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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

Limbs.

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