SOME NEWS FIRST:
I will be at Bizzarocon 2019 in Portland this year, the weekend of January 10th, if you want to say hello. Fair warning, I will most likely have a drink in hand and may be in full maniac mode.
Signed copies of Girl Like a Bomb is available at CLASH books for 30% off, if you use the code : NEWYEARNEWBOOK
You can also grab it Amazon.
Also, I have a short story in Ashes & Entropy, a new cosmic horror/southern gothic anthology from Nightscape Press, along with some awesome horror writers like Laird Barron, Damien Angelica Walters, and John Langan.
I don’t update this blog as often, which will soon change. But I am sending out weekly newsletters if you want this kind of content delivered to your inbox.
Okay, moving on.
THE POST THAT I WROTE LAST NIGHT:
It’s almost 2019, and here is a reminder that existence takes its own special penalty from each of us. I am relatively healthy, have a somewhat symmetrical albeit weird face, and managed to become extensively well read. I’m also extremely neurotic, was a selective mute as a child, and generally am prone to see the world as terror and other humans as my enemies. 2016 was the anniversary of my “waking up,” a sort of breaking out of disassociation that was the beginning of a complete neural rewiring.
Something that is near impossible to describe if you haven’t experienced it, but imagine that you’ve been walking around for 26 years with your hands covering your eyes, or walking backwards when you realized you could have been walking forward. After I woke up, I spent nearly a year in tears at all the time I had lost living in a gray fog, and then another year to recover from that. I spent a lot of time out in the woods, walking my dogs and drinking beer. I even went to school for a while and discovered that everything that felt insurmountable and impossible was an easily laid out path. Only in 2018 did I begin to write, really write again, with the abandon that I had carefully reconstructed from blown-apart patterns. I was no longer the parody of myself, writing smoke-towers and shadow girls, pretending that I understood their psychology when I was just the puppet of melancholy.
I wasn’t her anymore. I was becoming, as best as I can describe, the thing that saw. The writer that I was meant to be, before I thought writing was just an excuse to slowly crush myself underneath a rock while wearing pretty colors.
Most people when they see that they belong to the totality of all experience peace and joy. I experienced the screaming noise of all existence, completely drowning out everything, and realized that there was no huge barrier between me and death, only a culmination of cells that were sloshing around inside a skein of water. It’d only take a little pressure to push a knife down into my skin – to become a something that was a nothing. I developed a fear of heights. I became scared to walk after dark, when once I had been so bold. But it was a boldness not from courage, but of ignorance.
I’d go to sleep with terror buzzing at my ears, and a death-clock clicking, indeterminate, somewhere stuffed in the back of my head.
It is almost 2019 and I got a green belt in some obscure Kung Fu style and went on a cut, and then a bulk, and then another cut, and I gained about 5-10 lbs in muscle, because going into my body, into the place where action results in consequence, is the only thing that gives me relief anymore. Instructors at the school would always tell the other students to look to me as an example, because of how dedicated I was, how I stayed after class everyday to shadowbox and to practice my forms and techniques. I always wanted to explain that it didn’t feel exemplary. I was only trying to channel my neurosis into something productive, and the wave of neurosis was endless. Writing never soothed my neurosis, it expanded it. Yet I needed my writing, or the body didn’t matter to me. I could become something of a warrior poet, but only because if I dove too deep either way, I wouldn’t come up for air ever again.
It is almost 2019 and I can’t help but think this is all an absurd game which means nothing, but is also of the upmost importance. That we’re all an experiment for something wonderful and hideous, or the thing to build the one that will come after. And that I cling to writing because without it I feel like I’m constantly standing at the edge of a void-howl, holding my toes like a baby and laughing because I keep standing and yet there feels to be no anchor.
I once went to a museum where the guide was talking about sand mandalas and how people were sent back to fix the sins of their past lives. I thought, if I cannot remember my past live, how do I remember my sins?
And immediately I answered my own question – you just know.
They are embedded into your genetic memory, all the things that you’ve done wrong. And you understand the pieces of your soul that are cheese-thin, stringy and weak and unprepared for eternity. Look inside yourself and you’ll know it’s true. Reality is the playing field, we are all playing different games, trying to create something whole and substantive out of the teeming mass of inchoate noise.
It is almost 2019 and I’m not yet ready for the void, but then again, who is?Related posts
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