on writing (III)

A squirrel with a bazooka.
Though I'm  honestly concerned that this is not
an actual squirrel, but I care too little to check.
I'm thinking gopher?

Progress on my zombie serial novel is coming along well. The past two weeks have been spent (at least in regards to writing) revising and reshaping Act 2 (and tweaking Act 1 here-and-there). I put the bulk of the story in past tense, and already I'm seeing the benefits: it's quite easy to deal with the passage of time, to telescopically zoom out on events, and it keeps the story moving quickly. Contrary to popular belief, writing something in present-tense doesn't automatically make the story move quicker; the speed of the story has more to do with style than anything, making the text simple enough to carry the reader forward (something Hemingway knew quite well), and sometimes present-tense narrative can distract the reader from the story, since the reader's found himself burdened by a new style. I've also sought to make the story more story-driven than character-driven, and have added lots of material (and cut lots of material) to try and move towards that end. I'm content with where I'm at in the zombie story right now, and I'm anticipating having the first book done maybe by the end of next month. 

I was telling my pal Andy just the other day how I'm not sure how it'll be received; the other two zombie stories I wrote ("36 Hours" in 2004, redone in late 2009, and the "Dwellers of the Night" trilogy completed in spring of 2009) did remarkably well, the first gaining points for its story-driven plot and the second gaining points for its character-driven plot. One "Best of" list for post-apocalyptic fiction ranked the first alongside Stephen King's "The Stand" and Cormac McCarthy's "The Road". Point of all this being, I know that my readers will be probably be expecting something along the lines of both where the impending crisis happened immediately, at the off-set at the book, but with this serial novel, things are gradual, and there's only one real "zombie encounter" in the first 300+ page novel. But that's okay, because I wanted to do it this way, and perhaps one day I'll let you know why.

the 22nd week

Turns out that "squirrels with guns"
is a big deal to a lot of people out there.

Monday. Surprisingly, I didn't work early this morning, instead closing with Amos (where I accidentally flooded the backroom with mop-water because I just forgot about it). Before our close I went to The Anchor to do some writing, and after work Brandy came over and we smoked hookah and blew smoke bubbles. All night it was col and rainy and dark (obviously, because it was night-time and all). "It's GROSS out there!" Blake exclaimed. He's terrified of birds. Not just birds of prey, which would be logical, but ALL birds. Carly texted me, tried out Dusmesh for the first time. She was all up in knots about it, but who wouldn't be? I'd eat there every day if I could. 

Tuesday. I missed my morning trip to The Anchor because I forgot to set my alarm. We were superbly slow, finished by 5:00 and just waiting to close, and after work we had our training with Roberto. I spent the evening hanging out with Ams and Amos, had some pretzels for dinner, and did some writing and shot zombies. Mandy, Rob, and Ams grabbed donuts from Kroger, and Ams let me have one of hers!

Wednesday. Turns out that donut I ate was actually Mandy's. Welp. I was thinking about going to The Anchor before my 7:30 shift, woke up at 5:30, got up, had my morning cigarette, and then said, "To hell with this," and slept till about 7:00. Being the day before Thanksgiving with the vast majority of our customers being off work or out-of-town, we were insanely slow, the deadest day I've ever worked. I was done with all my stuff by about 8:30, and I spent the rest of the morning just hanging out and drinking cappuccinos and lattes and eating marked-out cookies with Emily, Khristian, and Tiffany. I got out early and then ran off to the discount Gap outlet to buy some new clothes. Mandy tagged along and even drove ('cause she has her IPOD radio and my normal radio doesn't work in the cold, period). I got a winter jacket, three shirts, and a pair of jeans for $60, that's about a $200 value. It was pretty awesome. We took 471N back and marveled at the majestic skyline at sunset on our way across the bridge. I had a wrap for dinner and spent the night mostly alone, until Jessie and Tony came by (they're house-sitting at the Sulzener's), and then Ams and I hung out quite late into the night.

THANKSGIVING. I went to The Anchor for breakfast and got home just in time to bid farewells to Rob and Mandy (headed to Indianapolis), and to Blake as well (who flew south to Lexington). ("Flew" here being a figure of speech, i.e. he went there quickly; no one would fly from here to Lexington, unless you were rich or piloting a medivac, since it's only like an hour and a half drive.) Ams and I prepped for the day and then joined the parents in Dayton and then shot up to New Carlisle. Lunch was grand as always: turkey, sweet potatoes, whole wheat rolls, a wild assortment of casseroles, all polished off with homemade apple cider and coffee. Megan had her newborn there; "Wanna hold her?" "No," I said. I don't hold fresh babies, I'm just too afraid I'll drop one and break it and be in jail the rest of my life whilst being hated by family. So, no, I'll pass on that. When we got back to Dayton--after a dessert of pumpkin pie sprinkled with glaze pecans--Aunt Teri & Uncle Bill were at the house with Grandma. So good to see them all. "Have you lost more weight?" Bill asked. No, I've actually gained like 5-6 pounds in the last two months; but people say I look better now than I did when I was getting sickly skinny. When Ams and I got home, I got to meet her work friend Josh, and I watched "Elf" in Blake's room and all but passed out in his bed. I fought the urge. His sheets, they're like satin, I can't begin to imagine the thread-count.

BLACK FRIDAY. "Do you know why it's called Black Friday? 'Cause after the pilgrims had their Thanksgivings, they had discounted slave auctions the next day." - another classic quote from Andy Waugh. I slept in this morning till 10:00, had O.J. for breakfast and ran by the bank. I went for an afternoon drive through Eden Park and back, and at the house I cranked The Avett Brothers over House Tunes and did some writing. 'Round 3:00 I met up with Jessie and Tony at Skyline. It was so good catching up with her, reflecting on our "glory days" at C.C.U.  and all our hysterical and cherished memories. I had a goofy outburst and the waitress across the room exclaimed, "What the hell was that?!" to which I raised my hand and confessed. She gave me weird looks the rest of the meal. Oh: Jessie's old Bloc pal Sam was walking down the road, and Jessie beckoned her in, and she ate with us, too. Amos came home and we were gonna go visit Ams at Chic-Fil-A but he went to Brandy's to house-sit with her, so I went ahead and did some more writing. I went to The Anchor in the evening, doing some scripting for my zombie story. T.J. came over, and we drank beer and shot zombies and had good Front Porch Times with Blake and Rob.

Saturday. I went to The Anchor upon waking, did some decent writing, still plowing through Act 2. When I got back I hung out with Mandy and her cousin Cameron (who came home with them late last night). Around noon I got Dusmesh with T.J., and I hung out with Mandy afterwards. Blake, Brandy, Amos and Andy were all there, too. At one point Mandy and I were just sitting in the front yard, me in a chair and her in the grass, just enjoying nature. And then she found an entire world swallowed up in the chipping paint and archaic rust on the hood of my car. "I feel like a little clown-fish wrapped in a sea anemone when I'm with you guys! Can you imagine how great it'd be to be a clown-fish in a sea anemone? Because that's how great it is to be with you guys." I headed up to Dayton to celebrate Thanksgiving with Mom's side: we grabbed Marion's Pizza, even ordered ahead so we could get there, eat up, and get out without any messes. It was fun seeing everyone: Aunt Teri & Uncle Bill, Grandma, Jared & Ashley, and Jesse & Mandy (who's pregnant, woot-woot). And Boozer came, too! After our dinner we drank beers and spiced eggnog and played some cards games like Phase 10. Ams and I didn't get home 'till about midnight, and I promptly passed out.

Sunday. I woke up bloated and hurting from Dusmesh and Marion's yesterday, and my bowels were quite clear: "Let's not do this again." Duly noted, and I have a monkey's gait to prove it. I slept in till 11:00, much to everyone's surprise. I haven't slept that late in like a year. I cleaned my room and shared coffee and cigarettes on the front porch with Cameron and Amos. Did some pleasant writing, went to the bank, and had a Bolthouse smoothie for lunch. It started to rain so Mandy, Amos, Ams, Cameron and I played Phase 10. Andy came over bearing some coffee from Nashville, and a whole bunch of us just spent the evening hanging out and shooting zombies (it's kind of our thing).

a shout-out

There are moments when it just hits you, and for a moment you can see, and taste, the countless blessings you can claim as your own. This evening I stood out on the front porch and smoked a cigarette and listened to Explosions in the Sky, and it was dark and the rains drizzled off the roof. I just watched the rain and listened to some of the best damned instrumentals you can find, and I felt the blessings of having a loving and devoted family, a sister who's your best friend, countless friends that you actually like, housemates you love, co-workers you can be yourself around and a job that's fun and pays well enough. All of these things, they're things that I take for granted, things that I'll truly appreciate until after they're gone. It's strange how we feel the absence of blessings more than we feel the presence of them. If life's all about relationships, then I have everything pretty much checkered-off (except for a romantic partner, but just 'cause you want a gold toilet doesn't mean it's in the cards, and it's not that big a deal anyways). I don't want to be thankless, I want to be thankful, and in the end this post goes out to all those who read my blog: I'm thankful for you (and I know who reads my blogs, so I know I'm thankful for each and every one of you). 

Here's a picture, too! (Because Ams likes pictures in my posts) It's the first in a week-long series entitled "Squirrels With Guns." Thus the number of posts this week will be wholly dependent upon how many pictures of squirrels with guns I can find.

It's a squirrel. With a gun. You tell me.

of skyline and squirrels

I was intentionally being weird in this photograph,
I want to establish that from the get-go.

Jessie was in town, so she and her husband and I met up at Skyline Chili in Price Hill. It's probably the most ghetto Skyline Chili in Cincinnati. I haven't had Skyline since Monica came and visited when I first moved down here; three cheese coneys and a side of fries sprinkled with salt and pepper, all washed down with diet mountain dew and some oyster crackles bathed in a light hot-sauce glaze. It was so good getting to talk to her, getting to catch up. We reflected on earlier times, hilarious moments in our friendship, when we lived in an entirely different world: she wasn't married and hadn't even met Tony, just had her heart broken by Kyle (who's now married), and I was head-over-heels for this Thai chick with no idea why. She was there for the tail-end of my Karen escapades, and we grew super close as we meshed into the same friend group: Gambill, Kyle, and me paired off with Deshay, Jessie, and Sa-Rah. Gambill had a thing for Deshay, Kyle and Jessie dated for a bit, and I was swooned by the Thai (again, with no real reason why). As much as life's currents twists and turns, and as much as worlds change and grow apart, it's really something special that Jessie and I can pick up where we left off and just get to hang out again like no time's passed. 

Oh: one of my koala outbursts startled our waitress, and she exclaimed, "What the hell was that?!" and I raised my hand across the dining area and said, "That was me, nothing to worry about." Jessie was all up in stitches: "I've never seen a waitress react to your little weird quirks like that!" Oh, it happens often.

Later on in the evening T.J. came over, and we drank beers and shot zombies and with the weather a bit warmer, we hung out on the front porch after sunset, shooting the shit with Blake and Rob. T.J. and I always have interesting conversations. One minute we'll be talking about cosmonauts who don't give a shit (Russian astronauts are flat-out crazy, there's no way around that) and the next minute we'll be calling down hellfire and brimstone on squirrels just because, well, they're squirrels and they probably deserve it. We're getting Dusmesh tomorrow: I was scared I might miss it this weekend what with all the Thanksgiving festivities, but T.J. stepped up and made it happen. Kudos to the kid.

thanksgiving '11

The cliche thing to do on Thanksgiving is write about things you're thankful for. Because I am on a time constraint, and because I'm too lazy to come up with anything spectacular, here are a few things that I am legitimately thankful for. Note: these are things I'm actually thankful for, not things I should be thankful for. All of these things are good, but you won't find listed, for example, thankfulness for the fact that I have food in my stomach and a roof over my head. I live in a first-world country and feel entitled to such privileges, these aren't concerns of mine. It's entirely selfish, but that's the way it is. Now for those things I'm legitimately thankful for: my family, especially my little sister; my friends, here in Cincinnati and abroad; and I'm thankful for all the people with whom I live: Rob & Mandy, Blake, Amos, and (of course) Ams. I'm thankful that I have a good job where I make decent money and have fun with the people I work with, and I'm thankful for places like The Anchor where I can escape and drink coffee and orange juice and write, like I'm doing right now with this blog post.

There. I got that out of the way.

It took clenched teeth and gritty resolve, but we did it.

Cliche blog posts FTW.

Now for a deeper tangent: a telescopic look at thankfulness. On Thanksgiving we're primarily focused on those things we're thankful for now. But thankfulness doesn't--or shouldn't--burn itself out in matters of the present. We ought to be thankful for those things in our past, those good memories and cherished friendships and old lovers and those things we went through that have shaped us for better. Our thankfulness should stretch past the present into the future, into a thankfulness for all the blessings and strokes of luck that are to come our way, a thankfulness for what the future holds (while hoping that future's good). Admittedly those with no concept of an afterlife, those without any hope of a world reborn, may find such forward-looking thankfulness laughable. But I think that we should try and be thankful for those things we have as well as those things we don't have, thankful for what's behind and for what's ahead. Maybe Thanksgiving's not just about figuring out what you're thankful for; maybe we can step into the shoes of the first settlers with their first thanksgiving, settlers looking back on a treacherous journey and looking forward into the terrifying unknown, and celebrating in the moment the fact that between the past and the future, amidst the ongoing journey, they're not doing this alone but with others. I like that take.

the 21st week

Ams says she doesn't like it when I recap my week. 

She can suck it.

Monday. The new hire started today. Emily, a chick with purple hair. Mandy and I hung out for a while when I got home from work, and Blake and Ams joined us for a quick trip to Roh's Street. The iced latte was delicious. Brandy came over for a little while later in the evening. When she went home a big-ass storm rolled through. The walls were shaking, the windows rattling, the kind of thunder you feel in your chest, hammering sheets of rain, tornado watch, all that. I used the time indoors in the treacherous weather to do some writing. As an aside, I REALLY need to get a game-plan for this thing called Life. Just floating along and seeing where it goes isn't all it's cracked up to be. There's no purpose there, and I just can't stomach that.

Tuesday. Visited The Anchor upon waking and then closed shop with Amos. The storms last night brought in a biting cold, and the rains fell all evening. Everything gray and dreary. Winter: ugh. I hate how it's pitch black outside by the time we're walking past Fountain Square down towards the river. Mandy and I got groceries at Kroger, and I made eggs and toast for dinner. I talked to Mandy K. for a bit tonight; I really do miss her. Ams went on a date with some tall guy named Sean, and she gave me and Mandy the inside-scoop when she got home.

Wednesday. HUMP DAY! As some might call it. The morning was about as miserable as all day yesterday, but by the time I got off work, it was absolutely beautiful: clear skies, the air warm, birds doing their thing in the trees. Isaac and I had some good Front Porch Times, and Mandy was so nice and bought me a clothes rack to hang my clothes. Amos and I shot zombies, and I went on a drive through Eden Park while listening to "Mumford & Sons." Eggs and toast for dinner yet again, and I passed out on the sofa while watching "30 Rock", and my little sister prodded me awake, saying, "It's time for bed, Anthony." So precious.

Thursday. Mandy made a chemex of our dark roast Mexican chiapis when I woke up. We both get up at the same time now, I like it. I hit up The Anchor before work and then closed down with Amos and Emily. She's really cool: punkish/indie look, scratchy-purple hair, weird tattoos, a whimsical sense of humor. She's in a band called The Apricots--folk music, I think?--and her fiance's this grizzly-looking guitarist in some other band. Amos and I shot zombies when we got home, and Ams and I joined Mandy for a trip to Kroger. Dinner: 1/2 a pizza, two cookies, and ice cream. Wow. Wholly enjoyable, but I gots to curb dat. Spent the rest of the night hanging with Mandy, Ams, Blake, & Amos. I left my phone at work.

Friday. Rob woke me up on his way out the door. I ran off to work. It was a busy morning and a dead afternoon. I trained Emily on closing down the salad bar, and then I smoked a cigarette with her and Blake. Deposited my check, went on a drive, and took a nap past sunset (which, really, is done by 5:45). I had a damned good salad for dinner, and spent the night hanging out with Blake, Amos, & Ams. Amos and I shot zombies, and Ams joined us. She likes shooting zombies, too. How precious!

Saturday. Woke to find Rob making a pour-over of Tazza's new Select Coffee, an El Salvador. He was kind to let me have some. It tastes like honey with apple and cinnamon notes. Baller. I did some blogging at The Anchor and then got Dusmesh with Rob, Mandy, Amos & Andy W. My entire evening was spent writing (or, rather, rewriting) parts of my zombie story. Blake and I had good one-on-one time, talking about our histories with girls: the comedic, the tragic, and the classic. We're eerily similar. Blayne came over for a little while, and I took one of my prized late-night drives. Amos and I grabbed dinner and shot zombies, and then Ams and I hung out for a while and joined Blake and Amos in Blake's room. We were up there for a long while, and I passed out on his bed.

Sunday. Rob and Mandy were gonna go hiking, but Mandy was sick from her last-night activities, so that didn't happen. I hit up The Anchor for coffee, and when I got home, Rob had some more coffee made, so I had some of that, too. I spent the morning writing, ran to the bank, and had pretzels for lunch. I made some chocolate chip cookies with vanilla cake ice cream and sprinkles, and it was damned good. Ams, Amos, Blake and I went to Rock Bottom, Ams' treat. Amos and I smoked out by the fountain, and I was shocked at how quiet it was. It was abandoned except for the fountain and the Christmas lights. For a fleeting moment I pretended there was a zombie apocalypse and we were striding downtown in the dead of night smoking our cigarettes and reflecting on happier times. The weird part is that I was happier in the pretend world than I am in the real one; but that's why fantasies flourish.

waaay too close to 9/11

BLAKE HUDSON 

FOR PRESIDENT

These colors don't run!

a reflection

Isaac and I were at The Anchor talking about all the benefits of journaling on a daily basis. One such benefit, we agreed, was that you can see the evolution of your thoughts over extended periods of time. Basically I'm big into studying worldviews: what makes a worldview, how worldviews operate and change, how worldviews can follow different paths, the relationship between worldviews and belief systems, the relationship between worldviews and interpretation of life events (both being guided by, sustained, and foundational for worldviews), and the tight nexus between perception and praxis. One of the countless pleasures of looking through my old journals is that I can trace how my worldview has evolved; and for a considerable amount of time yesterday, I was able to see how various life events (and, more importantly, the interpretation of those life events) has shaped and transformed my worldview from what it was then to what it is now. But that process isn't what that post is about. Really, this post is all about me showing you how bat-shit crazy I was back then. Looking through my old journals from those olden days, I've seen within that old system-of-thought four key facets:

(1) Life's all about finding a wife so you won't be alone and then you can have sex all the time guilt-free.

(2) Every girl you meet--no matter what--is a potential future wife.

(3) When a girl breaks up with you, it's because God's mad at you.

(4) If you want to fall in love and get married, you have to be a legalistic Christian.

Yeah, that's not the best framework through which life should be conducted, and as funny as it may be, the sad truth is that I'm still wrestling through some of the baggage from that thought-process, and it's not something I like. Looking at that old mindset (which, really, is a bit more complicated, but that's always the case), it's refreshing to see how far I've come. I'd like to think I'm much more grounded, wise, and thoughtful. You can call it cynicism, but, really, stoicism is a better definition. Don't know what it means? Look it up. And then throw Jesus in there somewhere. 

on writing (II)

As could have been suspected, I haven't yet written the last two chapters of Act 2. Ams read through Act 2 with quite a few pointers; she liked it, but she agreed with me that there were areas of concern. I'd already had these areas of concern written down, and Amanda basically confirmed my suspicions. In light of this I've been doing a lot of thinking regarding the style of the story, wrestling with different things like present-tense story-telling versus past-tense; story-driven plots versus character-driven ones; the nature of the three-act story having to be tweaked in light of the nature of serial novels. Lots and lots of thinking, lots and lots of note-taking, lots and lots of purveying different pieces of literature (both mine and not mine) in the attempt to piece together the best possible route for this sort of story. These are things that always need to be taken into consideration, and as the scope of this multi-volume project becomes evident in my mind's eye, I'm thinking the original route--something akin to Chuck Paluhniuk's mode-of-writing--should be discarded. At this point I'm thinking about doing what I did with the 2010 remake of "36 Hours" (a remake which has done surprisingly well, *almost* redeeming the success of the original). 

Being a fan of paradoxes, the question "Past tense or present tense?" can be answered, "Both." Likewise, the question of "story-" or "character-driven" storytelling can be answered, "Both." How so? It looks something like this: not one but two story-lines, one focused on the past and one centered in the present. The difference in narrative style between the two helps to both feed and differentiate the different story-lines. The past story-line is, specifically, the story of the zombie pandemic of 2011-2015 (I literally just now came up with those dates; they'll probably be tweaked). The present story-line is the main character's reflections on those events in a different time and place where all this has become integrated into the national psyche. 

The Zombie Pandemic: A History. The bulk of the story will be focused on the actual pandemic. Each novella's broken into three acts, each of which fits into a chronological retelling of the story, each act with its own over-arching and embedded story-lines. The technical details involve past-tense story-telling, a cleaner and more precise prose, story-driven rather than character-driven. The biggest conflicts aren't those things raging in the main character's head but those raging in the world outside him. While not a total tossing-out-the-window of characterization, the focus is shifted from the character's interpretation of the world to the character's activities within that world. This might be the best fit for this part of the book for several reasons: quicker, more fast-paced story-telling that's action-oriented and descriptive rather than reflective and contemplative. This "reflective" story-telling can become a trend for a person like me, slowing down the story in a literary morass of psycho-babble and incoherent contemplations spreading eight pages (something I'm guilty of doing; I need to save that shit for the blog). With this mode of story-telling, I'm freed from that burden and able to steer around it, keeping the action chugging along rather than becoming a muddled mess. And, ultimately, focusing the attention on story developments rather than character developments would be a good maneuver. It's like that cryptic rule: "Know your audience." And let's be honest: most people who like reading zombie stories are the sort who want a good zombie story, not an analysis of the character in the midst of it. This doesn't mean the character will be dry and static but that, within the actual story, the over-arching focus isn't on that. 

Fifteen Years Later (Give or Take). The present-tense story-line will be the place where I can divulge my little fits of fancy when it comes to reflecting on the cognitive responses to a zombie pandemic and the manner in which that affects our worldview and, thus, our modus vivendi (manner of living). This is, honestly, the most fascinating thing about a hypothetical wide-spread zombie outbreak. The tale of the pandemic, told in past-tense, will be from the main character's perspective as he looks back on those events and goes through them, digging through the horrors of his past to try and find some sort of meaning in them for the present. It is, essentially, what we do all the time without knowing it. The technicalities of this part of the story are that it's told present-tense, with much more reflection on the events and how they've affected the main character as well as his world, and this is character-driven rather than story-driven. 

I came up with this technique of two plot-lines (and by "coming up with it" I mean thought of it; I'm sure it's been done before) a few years ago, and I found that it worked amazingly well with the "36 Hours" remake. The remake's success, coupled with readers emailing me about the style, has reinforced my conviction that such a two-pronged plot-line can be successful so long as the two story-lines remain integrated. What this means is that the present story-line isn't some shot out of the dark but the direct and natural result of the events which transpire in the zombie pandemic. Everything in the present-tense story-line must be in harmony with what's come before; and not only that, but the present-tense reflections on the events must be evident in the events themselves, so that continuity is achieved. It's a pretty big bear to wrestle, but it's like Rob Hoos, in that it's a good bear to wrestle, and even when you've been defeated, there's sort of a victory there (if only because you got to wrestle with Rob Hoos). All this is tentative in the sense that I haven't yet fully decided on a route to go with the story (in the sense of its literary style), but I'm going to play around with it for a bit and see how I feel (and what others think). 

in memoriam

I've been listening to this song so much lately, and for a lot of reasons. First of all, remove the lyrics and you have one of the best zombie theme songs possible (in my opinion). Secondly, with the lyrics, the song serves as a sort of nostalgic memoir, taking me back to about two years ago when I was "madly in love" (which is to say being a stupid and silly boy) with a chick named Sarah. Damien Jurado's passion and lyrics mirror the ocean of thoughts and feelings which I swam in daily back in those days. Certainly my perspective on "true love" has changed since then, gone more of a cynical route; and the whole event added countless "red flags" to my dating bag-o'-tricks. In hindsight, looking back on those days (as I did late last night perched in bed with my new Wal-Mart lamp illuminating my journal pages), I can only smile and shake my head at the foolishness of this boy, a foolishness repeated in more recent times, a foolishness which remains intrinsically connected to an over-arching dream that refuses to die and/or be killed (more on that next week!). As much as I've matured (i.e. become hardened in my cynicism and passing it off as wisdom), this foolishness is something easily-repeated. For as cynical as I am, this much I've learned about myself over the past two months: for better or worse, hope remains an integrated facet of my life, and any attempt to disintegrate it is nothing short of a self-inflicted evisceration. 

hindsight. heh.

We're supposed to know what we want to do when we "grow up." We're supposed to embrace our purpose and follow it wherever it may lead. But purpose is a damned strange thing, if there is such a thing. If it's real, is it something given to us or something we choose, or both? Is it something we intrinsically have, something we've got to discover through "authentic self-exploration"? Or it something given to us by society, by those we're closest to? Or is it something we give ourselves without even knowing it? Does this need for purpose stem from within or outside us? Does it say something at all about anything, or is it just cerebral mishap, some primitive gland gone wrong, our own feeble attempts to make sense of our muddled lives living in this muddled word? 

I used to know exactly what I was supposed to do, my purpose in life. So I went to college and got my degree and realized nothing's as simple as we thought it to be. We were told we need to go to college, to "get real jobs," not be stuck in those hole-in-the-wall jobs like selling cable or flipping burgers or even *GASP* doing coffee. But when we went to college, we realized it's not as straightforward as we'd been told. In the 1950s, hardly anyone went to college. At age 18, you got a real job, moved out from your parents' place, and then got married and had kids. Once colleges started booming, people started jumping at the opportunity. But before that, people who went to college usually ended up with really good jobs right out of college. Thus was born the concept that going to college is the yellow brick road leading to "The Good Life." Flash-forward sixty years, and everyone has a degree (they're literally just handing them out sometimes!), the jobs are scarce, and 85-90% of us college graduates end up working either a job outside our degree or in a job that doesn't even require a degree. There's far more degrees than jobs, and now most of us are just trying to get by which school loans weighing us down. The system that was supposed to lead the way to "The Good Life" has gone bankrupt, and now we just have more debt and wasted time than those who didn't go to college in the first place. 

When people ask me when I'm going to either (s) stop doing coffee and get a better job or (b) go back to school for my Master's, I just want to ask them, "What's the point?" Nowadays when you have a good job, you hold onto it, especially when it easily pays your bills. And if it's a job you're okay with, then why change? Is there less honor in that job than another? Are we still buying into this bull-crap? And if I get my Master's, what then? The market's still flooded, the system's still screwed up. I'd just be in the same place with more money torn from my pockets. And the funny thing is, all this is predicated on the conviction that where I'm at now isn't good enough. It's not good enough for those who want to see me doing great things, it isn't good enough by society's standards. I need to do all it takes to get a better job, to have my own place, to move ahead; and I want to know WHY this isn't good enough. I'm taking care of myself, I'm paying my bills, I've got a good place, I'm surrounded by friends and family. Let's be honest: in all this Occupy Wall Street hoopla, looking at it on a global scale, I'm in the top 1%. I really have nothing to complain about, I really don't; but I do, because I'm selfish and self-centered, just like everyone else. But at least I know the system's screwed up (in more ways than one), and at least I see that things aren't as simple as we were told. Really, it's the 1950s all over again: we're getting jobs so we can trying to do our best. 

the 20th week

Current Time: 4:24 PM
Current Music: A Fine Frenzy, "Near to You"
Current Mood: Hopeful

Monday: I worked my usual 9-hour shift, and Cat did interviews for a new hire. It'll be good to have another person on the floor, things have been getting more chaotic with each passing week. After work I wrote about 50 pages on my zombie story. Jobst and I hit up City Barbecue on Glenway: ribs, hush puppies, and cornbread. Quite the meal. At U.D.F. where I pumped gas, the cashier commented on how hot I am. It was weird. It's definitely the long and scraggly hair. All the rebellious chicks are into that, or at least the ones with meth-rotten teeth. Brandy came over for a little while once sun set, and I joined her and the festive crew in Blake's room for a bit. I went for another drive, just like I did last Monday night, overwhelmed with the weight of purpose. "Purpose": it's a tricky thing. Is it something we have by nature or something given to us, maybe even something given to us by ourselves? Is there even such a thing as purpose, or is it something we've made up, some existential knot in our psyche? And where does this desire--even, dare we say it, need--for purpose come from? Is it a signpost, and if so, to what lies behind or to what lies ahead? Ugh, I'm giving myself a headache.

Tuesday. Covered Anna's Food Prep shift since she needed the day off. I remember how back when I started doing food prep, everything seemed so chaotic. Sure, there's chaos, but I'm calm through it all these days. I had cereal and a banana for lunch, ran some errands and worked out at the house after work, and then I went back to work for training 5:30-6:30. Rob and I hung out for a bit after training, and I spent the evening hanging out with Brandon at his loft on Walnut. We got his cat blazed off catnip, and I watched episodes of "The Office" with Blake and Amos before falling asleep.

Wednesday. Mandy and I hung out a bit this morning, and I did my thing at The Anchor before closing shop with Amos. After work we went over to Rock Bottom, meeting up with Blake, Mandy, and Katie (who came into town). The head brewer bought us all some rounds. I had the bourbon beer and half of Katie's pretzels. Rock Bottom paid for the whole thing, which was pretty great. Amos and I went home early (being tired from work and all), and later everyone at Rock Bottom came back to the house, and Kile from work came over, too. It was good hanging out with everyone crowded up in Blake's room.

Thursday. Before my closing shift I went to The Anchor for coffee and orange juice. Work wasn't bad at all. It was a nice day, so we were slow. Pat D. and I met up at Rock Bottom and sat with Rob and Mandy, who were also there. Ballpark pretzels and a chocolate espresso porter (espresso from Tazza Mia, which Rob himself pulled), and everything paid for by Rock Bottom. The perks of being a part of Tazza Mia are sublime. Carly was there with her mum, so I went by her table and chatted with them for a bit. It was definitely weird running into her, since it's been so long since we've hung out, but don't think I hated it. It was good to see her, and I'd like to see her more often. And I miss her boyfriend, too. I went for a drive through Eden Park and on the way back, the snow started coming down hard. The roads turned to slush and my car was sliding around. That was weird, too; especially since half an hour later, nothing had accumulated. And it was spotty, too.

Friday. Like an idiot I locked my keys in my car last night, with my only spare being up in Dayton. "Classic," Blake said. Mandy was nice and gave me a ride to work, and we were slow with it being Veteran's Day and all, and then Mandy picked me when I was done. I spent the evening writing, and when Ams came home from work, she used her AAA membership to get my keys out of my car. She joined Blake, Mandy, Andy and a Brandy (so many 'dy's in there) for a David Bazan concert. Brandy won lifetime tickets to his shows. Rob and Amos went over to Kristian & Kile's for a party, and though invited, I declined: I was in the writing zone and didn't dare break that. An exciting night ended with me in my P.J.s drinking hot tea and watching "30 Rock", all at 9:30 at night before bed, all this with me bundled up on the sofa like a baby in the womb. Yes, I'm the male version of Liz Lemon.

Saturday. I went to The Anchor and did some writing, and then at noon Rob, Mandy, Britney and I hit up Dusmesh--"There's an 'S' in there. I just now got that." This is becoming a customary weekend ritual, and I'm not mad about it. Back at the house I slept for an hour and a half and ran some errands. At sunset I took a drive not to Eden Park but to little Ludlow on the river, and I sat on the bleachers at the baseball diamond with the squat Victorian houses behind me, and the dreams of my youth--dreams I've hunted down and sought to kill like one who poaches hope--surged to the surface. As much as I don't know what I'm going to do with my life--like most people of my generation--I do know that a hefty factor and consistent thread in any viable options is that deepest dream of mine, the desire for a quiet life of love, family, and friendship. Any skepticism or stoic absolutions can't get rid of the fact that it's what I want most. On the way back I went down by the stadiums, and the streets were FLOODED with red and traffic was hell. When I got home I did some more writing and listened to The Avette Brothers. Good stuffed. Deep into the night I drove down Route 50 to Mariemont and hit up the Starbucks there--iced soy caramel macchiato and a pumpkin scone, oh how I've missed those pumpkin scones--and I walked up by the stone church with the weedy graveyard where I wrote one of my better devos in my C.C.U. days, a little talk on how reality isn't a fairy-tale and how taking fairy-tales and shaping them around God to both (a) give them substance and (b) validate them is classic foolishness. My views on that subject remain reinforced rather than demolished, albeit with a bit of fix-me-ups here-and-there. Ludlow and Mariemont, locuses of Hope & Cynicism, that constant tension. It's inescapable, and I hate that.

Sunday. I slept till 8:30 and then met up with Isaac and Josh at The Anchor. We talked about some cool things: 1 Peter 2, "spiritual sacrifices", vices and virtues in culture, and civic duties. I had cottage cheese with crackers. It's kind of a big deal to me. Their cottage cheese is the best I've ever had. I ran by the bank and saw Josh--Mikaela's Josh--there, and we caught up. Amanda and I had a brother-sister date at Rock Bottom, where I got their dark stout and their brewery nachos. Phenomenal. All paid for by Rock Bottom: they gave us $25 gift cards in our tip jars. Uh-mazing. I spent the evening hanging out with Amanda, and then she went to her friends' place, and I lounged around for a while, and Amos, Blake, Mandy and I hung out for a while. And then I had to go to bed.

morning ritual

This picture was taken months ago. But except for
longer hair, I've still got that weird look on my face,
and I'm still wearing ridiculous old-man sweaters.

It's 10:20 and I'm at The Anchor waiting for Isaac to show up. He overslept, but I'm not mad. I came here early to get some work done, and let's be honest: alone or with someone else, The Anchor's a great place to be. I'm drinking some coffee (full-on robusta!) and pairing it with orange juice, and I'm anticipating some cottage cheese and crackers once Isaac comes through that door with his frizzled red beard and probable cardigan. 

I don't want to divulge too much information on my weekend (as a re:cap will be up here tomorrow), but I'll give away this much: I've got some kick-ass writing done, close to thirty pages written (but not yet revised) Friday and Saturday. I've spent this morning hammering out some of the finer details with the transcript (basically a chaotic mess of scribbled notes and drawings collected in a little notebook, which I use to construct a play-by-play of the scenes to enable me to feel them out and guide them appropriately; basically, it's called The Snowflake Method and it's a plotting style that's just taken off, and one which I actually used before it became common knowledge; yes, I'm a genius). The first book is going to be around 280 pages long, which is pretty long for a serial novel; and honestly I've considered breaking the stories up even more, into 120-140 page novellas. But we shall see. Regardless, I've finally gotten the last three chapters of Act II stenciled out, just ready to be splayed onto the page. After my time here and before hitting up Rock Bottom at lunch for a brother-sister date, I'm going to try and get the next chapter done; and the evening will probably be spent working on the last two chapters (both of which I've already gotten mostly-written). And then I'll probably celebrate the completion of Act II with some coffee and a cigar.

I've got so many writing ideas in my head, it can become a cobweb-strewn nightmare in there sometimes. At work we were talking about what it'd be like to be in other peoples' heads, and both Cat and Amos agreed: they could only be in my head for a small window of time, fearful of what they might find. I can't blame them, I find scary stuff in there all the time. That's the price you pay for being stuck in your own head most of the time. Sometimes the pressure of unfinished writing projects (or anticipated projects) can seem too much to bear, and my hope is to start knocking most of these out the water. Once I get Book One finished of this zombie serial, I'm hoping to finally finish revising the last few chapters of "Dwellers of the Night: Book 3." I removed the project from my storefront and discontinued its sales, except perhaps for Amazon (I can't remember), and I've gotten lots of complaints from readers looking for it, since it got pretty popular. I need to get it back up so people don't forget about it. 

Isaac's here, and so is Josh, so I'm going to go.

Have a good day. kthanxbai

duSmesh

I'm a boy who likes food, plain and simple. I'm a little fat boy at heart. When I was thirteen, I went to a Chinese buffet, then returned when I was fourteen, and the waiter remembered me. The actual story involves countless trips to the buffet line, going to the bathroom for five minutes to make room, and then doing it all over again. Apparently it'd been a sight to see, because half the staff seemed to remember me. This story is humiliating, so let's move on... All this to say, Indian buffet on Saturdays is quite literally the one thing that excites me the most about the weekends. I'm not sure if it says more about the food or more about me as a person, but it doesn't matter: it's one of the highlights of my week (the highlight some weeks), and don't worry, because I never have more than two plates of food. This koala's *somewhat* self-disciplined now. I'm thinking about their different dishes, the spicy samosas, the dipping bread, fried or baked. I'm already craving it again. This could be a new addiction, put it on the list.

Oh, and in any previous posts, I called the restaurant "Dumesh." 

But there's an oddly-placed "S" in it. Just got that today.

11.11.11: nailed it

This is a good first step, but there's more to be taken. The inaccuracies in this movie can drive a man (or at least a man like me) mad. Stephen Spielberg may have a dromaeosaur named after him, but at this point, I'm not sure if he deserves it. I mean, for God's sake, the only reason he got the honor in the first place is because he took liberties with Velociraptor mongoliensis from the outset. But it's a damned good movie, so I guess that makes up for it.

on writing

Writing a story is always invigorating, but it's really not as easy as people think, especially when you know your story, if followed through, will span somewhere around 3000 pages. Half the bear is character development and plotting; and once you get that somewhat figured out, you've still got to actually write it and write it well. The last couple weeks have been spent writing and rewriting, adding and deleting. I wrote 150 pages, winnowed it down to 100, and then wrote another 50 pages (which I'm actually mostly content with). The story is, on the surface, about zombies; but, delving deeper into the characters, the whole zombie thing almost becomes peripheral to the "real issues" at stake here. The story's not so much about zombies as it is about the characters, and even more-so, it's not about the characters (plural) as it is about the main character (singular), and the way that his perception of the world is inevitably changed by the events and how this works itself out in his life. Not surprisingly, the tension between Cynicism & Hope isn't untouched. At this point in my life, such tension will sprinkle, if not douse, anything I write. 

When I wrote the first act months and months ago, I didn't like the main character. I didn't like the way he operated, I didn't like his worldview, I didn't like who he was. And, really, that's a success for me: I constructed him in such a way that he's a complete dick, a manipulative asshole, a guy who uses and wants to be used by girls. It felt so surface-level, like a cardboard character, and I knew I couldn't keep running with him as is because, to put it quite simply, I didn't like writing a first-person narration from the point-of-view of a douche bag. So I scratched it all, completely deleted it, and then regretted it. Why?

(1) The character was well-done. The fact that I hated him is a testament not only to how we're total opposites when it comes to these things but also a testament to how well I portrayed him as he is. Part of creating characters--and, hell, writing in general--is not being afraid of the tough stuff, not shying away from a character simply because the character's modus operandi makes you sick to your stomach. The reality is that people are like this character. 

(2) Characters are never--or, in my opinion, shouldn't be--static. Characters must continue changing, evolving, adapting, reacting to the circumstances as the circumstances influence their worldviews. And when we're talking about something as worldview-shifting as a zombie pandemic, there's a lot of room for character development. I found the document in my email (when I had formerly sent it to myself) and looked through it all again, realizing that with the advent of zombies, the potential for radical character-development in so many different directions skyrocketed with this character. 

(3) On top of that, I knew it'd be fun to figure out why the character is the way he is and utilize that in the story. There's always more to why we are the way we are, and even douche bags can have pretty damned good stories. Most people who are jerks weren't born that way; they became that way because of something, and exploring these things and fleshing them out in the story offers not just future character development but also a past-tense character development that, like we find in real life, influences and affects the way the character swallows all that's happening and let's that change him. 

So I've re:opened the document and continued the story. Of course I went back through the document and tweaked it significantly in light of the direction I want to take the character, but most of the things that made me uncomfortable are kept intact. Fifty pages later, I've enjoyed taking these bits and pieces of the character and investigating them fuller. Reading Act I, we come out of it with a certain preconception of the character's nature. And then, in Act 2, we begin seeing that things aren't always as they seem, and though we hate this character, we can understand why he is the way he is, and even sympathize with him. I like the idea that the protagonists are never completely good and the antagonists are never completely evil (just like life), and I've really been enjoying redoing the story and fleshing-out this character. I think it's going somewhere good, but we'll see.

Of course, as an addendum, there's fear, and let me tell you why: when we pick up a novel from the library or buy a book from the bookstore, and when we get lost in it, we don't let the story--which is fiction--affect our perception of the author. We're not reading the story wondering what this tells us (or doesn't tell us) about who wrote it. We simply enjoy the story. But when we read a story that someone we know writes, without even realizing it, we let the story affect our perception of the writer. We make judgments about the author based upon the story, as if we've forgotten that it's fiction. This is why, for instance, Stephen King never let his kids read anything he wrote until they were much older: he knew that, because he was their dad, they'd start making judgments about him based on his stories. Because this story is told first-person, people who know me can very easily read it and start making judgments, and that's something that scares me. But the number one rule in writing is to "not worry what mother thinks" (i.e. don't let your writing be dictated by what you want, or don't want, your friends to think about you). So though I'm plunging forward with this character, there's a bit of trepidation thrown in there: I don't want people reading this story and then thinking I'm actually the main character, and that it's a sort of autobiography. 


A risk? Definitely. 
A worthwhile risk? For this story, yes (I hope).

january wedding

There are moments in this poor koala's life when the darkness weighs heavy as a sopping-wet thermal blanket. There's really nothing I can do about it, really. The biochemicals in my brain do their own thing from time-to-time, and there's no way around that. Last night was such a night: overwhelmed with a deep sense of lost-ness and wandering, overcome by the absence of purpose as well as the question of purpose, and pretty much drowning in my own head, I went to bed around 9:30, knowing that (maybe) sleep would help the situation. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. Thankfully last night it did, and though there was a residual sadness in the morning, it went away quickly as I got into my work day working with people I love. Once upon a time I would ask Why such sadness has marked my life; and once upon a time I would question what I'd done--or hadn't done--to deserve it. People with mental issues (we're talking about 90% of the world here, folks) tend to ask these questions, thinking that maybe finding an answer will pave the way to a solution. But there's no answer other than misfortune, and there's no solution but to endure it when it strikes. It's a part of my life, and it forever will be. I'm not going crazy, not losing my mind or my temper, I'm just sad from time-to-time for no reason. 

Today I was listening to some Avett Brothers and really loving one of their songs, entitled "January Wedding." One of the last stanzas, the one about darkness and reconnecting, really stuck out to me. If I don't over-listen to it (which I will) I'll want it to be one of the dance songs at my wedding. That'd be something different and totally legit. Here's the song: 

the 19th week

This past week's been filled with its highs and lows.

I'm not sure if there were more highs than lows, but looking back... It wasn't bad.

And I got some good writing done. Moving forward!

Monday. With Jon gone and the store understaffed, my Monday shifts are now regularly 6:30-3:30 (which I don't really mind). After work I spent the day writing, and when it was all said and done, I felt sad and empty. How strange that the very thing that makes me feel alive also gives birth to sadness. Perhaps that's just the nature of things. Brandy and Jake came over, and everyone was hanging out, but I stuck to myself. Isolation: it's what I do when life weighs heavy on this koala heart. Rob made some Congo coffee and I had some, and then I went for one of my drives: out to Eden Park and back again. A drive I've made too many times. I don't know why, but driving through the park at night with the city sleeping in the valley makes me feel better. It's a ritual, something I can control. And I've been dreaming about losing teeth again, and I always have those dreams when I feel trapped and powerless to break free. Trapped in what? Hell, in my own head 1/2 the time. But, no, I think I'm trapped in this unending cycles of daring to let hope breathe only to be reminded, over and over, that there's a reason I've been suffocating it all along. I've buried hope in a shallow grave only to resurrect it at the first taste of something good. Maybe I just need to dig the grave deeper this time around, or muster enough calloused self-control to not pick up the spade when I see hope stirring. Never-mind all this, the grave's been opened and now it's time to fill it in again, time to clean up the mess that's been made.

Tuesday. I treated myself to a vegetable omelette at The Anchor and did a hefty amount of writing. I tried keeping my chin up at work, but we were understaffed and super busy and Amos and I missed training and got out an hour late, and I tried not to be frustrated but couldn't help it. Amos and I got home after dark, and Kassie came by to roast some coffee for the Jam Friday. 

Wednesday. Crazy day at work: three catering orders, out of product, super busy... Really, just like any other Wednesday, I suppose. By the grace of God I got out on time (even five minutes early!). Mandy and I hung out for a while back at the house, and Rob brewed some coffee. He went to do training at 600, and Mandy and I went to Roh's Street and got a pot of herbal tea, and she did homework while I wrote about zombies. Afterwards we went to Kroger and I got fixings for toast and cereal. We hung out with Amos in the kitchen for a while, and then Amos and I shot zombies. Mandy came running through my room when I was going to bed, ecstatic about how skypaing works. "It's like he's RIGHT THERE!" Ha, just like a little kid.

Thursday. I didn't sleep well last night, so I woke early and went to The Anchor to write. Work wasn't bad at all. The evening was cold, wet, and windy. The basement's flooding, and it's hard to stay warm. For four hours I literally lied unmoving on the sofa. No energy, no passion, no vitality. Not one particular thing, really. I'm betting it's seasonal depression. Winter: I hate it. And we're supposed to have a long winter. The wind and the rain, the biting cold, it's like my heart's looking in a mirror. I feel gridlocked in a state of suspension, going nowhere. All my striving and struggling, it's just me kicking my legs in open air. No real promise, no hope of anything changing. There's just me, and this: a life giving birth to and fed by disappointment. It's like I'm stuck in a revolving door, people going in and out of my life, actually going somewhere and making strides, and I'm no more than a passive observer to it all. Ams quipped, "We were both supposed to be miscarried, maybe we're not even supposed to be here so God doesn't know what to do with us." Heh.

Friday. Worked 7:30-3:30. It wasn't a crazy day, but I was certainly "off" and people noticed. "You okay?" Cat piped; to which I lied, "Yes." But, no, I'm not okay. Not right now. I'll be okay again, I know that much. But right now, no, I'm not okay. I'm disillusioned, shutting down, isolating myself. I'm a wanderer, and though all who wander aren't lost, this koala certainly is. I'm not sure of anything anymore, especially not sure of myself. I just keep seeing people happy and laughing, and maybe they're faking it, but I crave that. I hate how hopeful I am, how I give meaning to everything, how I can't just sit back and enjoy life but must deconstruct everything so that in the end there's not goodness but monsters charading as human beings. All those things I rant and rave against, they're things woven deep into the fabric of who I am, and I hate that. To make the day better, I dropped my IPOD in the toilet and it stopped working (after-note: it's working again), and I was stuck in traffic for two hours on my way to Dayton for the night. But talking to Mandy K. made the stop-and-go more than bearable. We talked for an hour, and it felt like 15 mins (which is saying something, 'cause I generally hate talking on the phone). I was supposed to watch Sky 'cause Mom and Dad are outta town, but Grandma was there so we grabbed China Cottage and watched a movie. Sky and I passed out around midnight.

Saturday. Grandma and I had coffee, and then I headed home. Rob, Amos, T.J., Mandy and I had Indian food for lunch. Oh, how I've missed that. I ran some errands afterwards. T.J. came over after his class at Cincinnati State, and we hung out for a while. I spray-painted and erected a new shelf to hold my speakers above my desk, and Rob installed a new screen door. The parts came in a heavy cardboard tube which we lit up like a smokestack using gasoline and match-books. Isaac and Andy came over, and Rob and I joined them for a trip to Rock Bottom. I had a Manhattan: two shots Maker's Mark with some bitters and vermouth. Definitely got me pretty buzzed, a benefit to hardly every drinking. I polished it off with some brewery pretzels, and Isaac and I smoked out by the fountain. They use blowtorches to clean it, and the Christmas lights are already up. It's not even Thanksgiving! Honestly I like Thanksgiving more than Christmas: eat, drink, be merry and be thankful. It's much easier to count scars than blessings, but life's filled with both.

Sunday. Today is Mandy K.'s birthday. Hooray! I woke around 9:00 and went to The Anchor for coffee and orange juice and was there for about two hours writing. I spent the morning continuing with my writing escapades and then went to the bank. Ams and I had a brother-sister date: we went to Newport and had lunch at Dewey's (I got a 1/2 and 1/2 pizza with Dr. Dre and Wild Mushroom), and then we browsed books at Barnes & Noble without making any selections. Everyone headed off to the Barista Jam at Carew, and I joined them after doing some more writing. I stayed for about two hours, got to see Hartman, Andy, and Amos perform. Amos, Blake, Ams and I hit up Rock Bottom for dinner (but since I was still full from lunch, I just had some of their bourbon barrel beer). It was pretty damned delicious. I headed home and got to talk to Mandy K. a bit, wishing her a happy birthday and all that, and then Amos and Isaac came back from the competition bearing good news: Amos placed first and will be, if I understand correctly, going to the Barista Competition in New York. Baller. 

oh cincinnati

Rob's car was on empty after Indian food, so we stopped at a gas station in Camp Washington to fill up. While there we couldn't help but notice the mural painted on the building behind the gas station. If you can't quite figure out what it is, well, that's the point. Oh, Cincinnati. Apparently we have George Washington wearing women's clothes, riding a she-cow, and flanked by a gorilla on his right and a robot on his left, with flying pigs encircling his head like a halo. "You can't argue against that," Rob mused. 

Have I been slacking in updating my blog? Yes, and I apologize yet again. I've hit a sort of dry spell when it comes to blogging, have become wrapped up in several different writing projects that take up most of my time and energies. I'm hoping to have at least one completed by the end of the year, but let's be honest: that's probably nothing more than wishful thinking. Nevertheless, in my attempt to keep this blog alive-&-kicking, I've been reduced to posting music videos and pictures of silly murals, the dry humps, if you will, of the blogosphere. While I do have some posts lined up, I'm not sure when (or if) they'll end up on here. Keep checking back to see if anything here makes your tail wag.

But in defense of this post, and in defense of Cincinnati, we've got some pretty decent murals. The one to the left may not be top-notch, but check out this one from Northside:

I can get into that one. And, of course, there's always my favorite, the mural painted on the side of my semi-daily stomping grounds, The Anchor:

That's all for now. kthanxbai

after the storm

It's already November. It really is amazing how quickly things change, how you can be in one place at one time, and then at another time be in a completely different place without really knowing how you got there. Sorry the posts on here have been sporadic, to say the least. Much has been happening in my life, within and without, and much of my writing has been focused on this. In the mornings before work I go to The Anchor in Covington, and I get orange juice, coffee, and some eggs; and I write. Half the time I don't know what I'm going to be writing when I walk through that door; but by the end of it, pages upon pages have been littered with words and sentences and paragraphs ripped from the ventricles of my beating heart and transliterated onto paper. I use one type of paper, a college ruled notebook that slides into this leather portfolio I use to protect the pages from rain and egg yolk. In the past month alone I've written somewhere between 160-240 pages. All handwritten, too, might I add. Much of these writings will never find their way onto this blog; some of it's frightening, some of it's revealing, all of it is heartfelt. Sometimes I like to wear my heart on my sleeve; sometimes I realize that's silly and foolish and prevent myself from doing so. Because so much of what I'm writing won't be finding its way here, here's something I like and that I'm really finding to be moving me a lot lately. It's called "After the Storm" by Mumford & Sons. Enjoy.