It came from nowhere, the fist that shattered her world. It caught her on the side of the neck, a sloppy punch overall but it stunned her, made her see gray and caused her throat to lock.
-----
Daddy will protect me. Daddy will make it OK. Daddy did my room, made everything I want. Daddy took care of me. Took care of what I needed. I can see the light. Daddy will be there. He's there. He'll save me. Isn't that right, Daddy?
Daddy?
...
DADDY!!
Where are you?
As panic sets in and heart rate accelerates.
Where are you? - Eyes moving left to right, a tear slips down her cheek, so soft.
Where... are... you?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Within the Gray Area of No Dates...
He stared at the man who had brought him to wherever he was. Cold, gray eyes beneath a dented forehead. What could cause a dent like that, he wondered. Brass knuckles? A hammer? Maybe a police baton or steel-toed boot? Whatever it was, there was no scar.
Maybe he got his head busted up without ever having the skin break, he thought. Jesus Christ. What's going on?
Maybe he got his head busted up without ever having the skin break, he thought. Jesus Christ. What's going on?
Yet Another Without a Date.
I drove into this dead town 3 days ago. I came to visit my mother. She's dead. I still can't believe it. So mny are dead here. It doesn't make any sense really, but at least we know what's going on. They come from the mist. Jesus Christ.
They come from the mist.
I did manage to find a cache of townsfolk who figured out what's going on. It's because of them I'm still alive. For how much longer, though? Thy'll find a way in eventually.
They always do.
That's all they do.
That's how they feed and when you get right down to it, it's only natural. When something is hungry - starving, actually from what I'm told - it does what it can to find food. The concept is both natural and elementery.
It's just... not right when YOU are the food.
They come from the mist.
I did manage to find a cache of townsfolk who figured out what's going on. It's because of them I'm still alive. For how much longer, though? Thy'll find a way in eventually.
They always do.
That's all they do.
That's how they feed and when you get right down to it, it's only natural. When something is hungry - starving, actually from what I'm told - it does what it can to find food. The concept is both natural and elementery.
It's just... not right when YOU are the food.
Not Sure About This One Either.
You ever wonder what the high point of life really is? Work? School? Dating? Sex?
Drugs? Booze? Having a kid and hearing the word "Daddy" for the first time?
Maybe all of that, maybe all of it plus other stuff not mentioned? Or maybe none of it. Something else entirely? Eh. Maybe it's kids. I don't know.
What I do know is how easy it is to allow yourself to slip into a rut, to forget the things you enjoy in life and even if you don't really forget them, how easy it is to... well... yeah. Forget them.
Drugs? Booze? Having a kid and hearing the word "Daddy" for the first time?
Maybe all of that, maybe all of it plus other stuff not mentioned? Or maybe none of it. Something else entirely? Eh. Maybe it's kids. I don't know.
What I do know is how easy it is to allow yourself to slip into a rut, to forget the things you enjoy in life and even if you don't really forget them, how easy it is to... well... yeah. Forget them.
I don't Know What Day I Wrote This...
The fog rises from the water in a white, misty cloud. It's not an even cloud, of course but rather one that reminds me of a city landscape or a rocky bluff, like a terrain of hills and mountains made of stone, recreated or deposied now in mist. That's when it's dangerous, of course. That's when they're coming. Time to lock the doors an windows, you know. Make sure they're shut tight. Because there's no getting away when they rise in the mist - and if you leave something open, beware.
Don't leave anything open.
You'd have to be a madman to tempt fate.
Because fate, when tempted, can be one mean mother-fucker.
Don't leave anything open.
You'd have to be a madman to tempt fate.
Because fate, when tempted, can be one mean mother-fucker.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
1-21-09 end.
God damn. Short skirts make the atmosphere. The body is tight. The face is pretty.
It works.
It works.
1-21-09 continued.
Pretentious mother-fuckers make me want to fuck someone up. a kid was coming in today for a Blake 11 admit from France. Boston resident. Goes to NYU. Reportedly manic and parents flew out to Frnce to collect him and bring him home. That, in and of itself is enough to piss me off. If the kid is fucked up - let him go to a hospital in France and get stabilized. It's not a huge emergency if he can fly from France and then head to the ER. Ok. That's one piece.
His mother called the ER tonight wanting to speak to the RN who would be working with her son. That was enough to boil my blood even though i didn't take the call. I imagine she wanted to set / understand the parameters, as though her son was that important. I suppose, on some level, I understand the importance piece as a parent however I have to wonder / think / despise the fact that she was calling with the belief it had something to do with her trying to manipulate something along the line of notifying the concierge of a preferred table they expected to get because of factor X. That's a shitty analogy, in case you didn't get it.
Anyway, I have no confirmation of this, of course. It's all perception on my part. And maybe the worst part has to do with my ongoing cynicism that usually proves unfounded when I'm face-to-face with people I otherwise immediately dismiss as shitbags. Rich, pompous, entitled shitbags.
- Uh... yeah. I'd say this displays the emoional lows I hit every winter her in Massachusetts. Reading through this now doesn't elicit even 1/100 the ire that's dripping from the page of my notebook. There are entitled ass-holes that come through the ER almost daily - but re-reading this now, I see a worried mom who was probably trying to get a sense of what to expect along the journey she was about to undergo.
I really hit some pretty bad lows over the winter months. It's the main reason I want so badly to move down south where the sun shines year-round. Reading stuff like this brings it to the forefront, especially during times where my emotional level is more balanced, like now.
Sorry, lady.
His mother called the ER tonight wanting to speak to the RN who would be working with her son. That was enough to boil my blood even though i didn't take the call. I imagine she wanted to set / understand the parameters, as though her son was that important. I suppose, on some level, I understand the importance piece as a parent however I have to wonder / think / despise the fact that she was calling with the belief it had something to do with her trying to manipulate something along the line of notifying the concierge of a preferred table they expected to get because of factor X. That's a shitty analogy, in case you didn't get it.
Anyway, I have no confirmation of this, of course. It's all perception on my part. And maybe the worst part has to do with my ongoing cynicism that usually proves unfounded when I'm face-to-face with people I otherwise immediately dismiss as shitbags. Rich, pompous, entitled shitbags.
- Uh... yeah. I'd say this displays the emoional lows I hit every winter her in Massachusetts. Reading through this now doesn't elicit even 1/100 the ire that's dripping from the page of my notebook. There are entitled ass-holes that come through the ER almost daily - but re-reading this now, I see a worried mom who was probably trying to get a sense of what to expect along the journey she was about to undergo.
I really hit some pretty bad lows over the winter months. It's the main reason I want so badly to move down south where the sun shines year-round. Reading stuff like this brings it to the forefront, especially during times where my emotional level is more balanced, like now.
Sorry, lady.
1-21-09
I managed to make a journal entry today - http://markdirschel.blogspot.com/2009/01/new-day.html
Very good. My Blog is called Countdown to 40 and I have 33 entris over the past 7 months. That leaves about 6 months of no entries, although I have a bunch of written entries inside a notebook I really should put into the Blog. Just like my writing - I haven't done very well keeping up.
So, I'm at Jennerations right now after finishing at the gym. Work was pretty decent, all told. I felt much better than last week and I think it's because Rechele got us all together for a night out last Friday to blow off some steam. It helped. Next drink party is tomorrow and I'm looking forward to it as well.
My Jack and Coke is making me feel warm - a flush over my face and shoulders I'm sure is coloring my skin red.
So, the story I started has a mn in his camper soon after splitting with his wife and missing his kids. 1 change in the first chapter should be for the guy to have punched or kicked the neighbor before he had a chance to leave - for reason of coming into his home, not because he was fucking the man's wife. It's a respect thing.
Second chapter should deal with either he and wife meeting and some of their courtship OR of him going out on a date and the awkward initiation into the bar / drinking / single / new place to live scene. Whichever isn't second chapter should be third.
What the fuck's the point of the stroy though? I have no fuckin' idea. Maybe the beginning of the Apocalypse / Martial Law excursion? Eh - doesn't inspire right now but who knows? Start writing, bitch. See where it takes you.
- Jennerations was a bar I liked to go to downtown before it closed. It was a "townie" bar where the bertenders knew me and I knew them. And I knew most of the faces inside, also. They served me a Jack and Coke the moment I walked in and kept 'em coming until I left. I spent all my time there, when I went, sitting at the bar and writing. It was a good place to do that and the people there interrupted me infrequently.
It's reopened now as Ziggy's North - the mom of my mechanic bought the place and redid it as a northern version of her bar in Florida - Ziggy's. I haven't been there as much. The vibe changed and I have to get used to it.
Very good. My Blog is called Countdown to 40 and I have 33 entris over the past 7 months. That leaves about 6 months of no entries, although I have a bunch of written entries inside a notebook I really should put into the Blog. Just like my writing - I haven't done very well keeping up.
So, I'm at Jennerations right now after finishing at the gym. Work was pretty decent, all told. I felt much better than last week and I think it's because Rechele got us all together for a night out last Friday to blow off some steam. It helped. Next drink party is tomorrow and I'm looking forward to it as well.
My Jack and Coke is making me feel warm - a flush over my face and shoulders I'm sure is coloring my skin red.
So, the story I started has a mn in his camper soon after splitting with his wife and missing his kids. 1 change in the first chapter should be for the guy to have punched or kicked the neighbor before he had a chance to leave - for reason of coming into his home, not because he was fucking the man's wife. It's a respect thing.
Second chapter should deal with either he and wife meeting and some of their courtship OR of him going out on a date and the awkward initiation into the bar / drinking / single / new place to live scene. Whichever isn't second chapter should be third.
What the fuck's the point of the stroy though? I have no fuckin' idea. Maybe the beginning of the Apocalypse / Martial Law excursion? Eh - doesn't inspire right now but who knows? Start writing, bitch. See where it takes you.
- Jennerations was a bar I liked to go to downtown before it closed. It was a "townie" bar where the bertenders knew me and I knew them. And I knew most of the faces inside, also. They served me a Jack and Coke the moment I walked in and kept 'em coming until I left. I spent all my time there, when I went, sitting at the bar and writing. It was a good place to do that and the people there interrupted me infrequently.
It's reopened now as Ziggy's North - the mom of my mechanic bought the place and redid it as a northern version of her bar in Florida - Ziggy's. I haven't been there as much. The vibe changed and I have to get used to it.
12-19-08
The snow fell, a thick sight-occluding fall which guaranteed slippery roads. The temp didn't matter much because he remembered to dress for the weather but his knee was bothering him and he didn't move as fast or as quickly as he normally would have. That made him feel old. Much older than he was.
He paused to watch a car spin its wheels on the road, wondering whether or not he should help. Wondering what would happen if his knee buckled and gave out. It was bad enough the way it was. He was starting to lean toward helping the car when its wheels caught and it lurched forward.
Decision made. He adjusted his pack and straightened his hat. White, frosty steam roiled from his nostrils as though a fire burned in his belly and he looked upwards into the falling snow.
Black and white.
Spots of cold. Points of cold. Flashes of snow hitting his face, sparking momentary specks of life from his flesh. Life is good, he thought.
Sometimes it is. And then he lowered his head and looked around at the snow. Lights flashing all around and the train he wanted to catch rumbled in on the tracks overhead.
"No problem.", he said out loud. "There's always another one on the way."
No one was there to hear him. No one was there to respond. And then he was hit from behind and felt his knees buckle. The lights flickered and he willed himself not to pass out. A hot, brutal thud of aggression thocked againt his cheek.
Jesus, he thought. It's a bat. I got hit by a bat.
His head was buzzing. His heart pounded and he saw two people cirling him, looking down into his face.
"C'mon, mutha-fuckers. We've got eyes."
A voice in the distance. More people. How did he not see this coming?
"He's still up. Fuck!"
"Get his shit, man. We gotta go."
Hands on him. Running over him. kick to the stomach and he lost his air as the world turned black.
- I guess I must have been jotting down some idea while waiting for a train. Seems I spend a lot of time waiting for trains.
He paused to watch a car spin its wheels on the road, wondering whether or not he should help. Wondering what would happen if his knee buckled and gave out. It was bad enough the way it was. He was starting to lean toward helping the car when its wheels caught and it lurched forward.
Decision made. He adjusted his pack and straightened his hat. White, frosty steam roiled from his nostrils as though a fire burned in his belly and he looked upwards into the falling snow.
Black and white.
Spots of cold. Points of cold. Flashes of snow hitting his face, sparking momentary specks of life from his flesh. Life is good, he thought.
Sometimes it is. And then he lowered his head and looked around at the snow. Lights flashing all around and the train he wanted to catch rumbled in on the tracks overhead.
"No problem.", he said out loud. "There's always another one on the way."
No one was there to hear him. No one was there to respond. And then he was hit from behind and felt his knees buckle. The lights flickered and he willed himself not to pass out. A hot, brutal thud of aggression thocked againt his cheek.
Jesus, he thought. It's a bat. I got hit by a bat.
His head was buzzing. His heart pounded and he saw two people cirling him, looking down into his face.
"C'mon, mutha-fuckers. We've got eyes."
A voice in the distance. More people. How did he not see this coming?
"He's still up. Fuck!"
"Get his shit, man. We gotta go."
Hands on him. Running over him. kick to the stomach and he lost his air as the world turned black.
- I guess I must have been jotting down some idea while waiting for a train. Seems I spend a lot of time waiting for trains.
8-12-08 part 2.
I think I'm gonna head home and watch I Am Legend since I have the time and a chance to do so. I'm getting some Chinese food now and there's a chic at the bar in a sun dress - lots of cleavage for her small tits. Or, I should say, lots of skin exposed with the hint of tit swell on both sides. Back exposed. She's cute, in a Massachsuetts girl sort of way. Short blonde hair. Decent fuck package.
8-12-08
Finished Nick's constellations today and I think he'll like it when he gets back. It's not professional grade by any means but it's all his - right down to his date of birth beneath the Pisces. Little touch. And 'm surprised I was able to get the little star dots (for the most part) off the sheet and onto the wall.
The display really did turn out OK.
I also added the clouds to his walls. And put scattered dots of stars in them. All good.
- This harkens back to an earlier post about the work I did in Nick's room.
http://markdirschel.blogspot.com/2008/09/nicks-room.html
and
http://markdirschel.blogspot.com/2008/09/nicks-room-2.html
The display really did turn out OK.
I also added the clouds to his walls. And put scattered dots of stars in them. All good.
- This harkens back to an earlier post about the work I did in Nick's room.
http://markdirschel.blogspot.com/2008/09/nicks-room.html
and
http://markdirschel.blogspot.com/2008/09/nicks-room-2.html
7-8-08 end
Caught the train and made it home. Paid the late fee on my parking space because I didn't get a chance to pay this morning. Got to the parking lot as the train was pulling in.
There was a young girl (college age) alone at the station tonight as I was preparing to pull away and I paused to ask her if someone was coming for her.
"Someone's coming.", she said. "Be here in about 3 minutes."
She smiled. I waved and drove away. Young girl. Train station. Open area. Alone. Lots of wooded area.
I made it as far as the road before turning around. She saw me coming, of course. Young girl all alone, after all. Same truck left and came back. She'd crossed away from the light to stand in a bit more shadow. Walpole's not a dangerous town. In fact, it's a well-to-do haven of sorts where people still know their neighbors - but a oung girl alone at night is still a young girl alone at night and she stopped where she stood as I pulled back into the parking lot.
"I'm not a freak.", I said with the passenger side window sliding down. "I'm an ER nurse and I'm just gonna hang out 'til your ride shows up."
She smiled and said thanks. She was nervous. Of course she was. How could she not be?
I smiled back and pulled across the parking lot.
"I'm just gonna stay here until your ride shows up. Make sure you're OK.", I said again, trying to get that one point across. I felt it was important to get it out there again.
She felt good. She felt all right. I could see it in her face and then I felt good. That was a good thing to see. It's something I like to see.
I flicked on the lights in my truck and pulled the book I'm reading out of my bag - Duma Key by Stephen ing. Time began to tick away.
"Thank you again.", she said and I looked up from my book.
"You're welcome.", I said and we chatted.
She's in college. Studying autism and asperger's. Funny how that stuff works out. We had common ground.
I pulled across the lot so we didn't have to yell and we chatted for a few more minutes until her ride showed up.
I left then. Whatever I thought needed to be done was done.
- I remember this night and I remember how good it felt to help her feel at ease. The train station itself isn't very intimidating - but alone at night with a lot of open and wooded space, outside of the comforting bubbles of sporadic light on the platform, it can be pretty creepy. Or at least I can imagine it could be creepy. All it would take is one or more people walking along the track area when you're standing there alone. Drugs, alcohol whatever. Things can get bad quick if the conditions are right.
Anyway, despite her initial wariness to my return (a perfectly natural reaction given my physical presentation), the relief I saw and heard in her when she knew I was going to stay and meant her no harm was a human-reward. It made me feel good. It made me feel good in direct contrast to the excessive helpings of human misery and suffering I see every day at work. And I drove home with a smile on my face even though in the grand scheme of things, I really didn't do anything.
There was a young girl (college age) alone at the station tonight as I was preparing to pull away and I paused to ask her if someone was coming for her.
"Someone's coming.", she said. "Be here in about 3 minutes."
She smiled. I waved and drove away. Young girl. Train station. Open area. Alone. Lots of wooded area.
I made it as far as the road before turning around. She saw me coming, of course. Young girl all alone, after all. Same truck left and came back. She'd crossed away from the light to stand in a bit more shadow. Walpole's not a dangerous town. In fact, it's a well-to-do haven of sorts where people still know their neighbors - but a oung girl alone at night is still a young girl alone at night and she stopped where she stood as I pulled back into the parking lot.
"I'm not a freak.", I said with the passenger side window sliding down. "I'm an ER nurse and I'm just gonna hang out 'til your ride shows up."
She smiled and said thanks. She was nervous. Of course she was. How could she not be?
I smiled back and pulled across the parking lot.
"I'm just gonna stay here until your ride shows up. Make sure you're OK.", I said again, trying to get that one point across. I felt it was important to get it out there again.
She felt good. She felt all right. I could see it in her face and then I felt good. That was a good thing to see. It's something I like to see.
I flicked on the lights in my truck and pulled the book I'm reading out of my bag - Duma Key by Stephen ing. Time began to tick away.
"Thank you again.", she said and I looked up from my book.
"You're welcome.", I said and we chatted.
She's in college. Studying autism and asperger's. Funny how that stuff works out. We had common ground.
I pulled across the lot so we didn't have to yell and we chatted for a few more minutes until her ride showed up.
I left then. Whatever I thought needed to be done was done.
- I remember this night and I remember how good it felt to help her feel at ease. The train station itself isn't very intimidating - but alone at night with a lot of open and wooded space, outside of the comforting bubbles of sporadic light on the platform, it can be pretty creepy. Or at least I can imagine it could be creepy. All it would take is one or more people walking along the track area when you're standing there alone. Drugs, alcohol whatever. Things can get bad quick if the conditions are right.
Anyway, despite her initial wariness to my return (a perfectly natural reaction given my physical presentation), the relief I saw and heard in her when she knew I was going to stay and meant her no harm was a human-reward. It made me feel good. It made me feel good in direct contrast to the excessive helpings of human misery and suffering I see every day at work. And I drove home with a smile on my face even though in the grand scheme of things, I really didn't do anything.
7-8-08 continued
"I told myself there was time. Of course, that's what we always tell ourselves, isn't it? We can't imagine time running out and God punishes us for what we can't imagine." - Stephen King, Duma Key, p. 346
There's always time. Isn't that right? Not 40 yet. Still a few months to go. And 40 is young, right? Plenty of time to start writing again, to get back into the game. Sure there is. Just keep telling myself that and like verbal morphine, the itch inside, the burn - the piece of me that has screamed and shouted and demanded to be heard ever since I was a kid will settle down and relax. Nice slap - shut up and sit down. Plenty of time. Kill the urge. Kill the moment. Verbal morphine. Sedate the itch. Quench the burn. Plenty of time, man.
Plenty of time.
Distractions abound with writing and mindless interaction on the internet. It feels important for the moment but the moment passes, doesn't it? It always passes and whatever it was I spent time on suddenly seems unimportant - maybe even foolish. Empty. Nonsensical.
But yeah. I still go back.
Never mind the books or short stories. Never mind even the Blog I started with the intent to count down to my final years before I hit 40. So much has gone down already this year - so much missed. Is it even worth reflecting, trying to match events with dates / days? Or maybe just the fact that I'm recounting some of the serious bullshit that I do day in and day out - stuff even my wife most likely doesn't believe - then again, I'm sure she doesn't want to know most of what I do. And that's OK.
What I do is a slice of life she doesn't understand and it would likely break her heart if she ever knew some of the intimate details. Especially when it comes to the kids.
She couldn't handle the kids. And she probably wouldn't be able to handle it if she knew I sometimes cried about the kids that came in.
Gotta go catch a train...
- I've had writer's block for several years. Not horrendous, mind you - I can usually pop out a story here and there but the book writing has all but dried up. It's my fault, as I laid out in this passage. I spend too much time not writing and not enough time writing. It really is that simple.
The second piece of the above most likely has to do with a kid I took care of that day but obviously, I didn't get into specifics which is probably a good thing. Abuse (verbal, physical and sexual), removing kids from the home, broken lives, broken people. Whatever. Something must have got under my skin that day. I wonder what it was.
Oh, and I see in my notebook that someone at the bar (Clarke's) recommended I read Brett Easton Ellis's Rules of Attraction. I haven't read it yet.
There's always time. Isn't that right? Not 40 yet. Still a few months to go. And 40 is young, right? Plenty of time to start writing again, to get back into the game. Sure there is. Just keep telling myself that and like verbal morphine, the itch inside, the burn - the piece of me that has screamed and shouted and demanded to be heard ever since I was a kid will settle down and relax. Nice slap - shut up and sit down. Plenty of time. Kill the urge. Kill the moment. Verbal morphine. Sedate the itch. Quench the burn. Plenty of time, man.
Plenty of time.
Distractions abound with writing and mindless interaction on the internet. It feels important for the moment but the moment passes, doesn't it? It always passes and whatever it was I spent time on suddenly seems unimportant - maybe even foolish. Empty. Nonsensical.
But yeah. I still go back.
Never mind the books or short stories. Never mind even the Blog I started with the intent to count down to my final years before I hit 40. So much has gone down already this year - so much missed. Is it even worth reflecting, trying to match events with dates / days? Or maybe just the fact that I'm recounting some of the serious bullshit that I do day in and day out - stuff even my wife most likely doesn't believe - then again, I'm sure she doesn't want to know most of what I do. And that's OK.
What I do is a slice of life she doesn't understand and it would likely break her heart if she ever knew some of the intimate details. Especially when it comes to the kids.
She couldn't handle the kids. And she probably wouldn't be able to handle it if she knew I sometimes cried about the kids that came in.
Gotta go catch a train...
- I've had writer's block for several years. Not horrendous, mind you - I can usually pop out a story here and there but the book writing has all but dried up. It's my fault, as I laid out in this passage. I spend too much time not writing and not enough time writing. It really is that simple.
The second piece of the above most likely has to do with a kid I took care of that day but obviously, I didn't get into specifics which is probably a good thing. Abuse (verbal, physical and sexual), removing kids from the home, broken lives, broken people. Whatever. Something must have got under my skin that day. I wonder what it was.
Oh, and I see in my notebook that someone at the bar (Clarke's) recommended I read Brett Easton Ellis's Rules of Attraction. I haven't read it yet.
7-8-08
I am so sucked into the online world of BB.com's Misc. section, it really is ridiculous. There's no way for me to realistically break away from the procrastination I've allowed, away from my writing with all the time I spend there. Even now, right now, while I'm sitting here writing this, I'm wondering what's going on there and whether or not something is going on I should respond to. That's not right; not helthy. The only thing that might be beneficial in a roundabout way, is that I'm actually doing some writing. My journal never took off - the Blog. So much for setting out to maintain a solid and ongoing piece of writing. The material is never-ending - it's my life, so there's no reason to I'm lacking on entries save for the black hole that absorbs my time and words with fail, forcing them away into obscurity moments after the 'SUBMIT' button is pushed.
Bah.
I'm failing myself.
At some point, I'm going to have to make a decision to either log off to that and any other website, in order to put my time into the writing I've always said I want to do but have not been doing. It's all well-and-good I have a book out. It's a personal achievement, not a professional one. The climate surrounding PA at the time of publication was so controversial and essentially negative in the world of publication and literature, having that book published may have actually been a step backward if I'd been of the ilk to wanting only to pursue a career as a novelist.
And that's funny, really, considering the acceptance my writing has achieved online at the various web forums I've spent time within which trying to establish myself.
The Misc., for example really isn't a place where acceptance is guaranteed. In fact, it's quite the opposite and when I take my age into consideration on top of everything else, it's fairly impressive (to me, at least) the level of acceptance I've achieved. I'm old, with marginal computer and chop skills - interacting with youngin's, essentially, most of which supposedly possess above average computer skills. The respect I've received thus far and the help in navigating my way around the web as a result, fascinates me.
The Misc. isn't a nice place. It really isn't. The fact that they've been nice to me is surprising.
So, I moved from 1 bar to the next - Quan's to Jenneration's. This is definitely more along the line of what 'm most comfortable with. I really like this place.
I have to wonder overall, what my life would be like if I didn't have kids and a family. A lot of this, most likely with a scattered bevy of un-named women.
- Just a random night out after work. There was a time when Bodybuilding.com's Misc. section consumed an incredible amount of my time. It's funny, brutal, invasive, potentially dangerous as the people there have a knack for unearthing any and all information about each other and using it for ill. It's a little like the chan's in that sense although from what I understand, the chan's are a whole other level. For a little while, at least, I know there was a bit of cross-flow between the Misc. and the chan's - at least number 4. Anyway, I still visit from time to time but in NO WAY do I spend as much time there as I did back then. It's addictive, as any web forum can be - and if you've ever frequented a web forum and found your place within one, you'll understand what that means.
Bah.
I'm failing myself.
At some point, I'm going to have to make a decision to either log off to that and any other website, in order to put my time into the writing I've always said I want to do but have not been doing. It's all well-and-good I have a book out. It's a personal achievement, not a professional one. The climate surrounding PA at the time of publication was so controversial and essentially negative in the world of publication and literature, having that book published may have actually been a step backward if I'd been of the ilk to wanting only to pursue a career as a novelist.
And that's funny, really, considering the acceptance my writing has achieved online at the various web forums I've spent time within which trying to establish myself.
The Misc., for example really isn't a place where acceptance is guaranteed. In fact, it's quite the opposite and when I take my age into consideration on top of everything else, it's fairly impressive (to me, at least) the level of acceptance I've achieved. I'm old, with marginal computer and chop skills - interacting with youngin's, essentially, most of which supposedly possess above average computer skills. The respect I've received thus far and the help in navigating my way around the web as a result, fascinates me.
The Misc. isn't a nice place. It really isn't. The fact that they've been nice to me is surprising.
So, I moved from 1 bar to the next - Quan's to Jenneration's. This is definitely more along the line of what 'm most comfortable with. I really like this place.
I have to wonder overall, what my life would be like if I didn't have kids and a family. A lot of this, most likely with a scattered bevy of un-named women.
- Just a random night out after work. There was a time when Bodybuilding.com's Misc. section consumed an incredible amount of my time. It's funny, brutal, invasive, potentially dangerous as the people there have a knack for unearthing any and all information about each other and using it for ill. It's a little like the chan's in that sense although from what I understand, the chan's are a whole other level. For a little while, at least, I know there was a bit of cross-flow between the Misc. and the chan's - at least number 4. Anyway, I still visit from time to time but in NO WAY do I spend as much time there as I did back then. It's addictive, as any web forum can be - and if you've ever frequented a web forum and found your place within one, you'll understand what that means.
Idea for a Short Story
"He's not a good man. Definitely not someone you'd want living next door to you."
The officer laughed and broke eye contact. His statement was huge in his own mind, given the history of the man he was speaking about. The murders. The mutilations. The girls that would disappear suddenly, without a trace. Someone's girlfriend. Someone's wife or mother. Someone's daughter. Raised by people who loved her more than they loved themself.
The smile disappeared and his eyes found the camera again.
"No. I take that back. You would want him as a neighbor. His neighbors were safe. They say he was a nice guy. They say they can't believe he's guilty, actually. There's one old woman who told me he spent an hour and a half helping her look for her lost cat. She invited him in and gave him her own food when they couldn't find it even.
"Yeah. I asked him about it and he told me he found her cat. Said he stomped that cat's head flat and picked up shattered pieces of its brain to eat."
Very serious now. The officer's eyes didn't waver.
"He never touched that old woman, though. Treated her like a princess. She couldn't say enough about him, how wonderful he was.
"Yeah, he was a good neighbor. I guess. Sure."
"But you didn't want to cross him. No, sir. Crossing him was a really bad thing."
- I think I jotted down some of this while trying to figure out a short story to submit to Writer's Digest. It may have been an early "fleshing out" of a triple-angle piece I wrote called "Lover".
The officer laughed and broke eye contact. His statement was huge in his own mind, given the history of the man he was speaking about. The murders. The mutilations. The girls that would disappear suddenly, without a trace. Someone's girlfriend. Someone's wife or mother. Someone's daughter. Raised by people who loved her more than they loved themself.
The smile disappeared and his eyes found the camera again.
"No. I take that back. You would want him as a neighbor. His neighbors were safe. They say he was a nice guy. They say they can't believe he's guilty, actually. There's one old woman who told me he spent an hour and a half helping her look for her lost cat. She invited him in and gave him her own food when they couldn't find it even.
"Yeah. I asked him about it and he told me he found her cat. Said he stomped that cat's head flat and picked up shattered pieces of its brain to eat."
Very serious now. The officer's eyes didn't waver.
"He never touched that old woman, though. Treated her like a princess. She couldn't say enough about him, how wonderful he was.
"Yeah, he was a good neighbor. I guess. Sure."
"But you didn't want to cross him. No, sir. Crossing him was a really bad thing."
- I think I jotted down some of this while trying to figure out a short story to submit to Writer's Digest. It may have been an early "fleshing out" of a triple-angle piece I wrote called "Lover".
12-12-08
I'm angry today. And frustrated. And not feeling at peace. Right now I want to get out of nursing. I want to change jobs. Change careers. This has to be part of a mid-life crisis. I'm not sure what else it could be.
I'm 40 and I want to get bigger.
I'm 40 and I want a better job. I made more than ---k this year and I want a better job. That right there paints a sad picture. Spoiled, overblown expectations of a world outside my grasp.
And I sit at Clarke's right now, drinking my third drink, minutes away from my train and jotting down this bullshit.
- Clarke's is a bar at South Station in Boston, MA. I used to go there and have a drink or two before I got on my train after work, when I took the commuter rail - which is a fancy name for the long distance train. It took me from Boston to Walpole so I could drive home from Walpole.
I'm 40 and I want to get bigger.
I'm 40 and I want a better job. I made more than ---k this year and I want a better job. That right there paints a sad picture. Spoiled, overblown expectations of a world outside my grasp.
And I sit at Clarke's right now, drinking my third drink, minutes away from my train and jotting down this bullshit.
- Clarke's is a bar at South Station in Boston, MA. I used to go there and have a drink or two before I got on my train after work, when I took the commuter rail - which is a fancy name for the long distance train. It took me from Boston to Walpole so I could drive home from Walpole.
8-14-08
Low dipped tank tops. Enough to reveal full, swollen cleavage. Wonderful. Beautiful. Something to illustrate just how necessary, essential, human, pleasing and overwhelmingly precious summer months are. Enough to frame them and hold them up as the reason a man enjoys being a man.
Breasts. In your face, just beneath the smile of a beautiful girl.
It's so very primal, the whole attraction piece of the puzzle- man vs. woman because the dance is legitimate. It's been going on for thousands of years. Millions, actually if you looked at it true with sloped foreheads and gray area between Neanderthals and modern man. And never mind living things in general or the dance spreads back billions of years - back to the day when 1-celled organisms split in half again and again with the primitive thought of propagating the species, although ultimately just programmed to continue a line of DNA.
Yeah. Gonna pay my bill.
- written after work while sitting at a sports bar in Plainville, MA. If I remember correctly, there was a pretty brunette behind the bar who kept coming over to talk and every time she leaned down on the bar - BAM! - those beauties were right there. Just wonderful.
Breasts. In your face, just beneath the smile of a beautiful girl.
It's so very primal, the whole attraction piece of the puzzle- man vs. woman because the dance is legitimate. It's been going on for thousands of years. Millions, actually if you looked at it true with sloped foreheads and gray area between Neanderthals and modern man. And never mind living things in general or the dance spreads back billions of years - back to the day when 1-celled organisms split in half again and again with the primitive thought of propagating the species, although ultimately just programmed to continue a line of DNA.
Yeah. Gonna pay my bill.
- written after work while sitting at a sports bar in Plainville, MA. If I remember correctly, there was a pretty brunette behind the bar who kept coming over to talk and every time she leaned down on the bar - BAM! - those beauties were right there. Just wonderful.
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