Thursday, December 21, 2006

Behold the solstice!

Hope y'all enjoy the longest night of the year as the great wheel keeps turning. It's a comforting thought.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Anno Futilitatis in review

Once again, a survey stolen from Elspeth, and once again, my phone's fuckin' dead. Jesus.

--

1. What did you do in 2006 that you'd never done before? Gone without eating meat. Exchange writing on a semi-regular basis with other writers. Work at a law firm.

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I didn’t make any. Next year’s consists solely of doing something, anything, to make my life less banal.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? She’s not that close, but yeah.

4. Did anyone close to you die? My grandma and Natalie.

5. What countries did you visit? Just Texas.

6. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006? Gainful unemployment and a novel worth writing.

7. What days from 2006 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? The day I took my brother to the airport to leave for New Zealand. The day I found out about Nat’s suicide. The day of Nat’s funeral. The day of my grandma’s funeral. Thanksgiving with Dave and Andy.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Aside from sticking to vegetarianism and proofreading my pops’ book, I achieved virtually nothing this year.

9. What was your biggest failure? Wasting another year writing a book I realized I cared nothing about.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? Nope.

11. What was the best thing you bought? No one thing in particular.

12. Where did most of your money go? Rent, food, booze, and records.

13. What did you get really, really, really excited about? Nothing.

14. What song will always remind you of 2006? Ask me when it's not 2006.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:
Happier or sadder — Sadder.
Thinner or fatter? — The same.
Richer or poorer? — Richer.

16. What do you wish you'd done more of? Write more worthwhile stuff than Unheimlich. Walk. Get the fuck out of Houston.

17. What do you wish you'd done less of? Work on Unheimlich. Hang out at the bar. Talk to strangers. Work.

18. How will you be spending Christmas? With my folks.

19. Did you fall in love in 2006? Oh, that’s rich.

20. What was your favorite TV program? Metalocalypse.

21. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year? No.

22. What was the best book you read? It’s a toss-up between Stillwell and the American Experience in China 1911-45, A Floating Life, the His Dark Materials trilogy, and Against the Day.

23. What was your greatest musical discovery? Greatest? Hard to say. Lots of good shit, though.

24. What did you want and get? A new job, though that’s a dubious “want.”

25. What did you want and not get? Peace of mind (not that it exists). Inspiration.

26. What was your favorite film of this year? Shit, what new movies did I see?

27. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? I turned 27. I sat in my driveway with a bunch of friends and got less wasted than I expected to.

28. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? Getting paid to not work, and using that time to write something I didn't hate.

29. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2006? Same as last year: hessian.

30. What kept you sane? Books, records, friends, cooking, and video games.

31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? Nobody in particular, though I liked David Lynch’s bovine loitering promotion scheme.

32. What political issue stirred you the most? That clusterfuck of a war we’re involved in in Iraq.

33. Who did you miss? My brother.

34. Who was the best new person you met? Ryan.

35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006: Frustration is as omnipresent as oxygen.

36. Quote something that sums up your year: From me: “Days like loose pages in the wind.”

Monday, December 18, 2006

i/o

My phone's not working. I hope the battery simply died after I got to work, but I'm not sure. Oh well; that makes two things that aren't functioning, the other being myself.

Another shitty, stupid, paralytic autumn/winter. Way to go, self.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Godspeed You! Black Pudding

an ounce of ashes:

wounded shoulders
friends looking at the war horizon
(Lord don't let any more go)
dust on more than one stylus
lifelong layovers on the way to
America's oldest town
winter as elusive as the mythical She
ill beasts
a veritable Heavenly
(Infernal?)
Host of small mean concerns
on and off the clock.

no alchemical fix here.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Some more prose poetry.

-the end isn't near, it's only last call-

All the upbeat indie pop songs that color the world shades of neon red hopeful are just gloss on the lips of a beautiful face subtly ruined by the bad bone structure beneath. Doesn't mean it's all false or cosmetic, only that everything musical comes down to gnarled roots and lonesome reverb against the thick dirt of life packed hard below the permafrost. What was merely lost in translation becomes a mangled attempt at a dead language. 4/4 time devolves into strangled chords that never got mapped to staves. Innocent chatter from pretty throats tilts in the aether, and on its new axis sounds like acrimony and bathroom tales of sexual conquest and the comparison of garish makeup colors. Planes overhead- we all live in their flight paths these days- spew roaring remains of dreams and carbon in the most beautiful of patterns.

There's no denying the glory of skylines, badly lit bars, burlesque dancers in their street clothes, and poets in unlikely quarters, but to ignore the dread, the roadside weeds, the misspoken words, the ankle-wrenching potholes and heartbreaking glances across the room at doom personified, well, that's a shrug and a quizzical look when what the world demands is an honest acknowledgement of how tainted it really is.

D.A.S.
November 26/27, 2006

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

This really ain't Mr. Finnegan's year.

I feel like a fool for not taking Tim Finnegan in to the vet when his hair started falling out in September. It turns out that it's not a symptom of old age: he's got adrenal disease, which may or may not be due to a tumor (benign or malignant) or hyperplasia, which means the glandular cells are enlarged but functioning normally. Whatever the case, odds are that his left adrenal gland, which is far larger than it should be, will have to be removed. Dr. Jordan mentioned the option of giving Tim a shot (I can't recall the name of the medicine) once a month that might do the job, but that'll only work if the adrenal gland isn't cancerous. Ergo, I think I'm going to go ahead and have Dr. Jordan perform the surgery.

Thankfully, Mr. Finnegan doesn't seem to be suffering too much. He has lost weight, which I couldn't notice because, well, his baldness threw off my perception of his size, but he hasn't become lethargic, which is another symptom of the disease. He doesn't seem to care too much about being bald, though I reckon he'd say otherwise if he could.

I'm going to call the vet back tomorrow and schedule the surgery for sometime in the next week. More details as I get them.

On a less depressing note, Thomas Pynchon's new novel, Against the Day, came out today. I've read the first 40 or so pages, and so far, so good.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

I LOVE FICTIONAL WOMEN

Dora
Faye
Pen-Pen
Raven
and even
Hannelore
(Ellen should be on here, but she wastes her time reading the almighty Kierkegaard to fuckin' dolphins, so fuck her)

I reckon I should have titled this post "read Questionable Content, because the female characters are rad," but what the hell. I'm drunk and listening to "Sliver" by Nirvana on repeat. That clearly exculpates me from something; what, I'm not exactly sure.

I've also eaten nothing but motherfucking potato chips today.

Other web comics worth checking out include Templar, Arizona and Toothpaste For Dinner (of course).

Friday, November 10, 2006

I blame music.

Time-related obstacles are overcome, and then others crop up when I hear a certain song.

Sometimes I think I am pathologically unable to grow up. Lord knows I don't want the responsibility.

I could quote from Fear and Trembling now, but I'm gonna listen to Last Eve and... well, you know.

Someday.

-D.A.S.
Squire of Infinite Resignation

Thursday, November 09, 2006

I could talk about politics...

...but I don't feel like it, really. Suffice to say that I'm glad to see America has taken a step in the direction of sanity for the most part, even if my fellow Texans decided to act like sheep and re-elect a shitty governor.

Anyway, life is, well, life. Nothing particularly interesting to relate to y'all, alas, aside from recommending warm rice wine from handmade ceramic cups (untold thanks to Sara for the handiwork) and Red Pine's translation of Poems of the Masters on cold nights of solitude.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Kings, academicians, heathens, gods, and corpses.

Namely, König Ludwig weissbier, Li Po, Borknagar (specifically their albums Quintessence and Origin), that which is known more or less as Yahweh, and yours truly.

When you get such a diverse group together, there's bound to be friction, and since I'm the one who convened this eclectic, clashing pseudo-democratic Althing, guess who's playing moderator.

Being a human being is an honor that is very, very hard to best.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Bring on 2007.

Christ, I hate wishing for time to pass any faster than it does, but I'm really looking forward to the new year and the potential tabula rasa it'll bring. I'm in the final stages of proofing shit for my dad's book, which seems to be an interminable and increasingly daunting process because so much is riding on it. I'm proofreading a second book for Len Bracken this year, both of which have come within the past month or so. Unheimlich is angrily gathering dust on the writing desk in the back of my skull. There are impending birthdays and holidays to attend to. My attempts at teaching myself Chinese are half-assed at best. I've got almost a dozen records and CDs that I've only barely listened to; same goes for books, though I'm making more headway with those (only 1800 or so pages left of Three Kingdoms!). I sleep too much, but not enough. On top of all this, I'm trying to cut back my drinking and smoking.

It's not even that I lack the time to get all this shit out of the way by the deadlines I or others have set. I don't know what it is, really. I'm definitely unmotivated, but not as much as I think I am. Frankly, I think I've simply got too much going on, which is as difficult to deal with as having absolutely nothing to focus on.

I hate having plans.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

82

Involuntary removal from the driving population puts this corpse back on the bus for a few days. Exhausted midnight riders of all stripes, white and blue and no collar, stinking of late shifts and clothes worn for weeks on end. Cell phones clamped to heads in doo-rags, low sweetnesses or impending plans muttered to distant someones, though not all the souls with voices direct them across the ether: some folks talk to the invisibles, others bombard the driver with tales of conquered chicken fried steaks or exegeses on the bus schedule. Most don't talk, too beat by their jobs or themselves to waste the energy, and so remain silent testaments to the horrors of labor or introspection or monthly payments to the demiurge that tells all of us, in tones seductive or bland as television, that yes, it's worth it, keep it up and the world will be yours.


I get off the bus, my soul getting paid overtime tonight, and walk into the noisy neon where we all try desperately to earn ourselves another day.

Friday, October 20, 2006

First it's the cold, come down overnight,
long overdue,
that bites my ears to and from the bar.

Then, home from the corner table,
blood thinned,
comes the music.

Clamped to my ears,
warming them with Norwegian beats
and noir never filmed.

Then the body's tiniest bones
tremble at the voice of God
or a mortal echo thereof.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Raining antlers.

My laptop has been going on wildcat strikes the last couple days- or maybe it's either Firefox or Windows acting up like a bratty adopted child- so I'm writing from the crusty yet beloved warhorse that is my desktop for the first time in what is probably ages. I've gotta say, it's a welcome change of pace. Sure, the keyboard sticks, the wheel of my mouse has been gnawed to the point of near-uselessness by the ferrets, and I can't stretch out in my (uncomfortable) bed while I catch up on the news, but at least I can move freely without my cat5 cable dislodging and dropping my connection.

It's all very much like it was a year ago, but it's not. In some ways, I was happier then, but at the same time I'm almost where I want to be now. Better job, vegetarian diet, wheels, minimal hassle from non-Dave sources, etc. It's also nice returning to a position where I don't have to get up to flip an LP- my turntable is literally within arm's length.

I hope y'all are doing well, and that if I have to keep using my desktop, I have the wherewithal to get a new keyboard soon.

now playing: Greenland, Teeth of the Hydra

Thursday, October 12, 2006

"Amusing Myself"

Face wine not aware get dark
Fall flower fill my clothes
Drunk stand step stream moon
Bird far person also few
Facing my wine, I did not see the dusk,
Falling blossoms have filled the folds of my clothes.
Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the stream,
Birds are far off, people too are few.


Hanzi, pinyin, and literal/literary English translations courtesy of chinese-poems.com.

I know criminally little about poetry, especially Chinese poetry, but I know what I like, and I get the impression that this poem might have led to the legend that Li Bai drowned while trying to embrace the reflection of the moon in a stream when he was drunk. Worse fates than that, I reckon.

Speaking of poets, I seem to meet and/or associate with a lot of them lately. This is a highly excellent thing, be they the regular circle of hookah-smoking folks I've spent most of my Saturdays with, or the Shakespeare-tattooed bartender at the icehouse, or the long-standing poet and professor Robert Phillips, whom I also encountered at the icehouse today. I've gotta say that it's a rare pleasure having folks appreciate, or at least be interested in hearing, my bursts of language that aren't directed into pure conversation or my novels. Thank y'all, and keep up the good work and good spirits.

Zaijian, Meiguo.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Ni hao.

It's not a recent thing, mind you, but I've pinpointed much of what's wrong with my life... and I can't, or won't- or both- do anything about it.

A downer note to cough up after over a week of silence, I know, but there have been some good things. Got to see Destroyer 666 on their first American tour. Been plugging away, slowly but surely, at the ol' Potunghua lessons. Work's all right. Dave gave me a copy of Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Traveled, which is providing me the structural basis in poetry I've been needing for a long while. Speaking of poetry, the Saturday night writing group I've been involved in for a while now has yet to let me down.

Still, I really need to take care of some obligations, not least to myself, and hammer out a couple other outstanding moral issues, and maybe then I'll make it through the fall and winter without being ragingly disappointed with myself.

Not likely. Self-sabotage has become my modus operandi.

Good night, y'all. Sorry to be a killjoy, but blathering here doesn't do me or my attendant shreds of optimism any favors. Instead of reading this, go read a book or listen to a record that doesn't drag you down.


Love always. Always.
Dave Smith

Saturday, September 30, 2006

Hours spent in exile.

No, I haven't been much of a hermit- the title comes from a Dark Tranquillity song, probably my favorite.

But being a hermit sounds pretty good sometimes. After all, odds are you won't be able to make morally dubious choices if you're engaged in prayer and foraging for sustenance most of your day.

I really don't like praying more than once daily.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

My favorite thin line.

Years ago, in a Hellblazer TPB by the name of Dangerous Habits, John Constantine described the razor-thin line between the head and body of a pint of (literally) magical stout. Somewhere in my room I have said trade paperback, but I don't want to dig it out, because I'm too busy enjoying pretty much that exact same fine line. Instead of booze traded for my soul, however, I'm drinking booze traded for money, but man, I gotta say that a pint of Bridgeport Black Strap Stout, when poured so that there's that crisp line between the head and body, is an excellent physical representative of the more subjective fine line between clear-minded tipsiness and despondent drunkenness. Alas, it's so very hard to walk that line.

Y'all know which side I lean towards, but I reckon you won't lose too much respect for me for it.

Man, I wish it was a Friday night and my brother was around.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Resettlement.

It's been quiet, yeah, but Smith's been busy, at least by Smith's standards. New job is going mighty well. Writing's slower than I'd hoped for, but it's coming along, and I can almost guarantee that I'll be done with Unheimlich, though probably only the first draft, by the end of the year, when me and the other Christmas orphans assemble to commiserate and try to make the most of the Yuletide. Lots of reading going on, including Danielewski's newest, Only Revolutions, and Christian theology via Søren "that's what D.A. will name his son if he ever has one, God have mercy on the lad's soul, but not because of his namesake, but rather his misfortune at being D.A.'s son" Kierkegaard, Simone Weil, and the Book of Luke.

APE SHALL NOT KILL APE
SLAY THE WRATH OF MAN!

Listen to Cathedral, you wretched things. Even if you don't take my infallible musical advice, I love you nonetheless.

-D.A.S.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

And so...

...the wheel turns again, ever faster. Freedom dissipates when confronted by financial necessity. Dead Russians speak through their long-dry pens, communication always welcome. A siren comes around then leaves at late hours, confusion her wake. Ash meets ceramic. Songs of snow, blood, fire, towers, dying birds, beds. Talk of Kerouac and Matthew Barney over the thick sweet fumes of a hookah. Phone calls missed and unreturned. Lamplight and coffee. Rain in the midst of sleep. Continual one-sided conversation.

This life, ideal? Not quite, but good enough. I am happy to be living it.

-D.A.S.

P.S. Bill, there are only three issues of Watching Days Become Years, and you can buy them all at http://www.sparkplugcomicbooks.com, as I did. Jeff Levine, the author of said comic, also has a lot of good stuff archived on his website.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Media rate.

One of the nice things about these two weeks I've had off from work is all the mail I've received. A couple months ago I resubscribed to Heavy Metal, and my first issue arrived today. The new Agalloch record came in last week, Iron Maiden's latest this past Tuesday, and two issues of Watching Days Become Years this morning. The stuff I've been meaning to send to my brother was taken to the post office yesterday, so with any luck he'll soon have a bunch of weird postcards and Ashes Against the Grain in his hands.

Man, I love the mail.

"Same Ol' Road"

I am only succumbing to romanticized sadness as much as I allow myself to.

"All you need is a modest house
in a modest neighborhood
in a modest town where honest people dwell."

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Motivation.

I think it's thoroughly excellent that no person can ever truly know someone else. Really, why would you want anyone, even someone you love/respect/trust/etc. to be able to understand exactly why a certain piece of music, or a passage from a literary work, or nothing at all, strikes you the way it does? It's nice to know another person more or less feels the way you do about something, but I find almost repellent the idea of them knowing perfectly why and how you feel a certain way. Call it selfishness, pride, whatever, but what's mine is mine, and what's yours is yours.

I've said for years, usually to myself but not always, that I'm not terribly interested in people's motivations. Perhaps it's because I'm intellectually lazy (which I definitely am), or perhaps it's because I'm adverse to speaking for anyone but myself when it comes to the internal life, but whatever the case, I tend to focus on action (or lack thereof) rather than motivation. Maybe it's that most folks' motivations are boring and insipid? This is statistically likely, coming from the admittedly arrogant and demanding point of view of yours truly, but when dealing with the motivations of exciting, intelligent types, I still can't get too worked up. Let me see what's done in response to your motivations, and then I'll have something to say.

Possibly the only person's motivations that interest me (in a goddamned depressing way) are Nat's, because the action that sprang forth from them was so heinous, so jarring, so final. I cannot make any statements resembling definitive ones, though I think I understand why she did what she did. If I'm wrong, then please don't tell me if you know the truth. Not for a long while, at least. My point is that I reckon I've never dealt with such a concrete relationship between motivation and action, and certainly not one that's so troubling.

I guess I'm just thinking about my own motivations in life. I don't know if I have any, really; not the usual ones, that's for sure. I expect to leave this world with nothing save love, given and received, and I reckon that's all I truly want in the long run. I'm not thrilled by success, fame, wealth, et cetera. Nice, maybe, but not my reasons for doing what little it is I do. I'm here to do my best at being a human being, and trying to help others do the same. Everything else- hell, everything, sometimes- is an exercise in futility.

For the time being, I think I'm doing a decent job of coping with that notion.

Pardon the incohesion,
D.A.S.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Limbs.

I'm probably going out on one. Thankfully I have metal to keep me up, just as it always has.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Well said and always applicable.

"The task with which I was unceasingly confronted, which almost consumed me, and many times brought me to the verge of despair, was how I would amount to anything in the spiritual sense."
-Jakob Peter Mynster

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Done and done.

Tonight was my final night at the Greensheet. I left without ceremony, just as I figured I would.

I calculated that I proofread 39,402 ads in the two years and a month that I was there. Ridiculous.

Here's to the next two weeks of writing, socializing, and good ol' life without working!

Monday, August 28, 2006

Drunk and happy.

I know I haven't coughed up the notable stuff lately, so I'll go ahead and do so.

-I got a new job. Interviewed Friday, found out I was the choice hire five minutes after coming home. The money they offered is, by my deadbeat standards, mindblowingly good. I'll be working as a proofreader for the tenth largest law firm in the world two weeks from now, and I am thrilled. Fuck my old job.

-Tim's in the hospital. According to one of the vet techs, however, he's on the mend, which is highly gratifying.

-Pretty much everything else is going well. Really, stupidly well, if you don't count whatever gastrointestinal ailment that's been plaguing me for almost a week know. Luckily, yours truly has a history of handling illness like a motherfuckin' warhorse, so I'm doing all right.

-Love always, all of y'all.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

An unwell ferret.

As I suspected, something is indeed wrong with Tim Finnegan. I took him to the vet today and after a couple of hours learned that he hasn't been eating because he's got a bacterial infection and a gastrointestinal ulcer. He also shed a pretty good amount of fur while at the vet, due to being terribly freaked out by the shots, rectal temperature-taking, and forcible ingestion of medicine he had to endure.

Poor old man. As he ages, I expect things like this to become increasingly common, a thought that breaks my heart. A pleasant beast like Mr. Finnegan should be able to live out his last years in peace. That said, I'm not terribly worried, as Tim's gone through two prior bouts of illness/injuries and come out just fine.

Gah, I don't need any more hassle right now. Once it's 4 PM tomorrow, hopefully things will be evened out.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Things I've been listening to lately.

Satanic Warmaster, Strength & Honour- Raw Finnish BM.
Amebix, Arise!- Crust classic. "Arise, fuckin' assholes, and rejoice."
Voivod, Katorz- Their latest and possibly last. R.I.P. Piggy.
Ulver, Teachings in Silence- Possibly their best record to write to.
Cathedral, The Garden of Unearthly Delights- Spurred by Codi's gift of a Cathedral t-shirt.
Om/Current 93, split 10" - Om's most succinct musical statement so far.
Usurper, Necronemesis- Straight-up metal is always welcome in my house. Imagine that.
Tiamat, Wildhoney- A welcome reminiscence.
Deströyer 666, Terror Abraxas- One of my favorite metal bands for the past couple years.
Agalloch, From Which of This Oak- Their oldest release in anticipation of their newest.
Velvet Cacoon, Dizzy From Eternity- from fake yet brilliant BM to dreampop: a thrilling enigma.
Kalas, Kalas- Riff-based melancholy behind the wheel, at least for me. Fronted by Matt Pike.
The Gathering, Home- An improvement over their last, but something's still missing.

I look forward to cooler weather and greyer skies.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Some happenings.

The hole torn in the world just over a week ago hasn't closed, and never really will, but as the days pass I'm not staring into it quite as much.

I'm into the fortieth chapter of my pops' book on Stone's River. With a little diligence, I should be done proofreading and editing the whole book by Friday afternoon, and then come the unwieldy tasks of compiling the index, getting the pages laid out, making sure Kyle's making headway with the maps, and then working with him to create the final PDF to send to the publisher. I'm pleased that I've gotten so much done in such a relatively short amount of time, although I'm working on ensuring that pops' book ain't the only one I finish this year.

Oh, and I might have a new job within the next couple weeks. Here's hopin' and prayin' and lighting santeria candles and anything else that'll do the trick.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Love and death and love and life.

I bet y'all are getting tired of me writing about the never-ending aftermath of Nat's death, but I'll keep this'n short.

I wrote a few days ago that Major Briggs' fear that "love is not enough" came to mind when I heard about Natalie. I still believe that, although in an amended form: "love is not always enough." This applies to much more than just Natalie, but I don't want to expound on that right now; I'd rather just say that Nat's case was the most extreme one of love not being enough to get one through life, because so many things in her life simply wouldn't let it.

However, for those of us fortunate enough not to be burdened with overwhelming, inescapable self-hatred, love usually is enough, if not the sole reason we keep on keepin' on. The love I feel for, and the love I receive from, my friends and family is the most important thing in my life, and I know that many of the people I love feel the same way. None of us would be anywhere without it.

So, once more, I love you all. May you love others as much as I love you, and may the love you give and receive infuse your lives and overcome anything that might stand in its way. If it doesn't, please don't give up.


Yours,
Dave

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Always. With a glass of cheap wine to boot.

I spent some time today summarizing in (hand)writing the myriad things I've thought and felt about Nat's suicide, and I suspect I'll be doing so for a long while. This is the hardest thing I've ever dealt with. I feel especially awful for Sara, Leslie, and everyone else who knew her for years before I did. If this scenario is troubling me- some dude who knew Natalie better than a lot of folks but still not that well- as much as it is, it's gotta be exponentially worse for the people who stood by her for the past decade or more. I'm so very sorry for y'all, and it might not help to know that I don't think I can really, truly talk about what's happened to anyone but her friends. I don't mean to be a burden, but damn if it isn't frustrating to be stuck with just the fuckin' internet at 4:14 AM instead of someone who went to class, got drunk, and talked about books and politics, with her.

I swear to God, if anyone really, really close to me ever does this, they're gonna regret it. The minute I reach the hereafter I'm gonna beat the shit out of, or ignore, them, whichever will hurt most, for several lifetimes.

Yeah, Nat, I'm pissed off at you, but try as I might, I can't begrudge your decision. I'm just heartbroken that's what it took to get away from it all. The only thing that would be more selfish than what you did would be to demand that you remain here, unhappy, just so we wouldn't be.

Fuck me, though, I'm sorry that I've thought more about you in the past few days than I have over the last two years.

Like I said at your funeral, take it easy.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

What an incredibly trying day.

I love you, Nat, and I hope you don't hurt anymore.

Monday, August 14, 2006

27

Well, I'm twenty-seven now. Many good folks showed up Sunday to celebrate, bearing not only themselves- the most important gifts they could give- but all kinds of thoughtful and bizarre things: thousand-year-old eggs, daughter wine and plum wine, the complete run of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, books on doing nothing, manliness, and PKD pseudo-mainstream fiction, canned plants that sprout secret messages, blocks of tea, 104 unique Jack Chick tracts, thousands of matches, Shadow of the Colossus, and beer aplenty. Good times were had by all. I am a very, very lucky dude to have the friends that I do, and no amount of words can express how much I love you all.

Today's been spent drinking leftover beer, working on pops' book, and reading. I talked to my folks, too, which is always a pleasure, and I thank them more than anyone for giving me the opportunity to be here.

The pall of my friend's suicide hasn't been completely driven away, though it's not as oppressive as it was Saturday night/Sunday morning. Her funeral's tomorrow; I doubt that I'll be able to go to work afterwards, even though my supervisor wants me to. Christ, what a troubling, and troubled, scenario.

That said, thanks again to everyone who makes my life as excellent as it is, and may we be able to celebrate many more birthdays together, yours and mine.

Your Friend Always,
David Addison Smith

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Someone I hadn't seen in a while, but nonetheless loved as a friend and person, killed herself Friday night.

I feel sick, angry, sad, confused, depressed, sorry, useless, shocked, fucked up. Mostly, I wish that the world still had her in it, and that her time here would be happier than it had been.

It might be tacky or whatever, but right now I echo the worst fear of Major Garland Briggs from Twin Peaks: "that love is not enough."

I am so, so sorry. I love you.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Scorched flesh and ruined denim= ALL SYSTEMS GO!

-Bills paid? Check!
-Money put into savings? Check!
-Credit card balance paid down adequately? Check?
-Groceries and gas bought? Almost-check! (I don't feel like grocery shopping or driving drunk at 2:42 AM, so I'll take care of those things tomorrow. I've already budgeted 'em.)
-Cigarettes laid in for at least a week? Check!
-Post-payday pleasure purchases? Check! (List below.)

via mail:

Iron Maiden- A Matter of Life and Death CD w/limited edition t-shirt
Agalloch- Ashes Against the Grain CD (2)- one for me, one for Scott.
Agalloch- Ashes Against the Grain t-shirt

already in hand:

diSEMBOWELMENT- (more or less) complete discography 2xCD

Man, I can't wait until Sunday, when folks will assemble here at the Hall of Justice to celebrate my birthday, and Monday, when I will have more good times! Thanks in advance to all y'all excellent folks that I count as my friends.

Obras futuras

I'm dying to get started on my next novel, but until I finish Unheimlich, I'm confining myself to making notes. Here are some elements/inspirations that will appear in the next book, unless I have another idea that demands precedence in writing.

Flannery O'Connor
Blue Öyster Cult, in every way
Pentacostalism
being the teenaged child of a Marine, c. 1980
marrying early with disastrous results
music journalism
The South
professional disgrace
alcoholism
James Joyce
Biblical apocrypha interpreted under the influence of drugs
heavy metal c. 1978

I can't wait!

In other news, I've started adding photos to my flickr account (http://www.flickr.com/photos/thecorpse/), courtesy of Tracey (who gave me the camera) and Dave (who gave me the cable). Thanks, y'all!

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

T-minus.

For what seems to be the hundredth time, I'm going to fall back on some half-assed observations, or whatever you choose to call them, instead of writing anything substantial. Not because I lack anything substantial to say, but rather that I've spent enough time today feeling venomous, and there's no need to cough it up again. So, here you are, readers, be you loyal or disloyal.

The new Slayer record, Christ Illusion, is something you should purchase inmediatamente. Easily the best thing they've done since Seasons in the Abyss (though Divine Intervention was admirable in its own way); as others have pointed out, Dave Lombardo's return means more than you might initially realize.

I'm actually looking forward to my birthday celebration, to the extent that I'm starting to think that Sunday, when said celebration goes down, is my real birthday, and not Monday. The only concerns I have are that I pace my drinking so I'm not already soused when folks start showing up, and that my birthday proper isn't spent on the couch, gagging on Sunday's cigarettes and flipping channels. And man, do I wish that some folks who can't make it could- Scott, Eric, Amanda, Bill, Kara, my folks (though they'd probably be unimpressed by their son's boozy idiocy), Tam, Pete, and many others.

Finally: since finishing His Dark Materials, nothing has really struck my fancy, reading-wise.

And with that, Smith out.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Deathklok!

I could talk about my weekend, and everything else going on, but why bother when I can just say

a) come hang out on my birthday, 8.14.06, or the day of general celebration, 8.13.06

and

b) WATCH METALOCALYPSE!

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Drunken hard drive lullabies.

Does anyone else ever hear very faint, rather Celtic-sounding proto-music emanate from their laptop when they're sitting in silence?

Maybe my hard drive just spins in aurally pleasing ways, or maybe, just maybe, I'm imagining things. If I was soused, the latter (and, hell, the former) would make much more sense, but I'm not. Oh well; nothing's ever easy.

Which is how it should be.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Incarnation.

If God were to take a physical form other than of a human, I suspect He would show up in our world as a cat. At the moment I can't think of any other creature that's as simultaneously aloof, evasive, demanding, and loveable, all of which are qualities I find myself attributing to God now and then.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Bieres pour l'anniversaire d'un homme francais, et otres choses.

I made my usual payday pilgrimage to Poison Girl earlier this evening, and I met two folks who'd lived in Caracas, three Frenchmen, and some dude who'd traveled enough to have visited Caracas. Most importantly, as I was on my way to the bar, the woman who served as my physical model for Eris in Axis Mundi Sum and is someone I still care deeply about, AKA the beloved tall redhead Kara, called me after a week of phone tag.

Life's good, man! Payday, weird foreign company, and phone calls from old friends aside, I'll probably get to see several people I love this weekend. A dude can't ask for much more than that.

Oh, and I know who I'm dedicating Unheimlich to.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

I'm not talking about any of y'all. Or real people, for that matter.

It's about time you started getting your shit together, woman. Now hurry up and get the fuck out of my life. I've got other shit to do than hold your hand.

Quotidia Davae.

Not much to report, really. Been writing a fair amount, reading a lot, buying lots of albums (six in the past week), saw my pops and uncle this past weekend. Ideas for the next book are already simmering in my brainpan; I hope they don't materialize too early on paper/on the screen and get in the way of finishing the complete first draft of Unheimlich by December fifth. I've chosen that date because it's when Thomas Pynchon's new novel, Against the Day, comes out. I thoroughly enjoy the idea of waking up, doing an hour's final work on my novel, and then walking to the bookstore to pick up 992 pages of Pynchonian gold.

I turn twenty-seven in less than three weeks. I took the Monday in question (the fourteenth of August) off so I can recover from any excesses the night before and go have a few quiet beers at Valhalla with anyone who wants to join me. I also plan on treating myself to dinner, because I cook 90% of my own chow and I'll be damned if I'm gonna stir-fry my own birthday meal.

Smith out.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Well done, Smith.

Instead of driving drunk to House of Guys for huevos rancheros, I opted to stay home and fill my WWI canteen cup with soymilk and eat toast with Marmite and margarine (which isn't as good as butter, but the butter in the fridge is notoriously hard and therefore difficult to spread on toast; plus, as far as I can tell, margarine is vegan, which is a bonus- if I read the ingredients list incorrectly, blame my intoxication). And man, do I love bread, milk (soy or dairy), and Marmite. They beat eggs with half-assed salsa hands down.

Sorry, Elspeth, I can't explain why the British love Marmite, other than to say it really is an acquired taste. I'm glad I acquired it, though.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Advice to children from a future old man who probably won't have kids.

"Pops, why do both of us have weird names?"

Pops sighed and reached for a cigarette. Son and daughter, sallow in the lamplight, knew that their old man was going to do a lot of thinking and talking, mostly talking, in the next few minutes. He never smoked inside anymore, unless someone got him going and he was too wrapped up to move to the porch.

"First," Pops said, looking at the boy, "what's weird about being named after possibly the greatest American writer ever?" He screwed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and turned to the girl. "Or about one of the only decent concepts left to mankind?"

"Well-"

"I-"

"The answer," pops said, "is nothing at all. Five to one some idiot classmate of yours said something, and you were embarrassed. Right?"

"Yeah."

"No. Mel just brought it up and I got to thinking."

"Thanks, Libby." The boy blushed, and his father winced. He hadn't meant to make him feel bad for getting embarrassed; the kid's emotions were his own, and yes, Pops knew he'd taken a risk when he'd christened his kids what he had, barely overcoming the objections of their mother, who'd picked good names herself, but found them swept aside by the hand of disuse.

"I'm only going to say this once," Pops said slowly, tapping ashes into an empty glass. "Whoever the miserable little creatures were that thought Melville was a poor, mockable, ridiculous name- and the same goes for your name too, Liberty- aren't worth worrying about.

"Fuck 'em, kids. Fuck 'em all."

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Soviet spawn.

I cannot forget to bring my rifles with me to Holly Springs this weekend, nor can I afford to not buy ammunition. Sixty rounds won't be enough to sate several months' worth of delayed 7.62x39mm violence against pine trees and empty cans, and I refuse to return home with empty magazines.

Speaking of weapons and the use thereof, I'm still trying to formulate a personal interpretation of what's going on in Israel and Lebanon right now, without resorting to demagoguery. It's rather repellent that in order to pass something resembling a fair ruling that I pretty much have to wait a little longer, while people die in droves. Far more repellent than the fact that my thoughts on the matter amount to nothing in the greater scheme of things.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Bearing down.

I'm pretty confident that I'll have the first draft of my current novel done in the next two months. It'll close at least two chapters of my life, I think, and Lord knows they need to be closed.

I'm gonna spend a lot of money on 7.62x39 mm next weekend, just so I can expend mucho brass via AK and SKS.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Wheel left, advance! Front on old acquaintance!

I finally got to talk to someone about this week's monumental change in my approach to the Spring years and all that came from them, and man, I was nowhere as misunderstood as I thought I'd be. In some ways, this whole scenario is bad news, but in other, more important ways, it's exactly what I needed, even if it's a thorn in the paw of the writing I've been doing for the past two years.

I also ran into Leslie tonight while bouncing from bar to bar. She is as rad as she ever was.

None of this stops me from grinning like a motherfucker when I hear Avril's "Sk8r Boi" and wonder what life would be like if I'd been a teenager when this song came out. I used to think my appreciation of Avril was purely a retroactive sentimental thing, a yearning for the years sans responsibility, but hey! I still love that beautiful Canadian and the things she writes. (And she ain't the only one who classifies as such.)

Ich liebe Dich Leben! Danke!

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Strike that.

Despite last night's maudlin post and the Avril Lavigne song title header, I realized today that there is a happy ending. Since Sunday I've noticed that what seems to have been a fixation on the past, nostalgia at its worst sometimes, has diminished. Slowly, the thing I didn't know was responsible for keeping me back (from what? I don't know that either) is readjusting itself and its relationship to my way of thinking, and now it's like all kinds of new things are opening up for me, mentally speaking. I'm too lazy to say much more than that, but man, this seems promising.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

"So much for my happy ending"

A subdivision in front of a subdivision?

Oh, sweet Jesus and all the records I listened to and all the cigarettes I smoked in the driveway and all the Monstervision and X-Files I watched and all the coffee I drank and all the other life-affirming memories I have, no. No. NO!

Why, Spring? Why?

I know why, but- oh Christ, can't I have something, no matter how meager? Is a stretch of open field that fucking much to ask for?

Sunday's disgust was a product of shock; today's... Jaysus, I don't know. Oh, God.

Why can't I have this much?

Please?

Please?

Friday, July 07, 2006

"Nothing is silent except the dream of man..."

The chemicaltaintedbloodfedmeanskinned demiurge that rules Houston has seen fit to piss upon his bayouveined creation for what seems to have been all summer proper thus far. And I defended this place to my western kin only a week ago, steps away from the unfilled grave of my grandmother.

Something awful happened the other day when I was hanging out with Andy and Dave. I was telling Andy about not having written much lately- not this diarist prattle, but the stuff that really matters- and I realized that I'd forgotten what I was supposed to be writing. The name of my novel in progress didn't simply escape me; it wasn't there. It took a few moments for it to come back to me, which shouldn't have happened.

I could fret about this, but instead I'll feel vaguely disgusted and go stare at the last sentences I wrote of Unheimlich, maybe add some more, then read either Melville or Lovecraft. Probably Melville, because he probably turned to drink to take his mind from things, whereas Lovecraft opted for teetotaling. How he got through the rough periods, I'm not entirely sure, but I suspect I couldn't do it the same way.

A hat*: remind me to tell any potential biographers that along with Cathedral's Supernatural Birth Machine, Bruce Dickinson's The Chemical Wedding was one of the records responsible for getting me through my sophomore year of college, and, like SBM, still remains one of my favorite albums.

*Ask Vanessa.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Ahab had it made- he had something to chase, which is more than I can say for myself.

There's nothing else I want to say now.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Tactical withdrawal.

I don't know if it's been obvious, but I haven't been spending much time on the internet lately. Be it writing here, compulsively checking my email, or dickin' around via some form of instant messaging, I'm not really in the mood to spend my free time in the company of the internet. So, yeah, if my online presence diminishes further, fear not. I'm simply living in fantasy worlds that aren't dependent on a cable modem to enjoy or communicate about.

Hope all's well with y'all.

Friday, June 23, 2006

If only Horselover Fat could weigh in on all this.

Day by day, I dig deeper into the layers of the worlds I have created and the worlds that have created me. There is no core, yet Carcosa is at the center of it all, doom and solipsism knotted into the roots of a yellow-tainted Yggdrasil. Carcosa and the deus absconditus, both Demiurge and Logos clothed in tattered yellow robes, tendril-roots writhing against themselves behind a merciful mask.

In less dreamlike, obsessive news- at least to me- I think that the neighborhood roaches and I have reached an agreement. Alas, I fear that it's really just a repeat of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, though the Soviet and Third Reich roles have yet to be assigned.

I highly recommend visiting the Broken Obelisk outside the Rothko Chapel in the wee hours, when it's just you and the sculpture/monument in question.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Worlds within worlds.

The amount of Warhammer Fantasy and Warhammer 40K material contained within Wikipedia is staggering.

As is my brother and I's mutual desire to be hanging out together right now, drinking whiskey and headbanging like mad.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Internet celebrities make my prostate throb in pain.

When I find myself wondering why I don't promote myself and my writing more aggressively, or why I don't trumpet some of my favorite half-assed causes far and wide, all I have to do is remember Cory Doctorow, and suddenly I'm content to be just some dude.

Doctorow's fiction ain't bad, but fuck, man, he should stick to that. DRM and Disney, two of his pet causes, aren't worth more than the letters required to spell them out, and they sure don't qualify as things worth cramming down the internet's throat on a daily basis. Of course, one could say the same about my own dipsomaniacal commentaries and heavy metal reviews, but I'm not, say, telling everyone that having to use a bottle opener when you could have a twist-top is equivalent to repellent, immoral crime, am I?

Next time you download, burn, rip, or record something illegally, rejoice. Don't couch it in half-assed ethics or rationalize it: say "yeah, I STOLE it." Maybe if everyone who stole shit flat-out admitted they were stealing, the leeches in the music/film industries would be swamped, and dudes like Doctorow would shut up for a spell and work on the craft of writing fiction... while taking a long hiatus from the internet. While you're at it, buy actual CDs, DVDs, and records, too. You're doing the right thing, even if it means you have to clog up your living space with "slow-decaying, space-hogging media."

Jesus, I bet the fucker's middle name is "Hyperbole."

Now, back to comparative anonymity, reading, and dragging my ass to bed.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Rained out.

Addresses and years never move forward in this world. Retrogression is, maybe always has been, the operative word here, whether or not there are anachronisms embedded in the world I knew when I go back to visit.

The only constants are humidity, purest-form riffs, coffee, and a select handful of comrades.

What would today be like if I could have informed yesterday about today?

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Nil.

Aside from hanging out with friends, finishing The Fortress of Solitude, watching the US tie Italy in World Cup football, and going grocery shopping, I've done nothing this weekend.

Well, I did buy some records, and tomorrow Andy and I should get some shooting in for our movie.

Friday, June 16, 2006

A seventy-cent bone tossed to a class war dog.

Well, I got a raise today. Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't just quit. I'm so sick of my job that I think I'd rather- shit, who am I kidding?- I know I'd prefer spending my summer unemployed than keep at what I'm doing.

However, my weekend has arrived, so I'll just quote Ozzy Osbourne circa August 6, 1975: "WE LOVE YOU AAAAAALLLL!"

And fuck, do I mean it. Y'all mean more to me than just about anything.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Rosecrans, McCook, Thomas, Crittenden, and my pops.

As most of y'all know, I'm in the midst of proofreading and copy-editing the first volume of my pops' book about the Battle of Stones River (A Civil War battle, fought in the last and first days of 1862 and 1863, respectively). It's not a simple task, for reasons ranging from the sheer bulk of the manuscript (approximately 850 single-spaced pages, not counting the index, which hasn't been compiled yet) to the writing style, which is suitably 19th-century military report-like, to my own hit-and-miss discipline. That said, I am thoroughly enjoying myself.

This is not a popular history book that just anyone could pick up and read over the course of a week or two. It is a highly detailed, intensely researched, non-conjectural account of the battle that raged over the land that my pops grew up on in Tennessee, all of it written by a decidedly unacademic man. It is a labor of not only love, but a lifetime's worth of fascination that started with the unearthing of a Minie ball at least half a century ago.

What could have been left in the dust of history has become something tangible, something I never expected to find myself pondering at odd hours. My pops, like so many other historians, amateur and professional alike, makes me that much more aware of history and my relationship to it is, and therefore is doing what a historian should.

I am so proud of my family and everything they've taught me.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Quick notes on the weekend.

Sean's 30th birthday celebration was excellent on several levels. The quality of the friends I have is nothing short of outstanding.

I finished Perdido Street Station a few minutes ago after spending pretty much all day reading it. I think the only things I did other than read were ride my bike a couple miles to buy tobacco and cook dinner.

I kind of want to write, but reading some more sounds equally appealing. Hmm.

Friday, June 09, 2006

A four-letter word that you probably didn't know.

I cuss like a motherfucker (see? I honestly didn't even plan that), but there are some words that I try, and usually fail, to use exclusively in situations demanding unequivocal statements of loathing, hatred, biliousness, etc. The two that I use a little too freely, but, to be honest, not so freely I feel bad about it, are "cunt" and "twat." Neither has anything to do with the sex whose genitalia said terms are harsh aphorisms for; I'll willingly call a dude a cunt, or a dame a dick, when it's called for.

My least favorite cuss word, however, is "work." It's so ubiquitous in my vocabulary, and the vocabulary of society in general, that I and most folks don't even lump it in with other nasty words. This bothers me, especially since some people use the verb form of "work" proudly- "I work for a living," for example. Ugh. You might as well say "I cunt for a living," as far as I'm concerned. Of course, I myself am forced to cunt for a living, which caused me no end of grief.

You know, I think I'm going to start replacing "work," and probably "job" as well, with "cunt" when I'm talking to folks who won't yell at me for it- my friends, maybe some strangers, etc. How many people would begin to realize that so much of the work done in this world, and so much of the shit piled up regular people in the name of work, is utterly useless and despicable if they found themselves using the word "cunt" instead?

Mother to teenage son: "Get up! It's time for cunt!"

Abusive husband to wife: "Bitch! At least I've got a steady cunt!"

Two-dimensional Calvinist-type pastor: "Cunt is good for the soul."

Labor union leader: "Cunting families deserve better."

Corporate press release: "We regret that due to increased market pressures and other issues, we hereby announce that we will be cutting 10,000 cunts in the next two months."

Ad infinitum.

Fuck work/cunt.

It's time to go cunt on something that isn't cunt, because it doesn't alienate me and rob me of my human dignity.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Weak. [6.6.(0)6 update VI]

The City of Houston doesn't recycle glass you leave in curbside containers. Apparently, if there's glass in your green bin, they dump the bin's entire contents back into your trash can. What the fuck is that shit?

Can't I just go back to bed and have more weird dreams? [6.6.(0)6 update V]

Ugh. I'm kind of hung over, and I think I spent all night dreaming, which fucked with my mind and made it even harder to wake up. Plus the "A" key on my laptop is acting funny.

Anyway, the truly evil thing about this date is that I have to go to work. Lucifer's got nothing on having to hold down a job.

Iche liebe Dich! [6.6.(6) Update IV]

My only regret this evening is that I haven't worked on my pops' book. Alternately, I did edit/proofread two chapters before I went to work at 4:30 PM, 6.5.06.

Most importantly, I got to talk to my brother a few minutes ago. Mein bruder ist KRIEG, and- with a few exceptions- you all pale in comparison to him.

I'll make up for how much I miss my brother by smoking another cigarette and listening to Cathedral. "ULTRAMAN VS. ROBOCHRIST, OUR TIME IS NIGH"

I wish Maren read this, 'cause she could tell me if "Ich liebe Dich" was an acceptable thing to say to one's brother. If it wasn't, I'd correct myself and leave the original statement in place, dedicated to Maren, 'cause she's rad. (Te amo tambien, Torres- donde esta mis disco punk ruck que tienes?)

There's only one way out of here... [6.6.(0)6 Update III]

I have no idea how many 6.6.(0)6 updates I'll make, but man, they're fun. And I hope that the National Day of Slayer will one day become a national holiday, 'cause it would be pure gold to have a day off to drink beer and listen to Reign In Blood with fellow headbangers, neighbors, and so on. Beats the fuck out of Flag Day.

The Root of All Evil [6.6.(0)6 Update II]

Above my toilet I have a replica of Venom's "Seven Dates of Hell" tour poster, featuring the demonic face found on the cover of their album Black Metal. While taking a piss a minute ago, I was face to face with this somewhat cartoonish evil, and found myself silently yelling at it. The trivial trappings and images of evil may be fascinating, but in the end they are just that- trivial. I may not be a Christian in the true sense, or religious at all, but I think I know where I stand when it comes to good and evil. Maybe that's why I get such a kick out of metal.

Man, if 6.6.(0)6 keeps up like this, then I'm gonna have one hell of an interesting day.

6.6.06 does not equal 2-3-74 (I hope, I think). [6.6.(0)6 Update I]

All right, I know I should blame it all on reading Sutin's Phil Dick bio, or today's date, or my recent on and off ocular pain (which only seems to occur at work, probably due to too much time in front of monitors and psychosomatic shit caused by across-the-board loathing of my job), or drinking (even though I'm not drunk, or close to it, right now), or the roaches that use my driveway as a highway and my half-assed compost pile as a feeding ground, or the dozen flies I killed (by the way, Dave [roommate Dave, not myself in the third person], I noticed that during the day they like to buzz their way inside when people come in or go out, which might explain things) tonight, or the way I could see the blinking red light atop the radio/tv/whatever tower south of here through the trees, or my usual paranoia/hatred/fear of cops even when I'm on my own property doing exactly nothing wrong, or my laptop's refusal to read my USB keychain drive and demand that I format it, or who the fuck knows what, but tonight (since getting off work especially) has been one fucking bizarre and portentious cluster of hours.

This happens roughly once a year, in one form or another. Usually it's not as, well, fucking symbolic and all-encompassing as this feels, which makes me wonder if this particular handful of somewhat stressful but fascinating and dynamic hours is at all like the first-steps-towards-breakdown I had in 2002 and 2003. I don't think it is, because right now I'm aware of my mind working in two ways simultaneously whenever I fixate on or freak out about something (e.g. "dude, that roach is twitching its left antenna exclusively"; "I can probably see that light blinking even if I close my eyes"; "motherfuck, I hope I never see anything resembling God"; "motherfuck, if I never see God my life is ruined"; "why the hell is Blogger doing weird formatting to this paragraph as I type"; etc. etc.), namely:

Smith, you're legitimately freakin' the fuck out;

and

Smith, you dumb son of a bitch, you're letting yourself freak the fuck out for whatever reason, and your foundation of philosophical/theological/existential/ontological doubt isn't gonna let you get away with thinking you're going through some kind of revelatory experience.

Fuck it! I'm gonna roll with whatever this is and try to make the most out of it- which may be nothing at all, though I suspect that as soon as I'm done typing this sentence I'll go give Tim his antibiotics and then head straight to Unheimlich and pound away for a while.

Not true. First I want to bid everyone a good night/morning/day and remind y'all not that today is the National Day of Slayer, and that despite outbursts like this, I'm neither mentally unstable nor desire to be. So: good night/morning/day, and go blast Slayer in celebration of what's probably the 18th or 19th 6.6.06 since John's Revelation.

P.S. Why am I telling any of you this?

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Thank you.

Dave, Linda, Dave, Devin, Jay, Meg, Arthur, Danielle, Christian, Dr. Jordan, and all the strangers I met tonight: thank you so very, very much.

I love you all immensely, and my only regret is that I'm such a failure when it comes to expressing that love verbally.

Thank you again.

Te quiero con todo mi corazon hasta los dias finales,
D.A.S.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Mixed media.

I've stayed close to home today in order to make sure I didn't miss any of Tim's scheduled antibiotic treatments. While it's an ordeal trying to administer his eye drops without any help, they seem to be working; he's not running around with his left eye shut anymore. In eight hours, I take him back to the vet for a follow-up, and Dr. Long Ghost will also make the trip for his first checkup ever. (Please don't point out my negligence, because I'm already aware of it.)

Friday was a day of reading, writing, cooking, and editing, which is to say it wasn't terribly different than most Fridays. I talked to my folks and drank German beer and wine out of my WWI canteen cup, and sat in the back of the Jeep smoking cigarettes and reading because the recent rains made my usual folding chair uninhabitable. Everything I watched on TV I'd already seen at least once, except for the commercials, which seem to reach a new level of appallingness every time I turn on the tube, so I just turned down the volume and wrote.

Tomorrow- today, whatever, y'all know my schedule- I'll probably make some brief social appearances before coming home to write more, take care of Mr. Finnegan, and wonder why I
wonder why.

No, I know the answer to that already.

Coming soon: commentary on the new Celtic Frost and Katatonia records.

Friday, June 02, 2006

Q & A deuce (apologies to Elspeth).

Q. Mr. Smith, what is your deepest regret?

A. Killing colossi.

Q. Is that all? Participating in a video game?

A. Fuck you. I dare you to do the same and not feel something...

... well, I also regret not being as interesting a writer as Bill Burroughs, or Thomas Pynchon, or any number of slightly crazed writers, in the sense that nobody's ever gonna read my books and want to fuck with consensus reality.

Q & A.

Q. Mr. Smith, how have you managed to have a half-decent evening in spite of the following:

-your beloved ferret Tim Finnegan having to go to the vet
-missing a night of work and not getting paid for it
-having to put drops in Mr. Finnegan's eye at bizarre hours
-barely having the money to cover the vet bills
-having a job you loathe, whether or not you're there
-forgetting you made dinner and then going out and paying for it
-not getting enough work done on your dad's book
?

A. Cigarettes, my good friends Dave, Sara, Shari, and Matt, and an internal wellspring of spiritual resilience. I'm like a Skara Brae ranger, pre-Ultima VII, minus the mantra and shrine action.

Q. That's- that's really it?

A. Well, writing and records never hurt, either, and I've enjoyed, so to speak, plenty of both this evening.

Q. What've you been writing?

A. More of my new novel.

Q. And listening to?

A. Ned's Atomic Dustbin, Blue Oyster Cult, and the new Celtic Frost and Katatonia records.

Q. How's Mr. Finnegan?

A. Fine, aside from his painful eye. I'm going to bayonet the shit out of things if his eye doesn't get better.

Q. Is there anything else you'd like to say?

A. I love you all. And I love my ferret buddies Tim Finnegan and Dr. Long Ghost no less than I love my fellow humans. All y'all take it easy.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Poor Tim Finnegan!

Not long before I left for work, Tim Finnegan woke up from one of his many daily naps and crawled out of the desk where he sleeps. I noticed that he was keeping his left eye closed, but not his right, which was highly unusual. I immediately called the Animal Avian Hospital and was told that I could come in right then for a veterinarian to check out my buddy ferret's ocular problem.

It turns out that Tim has a corneal ulcer. The actual cause is unknown, but the vet thinks it's due to getting his eye scratched by something or someone (i.e. Dr. Long Ghost). She commended my rapid response, noting that had I waited, the ulcer would have probably gotten worse, which could lead to the complete destruction of the eye. As it stands, everyone's favorite albino is now on a regimen of antibiotic eye drops, which have to be administered every few hours until the vet tells me otherwise. Tim goes back to Animal Avian on Saturday for a follow-up, and I'm taking Dr. Oliver Long Ghost in as well. He needs a checkup anyway.

I don't have any paid days off left at work, so this is costing me. Fuck it. I value Tim's friendship more than a job, and I'm glad I was around to notice that something was wrong with him and take care of it immediately. Mr. Finnegan's been one of my best friends- and a constant in my life- for almost five years now, so there's no way I'd let him down.

Frettchen über Alles.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Memorial Day.

My schedule and my flitting attention span prevented me from noting the following while it was still Memorial Day, but hey.

Last year my Uncle Smitty gave me a canteen/mess cup dated 1918. He knows I'm a student, so to speak, of the Great War, and knew that a gift like the mess cup wouldn't be lost on me. It most certainly wasn't, because I use it on almost a daily basis for consuming just about anything but coffee, because hot liquid + aluminum = burnt lips.

It's not using the cup that makes it meaningful, however. It's the very history of the thing, which is almost a hundred years old now, and the story it might tell. Was it ever issued to a doughboy unlucky enough to be sent to St. Mihiel or the Argonne Forest? If it was, what kind of hell did that fellow go through, and how often was he lucky enough to have something hot ladled into his canteen cup? Was he doomed to be planted in foreign soil, or to come home to a parade and maybe later march with the Bonus Army, where he'd be shot or beaten by his own countrymen? My particular cup is reasonably battered, but that may have less to do with its use during WWI than the fact that it's probably been through dozens of hands before it reached mine. What would its original user think of someone like me picking it up every day and filling it with yogurt or okra and peppers or soymilk? Whatever happened to the factory workers who created the cup? How did the soldier or Marine or line worker who handled this cup spend their last days? What did they think of the War to End All Wars? Of the barbed wire, the rolling barrages, the French widows, the German conscripts in oversized feldgrau uniforms, the American isolationists, Woodrow Wilson, Prohibition, the League of Nations, the vengeance of Versailles?

Just like last Armistice/Veterans' Day, I'm opting not to politicize this "holiday," but rather take a moment and think about those who came before me. I recommend y'all do the same, and do so with open hearts and critical minds. You might not have a scuffed canteen cup to ruminate upon, but you don't need one. You've got America and its soldiery, past and present, and everything that came at the points of their bayonets- for good or ill- and that's more than enough.

Here's to my pops, my uncle, my granddad, my great-uncle, and my friend Richard Patton. Two of 'em are dead, and one of those I never met, but all of their stories, in one fragmented way or another, are ones I hope to tell sooner or later... not to make any point other than that humans are fucked-up, good-hearted, unbelievably resilient yet fragile, and utterly unique creatures.

Let's hope I never have to add another veteran to this list, but if I do, here's to hoping they turn out to be people as admirable as the veterans I already know.

"We are the sons of Satan, we are free"

While all the dates haven't been announced yet, I do believe I'll have to travel outside of Texas later this summer to see Venom. Fuck time, money, and having to sit through another shitty Devildriver opening set, I wanna see V-E-N-O-fuckin'-M! Who's with me?

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Trivialities sometimes add up to something meaningful. Sometimes.

The story I'm working on for the next meeting of ye newe writing grouppe is kicking my ass. It's bizarre writing about a daughter I don't have, much less one who knows she's a purely literary creation and resents me for it. It was much easier when she simply made a minor appearance in Axis Mundi Sum.

I've realized lately that my listening habits have become downright flaccid. If it's not on my hard drive or in the box of LPs directly next to the turntable, I haven't listened to it in a while. I've spent the weekend thus far rectifying this abominable situation, with good results. There's still a metrick fuckton of stuff I need to get to, however.

Christ, sometimes I feel like punching myself in the mouth for thinking that shit like this is even slightly consequential. Instead of fucking up my teeth further, I opt for being thankful that I'm still in one piece- physically and mentally- and have unfailingly amazing folks to call my friends.

Friday, May 26, 2006

Why walking is better than driving, reason #777

Walking home from getting drunk at Poison Girl, I ran into a couple women who ended up being excellent conversationalists. We sat in my driveway, drank some shitty wine, talked about religion, and then off they went, leaving me to indulge in the awesome record that is Bruce Dickinson's The Chemical Wedding.

Strangers rule.

Metal rules.

Here she comes, my beautiful world!

Aloha, folks. Another Thursday night/Friday morning finds me here again, rejoicing that I don't have to go to work for the next three days, full of hope and in possession of enough books, tobacco, music, and alcohol to get me through the wee hours. Which, I reckon, aren't that wee for yours truly; I've been living in them for almost two years now, so the wee hours for a wight like me are probably more like eight or nine o'clock in the morning. Anyway, stupid ruminations aside, the long dark night that is the work week is over, and a beautiful, warm day of freedom is dawning.

Anyway.

I put on Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus a little while ago for the first time since shortly after I purchased it. It's so easy to forget what a complete genius Mr. Cave is- I know, I know, that statement is completely bogus. It's impossible to forget what a genius he is, but it's easy to not listen to his records all the time, at least these days.

Enough.

I hope to be in Memphis sometime within the next two months, spending time with a woman I've loved for almost a decade now, a woman I haven't seen in person since we were teenagers, a woman who I've planned things with almost every year since '98, only to see those plans fall through for whatever reason. Who knows if Memphis will happen, but I do know that our friendship won't dissipate if Memphis never materializes.

All right. See y'all later.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

That's right, I'm an idiot!

Way to go, you fuckin' moron, by leaving the beer in the freezer for twelve hours!

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

"These endless days are finally ending in a blaze"

Because I am

a) an unrepentant Buffy fan
b) constantly trapped in the past
c) occasionally, albeit grudgingly, willing to appreciate musicals
and
d) really like the various sentiments put forth herein,

I present you with the lyrics to my favorite song from "Once More, With Feeling," the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I haven't delineated who sings what, certain shared lines are omitted by whomever compiled them for the net, and I've cleaned up the punctuation, but if you're that curious, go watch the episode in question.

Enjoy, folks. I know at least one of you will!


I touch the fire and it freezes me
I look into it and it's black
Why can't I feel
My skin should crack and peel
I want the fire back

Now through the smoke she calls to me
To make my way across the flame
To save the day
Or maybe melt away
I guess it's all the same

So I will walk through the fire
'Cos where else can i turn
And I will walk through the fire
And let it...

The torch I bear is scorching me
Buffy's laughin I've no doubt
I hope she fries
I'm free if that bitch dies
I better help her out

'Cuz she is drawn to the fire
some people (she) will never learn
and she will walk through the fire
and let it...

Will this do a thing to change her?
Am I leaving Dawn in danger?
Is my slayer to far gone to care?
What if Buffy can't defeat it
Beady eyes is right, we're needed
Or we could just sit around and glare
We'll see it through it what we're always here to do
So we will walk through the fire...

So one by one they turn from me
I guess my friends can't face the cold
(What can't we face)
But why I froze... not one among them knows
And never can be told

She came from the grave much graver
First he'll kill her then I'll save her
Everything is turning out so dark
(Going through the motions)
No, I'll save her then I'll kill her
I think this line is mostly filler
What its gonna take to strike the spark?
These endless days are finally ending in a blaze
and we are
Caught in the fire
The point of no return
So we will walk through the fire and let it
Burn
let it Burn
let it Burn...Showtime!


R.I.P. Tara Maclay.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Curricular activities.

Last week I got the files containing my pops' book on the battle of Stones River, which I have taken it upon myself to proofread, edit, and hammer into camera-ready shape so that it may be published sometime later this year. It's a slightly daunting task, seeing as how the book is approximately 850 single-spaced pages, but I look forward to giving it my best. I took care of the first chapter's today, and if I stick with it, I should have the job completed by no later than the end of the summer, which is also when I'd like to have the first draft and cut, respectively, of Unheimlich and All Right finished. It's gonna be a busy summer indeed, and I'm not counting the writing I'm gonna force myself to do for our burgeoning circle of literatteurs.

It's great not wasting time doing or thinking about jack shit other than the things I like wasting time doing or thinking about, though I could go for a beer right about now.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Gallons of sweat never tasted so good.

Two days' worth of the Chaos in Tejas festival, walking around Austin, driving for hours without air conditioning, and riding my new bike (free, courtesy of Holly's folks and Matt's willingness to ride it home) has caused me to sweat almost continuously over the last day or two. It rules. Exercise, crust punk, good company, records, ten thousand thirty-second crushes on cute girls, a vegan potluck, and more have contributed greatly to my well-being.

Man, being able to cover a mile in no time flat on my bike, which I've named Shari Lee after a friend of mine, is fuckin' great. Now all I need is a basket or some panniers to carry shit in.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Maybe I should return to academia.

Coming soon, if I remember to write it: my reading of the lyrics to "Pit of Zombies" by Cannibal Corpse as a metaphor for the experience of having a shitty job.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Uninteresting musings, part the millionth.

Hell yeah. Demilich is touring the States soon, and they're coming to Houston on a Sunday, which means I don't have to miss out and thereby regret my decision to go to work instead of indulging in death metal.

Even cooler, word is that Venom- V-E-N-O-fucking-M- will be in the US later this year too. No dates have been announced yet, but I suspect I'll have to travel quite a ways to see them. The only other band these days that I'd do the same for is Bolt Thrower, who may tour later in the year as well. Better start hoarding cash and vacation days, self.

In other nifty metal news, I learned, mere hours before Herr Luftschiffhauptmann informed me of the same, that vests like mine are referred to in certain foreign lands as "kutten" (singular: "kutte"). On the topic of said vest, I don't miss the sleeves at all, though I need to find a home for the patches that still cling to them like sewn-on parasites, and come cold weather, I'll have to resort to the DDR Polizei overcoat or Bundesrepublik army parka my brother left behind (the former was already mine, purchased nine years ago in London, but it was essentially stolen from me).

Sunday evening will be the first meeting of the local writing group Andy took it upon himself to set up. I have no idea what I'll bring to the table, but I know I don't want to just read a chunk of Unheimlich. Another problem is my lack of printing capacity- I reckon I'll have to have someone else print something, or write whatever it is out in longhand. If I used a fountain pen, I could say "How very Stephensonian of you, Smith."

Finally, I've been cramming a lot of reading into my maw lately: Peter Singer's Animal Liberation, Peter Lamborn Wilson's Escape from the 19th Century, Guy Sajer's The Forgotten Soldier, more of Kierkegaard's The Sickness Unto Death, Ron Rozelle's Into That Good Night, Gordon Prange's At Dawn We Slept, various magazines, and the usual array of online articles.

We are down to our last handful of cartridges. Fix bayonets!

Monday, May 15, 2006

Succumbing to sleep.

I wish there was some way of quantifying how much of my outlook on life has been directly influenced by heavy metal. Perhaps once neuroscience has reached some amazing level of complexity I can have Matt perform an über-brainscan that'll satisfy my thirst for self-knowledge. Then my life will become a Voivod song.

Here's to the several cups of Czar Nicholas II Premium Nostalgia Tea I imbibed throughout the day. Without you, o liquid memorial to horrific, backward autocracy, I would have succumbed to alcohol-induced naps long ago, but instead I wrote a lot.

And now, dear reader, I'm off to the Dreamlands... which, as far as I can tell, have been gentrified to all hell since the days of HPL. Fuck the bourgeoisie and their demand for convenience over aesthetics and meaning.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Attention, humans: you're not all disappointments.

I don't recall what I was looking for, but last night I ran across a trio of articles written by one person on Witches' Voice, a Wiccan website. I was impressed enough to take down the author's info and contact her this evening. We had a brief conversation, nothing heavy, but when she signed off I remained impressed.

It's so good to meet people, albeit online, that are well-spoken and thoughtful, especially if they're younger than I am. It's also good to know that some people, like my friend Cheyenne, are on the verge of giving birth to the next generation, and that they'll probably be good parents. I eagerly embrace any sign that up-and-coming humanity isn't setting its responsibilities, dreams, and hopes aside, which is why the last few hours have been such a comfort.

I'd also like to wish a happy birthday to my beloved friend Amanda. Had I not called her yesterday, I'd apologize for being late with my congratulations, but I'm not, so that's that.

Here's to all of you. Thank you for being good human beings, and, as Kinky Friedman says, "may the god of your choice bless you."

Friday, May 12, 2006

Waking up.

Dear Bill,

At long last, I've figured out what I'm going to do with my life.

I recently read that my heroine and crush of twelve years, Justine Frischmann, is apparently attending Naropa University over in Boulder, Colorado. Colorado is closer to Texas than England, so this is my chance to make my move, by which I mean possibly see Justine walking around campus and swoon. Perhaps she'll see me and rush over to help; perhaps she'll ignore my fainting spell; perhaps she'll laugh; perhaps she'll just sneer as beautifully as she did in the video for "Connection" and keep walking. Whatever the case, I may be able to die a happy man, though, honestly, I'd prefer just to pass out and get a mild concussion.

So, yeah, I'm going to give up all my other pursuits- writing, making All Right with Andy, learning Chinese, writing comics with you, etc.- so I can meet, and maybe even woo, Justine Frischmann. If I succeed, I will visit you wherever you may be with Justine in tow. If I fail, well, I suppose I'll have to continue my admiration of Ms. Frischmann from afar, with only my Elastica albums and a nasty lump on my skull to remind me of my brush with feminine awesomeness.

Yours,
Dave

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Heirlooms of the future.

Some things I'd like to pass down to my kids, should I ever have any, and should they not turn out to be complete ingrates:

My State of Texas belt buckle, which was my pops'.
My dictionary, which was given to my pops by a girlfriend he had in the '60s.
My samovar, which my pops got while serving in Russia in the early '70s.
My record collection (once I'm too dead to listen to it myself).
My unpainted Ral Partha lead miniature of an illusionist.
The plaid blanket my parents bought me as a kid in Rome.
The Bible my mom gave me in 1994.
The proof copy of Axis Mundi Sum, if I ever get it back from Cheyenne.
The Finnegans Wake sigla ring Sara made for me, but only after I'm dead.
And more.

I don't know why I get such a kick out of theorizing about parenthood, given how incredibly unfit I currently am to take care of anyone but myself (debatable) and the ferrets (they seem content, but if they could talk I'm sure they'd complain- I wonder where they are right now?), not to mention my distaste of almost any kind of relationship right now that doesn't involve me and books.

I blame it on writing my fictional future daughter, Moxie, into Axis Mundi Sum years ago. Fuckin' self-fulfilling prophecy.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Rifle drills.

The SKS rifle is one hell of a good workout tool, and a solid firearm, at that.

Ex libris finisterra.

The all-call for actors and actresses who want to be in All Right has begun. Say the word if you're interested.

I acquired more books in the past three days than I usually would in six months, and many of them were free (thanks again, Ashley). It puts me in a quandary, though, because I keep picking up one book after another and wanting to keep reading it, only to put it down and check out another one. This could never happen if I went back to school, where I'd be forced to read. Where's the fun in that?

Anyone ever wonder about their composure should the world end? Not abruptly, but just slowly enough to give folks time to wake up (literally, since lots of people are bound to be asleep when the news arrives) and think. I think a lot of us believe we'll be stoic, and/or cling to our loved ones, and/or be frightened to the point of shitting ourselves and praying to gods we gave up long ago, but are these our only options? Would glorious indifference fall under the "stoic" reaction? I suppose that if this scenario ever occurs, there won't be anyone left to analyze and write about the human results, so it's a moot point in the long run, but an interesting thought for the time being.

The thought game above stems indirectly from something I pondered earlier this evening, namely the attraction of post-apocalyptic scenarios as displayed in film and literature. Is it mainly a Eurocentric (i.e. white) fascination, or is it universal? Do Taoists worry about the end of the world as we know it? African animists? What about people that know nothing of nuclear weapons or eschatological religions? See, this would be something to pursue were I to become a student again, but that ain't gonna happen (and not only because I can write "ain't gonna" with no trace of irony or shame, as I just noticed- what's with tonight's refusal of further education, anyway?). I'd much rather have these kinds of discussions on porches, and disseminate the findings via the rest of the folks I was jawing with.

I think it's time to go buy cigarettes, or maybe just keep listening to Moonspell.

Monday, May 08, 2006

A few days well spent.

It's been a good weekend. Got to see a lot of my friends, buy some records, cook for folks (well, one person, though I would've cooked for a lot more if my attempt to help out with Food Not Bombs hadn't resulted in failure due to the absence of FNB at the Bill Hicks Resurrection Lab and the library), go dumpster diving, read, write, talk to my mom and pops, get my People's Library card from Sedition Books, start work on All Right, see V for Vendetta, and be idle. Not once have I succumbed to the usual Sunday night dread of Monday afternoons.

I dare say that I'm almost happy.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Last minutes before the millenium.

Moonspell, Sentenced, Opeth. Pounding hearts, flying fingers. High ceilings. Final familial cohesion. Books on Saturday. Coffee. Dry toast. Frozen pizza. Cigarettes by the front door. Possums in the garage. So much more.

My nostalgia knows no bounds.

Friday, May 05, 2006

This is what paydays are for.

I budgeted all the necessities and outstanding fiduciary obligations out- food, phone bill, cash to England for the Live After Death LP, gas (a first in ages; Christ, I hate cars), credit card payments, booze/tobacco, savings, etc. etc., and still had money to buy rad shit from AK Press and Havoc Records. I even have some left over to fund All Right, which starts filming this weekend.

It may seem to the uninformed that I'm not doing anything with my life, but I don't know anyone else who's simultaneously writing a novel, proofing an 800-page book of Civil War history, working on a movie, and sketching out short story ideas, all the while trying to maintain a relatively newfound vegetarian diet and an exercise routine based on rifle drills, push-ups, stretching, and lots of walking.

Then again, I don't know anyone who just singed their fucking hair with a lit cigarette.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

"We Made It" : April 2005 as "Here's How It Happened" : May 2006.

I doubt anyone remembers the Jesu-soundtracked short movie script about mass suicide I posted here about a little over a year ago (go through the April '05 archives if you're interested), but I spent the latter half of tonight's work night thinking about it. This time, however, as I played the movie out in my head- and started writing a short story based on the idea- all of the suicides were on-screen, albeit as tastefully done as blowing one's brains out or choking down fistfuls of pills can be, i.e. lots of pretty silhouettes, bright red blossoms of blood, und so weiter. The newest iteration of this scenario has a little backstory to it, and the Jesu song has changed from "Walk On Water" to "Friends Are Evil" (an amazing song, with an amazing title and amazing lyrics). Once I get a rought draft of the story written, I'll probably post it here. Ideally, I'd be able to film it one day, although I seriously doubt I could find the cast, crew, and equipment necessary to show an entire cityscape full of people offing themselves.

No, I'm not contemplating suicide. I read The Myth of Sisyphus years ago, and settled that basic existential dilemma back then. Sorry to let anyone down.

"And all the stones I've thrown
they come back twice as strong
And all the stones I've thrown
they tell me nothing lasts

And all stones you've thrown, they come from your highest throne
Pass them on to me below
they remind me nothing lasts"

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

A couple slightly abstract remarks on immigration and individuality.

I should've gone on strike today (well, yesterday). Not so much out of support of immigrant rights- which I do believe in, on a human level, but a brief comment on that later- but just because it was May Day, the world's Labor Day and a memorial day dedicated to the Haymarket anarchists. Instead, I compromised my deep-seated, if often poorly expressed, belief in the solidarity of regular folks, for the sake of a fucking paycheck. Way to go, self.

I was talking to my pops about the recent spike in immigration debates, and I said that one of the unspoken reasons for alarm among American citizens is the fact that within a few decades, the majority of the United States won't be white. Pops agreed, although he didn't view my statement the same way I did.

The way I see it, an America wherein white folks don't constitute a majority of the population is an America where there may very well be a greater potential for change than exists now. I could be wrong, of course, or right in the wrong way, i.e. change definitely occurs, but for the worse, due either to immigrants bringing their own political practices with them (possible) or a backlash from "real" Americans against the encroachment of "foreigners" (more likely). Whatever the case, the importation of foreign political/social models can't be more detrimental to the US than the ones that were brought over by Europeans, such as the Protestant work ethic and racial supremacy (and the children of such an unholy union: Manifest Destiny and American pseudo-colonialism carried out via capitalism).

That said, I'm not going to defend bullshit cultural mores and customs simply because they're non-Western or non-white. The "family values" lauded by American conservatives are much stronger elsewhere in the world, and often to the detriment of those directly involved. I'm too fond of personal freedom, wu-wei, and self-realization to advocate, say, Hispanic or Chinese filial piety over the well-being of the individual. I've seen first hand what can happen to folks who grow up in households run by patriarchs/matriarchs, and while I'm all for respecting one's elders, buckling under pressure exerted by one's family- or blindly rebelling against it- does no favors to anyone. The same goes for devotion to nationality, race, or the state. I'm proud to be a Texan, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna put my admiration of the Lone Star before human decency.

So, yeah, immigration. I'm all for it. But I'm far more in favor of people taking off the blinders of church, state, race, and nationality and becoming the human beings they should be. This is where a Kierkegaard quotation would be appropriate, but since the Magister was highly apolitical and preferred to focus on the relationship between God and the individual, I can't think of any. All I can do is mirror him in a secular way and say that everyone's relationship to a higher power, divine or otherwise, should be rooted first and foremost in doubt. Only then can we start to see where we really stand in the world; only then can we take the first steps towards changing ourselves and our surroundings.

De omnibus dubitandum est.

Sunday, April 30, 2006

Partisans crashed out in the living room.

Vanessa, Andy, Andy's bag of books, Herr Mann, (eventually) drunken literary/critical/social debate, König Ludwig Weiss, fairy wings, a Canon camera, religious schools, vile pseudo-beer, reading out loud, a cigarette run, plans, and a teddy bear with a gaping maw: life is good.

Friday, April 28, 2006

The Second Amendment has been repealed... for clothing.

I have stripped my jacket of the right to bear arms. It is now a vest.

The weird world of 4:30 AM.

After a night of drinking beer and downloading Finnish and Turkish black metal stuff, I decided to watch some television. What sounded like a good way to kill a couple sloshed hours turned out to be an experiment in surreality. Not that a whirlwind of televangelists, histories of ancient Indian mathematics, public access channel interviews with WWII vets, and Angel could be anything else. It was fuckin' fantastic, man, and gave me the impetus to finally pick up the copy of the Bhagavad-Gita that I bought from a Krishna in the parking lot of the Woodlands Mall four years ago. Even passing out on the couch was pretty comfortable, and my dreams- the contents of which I've sadly forgotten- were mighty interesting.

Being me rules.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

War is a racket.

And I'm not the only one saying it. Take it from USMC Major General Smedley Butler (1881-1940).

WAR IS A RACKET.

Monday, April 24, 2006

What I did this weekend.

Finally went to Valhalla with Matt, Sara, and Kyle- exceeded expectations. Wrote, finally. Cooked dinner: zucchini and tofu. Got the fuck outta Dodge and crashed at Matt and Holly's Saturday night, spent Sunday shootin' the shit and walking around The Woodlands. Talked to my folks and Bill. Came home. Television returned from the void, for better or worse, probably the latter. Cooked dinner: tofu/sunchoke/onion/ginger dumplings. Read "Brokeback Mountain"- solid- and more of Manchester's book on die firma Krupp, continuingly solid too. Fought the Sunday malaise, ain't figured out if I've won. Probably not, since I've gotta go to work tomorrow. Fixin' to do some more writing in a bit.

What I didn't do: Write enough. Read enough. Smoke too few cigarettes. Something I can't put my finger on.

Friday, April 21, 2006

"Have you seen the Yellow Sign?"

About five years ago, Herr Link turned me onto Delta Green, which is a modern-day, paranoiac/conspiracy take on the Cthulhu Mythos. Written by John Tynes and Dennis Detwiller (with some help from a couple others, I think, but I'm too lazy to seek out proper attribution), Delta Green (also too lazy to use italics, if you haven't noticed) restructured Lovecraft and Co.'s nightmarish creations so as to become- unbelievably- even more nightmarish, simply by filtering them through modern (in)sensibilities.

The finest work that Tynes did in regard to the Cthulhu Mythos was with his study of the Hastur mythos: the god-thing Hastur itself, its avatar the King in Yellow, the city of Carcosa, the Lake of Hali, und so weiter. While these creations weren't Lovecraft's, but rather Ambrose Bierce's and Robert W. Chambers', Lovecraft popularized them, at least for latecomers like myself. Tynes' material in Delta Green:Countdown, based on his own temporary psychosis re: the King in Yellow, fleshed it out even further. Since reading Tynes' interpretation of Hastur and the King in Yellow, I can honestly say that it's haunted me off and on for the past half-decade. I can't explain it without pointing you towards the source material (both Chambers' work and that of Tynes), but rest assured that, often without any premeditation, the Carcosan aesthetic seeps into my writing more and more, and that I am deeply- not in the recently immersed sense, but in the more or less subconscious yet entrenched sense- fascinated, and terrified of, Hastur and his manifestations.

I reckon only Andy will know what I mean, unless you too have seen the Yellow Sign.

Moral of the story: do not ever underestimate the power of fiction.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Under the Sign of the Black Mark.

I got my stuff from Black Mark Records today, though it appears that Nordland I & II was out of stock and I didn't get charged for it. At least my Blood Fire Death LP came in, which is perfect because I really don't feel like doing shit except listening to records (specifically records, not CDs) and fighting my way through my recent bout of artistic laziness/apathy. This plan of action will be supported by my poverty; all but roughly twenty bucks of my paycheck has already been alloted to rent, bills, comida, postage to England, etc., so doing much of anything that requires money is out of the question for the next fortnight. Good thing I've got some of my brother's leftover liquor to hold me over, 'cause I sadly won't be buying much beer unless my kind friends take pity on me.

Oh yeah, I was attacked by a horde of grackles Tuesday, and when I got home around 2 AM this morning some dumbfuck had blocked my driveway with her Lexus (she reclaimed it before one of the owners of Bocados had it towed, and before I spat all over it). My life is just fuckin' stupid.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Fuck this world, and fuck us for letting it be this way.

(ACHTUNG! Skip the first paragraph, which is petty personal shit, and read everything that follows it.)

MotherFUCK, where are those notes I made months ago on the pseudo-real handful of obscure '70s albums and the people that wrote them and the nutjobs that spent their lives listening to them? I reckon I'm gonna have to tear the house apart to find the notes, or accept the fact that I probably tossed 'em when I moved down the street last August. Shit, there goes the framework for my next novel.

In other news: nothing... aside from the admission from our shithead president that he's willing to go nuclear on Iran ("All options are on the table") because said state is trying to do what the US and half a dozen or so other states have done over the past sixty-odd years. I'm not defending Iran's right to manufacture nuclear material (because, let's face it, their claims of wanting to use that material for energy alone are full of shit), but there is something seriously fucked about threatening to nuke someone for wanting to play "catch-up." I use quotation marks because while Iran may feel that having a nuclear weapon in their hands merely levels the playing field- at least in regard to other lesser nuclear powers, like their enemy Israel- it's really just giving the hardliners that run Iran the opportunity to fuck up some infidel shit big time.

Of course, it if does come down to American nuclear codes being unlocked and released to the appropriate military personnel, the next step, once the, ahem, "tactical"-sized mushroom clouds have dispersed, will probably be all-out conventional warfare with Iran. BRILLIANT. FUCKING BRILLIANT. Let's get several thousand more Marines, soldiers, airmen, and sailors killed because our goddamned wannabe messiah of a president wants to maintain his religio-historial delusions and the hegemony of Western capitalism. And military casualties are on the tiny tip of a geopolitical, economic, and most importantly, moral/ethical iceberg.

Shit, I feel sick with rage. Let's hope that the Chinese- the fucking Chinese, of all people, and I don't add the epithet out of any problem with the people or the culture, but their government (N.B. There goes my chance of teaching in China in a couple years.)- manage to pull off the diplomacy that George W. "I like Jesus better than Jim Beam" Bush claims he's using to dissuade Iran from going any further with their nuclear plans. If Hu Jintao and Co. do the job, that'll be one hell of an international diplomatic coup for China. Fuck it, though- better China get some brownie points than people die.

MULTIPLE CHOICE QUESTION (circle the correct answer): how did the US manage to avoid a throwdown with Iran when Ronald "senile as fuck" Reagan was in office, only to step into the same pile of shit twenty years later?

a) It was mutually beneficial for Reagan and Khomeini to talk shit so they would both look like badasses to the sheep they ruled, thereby keeping them in line

b) Reagan was occupied by the threat of the Soviet Union, and Khomeini by maintaining/building power at home, and any little spats between the US and Iran were just newspaper fodder

c) George W. Bush thinks he's got a direct line to God, and somehow, despite being drunk most of the time, remembers what went down during the '80s and wants to one-up his old man's former boss, because, hey, there's a war on terror or some such shit, and God's on my side, not the ragheads'

d) Capitalism allows for, and probably creates, such scenarios so the motherfuckers at the top of the global heap can profit handsomely while the rest of us worry about things like morality and humanity right before being blown to pieces

e) all of the above

With that, I'm outta here for now. We're all gonna be living out a heavy metal lyrical cliche before we know it unless we do something drastic, but right now I need some sleep.

Fuck capitalism. Fuck war. Fuck religion. Fuck nationalism. Fuck coercion. Fuck putting anything before the well-being of regular human beings. Fuck all of us for mouthing such platitudes.

We have manufactured, consumed, regurgitated, and once more consumed our own hell, whether or not this whole Iran thing goes down. Our world, which is inherently beautiful and wonderful and full of amazing people, is fucked.

FUCKED.



You are now free to indulge in the relatively minor personal problem addressed in the first paragraph.