Poem: So You Don’t Have To

I beat myself so you don’t have to.
I lash my back, I give myself the pain,
Upon my body I inflict this beating
So you don’t have to.

My flesh opens wide for your convenience
My blood drips from wounds torn by my hands
I break my own skin, I expose myself
So you don’t have to.

I end myself, I disappear into the abyss willingly.
Freely, I fling myself into the void, the absent.
I crush my heart, my self, into self-annihilation.
So you don’t have to.

I See Nuzzink!

Change is a part of life. Change is life itself. If I’ve been trying to hold on too long to a moment, to a place, even to my… friends, well… then I’ve been guilty of… holding my world in stasis… of not trying new things and letting myself… grow. Then you run the risk of just doing what’s expected of you. Of looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing nothing
Or you can experiment, take a risk. Honor the familiar with one last hurrah, perhaps. Then leave the familiar behind. And go forward, into the future.

— Paul Cornell, Doctor Who: The Third Doctor. “The Heralds of Destruction” #5

Hello. My name is Brian. I’m in my mid-40’s and I still enjoy reading comic books. But just, the old favorites eh?

It’s been a while since I’ve written here so it’s best to get you up to date: Absolutely nothing has changed. I’m still mostly struggling, I’m still fighting a double-dose of depression, and I find my odd, Bohemian lifestyle not so much interesting as decrepit. It seems I’ve spent the last few years recapturing moments from my lost youth, a time when I became a young husband and father, as all of my current friends were sowing oats, wild, machine cut, or otherwise. With sugar, naturellement.

If we move the Time Scope about twenty years, oats are good but are high in carbs, my friends have settled down, passed away, or disappeared into the past memories. Meanwhile, muggins is working a tolerable job for not a lot of pay, living in someone else’s house, and otherwise being not quite what most people expect of a 40-something White Guy.

Alas, my succor is escaping to fantasy worlds and writing little bits of interesting things. But otherwise, I am not doing much of anything. My social life has diminished and I feel a bit of a hermit. My diet is passable — I get the fruit and veg — but also stuck in a rut. I am going… nowhere. As the Doctor says above, guilty of holding my world in a stasis.

Some has changed. I’m working on getting a podcast on, what else, Doctor Who up and running and I’m writing my days’ events in my battered yet reliable brown journal book. Maybe I can make this my online battered journal, yes?

Time was, I felt like I was an interesting person who could have had some adventures but out of fear, duties, and living to other people’s standard, I’ve lost the spark. I do what’s expected of me and the reflection is see in the mirror is a man tired and frustrated. Someone beaten down and feeling beaten. Alas, this is old news.

The new news, should there be any, may be told here. Stay tuned and keep your nose clean.

Bus Stops Are Places, Too

It’s been a while since I’ve sat down to write anything creative. Even now, I’m typing, deleting, retyping, fretting over whether I start my sentences with too many vowels, and generally not feeling a huge vibe to write. Mayhaps, it’s just the creaking writing bones, the flabby muscles crying out myriad curses. All I know is, right now, generating even five sentences in this paragraph is a chore. There, I did it.

For the better part of a year, I think I’ve been dwindling intellectually, creatively, and spiritually. Most days, I just feel as if I’m a gear in a machine, one that serves no real useful purpose except in some sort of quirked out Rube Goldberg monstrosity. I think a Rube Goldberg Machine is a very fitting metaphor for society: perform a simple task but do it in such a inefficient, complicated, and baffling method that you’re just amused with the small job it accomplished. Well, you say as a bureaucratic twat cracks a knee up your nose, at least I got a demonstration of mechanics.

Consider for yourself. Agree? Disagree?

I’ve been in a depressive mood for almost two weeks. It’s the usual melange of feeling alienated, low energy, and no real drive to do much more than what I do most days, which is not much. I work, eat, internet, sleep, and that’s mostly it except for a standing Thursday invitation and the rare Saturday night out. So yeah, I’m in rut and that is a huge factor.

Also, let’s be honest,, since El DuCheeto took office, it’s been one nightmare after another. So Jerry Falwell’s son and a member of the Amway scam family are in charge of education? Fantastic! Privatize the Corporation for Public Broadcasting? Tier the Internet? Our lives becoming the mutant, bastardized incorporation of The Handmaid’s Tale, 1984, and Brave New World? Even if these are things that never come to fruition, the idea of living on this sort of knife edge can make anyone loony.

And I’ve been a card non-carrying member of the Loony Society since lunchtime. Take a seat and enjoy the performance art.

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Note on the title: I apparently have taken the New Order method of naming posts. Enjoy!

Work, work, no write, some Chrimble

Yes, yes, this is your lazy writer finally checking in for a few brilliant paragraphs of wit, wisdom, and winsome prose, not to mention prodigious alliteration and laws of three.

There are two reasons why I’ve been silent. The first one was this: I went full-time at my horrible, no good, hate-it-to-bits convenience store job. I’m more than willing to admit that as, an idler and general hedonist, I’m not made for lifting large cases of Gatorade, standing on my feet for eight hours straight with neither a break or lunch (which, apparently, is legal in Ohio… ‘rah), feeling no connection to most of my customers or co-workers, and generally grumping at my total and utter underemployment. For forty hours a week, which is kind of hard on a bod like mine. As Willie Dixon preached, “I’m built for comfort; I ain’t built for speed“.

Basically, this meant that I’d walk to work, which was always a closing shift, get home around 1:30am, try to relax, sleep, get up around 2pm, and head back in around 5pm. Day in, day out. Bright side was that I was making better money but it was wrecking me, I was miserable, and no one got my jokes.

I use the past tense because the second reason is that I got a new job. A day job! A job where I can sit, have lunch breaks, not have to been busy every second of every minute of every hour. And be around doggies! Yes, I work for a pet resort and spa, and I am so beyond cool with it that. People even get my jokes and chuckle, telling me how well I fit in.

Imagine that.

So these last two weeks have been adjusting to a new sleep schedule — one that I’m thumbing my nose at right now to write this blog. As such, it’s cut my writing down to feints at poetry. Slowly, though, I’ll adjust and pick up the pace.

So all’s well. There have grocery shopping disasters, inebriated dipsomaniac adventures, jokes galore, and an appreciation for things both simple and complex — and not just in the carbohydrate sense!

Also, Xmoss is coming this weekend. Who knew? I’m engaging in my yearly tradition of reading Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. If you’ve never read it or even Dickens, it’s a wonderful book with which to start. It’s short, most definitely familiar given the copious adaptations, and never ceases to make me smile and appreciate life, the holidays, and the people around me. Give it a read wrapped in a blanket with a warm drink next to you.

More later.