nightmarish hybrid

And, in the continued clusterfuck fallout of the birdsite's Muskian demise, time to continue changing things up for myself.

Current solution: the Attendance Cards start the day before I work on whatever I'm working on; I then use the text part of this piece to be the thing I turn to when I need something else to write other than the day's MainProject, and publish at the end of the working morning as a way to close out the workday and open up this space to whatever other ephemera materalize. Attendance Card as daily image to accompany daily pieces, a hand-drawn signature – even though for this to work I’ll have to break Barry's rules even further: a horizontal orientation instead of a vertical one and probably a medium shot instead of full body. Current Attendance Card goal to make myself look less like a nightmarish Grogu/Cartman hybrid (even though I’m not trying to get better, just trying to enjoy myself).

i am ready to go back to bed

Rain continues and portends a DerbzBall-deficient day ahead but on the bright side I might have gotten somewhere in one of the Things: this is the morning's victory, so far. Shifting schedules a bit in an effort to make my day less clumpy– or am, perhaps, simply without anything valuable to contribute to the world in text-based form; if that’s the case let this casting into the ether live here in this little space of mine carved with a plastic spoon in the dollar store soap that is the internet.

(non)emergent rhythmic backburning

Current operational theory is that this feeling I've had for a few months - at least since the final days of PRESS (A) 01 – is that I'm moving on to a different rhythm – or, rather, a different representation of my voice – with PRESS (A) 01 being the final statement in that particular epoch (which began with DESCANSO in 2021) and what this this TBD is something new.

(Or perhaps PRESS (A) 01 was/is the start of this new rhythmic epoch?)

Either way: this new unknown rat-a-tat is most likely why the current FictionThing (part of AnotherFictionThing though I suppose now it's MainFictionThing as I've decided to move both MainFiction and ComicsThing(s) to the deep backburner - at least until some sort of new rhythmic permutation emerges, from somewhere) is so appealing – in spite of empty/nowhere: it's in such a nebulous state that I can fiddle with whatever this new/different voice/rhythm is; probably revisit other things only when I can devolve they're back to a similarly nebulous state and find a way for them to fit in with this new? Let things emerge in the writing, not the planning: this is what I'm telling myself.

In the meantime, all I can do is hunker down and stare and fiddle and make sure I don't cross the line into what my therapist once so perfectly likened to forcing myself to fall asleep.

“Hard work doesn’t always pay off”

Fantastic episode of the CLEVER podcast featuring Taylor Levy, one half of CW&T, the (oft-mentioned here) design studio behind beloved essentials such as the Superlocal and the Pen Type-C. Great interview, with this bit, “Buy lots of lottery tickets,” from their Principles page, really speaking to me:

While how, precisely, that will manifest in my own work remains TBD, I’m definitely looking to what Taylor and Chei-Wei are doing and using that as a basis for reconceptualizing my practice and how I think about the processes within. You can check out the whole interview here:

write(?) / feel (?) / feral morkie

Fact: the length of these posts is indicative of the quality of the morning's progress on the MainFictionThing(s) / the work at hand: short here = long there; long here...

Not that these are an "instead of" – rather, they are a tool to clear away cobwebs and to write something, anything. But, as of this morning at least, I'm still staring at screens / scribbling by hand (or what remains of my hand – my left one, the dominant hand, naturally – after The Morkie went feral (again) yesterday morning (she takes her status as eldest dogchild (much too) seriously, RESPECT MY AUTHORITAW, etc etc) and I had to step in and break it up; handwriting not happening for a bit), in search of that rhythm that brings it together. And I'm not hearing or feeling it. Yet.

Question I wrote to myself in large block all-caps: WHAT DO I NEED TO WRITE TO FEEL THIS? (Alt, I suppose: WHAT DO I NEED TO FEEL TO WRITE THIS?)

Rewatched THE FUGITIVE for the umpteenth time this weekend and it remains one of my favorite films (need to publish a list of those sometime). Everything just works, clicks – in spite of apparent production issues with the script leading to Tommy Lee Jones and Harrison Ford rewriting much of it on the fly: let them rewrite more things. All the things.

Like this thing.

fighting failing handwriting

As I'm back to getting nowhere in AnotherFictionThing (intended to be part of either PRESS (A) 02 or 03) , I've instituted a one-page handwritten goal for each workday: at least there will be that (and these) to show that it wasn't all for naught – even if naught is all that comes.

Hoping, though, that it turns out like METROID DREAD did last night: after facing the invisible scorpion beast for more than a few days of profanity and victory snatched, I allowed myself one final evening of fighting and failing, after which I would put the game away and revisit afresh at some point in the unknown future when I could give myself entirely to METROID’s particular needs of timing and ability – but, in what was to be my final endrun, everything clicked and I slayed that fucker and scored the Phantom Cloak. VICTORY.

Then, at least – but not this morning; still, one page is nearly written – and this is.

being my anything written

The empty continues and I've returned to this, especially today:

Lamott then adds, "I encourage my students at times like these to get one page of anything written, three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing... ": these morning pieces are, as they have always been (I see now) in their way – some with more urgency than others – my anythings written.

Glimmer of hope, perhaps? I'll take what I can get.

Also: might have stumbled into something resembling if not acceptance then at least resignation – what's the difference between the two, I once asked my therapist; (shrug guy emoji), he replied): I don't necessarily feel better about it or less terrified (oh, those things I attach to my ability to put words to page) but I'm seeing the empty, dry well for what it is: an empty well.

That said, the question remains, as it long has, of how to fill the dried well back up. What brings me joy, a friend asked: my Switch, for one; the other, I realize now, is entering that period of, if not flow, then that time when the thing you've agonized over reveals the simplicity of its required realization (simple ≠ easy).

You may consider anything to have been written.

phantoms of swallowed sand

Week ends/begins as it ended/began, the brick wall ctd: simultaneous shock, resignation, and pervasive weariness over total stalling out on all creative fronts: neck deep (at least for the last few days) in that feared state which Isabel Allende likens to "swallowing sand," though my only point of reference is the "eat a spoonful of cinnamon" test/dare/internet thing from a decade or so back because I did it and have an experiential knowledge from days young and stupid.

Maybe I'm simply worn out from trying to break through again, from pounding a little harder against that diamond brick wall from Capaldi's best episode of DOCTOR WHO, my hands bleeding, my brain on something that passes barely for autopilot.

Rewatched, for the umpteenth time – though my first in probably 20 years (and K's first time – and her first silent film) – the 1925 Lon Chaney / Mary Philbin PHANTOM OF THE OPERA and, of all the times I've seen it, I think this may have been the first time I've seen it with the technicolor Red Death sequence; planning to pick through some of the extras – especially the bits from the 1930 sound version – that Kino's latest beautful Blu version gifted.

Unrelated though no less important: I am now in possession of a high-powered electric leafblower: beware, zombie-leaf horde, for I will now vanquish you without melting an icecap.

impromptu / veer

A call from a great friend lent a much-needed comfort to my present consternations; thanks JL.

Following a rousing moment of creative inspiration / result of perspiration at the conclusion of the workday with MainFictionThing, I was greeted this morning with a brick wall. Veered off into AnotherFictionThing for awhile. Benefit of having multiple things going at once.

(Question remains with Another: where do I start? (At the beginning, wherever that is...))

Also considering a new little weekend challenge for myself on non-newsletter weekends like this one though it won't start for two weeks. Recording here so I don't forget which I probably will do anyhow.

ruminative plate juggling, ctd

Yes I know it's plate spinning. I prefer juggling.

Asking myself: if I weren't doing this what would I be doing?

Far from cut and dry because I know that even if I weren't doing "this" I'd still be writing: it's such a part of me at this point - as one friend somewhat dismissively said of me, I always have something creative going on - whether I'm any good or not, that it would be akin to stopping breathing – or at least holding my breath.

But maybe the "this" is the caring about the gaining ideas, about the things outside of my control, a perpetual, plaguing "this," wrangling the cats, etc etc. Weary weary.

(Common theme over course of life, of career.)

All of that, of the "this," however, has too become like breathing – more of an asthma, a chronic condition. Definitely want to retire from that part – but it'll take some doing. Any / all effort(s) – whatever form it/they may take: right now, considering moving second workchunk into the afternoon so I don't have such a long period of not actively doing The Work but my internal clock / habit seems to resist any shifting of worktime – towards "fuck it, write" will be worthwhile.

Oh, speaking of: Juggling continues. Think it will work - in spite of a morning spent staring (and ruminating).