Algorithmically.

My Pandora just ran an ad for a new medication to treat bipolar disorder. Do you think that the savvy marketing folks over there at Pandora have algorithmically targeted my musical tastes?

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Blocked.

I’ve been blocked for awhile now. As a writer. It has been some time now since I’ve been able to write much of anything. It isn’t for lack of trying. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down with a stack of notebooks and a laptop and TRIED so hard to make something happen. But nothing happens. I’m blocked.

But mostly though that isn’t where I get into trouble. Mostly where I get into trouble is every other moment of the day. Basically I spend all day thinking about it. Thinking about it. Sure, I may be doing something else - and most likely am - like moving or cleaning or driving down the freeway or having a conversation with you, but somewhere in the back of my head there are gears grinding. They’re all snared up; like little metal typewriter legs jammed into a wedged up mess. There is energy there, there is intent there, there is force there, but nothing is happening. I’m blocked.

It has been going on for awhile now. I mean, look at how sad and sparse this blog has been the last couple months, and this blog exists because I ENJOY writing here; that’s the whole fucking point. Only I haven’t been able to write. I’m blocked.

Earlier today I was searching the internet (which is a series of tubes) for articles about writer’s block. I have been reading about the physiological and biological and psychological and emotional causes. And let me tell you, about this - as so many things - I don’t buy that anybody has any fucking clue what they’re talking about. You know what all of those articles felt like? They felt like freelance writers writing about writer’s block because freelancers don’t eat unless they write. God love them and I wouldn’t mind being one some day, but everybody needs to calm the hell down. One of the things that annoys me so much about the internet is that it is full of answers. Not necessarily good one. Not necessarily useful ones. Not necessarily the correct ones. But those fucking things are out there. So be warned. Me? I have no answers for you.And even if I did you probably wouldn’t be able to read about it here because I haven’t been able to write. I’m blocked.

I don’t know yet how I’m going to wiggle my way out of this situation. Rest assured, I will figure something out (Figuring something out is my superpower BTW). So it may happen that over the next few days there will be writing of very very very extremely very poor quality on here. But that is just what is going to need to happen. Because I’m blocked.

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What My Pants Mean.

Today I went to the drycleaner. I was picking up some pants that were being repaired. My dry cleaner has the skill of a tailor and the heart of an optimist when it comes to repairing the crotch of a pair of blue jeans and I love her for it. Somehow I always manage to wear holes in the crotches of blue jeans. I don’t know how or why this is, but I do know that it is true. In my opinion blue jeans are worth spending a little bit of money on and so I’m okay with spending a little extra to have the crotch holes sewn up. You’re welcome America.

So today I went to the drycleaner to pick up my repaired blue jeans only I had lost the blue receipt ticket for them and so she had to pull up my account and when she did so she discovered that I had other stuff there too.

Other stuff? I wondered, What other stuff? For a second I had a little fantasy where I was going to be given a suit that didn’t belong to me but would fit perfectly and so I would start wearing it every day and one day I would discover that sewn into the lining of the jacket there was a motherfucking treasure map!

That was what I imagined.

In reality what my dry cleaner returned with were three of my favorite button down shirts which I had taken there so long ago that I had forgotten about them. Can you believe that?! Two white shirts and a gray one with black buttons.

I was so happy to see them! Then I was sad when she told me that I had brought them in in January. More than seven months ago! For more than seven months I had been without some of my favorite shirts and I didn’t even know it. How very very sad is that? And how had I gone that long without them without knowing that I was without them? And what does that mean? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!

Well, it probably MEANS very little. However, it certainly means that for awhile I had been living a life wherein I didn’t ever get to wear my favorite shirts. And that, frankly, is no good. Let’s all do less of that, shall we?

If you see me walking around tomorrow in a pair of blue jeans with a recently resewn crotch and wearing a nice, starched gray button=down shirt with black buttons, well then you’ll know why: life is too short to not be wearing the clothes you want. Or - you know - not living the way that you want. I guess that’s what it all MEANS.

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Beard.

At the moment I am growing something of a beard because there is really no reason not to. And because I am lazy. I have to shave before the 11th and I am considering not shaving until then. I will keep you posted.





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Tremble.

This has been on my mind alot lately. If I had biceps, I would get this tattooed on it:

we are here

to laugh

and live our lives

so well that

death

will tremble

to take us

- Charles Bukowski -


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Moving.

I am very slowly moving into my little apartment in Northridge in anticipation of starting my grad program at the end of August. I will give you lots more mundane and thoroughly gut wrenchingly boring details about this in the days to come.

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And We're Back!

These posts today are not so much about you being interested in them. They are mostly me reminding myself how to write for you since it has been so long since I have done it. I have been rather lazy for the last month or so.

I have gotten bored with being lazy.

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