This is why I hate talking to you when...

The older I get, the less I have to believe in. I remember a time when things didn't sound like bullshit or totally devoid of value. I love life, but it doesn't mean shit, as much as I want it to; I want to be a good little existentialist, but I fail at it because I can't find or create the personal meaning that makes life worth living. I'm running on fear, laziness, and what passes for hope.

"Almost always the idea before the thing itself- in art, love, and all of life." -Rudi Tannemann

lectric chile (go)at (skate)

Tommy Guerrero, former Bones Brigade skater turned musician, said in an interview I read a few weeks ago that his music isn't exactly suited for skating, except for the walk back up a hill you just bombed. I can't say for sure, since I don't listen to music when I skate, as much as I'd like to (aural cues, such as the sound of approaching cars, are handy when you're cruising the neighborhood and don't feel like getting run over, and headphones tend to diminish said cues). However, for late nights like this, and contemplative mornings, it's a perfect soundtrack. I imagine it'd be good for laid-back cruising sessions, too. Whatever the case, the guy's music is killer, and makes me want to buy a Walkman and some headphones so I can jam it the next time I get to skate in the hour before sunset.

If you couldn't tell, I think about skating a lot these days.

Weighing In - II

Sometimes I sleep in the master closet, stretched out between rows of shoes, a winter coat added to my usual pile of blankets. The air does not move, and there is an odor of cedar that seems to grow stronger the longer I remain. The closet is similar to what I would want in a tomb, and is therefore a fine place to meditate on death. My closet renders death a warm, familiar, pleasantly scented thing.

-Marcus Gill, New York, NY, 2000


Writing cannot alert a reader to the purposelessness of life intending to give the reader hope. Once the world's mask has been removed, exposing the void where a face should be (or where we believe one should be), it cannot be put back on. Writing can remove that mask, and on rare occasions replace it with a new, temporary one, but that is all. Words cannot create meaning when meaning does not exist.

-Patricia Sklar, Marblehead, MA, 1952

I'd buy booze from this dude.

http://slanginliquorinthehood.blogspot.com/

Good stuff.

At least...

I'm drinking plenty of coffee these days.

Apropos of nothing, I know, but I was compelled to mention it.

Weighing In - I

It is imperative that unpleasant activities and environments be mitigated as much as possible, internal unpleasantness not necessarily excluded. However, the means of lessening the world's unpleasantness is one that should not be taken up without careful contemplation. I might suggest a method or two, but refrain from doing so, knowing that most who would apply such methods have no desire to be taken for miscreants of the highest order.

-Hernán Ochoa Dagú, Mérida, Yucatán, 1937


"Life's work" is bullshit. Everyone dies long before they've done anywhere near what they thought or hoped they'd do. Believing there's a master plan or some list of achievements laid out for each of us is stupid, and acting on that belief is even more stupid. It sets us up for disappointment and doesn't let us enjoy what's actually here in front of us. That kind of thinking takes away all the worth of leaving things unfinished, or never started at all. Failure becomes a mortal sin (and you can fucking guarantee people who believe in "God's plan" or their "life's work" believe in sin). What a joke! Why miss out on the beauty of failure or incompleteness or not doing something because we think our lives have some grand scheme? It's delusional, total self-delusion. God fucking forbid we admit we don't amount to much of anything, as far as our neighbors and the universe are concerned.

-Star Miller, Helena, MT 1988

escape

I'm drunk, just so you know. Doesn't mean any of the following is untrue (or sensible). Not that much will follow.

-Life, generally speaking, almost never excites me these days.
-I wish I'd been more of a miscreant in high school.
-She. Oh, she!
-Neck hurts.
-Bully soundtrack: missing only one crucial song.
-Marbles/ball bearings: check inventory.
-I miss Floyd boy.
-"Con su gusano.: Down the hatrch.
-I wanna move to Bullworth Vale.

Like I said, drunk. Thanks to every poor soul that's ever come on you.

Behold the bastard's blade!

After spending ten or fifteen minutes looking for parking on choked side streets, I forced myself through the packed downstairs bar at Rudyard's, got my hand stamped, and went upstairs, where the population was even denser, the temperature at least ten degrees higher, the humidity almost 100%, and the wait for a beer anywhere between five and ten minutes. Everything took forever, except breaking out into a sweat. I'd be sweating for the next two and a half hours- not some weakling forehead sheen, but the kind of sweat that saturates your clothes and seems to replace your skin.

Why did I do this? Because The Sword was playing, and since it was at Rudyard's, it was one of those rare occasions I could actually see a show after work- a show I was pretty excited about in the first place. I liked them when I saw them in 2006, their new album is solid, and this video is a stroke of brilliance. Last night they put on a good show, played what I wanted to hear, gave me reason to headbang like a fool, and sold me a classy t-shirt.

Worth the sweat and hassle, no question about it. Joe Bob says check it out.

Proud alumnus.

I've been playing Grand Theft Auto IV lately. Great game, across the board. My buddy Andy sent me the following link to this article which discusses why the GTA series has been so groundbreaking, among other things. I recommend reading it if you're a GTA fan and/or interested in the narratology of video games in general. It's also pretty damned funny.

As great as GTA is, however, my favorite Rockstar Games product has to be Bully. I'm playing it again, this time for the Xbox 360, and loving every minute of it. I got the soundtrack in the mail a couple days ago, and have spent more than a little spare time trying to track down something resembling a Bullworth Academy t-shirt. My Halloween costume this year will, if all goes well, involve someone sewing a Bullworth Academy crest onto a sweater for me (said sweater will then become a regular article of cold-weather clothing). The 360 version hasn't bugged out on me more than once, to my surprise, and while it's (thus far) not substantially different than its older PS2 ancestor, it's been very much worth buying again for the improved graphics and, well, just to play again. I'd much rather ride my bike or skate around Bullworth, tossing eggs at assholes and putting firecrackers in toilets, than committing vehicular manslaughter in San Andreas or Liberty City... but not always. There's no real comparison between the two games, in my opinion, as the tone of each is sufficiently unlike the other to nullify any "Bully=GTA with training wheels" comments. (Yeah, I know Bullworth Academy shows up tangentially in GTA IV, but I reckon you get my point.)

So yeah, two good games, two engrossing premises, two different overall moods, and yours truly gravitates towards the, ahem, "juvenile" one- unabashedly. Make of it what you will.

See you on campus, folks.

-DAS
Bullworth '06

The brown sound.

Been digging the hell out of Brant Bjork's newest offering, Punk Rock Guilt. Recorded in '05 but only released this month, it's another album of his where he plays all the instruments, and features some songs that have shown up on other albums in different forms. It's not rehash, though; the songs maintain enough similarity to previous versions to be recognizable, but are restructured in such a way as to be fresh and vital. Really good stuff, and not a bad introduction to the man's solo work if you haven't had the good fortune to hear him before.

I'd write more, not just about Brant Bjork, but I've gotta get to bed at something resembling a reasonable hour so I can take my madre to the airport tomorrow.

Later.

A stroll down Danny the Street

My parents are celebrating their 33rd wedding anniversary this weekend, so I'll be up in Jasper Saturday and most of Sunday, along with my brother, Tracey, kt and Altoid. I doubt there'll be anywhere to skate other than the driveway, but if space permits I'll probably bring my board with me.


I'm close to finishing the final volume of Grant Morrison's Doom Patrol run. Like a lot of comics, I bought the first volume, liked it, and then bought all the other volumes within a relatively short span of time, which works out fine if the whole run is available but sucks when you have to wait months for the last volume to come out. This volume, Planet Love, feels like an epilogue for some reason, despite containing some rather massive developments on par with events from prior volumes. I should probably read the whole lot again, one right after another, and then comment... hey, maybe that could be an actual project of sorts. I'd probably enjoy doing something similar with Welcome to the NHK, another series that hasn't been released in its trade-paperback entirety yet, much to my vexation.


I suspect that regularly feeling that things will return to normal, or fall into place, or make sense (I can't decide which, if any, of these, is the right way to describe it) real soon now is not a good sign. It reeks of a misguided approach to the here and now, which bothers me. Gotta work on that, somehow.



Enjoy these Simon Bisley Doom Patrol covers while I help myself to a cigarette. G'night, y'all.

97a

I started skating again last November. I'm not any good, and I don't practice nearly enough, but I am going to visit the new skatepark opening up in town on June 1, armed with my Powell-Peralta Ripper reissue and rolling on (reissue) Rat Bones. I've never skated bowls, pools, vert, ditches, or anything other than streets, so it'll be a trip going there and watching kids less than half my age tear shit up. Luckily for me, I'm not too concerned about impressing anyone; I'm more or less content cruising and enjoying myself.

I do wish I had folks to skate with, though, which is why I joined the Old Man Army, a group of older skaters who are in for the fun. With any luck I'll get to know some folks well enough to start skating with them; with even more luck, they'll either be way better than me and can impart wisdom and skills, or they're just as bad as I am and we can look foolish en masse. Either way, good times will be had.

Never here

I finally bough a copy of The Radio One Sessions Elastica did. A few of you may know of my long-standing love of Elastica, which started when I saw the video for "Connection" on MTV in Venezuela, so the fact that I waited this long to get what was essentially the last thing the band released (or had released in its name) is inexplicable. That it's such a good record makes my delinquency even less acceptable.

The Radio One Sessions is one of those cultural phenomena that Britain seems to specialize it. You'd never see it in the States, at least these days: a band is invited to the radio station to play some songs, which are then recorded and (eventually) released. The only American thing I can think of that was similar- 'was' being the operative word here- would be the King Biscuit Flower Hour, which is defunct and focused on concerts. American radio is almost uniformly wretched, and it seems satellite radio isn't much better, but everyone knows these things already. I just wanted to comment on how sad it is that something as important as American radio- well, as important as American radio could be, and was- can't even provide an interesting outlet for musical performance anymore. Shit, maybe Radio One in England sucks too, but at least its existence results in good records.

Bitching and moaning aside, if you like Elastica, buy this record. It'll make your day better.

Memories far and daydreams wide.

Here I am again, maybe for a while. The bones have fallen in a pattern auspicious to my return to regularly clogging the internet's arteries like so much bad cholesterol, though it might take some time to get back into the swing of things. I considered starting a new journal, wherein I'd focus on specific topics that may or may not have been covered in my old writings, but fuck it. At least partially, that is- I may fire up a new website proper in the near future, once I'm done familiarizin' myself with Ubuntu, which is the OS I'm trying to use these days (read: since I installed it on my girlfriend's old laptop). Said website may feature exciting discourses on topics such as:

Blue Öyster Cult
skateboarding for tired old fucks
television shows
pastels
Ubuntu for tired old fucks
V8 juice
my current literary undertaking

and maybe more.

Don't bank on it happening soon, though. I'm a lazy, lazy man, so the aforementioned discourses will probably end up right here.

Adios for now, y'all.

-D.A. Smith

I got nothin'.

Almost six months since I last wrote anything here, yesterday excluded, and I still have nothing of substance to say. It's starting to feel like that'll always be the case.

Damn.

Long time...

...no see. I'm just dropping in to say howdy for now, but I'll probably write more later.

Store hours are now officially sporadic.

Because a) I've grown very tired of spending time in front of the computer at home, b) silence is more appealing than blather, and c) this site no longer functions as a viable news source for what few readers I may have, and not only because I rarely have news to share (only truly noteworthy thing as of late is the heartbreaking demise of Dr. Oliver Long Ghost, ferret extraordinaire, which I'm sure you already knew), I hereby warn y'all not to expect The Corpse to Speak here very much from now on. I may occasionally type up the odd bit of prose poetry, just so it doesn't languish in the back pocket of my jeans, but honestly, I reckon things'll stay as generally quiet as they have for the past few months.

I could be wrong, of course, but I wanted to make it quasi-official.

If you need to reach me, your best bet is on the
front_porch_of_Asgard@montrose_houston.texas. Bring some beers, will ya?

Still writing, but in a whole different headspace,

D.A.S.

Wu-wei redux.

My break from writing fiction has seemingly extended to writing commentary here, too. Hell, the only writing I've done lately is some reviews for Enslain, a heavy metal fanzine that I picked up a copy of a year ago. I wrote to the editor offering my services, just for kicks, and a few weeks ago she wrote back. Next thing I know I've written ten reviews and gotten my name on the masthead as the copy editor. Works for me.

Lessee. My brother's having a kid in August. I saw a handsome cat in the driveway yesterday. I've been reading lots of comic books, listening to records, sitting on the porch, etc.- whole lotta nothin', really. I enjoy it, which should come as no surprise, but I think my sedate existence is a bit more pleasant than usual because I'm slowly getting comfortable with the notion of not really worrying what to do with my life. Achieving x, doing y, putting z on my resume: not so interesting, and not really all that crucial. I'm not completely abstaining from effort or a modicum of ambition, but I'm not interested in striving toward anything resembling success by this world's standards, either.

Later, y'all. Stop by the house sometime and enjoy the porch!

-D.A.S.

"By action without deeds
May all live in peace."
-Tao Te Ching (Lin Yutang translation)

Since I haven't felt much in the way of a creative urge in, oh, several fucking months, and when I do I can't follow through to save my life, I've decided I need something else to do with myself. Unfortunately, since time travel, mastering Chinese overnight, and/or becoming the world's best sniper are out of the question, I have no idea what that something else should be. Suggestions would be welcome, if I didn't suspect that they'd be almost useless.

Good thing there's always the old standby: comic books. Life, you ridiculous noun, meet your new best friend, the adjective Vicarious.

Demon Cleaner (again, probably)

I'm sure I've posted these lyrics before, but fuck it. This song is that important.

"Demon Cleaner"
Kyuss
Welcome To Sky Valley

I've got the demons in me
I've got to flush them all away
I feel the demons rage
I must clean them all away

Yeah (yeah)

Inside i see more
Cobwebs in the way
The magic cleaner will
Shine his smile over me

I am the demon
Cleaner to save the day
I get the back one
Important they'll always stay

If only one thing that you'll know
Impostors from the show
They'll try to trick you into
Normal treatment
Oh don't you listen to them say
Shush them all away
I am the demon cleaner
Madman saver
I am the the freedom bleeder
Standing naked here to say
I'm the only way

Every little thing helps.

While I don't have all the details just yet, I learned today that Dr. Long Ghost's biopsy revealed that he does not have cancer. Sweet blessed god(s), talk about good news. I'll find out more when I pick him up from the vet tomorrow.

It's not only the good news about Oliver's health that's got me feeling more positive these days. Last week- yes, xenisucks.com readers, I know how well those two words serve to diminish any sense of authority I might otherwise have- I started doing yoga. It's very much the kind of modern, feel-good, suburbanite-friendly yoga, but I don't care. It's a good introduction to what I hope becomes a regular part of my daily routine, and I actually do feel better. As everyone knows, I'm a lazy dude, adverse to many things that require time and/or effort, but I can manage twenty minutes a day on top of my regular strollin' around the neighborhood (which I'll do more of once the weather grows warmer). I've been pretty good about reducing my booze intake- not so good at quitting smoking, alas- and it seems like a natural progression to get some decent exercise as long as it doesn't feel like exercise. Going vegetarian almost a year ago was the first step in the right direction, i.e. being a conscientious, healthier, more relaxed corpse. Here's hoping that yoga will get me a little further down that road. Maybe one day I'll be able to touch my toes without my lower back shrieking in pain.

Credit where credit's due: I owe my introduction to yoga (holy shit, I just found myself looking forward to it tomorrow morning) to Dave. Merci beaucoup, monsieur.

Lessee, what else? The ever-excellent Rachel sent me a bottle of shou wu chih. I finished Lawrence Sutin's biography of Aleister Crowley today. They put a computer in the proofreaders' pseudo-office at work, so I'm even more isolated from people than I was before- thankfully. The weather's been gorgeous lately, so much so that I'm reluctant to check the forecast out of fear of jinxing it. Mucho Brant Bjork vinyl should be arriving shortly. Dave bought a teapot, so I've been drinking tons of pu erh the last few days. Asgard is shaping up slowly but surely. Writing is as frustrating as ever, but I'm working on changing that. I've found all manners of things to burn, especially dragon's blood and Solomon's Seal, that please the olfactory glands and clear the mind. On top of it all, I'm glad to be writing here again.

Yeah, life is all right. Hope y'all can say the same.

Love always,
D.A.S.

P.S. I know it's a little late, but happy birthday, Jen! Get well soon, and please forgive me for not calling or writing lately.

Como andas, D.A.?

Well, then. Looks like I owe what few readers I have an apology for my protracted absence. Simply put, I haven't really felt like writing lately. Sometimes writing stuff other than fiction or (bad) poetry is a reasonable substitute, but such hasn't been the case in 2007.

So, let's play catch-up, shall we? Como andas, D.A.?

-I moved. In early January the house in front of my former, rather troglodytic residence was vacated, and Dave and I jumped at the opportunity to rent it. Given the new place's amenities (a porch, gas heat and a gas range, a big kitchen, twice the square footage, hardwood floors, an abundance of windows), the increase in rent is well worth it- and believe me, the increase wasn't too hard to swallow. Odds are you've already seen the new place, which Dave and I have christened Asgard, but if you haven't, swing by sometime.

-I'm single. Wait, that's not news, that's the status quo.

-I have been writing, just a bit. Unheimlich merits an occasional thought, and I'll probably extensively revise Critical Hits over the course of the year, but there's not much in the way of new fiction on the horizon.

-Good ferret news: Tim Finnegan is doing extremely well. His fur's grown back, he's put on a lot of weight, and it seems that the medication for his faulty adrenal gland will continue to work well. He's also taken to sleeping in my bed ever since I moved into the new house. It's hard to kick him out.

-Bad ferret news: Dr. Oliver Long Ghost is dangerously ill, and the vet suspects he may have cancer. He's going to perform a biopsy on Monday so that he can make a proper diagnosis. It goes without saying that I'm worried sick about ol' Longtoast. Everything else this month has seemingly gone in my favor, or at least just been on the weird side of bad, except for Oliver's rapid decline. I hope he pulls through, but- and I hate to say it- I've got to remain realistic. Poor fatty.

-Miscellanea: Been catching up on my reading. Haven't been going out much (and don't really want to, either). Cutting back my drinking has gone pretty well, though I'm still smoking cigarettes. I also can't wait for warmer, sunnier weather.

And that, dear reader, is it for now. I'll try to start writing more often, but in the meantime, happy birthday to James Joyce, and y'all have a good Imbolc and Groundhog Day.

Oversleeping beneath the algiz rune

Half-assed apologies for the lack of writing lately, folks. I've had the holidays and work and general apathy on my plate, but things are looking up. One thing in particular, but I'll leave the details for later, when everything's in order.

ASGARD AWAITS.

Behold the solstice!

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

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.”

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.

Fuck Xmas parties without a date, deadlines, missed shows, and everything else:

MY FUCKIN' BROTHER WILL BE BACK IN TEXAS IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS!

Godspeed, Smitjoll!

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.

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

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.

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).

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

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.

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.

It's still Halloween by the Welsh method of delineating days.

Drunk folks in bad costumes

stench of sweat beneath
polyester:

Let's leave Halloween
to the kids and pagans.

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.

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.

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.

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

"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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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!

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.

"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?

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

The dilemma:

Which is worse, uncertainty or unmitigated daily loathing?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.