Notes on a Freezing Tuesday

We’ve arrived on a meta-fictional Tuesday, the day Alabamaniacs choose whether they are pro- or con- child brides. It won’t matter, of course, because the American Empire is collapsing, being flushed down the bog and taking us all with it.

Had a nightmare of a day Monday which snaked its way to a sleepless night into morning. When I did sleep, the dreams were minimal. Mostly, just a TV tuned to a dead station. Back in the old days, before the digital conversion, a dead TV screen was a visual jumble of static, echoes from the Big Bang, aliens, whatever you want to call it. Nowadays, it’s just a blue screen. Where the fuck is the fun in that? Kids these days no longer have the option of straining their ears to listen to “The Voices”.

It’s a cold and blustery 28F today. This isn’t ideal weather to go traipsing out to retrieve your medications from the pharmacy but traipse I did. My body is still defrosting and my brain is somewhere in the mushy netherworld of survival and consciousness. As a result, my head feels like cold turkey fat tastes, which I blame primarily on the lack of sleep. Even hot cocoa is having a hard time removing The Chill.

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On the recommendation of a friend, I watched L’homme du Train the other night. As you might ascertain by the title, it’s a French film. It stars Jean Rochefort and Johnny Hallyday (both of whom recently passed away) as two men who meet by chance. Hallyday, the titular man on the train, has arrived in a small town for a bank heist. Unable to find accommodations, he is taken in by Rochefort, a retired poetry teacher who lives alone in the large house that his mother left to him. Each face a significant event at the end of the week (one, the bank heist, the other, a triple bypass surgery) and each discover that they wish to live each other’s lives. Rocherfort, having always been a teacher and taken the safe way through life, is intrigued by Hallyday’s life. Hallyday, meanwhile, learns to appreciate the subtle charm to Rochefort’s life, one steeped in poetry, nice slippers, and such.

Don’t be fooled by its description as a crime/drama as it belies the fascinating character study that makes this a really enjoyable film.

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The recent news about an oddly-shaped asteroid triggers memories Grant Morrison’s profoundly disturbing series, Nameless. This comic book isn’t for everyone and if ancient horrors, mindless slaughter, non-linear storytelling, and Occult-heavy narrative aren’t your cup of tea, well… fuck it, you need to be unsettled every once in a while. Read it. Is it Oumuamua or is it Xibalba? Only her hairstylist knows for sure.

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Over the weekend, I went to see my mates’ band play at the Southgate House Revival. They were fucking great, as always, but aside from documenting some of the bathroom graffiti and such, I managed to snap this picture. Here’s looking at you, Newport, KY.

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Take that, Shawshank Redemption!

Walked the neighborhood in the night, it’s quiet save for the cars with loud stereos and loud people talking loudly on their phones. How can you be that loud and have that lung capacity?

Feel the wind begin to chill, it’s going to get colder. Feel the rain, take off my hat and my jacket, I’m in my undershirt feeling the chill rain drop on my clean head, on my naked shoulders. I’m being spit blessed. Unto this I receive your blessing, night cold rain wind.

The chorus of a song sticks in my head, I don’t bother to clear it out, just let it carry me, raise my arms in the way a boring ass hero baptized by rain is in all of those movies. That’s not how I’d do it.

EXT. ALLEY AT NIGHT.
It’s raining hard. Water gurgles from gutters onto the broken pavement, a forgotten alley, rain drops glistening the shattered glass and empty chip backs like a shattered disco ball. Leaves and muck dapple the uneven walkway to a 3×6 drain. Overfilled garbage cans receive the downpour, adding a sweet, sickly stench to the air.

The rain intensifies, litter, leaves swept up in the torrent flooding towards the sewer drain. A moment passes and part of the ground begins to buckle, a bump develops in the mud, growing larger and larger. Before long, it becomes a thick, viscous, organic veiny bubble. The rain beats down on it as it grows out of the ground. The bubble is rumbling, liquid inside. Something alive, something.

The cyst, for it is a cyst from the earth, the muck, the sad, continues growing, blocking the mud and water.

From inside, something is fighting to get out. It has to get out, panicked punches and kicks until the cysts bursts open, deflating as it empties blood, mucus, shit, vomit, everything. Sliding out among the sick, a pale naked body plops out, rolls over, and lays still in the filth, the mud, the debris of the alley. The body is hairless and still, on its back.

Is it dead?

It jerks violently, spasming, choking, until it rolls over and pukes its insides, the bile and gunk in its lungs, coughing, choking, shitting itself, piss dribbling between its legs. Exhausted, it collapses again unto it’s back. It heaves for air and chokes as mucus coughs up out of its mouth and nose.

It’s a boy!

He stares up. Rain illuminated by the street light drops on its face, looking like stars zooming past. The lights hurt his eyes Confused, scared, cold, he starts to scream, screaming out loudly until the screams turn into sobs, hard sobs. Sobbing known only by the lost.

Now that’s how you write a birthing scene.

Update from the Abyssssssssszzzzz…

These last few months have been a blur of work, sleep, eat, and repeats. I won’t kid ya, there hasn’t been much to write about and the world’s in a shitty enough state that even talking about current events depresses me. Everyone’s an abusive sexaholic and none of us are going to have a even a meager retirement thanks to the game constantly being rigged against regular folks like you and you and her and that dude over there in the corner and all of us, basically.

The podcast (did I mention that I’m doing a Doctor Who podcast called HARRY SULLIVAN IS AN IMBECILE!?) is going quite well. Quite well. It’s a fun hobby and we seem to have a very modest audience. The fact that someone is listening is quite nice.

Recently, I restarted my subscription to Filmstruck. With very few exceptions, I’m not a fan of big budget movies nor the frenetic pace that they seemed to be edited. What I appreciate about Filmstruck — a partnership with cable channel TCM and The Criterion Collection — is the variety of films they have: Kurosawa, Fellini, Goddard, Dick Lester, Robert Altman. There’s plenty of foreign films and only recently did they add a series of short films by Jim Henson.

Just a few days ago, I watched Aguirre, The Wrath of God, a film by Werner Herzog and starring the unpredictable Klaus Kinski and the lush and deadly Peruvian jungle which, let’s face it, is the only thing that could balance a terror like Kinski. It’s a fictional account based on the diary of Gaspar de Carvajal of a Spanish soldier’s search for El Dorado. As Aguirre, Kinski dominates every scene with his violent outbursts, threats, and mad determination to reach the mythical city, despite the ever decreasing number of troops, comrades, and others along on their perilous journey down the Amazon.

The movie ends as Aguirre stands upon his disintegrating raft, overrun by monkeys and littered with the bodies of his fellow travelers, his daughter among them, declaring, “I, the Wrath of God, will marry my own daughter, and with her I will found the purest dynasty the world has ever seen. Together, we shall rule this entire continent. We shall endure. I am the Wrath of God… who else is with me?” The movie matches that of its star, himself prone to tantrums and abuse towards his director, his cast mates, and those working on the film. One gets the sense that any chance of mutiny — either in the story or on the set — would’ve been quickly and cruelly put down.

Seen in the context of our current political climate, one can’t help but see Trump in Aguirre’s uniform, boasting how only he can make American great as he blunders & blusters through mishap after mishap.

Context is everything, ain’t it? Nowadays, we’re shackled with corrupt politicians of many stripes, the ghost of the Nazis rising from its ashes in a country that fought to keep those fuckers from taking over the world. Our planet is fighting the disease of humanity, moneyed bastards run all things, and any poor sap cursed to have been born at this very moment has to contend with an outdated economic system, shrinking wages, and faster shrinking habitable areas to live and not get bombed, boiled, or otherwise blotted off the face of this planet.

Still cheery as ever. Uncle gonz likes to keep things light, donchaknow.

God is a human construct and it is humanity that damns us to this madness. We are indeed experiencing the Wrath of God.

Sleep well.

HARRY SULLIVAN IS AN IMBECILE! and I ain’t feelin’ great either…

This is going to be a short one today as I’m having another two-fisted depressive episode…

As mentioned previously, I’ve been working on a new podcast with a fellow Doctor Who enthusiast. If you like Doctor Who and like hearing two men talk about Doctor Who, well, today is your day.

Click here to enjoy episode 1 of HARRY SULLIVAN IS AN IMBECILE: Dr. Who and the Uncanny Valley.

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What a week, eh?

I don’t often shy away from the occasional political comment on here, however, nothing that I could say hasn’t been said by better people with my eyeballs on their writing. What happened last week in Charlottesville — an act of domestic terrorism perpetrated by — let’s not mince words — Nazi, White Supremacist, Trump Supporters, polo-shirted Tiki-bearing Guys Next Door, the jackbooted agitators and survivalist groups. Yes, you can lump them all together; it’d be the quickest Venn Diagram. Just one circle with the word “Racist”.

Anyway, these are the times when we reach for our bibles. Mine happens to be The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Grab whatever you need and let’s meet up next time.