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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

What an incredibly trying day.

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

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

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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.