective on life has completely changed thanks to him.

My parents, of course, have also influenced me. My father always told me to get an education, so that I could have a better job than HE had. He told me this and told me this and told me this. “Don’t do what I did. Go to school.” And my mother always gave me the confidence that I could make my dreams a reality. The “unstoppable force” (very evidently my mother) and the “immovable object” (very evidently my father) made ME. I couldn’t imagine being anyone else. Their advice produced a lot of anxiety within me growing up. I didn’t know how I was going to “do better than them”. I wanted to, because they advised it, and I didn’t want to hate my job every day, as they did. I was desperate to avoid that lifestyle. But I had no idea what I was going to do. HOW I was going to do it. I looked to the “rich and famous“: what have they done? What do they do? They play basketball? They act? Let me try those. And it was a fantastic decision to try. Because of what I mentioned earlier. My envy quickly evaporated. And I needed to learn something that I could actually do.

I learned to read at a young age, and I read a lot to my parents. I’ve written some about my history with reading here. And, somehow, I’ve got a “knack” for writing as well. Probably got it from my parents. It got developed in school as well. I’m convinced that good readers can write. Hell, I can write, and I’m not even a good reader. But writers are thinkers. But I don’t think that is enough. Writers aren’t just thinkers: they are UNIQUE thinkers. Common ideas don’t need to be written, because they don’t need to be read. If everyone says the same thing all the time throughout their day in communication with one another, why would any of them ever take the time to write something? Or read something? It’d always be the same. So writers are unique. There has to be something unique about writers. Even if multiple writers write very similar things, there’s just something different about us writers. We’re just different. Unique. Strange. “A little off”. And that’s what makes us so great. That’s what makes us worth reading. We’ll come to you when we need our cars fixed, but maybe we can entertain you or teach you something while you’re shitting. When people do what they desire, and take action, things just seem to have a way of working out symbiotically. Years of studying economics has taught me that profound fact.

So I appreciate it when a friend or family member tries to give me advice. I may or may not know exactly what they know, but, at the very least, I’m sure their hearts are in the right place. But I know what my heart says. I know what I need to do. I don’t know exactly how it will play out, but no one does. No one who gives advice knows how everything will play out. So the question becomes: what should I do? That, I will figure out myself. And, right now, it is telling me to write. It is telling me that I need to learn a lot more when it comes to writing. It is telling me that I need a lot more confidence when it comes to writing. That I need to read more. That I need to be more assertive. That I need to write more often. That I need to dedicate more time and patience to writing. And it is telling me that I need to be by myself, walking around, back and forth, thinking of things. Because that will, inevitably, help me with my writing. And that is what I want.

I think you’re on to something, Devin. I don’t know if you realize it or not. But I truly believe you are on the right track. And I believe I’m going to follow in your footsteps. I can’t thank you enough. Good luck to you. And to all of my fellow artists. And Hell: even to the non-artists, too. Good luck to EVERYBODY.

The Process of Thinking.

Apparent.

A Treatise on Stubbornness.

Intellect Equals Cockiness?

Why Express?

Why Do I Write How I Write?

Getting Sucked Into the World of Writing.

Conserv.

Personality Development.

Writing blues.

9/21/17. Midnight. The house is quiet, but the mind is dishearteningly loud. This is the perfect time to read. Books are calling your name. You start to read and…it bores you. Your mind drifts to your own work. All of those poorly written stories. This is the perfect time to write. But it is all a nightmare. You have no readers. You have so much more to read. So much you want to write. But you feel like a failure. You can’t get the voices out of your head. Peace and quiet helps. But you haven’t had enough of it yet. Hopefully, soon.

Peace and quiet. A peaceful and quiet mind. No words, except for your own. Except when you allow someone else to speak to you through a book. But the satisfaction is fleeting. On to something else. Something else is always calling your name. You call yourself often. But you soon realize that you have nothing to say.

All of this has to go somewhere. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s somewhere. As long as it is something. But the struggles add up. You soon find that you are in the same boat as other writers. But reading them quickly becomes a chore. There’s so much writing to be done, and reading is such a chore.

Everything starts adding up, and time passes. You start to notice rust on your pieces of junk. Projects quickly swamp you. Time keeps ticking away. The future only shows the amount of work left to be done. And the voices are around every corner. Instead of Midas, you feel like death. You’ve accumulated fools’ gold. You’ve worked hard to keep garbage from getting in, but garbage is still coming out. And time keeps ticking away. Another day with a dream. Another day of the same.

All that is good is fleeting. The sandwich is good. But it is gone. The highs of the day disappear. A tolerance is built up. The mirror starts to get ugly. Everything gets harder. Everything starts to die. Everything continues to add up. Concentration becomes impossible. Failures keep creeping through the walls and the floors. The devil on your shoulder becomes your only welcome companion. The sands of time tick faster as you move slower. Frantic becomes a way of life. The projects continue to add up: which means the failures. Just like everyone else. We’re all failures. It gets harder, and we ignore it with our beer or our football or our family. Most of us run from that monster under the bed as long as we can. Very few confront it, and the rest of us pay a premium for it. But it is there, and it is waiting for us.

The dirt long awaits our arrivals. All of this is for nought at that time. What will we think of all of this when we are no longer here? When I am in Heaven, what will I think about my time here on Earth? Will I think about it at all? If I don’t, then isn’t all of this just a waste? Why not Heaven now? Sooner rather than later? Why work for today when it is all gone tomorrow? Because tomorrow isn’t that certain. Because tomorrow is longer away. Because tomorrow is eternal, and today is fleeting. Today is a sandwich. A book. Misery, and distractions. Today is failure. Empathy. Work. Struggle. Blood.

Today is Hell……

And tomorrow is Hell. Until it isn’t. Unless it is.

We keep trying to run from that monster under our beds. More food, more sex. More raising of children. More money. More, more more. Every day, more. Satisfaction is fleeting. Disappointment is around the corner, waiting to be drank away.

Tomorrow is just another day of much of the same…

Coffins are made and lied in. It’s all a dress rehearsal. But in the end, the play doesn’t matter. Regardless, we’re stuck with the stage. And all of the problems that come with it.

Pink Floyd – Another Brick in the Wall Parody

I don’t need no education
I don’t need no self-control
The dark sarcasm in the writing
Teacher: “Read your books at home”
“Hey!” Teacher: “What’d you read at home?”
All in all you’re just another shitty author
All in all you’re just another shitty author

If you don’t write your words, how can you be a writer? How an you be a writer if you don’t write your words?

Parodies.