Ketchup-on-Apron-Kind-of Love

At least once in everyone’s life, one should utterly act the fool for love and fail. I am not saying that it builds character; it may very well rob one of whatever character remains. However, the experience does contain, within itself, germs both of the best and of the worst that life has to offer.

Once again, I present a clip from a Wong Kar Wai film (Fallen Angels):


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Pessimism Manifesto

Mr. Alan Reynolds makes a concise yet thorough case for pessimism. Divorced from any hope rooted in the divine, pessimism presents itself as the most rational response to life, especially modern life.

Happy new year, y’all.

via Pessimism Manifesto

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Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright

Here is the way I feel about 2018–the little hussy of a year cannot leave soon enough. This is Social Distortion’s Mike Ness’s version of the Dylan classic. Ness has to be one of the coolest-looking dudes ever to wield a guitar.

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Still Slugging

Still slugging through my last round of editing my stories. I had originally planned the collection to be a self-contained series of ten stories, but that would have taken another few years to complete to my near satisfaction. Thus, I opted for five–with an additional one that does not really relate to the rest thrown in as literary lagniappe.

Though only six, those stories will capture my overriding concerns about life. After that set, I, ultimately, will have nothing more to say–only reiterations of what I have already said. However, I cannot not write. Even with family, friends, and career, I would still feel adrift if I were not to write. Thus, I must, and I will.

My next collection of stories will descend into the abyss. Over the past few years, I have amassed a decent-sized library of despair literature. Though I have not personally had the misfortune of experiencing great suffering, I am willing to enter into the darkness and to reflect upon it philosophically. Will I emerge from this unscathed? I highly doubt it, but I consider this to be necessary field work.

My mom this very morning asked me if I were still taking my meds. I told her that I was not. She told me that I need to resume my neural nostrum regimen, for when I am on them I am actually pleasant to be around. I told her that is why I want to make a major move in the near future–to grant me the chance to recreate myself, allowing who I am now to die, as I feel he must. I am such a jackass to my mom.

I am not a good person. I have never claimed to be one. I wish more people would realize this. If there will be anything that acts as my advocate, it will be the way that I can use words–both to give life and to destroy.

Speaking of destruction, before I finish my job-mandated therapy, I want to convince both my therapist and my counselor that there are no rational grounds for optimism. If I can do that by May, then, I will, I must confess, come away quite tickled with myself. I plan on presenting my bullet-point plan of action over the course of the ensuing weeks.

After I release my stories, I may even close this blog. I am tired of writing for no one. Also, as mentioned earlier, I beginning to believe that I am only repeating myself at this stage.

Sadly, there are not too many people to whom I can actually voice these concerns and who would want to listen. Thus, I toss these submissions to anonymous readers–I may as well be writing love notes on paper planes and throwing them from the roof of a tall building.

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Fleeting Thoughts (and Life)

Teaching, ultimately, is a moral endeavor. If we, as a society, no longer believe in transcendent forms of truth, i.e., the the truth will set one free, then teaching is reduced to nothing more than a gimmick that allows clever ones to cheat the more stupid–and there definitely are stupid people.

Depression is the most rational response to modern life. Anyone who tells one to cheer up is either an idiot or in denial.

Men are the true romantics who pretend to be pragmatists, and women are the true pragmatists who pretend to be romantics.

Group therapy is fucking bullshit. If takes someone else to tell one how one has fucked up his/her life, then that person does not have introspective wherewithal to improve his/her life. That person is doomed. (Perhaps I am just bitter as I am looking at ten weeks of intensive outpatient group therapy in order to keep my job.)

That being typed, I am attracted to doomed people.

I am doomed, but I will scam everyone. Just watch.

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Taste and See

I am halfway-through my series of edits for my collection of short stories. I want to reread each story at least five times. However, if writing/editing/publishing a story can be compared to enduring a pregnancy (someone somewhere at some point once said that…), the contractions are coming very soon. Comparable to how most expectant mothers think, I humbly assume: for me this baby cannot come too soon. I have been thinking about and playing with these stories, in some fashion, for years now,  and I am already thinking about the next child. (Okay, last analogy….) Once I complete my final edit, I will post a teaser–the first page from each story with a link to the ebook. I truly am excited to see this work, which has suffered the indignity of being all but noticed by most, finally assume form–even if it will be, initially anyway, an ebook.

Here is a teaser snippet from the prelude story:

Every moment that we shared we baptized with the promise of new life—a life that would be understood only by us.  We would recreate a world that would exclude everyone else, thereby making us the only two people remaining.  We would have no choice but to know and to love each other; there would be no room for awkwardness—or there would be all the room in the world.  Either way, the world would be ours, and we would recreate everything and rename all the animals and all the plants and rewrite all the books, so, wherever we looked, we would see proof that we had known and had loved each other.

Synchronicity: as I was working on this story, Neutral Milk Hotel’s “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” circulated through my playlist:

And one day we will die / And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea / But for now we are young / Let us lay in the sun / And count every beautiful thing we can see love to be / In the arms of all that I’m keeping here with me.  



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