Plague Journal #14

There is nothing inherently wrong with me. Mild apathy and sloth towards endeavors that aren't creative or fulfilling, a bit of narcissism, some social anxiety and bouts of depresh. Pretty tame. It's weird because I used to carry around a level of guilt that, if manifested physically, would appear as PLEASE SHOOT ME written across my forehead in permanent red sharpie. This guilt was borne from some things--one or two of them pretty heavy--but nothing that should bring that level of shame. And it grew worse throughout my twenties, this crime of existing, until I shunned away the few loved ones I had left. Most of them for good. I had to rebuild my "support network" from the ground up. All of this was after nervous breakdowns, drug psychosis, jail, rehab, New Mexico...I was still relatively carefree, innocent, throughout all that. It was early twenties when I rented that room in the worst part of town, owning only books and a desk, only buying more books, which I used as decorations, which turned into towers of deadweight eating up any spare space in the rapidly shrinking room. Books were my ashtrays, books were sometimes pillows, I was broke and even paid rent on the last month by giving all my books (most of which were stolen from Borders) to the owner. Then I moved out and was homeless for a while. And now I feel like this is boring. 

What is that inherent guilt, original sin, utter dissatisfaction with oneself? Where from? Why doth it be like that? Who where'd the how, and why? I've grown from purely hating myself to hating most of humanity. A more holistic hate. Spread it around a bit, like dandruff. 

Still afraid that if I ever feel worth something I'll burst into flames. 

Plague Journal #13

The real-deal nightmares have begun. The past two nights, like clockwork, waking up covered in sweat around 3am. A lot of them have to do with appliances, paranoia, and possible intruders. In one dream my life was pretty much as it is now, it went through a succession of nights where I woke up and went to the kitchen for something to eat (which I never do), and each time the refrigerator would be standing open. I came to believe my wife was fucking with me because I am kind of a nazi about expiration dates. I confronted her one night and she plead ignorance. I believed her. Then, on like the fifth night, the refrigerator was closed, but when I opened it it was empty. And the automatic light wasn't coming on. This was the first time I was truly afraid, for some reason. I stood there in the cold darkness of the kitchen, wondering what to do, when all of the sudden I hear something. A distant chorus of whispers. Sounded like "Uhhhhshh". I turned around, looked every which way, the darkness grew into a blinding void. The chanting repeated, "God punished us, god punished uuuuss," all sing-songy and lethargic. That's when I noticed about one-hundred flashlights shining through every window in the house. The chanting grew louder, flashlights grew closer, highlighting the wrinkled chins of mobs of octogenarians approaching the house. 

It rained and stormed all day. Read 50ish pages of Against Nature, enjoying it for the most part. Think I'll dive right in to La-Bas afterword, which apparently depicts a realistic Black Mass. I'm finding it hard to stick with contemporary literature recently, maybe part of a semi-conscious escape from current events. Maybe a re-read of The Castle next? 

I didn't write a single word today other than on this blog. That's okay because I did more than double my word count yesterday. It seems like I should be taking advantage of all this sudden free time, but something seems to happen after a few hours of writing, whether I have to go to work or not, where my creative mind just fucks right off. Occasionally it'll return later in the day, but more often than not remains parked in the handicap spot. 

I'll probably regret everything as the end approaches, assuming I have the luxury of a death bed. 

Plague Journal #12 (lil book reviews)

Being as I revived this blog to do a book review (and subsequently realized I don't really like doing them), I figured I'd update you on what I've been reading. Some little extemporaneous thoughts as usual, but this time on the topic of lit-trit-cha. Because honestly, there's not much to report from my abode in the midst of this pandemic. I've been reading more than usual, and can't say I haven't been enjoying it. Should I feel more guilt? Probably. Could I live like this forever? Hmm... forever is a long time, but it's cool so far. 

Street of Crocodiles - Bruno Schulz: This is a re-re-re-read. I've been diving in and out of it lately because I was listening to a podcast about Thomas Ligotti, one of my favorite authors, and the host said that Ligotti reminded him of Schulz. I love this book. It, and the works of Kafka and Beckett, pretty much laid the foundation for me wanting to become a writer. Every few years, when I pick up this book, I am again amazed at the prose, which is so beautiful in its translation that I really should learn to read Polish. 

Gravity's Rainbow - Thomas Pynchon: The virus prompted me to tackle a massive tome. This is my 3rd go at GR. No, I have not finished it yet. I'm around 400 pages in, and losing steam. Haven't reached for it in a few days. Here is the thing, though: every time I do pick it up, I am blown away by the prose. This Pynchon guy is going places. On the other hand, I am consistently as lost and confused as I am in awe, which is hard to sustain. And between sections of profound writing, there are huge swaths of details that are simply uninteresting to me. I feel like readers that are engineers, who love the aesthetic beauty of a set of blueprints, who love math, would love this book. I am none of those, and it can be tough going at times. Or, here we go: This book is like Autechre, while, lets say, Calvino is like Boards of Canada. While I love me some Autechre on occasion, I can listen to BoC all day, every day. I may feel different if and when I finish GR, but I need a break right now. 

Against Nature (À rebours) - J.K. Huysmans: This slim volume is on my nightstand as a break from reading GR. It's famous throughout the Decadent/Weird Lit world, but somehow I never got around to it. Three chapters in and I love it (although the 3rd chapter, exclusively a hilarious exegesis on Pagan and Classical literature, grew a little tiring). I'll hold off on further thoughts until I finish. 

Ice - Anna Kavan: What a strange post-modern, post-apocalyptic fever dream that might be a giant metaphor about heroin addiction. This book drives itself slowly insane. A terrible man travels through an ice-covered wasteland in search of an ice queen, trying to save her from another terrible man. Well, "save" isn't the right word, exactly. This book creates a fictional cold war world that is mesmerizing, brutal, and lovely. I will definitely read it again. 

Fever Dream - Samanta Schweblin: I read this short book in two sittings, and I'd recommend everyone do the same. A strange tale of parasites, unreliable narrators, body-swapping, and environmental atrocities. Go in blind if you can. 

Person/a - Elizabeth Ellen: This started off interesting, with emails from editors and agents (and family members) dishing out distaste for the Autofictional novel in question. This is followed by personal reflections on a relationship. And then... well those reflections just keep going on and on. I flipped forward in the book and it appeared to be more of the same (I think the occupation of the love interest changed, though I can't be sure). Not for me, had to put it down. May have a go at it again at some point. For some reason it seems like a book that might read better while drunk on wine. 

Dark Shamans: Kanaima and the Poetics of Violent Death - Neil L. Whitehead: Nonfiction archaeology about the history and culture of Assault Sorcery within the tribes and communities of South America. Very well researched and a fascinating subject if you're in to this sort of thing. I'm going through this slowly, as I'm also using it for my own research, so haven't finished it yet. 

Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov: Another re-re-read, this time hitting up all the annotations. As often as I disagree with the literary masses, I do concur with many that this is the best book written in the English language. Seriously, it makes me want to give up. 

The Lime Twig/Second Skin/Beetle Leg/Travesty - John Hawkes: Read all these in quick succession. Hit and miss so called Post-Modernism that hits quite often. Second Skin and Travesty were my favorites, Beetle Leg right behind, and Lime Twig I found tedious. I have another of his, Whistlejacket, that I might read soon. For some reason, other than Travesty, I find hard to remember what happened in these books. But I enjoyed them at the time. Many an underlined passage. 

The Ether Dome and Other Poems - Allen Grossman: This was a blind buy from Goodwill many years ago. I return to it often for inspiration, or just a mental snack. Open to any page and give it a nose. It contains every shade of loss and life. Reminds me that I should read more poetry. 

Negative Space - B.R. Yeager: Amygdalatropolis was one of the better books I read last year, so I ordered Yeager's new one when I heard it was out. It has a companion OST by the band Burial Grid, which kicks ass. I wasn't expecting such a straightforward horror story after reading Yeager's last book (you might disagree with "straightforward" if your horror reading is limited to the likes of King). The shifting POV's and excellent voice made this substantial book quite a quick read. I was never bored. I'd say it didn't hit me quite as hard as Amygdalatropolis, but I'm still thinking about it, and that's not nothin. Looking forward to more from this author. 

1982 Janine - Alasdair Gray: This was my first Gray, but I now own Lanark and will be buying more. What a fuckin loon. Makes me proud of my future beer-bellied, self-hating, perverted self. Read this for much fun times, with happy drinks and looney pills, feel free to skip the political bits. 

Plague Journal #11

Bernie Sanders dropped out of the race today. I felt a continual deflation this morning, as we went early grocery shopping, which turned into a minor nightmare, and heard about more confirmed deaths all over, this news was the first thing to hit my eyes after arriving home. Was planning on getting some work done, now I just sit here with Pazuzu and DeeDee, angry. A simmering anger with nothing real behind it. Bernie's chances were already slim, so it's not really a surprise. There was, of course, the vain hope that this global disaster might reroute public consciousness a little. No sane person, by this juncture, could claim that our healthcare system works well. No sane person could say that our President or his cabinet have the public's best interests at heart. No sane (or good) person could still stand behind that idiot. 

Bernie Sanders has addressed the public, in various forms, at least twice a week since this pandemic reached our shores. I couldn't count on one hand how many times we've heard from Joe Biden. I don't understand his supporters. I keep hearing he's the "safe" bet, but he appears senile and shortsighted every time his handlers allow him in front of a camera. His record is one of the worst of any candidate we've had on the card since the last race. He blatantly lied a number of times at the last debate. And now he has accrued more accusations of sexual assault... and this guy is the safe bet? With all this ammo for the opposition? Are we on the same world?

I know Trump supporters. Half my family is solidly in that camp. I give benefit of doubt where I can. Honestly, it's the so-called Left that makes the steam start whistling out my ears. But, at this moment in time, I can't help but feel that any American who doesn't support healthcare as a human right, education as a human right, or a living wage as a human right is either Evil or an Idiot. There is simply no justification for it, other than greed or ignorance. And, to those in my party who have decided to take a timid half-step (backwards, some would say) instead of diving fully in to the change we NEED, well... I can only compare you to a fucking virus. 

Plague Journal #10

"I'm not living with you. We occupy the same cage, that's all!"

Let's see... brain on ice this morning. Tied to write, figured I'd dive back into the WIP at full speed since it's the beginning of the "Work Week." Nothing came from that but two shits between three cups of coffee. Restless Leg Syndrome shook me from the couch, so I took a long walk. Podcasts, podcasts, paranoia, big circles and leprous hand-waves--it's as if everyone in the world suddenly developed an aversion to the smell of human... Ate a chicken sandwich and peeped the death toll. Read about Kanaima (murderer shamans) for research. Added some notes to novel file. Drove around, liquor store, park. There were more people than usual. 

Every sunrise after the age of thirty is a dividend. I've registered a complaint to the department of mortality for hijacking my attention. 

Static shot: street-level stairwell leading to subway station. Orange/yellow/black modernist painting on tunnel wall. Hordes of commuters stream down the steps, hastily. The stairway becomes congested. Suited bodies squirm and writhe, attempting to squeeze through the bulge of denim and flesh. The mass grows until the railing and wall disappear behind it. Now, the opening resembles a mouth mid-scream. Freeze frame. Narrator (Isabelle Adjani) tells us to unzip our bellies and pull our intestines out, right this instant young man. "It is ur, my dear young man. It is urrrrr..."

A concierge (crewcut, blue bowtie) holds up a sign. It says your name. You smile and approach. The concierge frowns and takes a step back. You notice the sign now says: PARALYSIS 

Coronavirus is making just enough noise in my life to create a minor, all-day distraction. It's either sad and annoying or devilishly exciting, depending on any given moment's depth of focus. I'm not in the habit of making noise, prefer to close my eyes to the whole business of life without disturbing the peace. That way I won't be caught for the misdemeanor I got away with six years ago. 

Plague Journal #9

Naked Lunch

Rear Window

Night of the Iguana

I watched three movies today (and it's only 8:15), reminds me of being alone and 22. Conspiratorial insect anuses, statutory rape, and Rum Coco's. Should I feel like a fat shiftless insect, a stain on the couch? Should I masturbate again? Should I have a drink? 

I can't be accused of hating life, ever since unemployment kicked in. This is turning in to a month-long staycation. The one big blip is the horned shoulder cherub constantly transmitting little electric whispers, "A family member or friend has it." 

It's not dysentery, it's not even amoebic. 

Plague Journal #8

Today was a lot like yesterday, and the day before that. I've been listening to a much less news. Right now, eating peanut M&M's on the couch and watching "Native America," a PBS production. I am going through at least a podcast-and-a-half every day while walking. I haven't smoked today, but Chantix doesn't FEEL like it's doing much of anything. I want you to have all the FACTS. Bullet point by accurate bullet point. No fluff, no petulant musings, no skywatching. A log you could enter in to evidence. Does this work better for you? This, I feel, is the reigning style in Modern Literature. Books that Michiko Kakutani likes. A flatly-narrated linear timeline peppered with pop-culture references. These days, generally, documenting a woman or Non-Binary Person Of Color. On TV there's a parabolic emerald river, like a majestic necklace hung around the mountain, takin' some time for all us go-getters. I just sealed the bag of M&M's, hopefully in time to stave off a stomach ache. How to Activate and Open Your Third Eye by Teal Swan. Zorro skit slash early aughts zip disk Duke Nukem Bambi heart attack.