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.