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11 August 2018

Pissing in the Wind

by Andrew

Already working-on the next blog post, right here, procrastinating. Just finished writing and then transcribing on the computer the last one. And then re-read it, looking for mistakes. Which there weren't many, surprisingly. Though you must remove yourself from it for some time in order to see.

I hate typing. But I'm getting good at it. My spelling too, I'm surprised at. But my vocabulary is shit anyway, not many big words. Unless I need them, and they just seem to drop out of the air, the perfect word, like little ticks. But need to begin making and keeping a list of interesting words. Could really make my writing pop.

So I did all that with the last blog post, just finished, and I'm already writing again. Because I didn't much like at all that last post. Too much like a journal. Like I'm writing to people who follow the story of my life, whatever it is, all the gossip and such. Just got a new apartment. So cool. Who cares? How I don't do it purposely. It's just how I write, I'm so used to, I suppose. So used to journal-writing, whose topic is always myself, reflecting. If that's a good thing or not. It's both. Good because all we can really even maybe know is ourselves. The entire circus of life is right in front of us each day, every moment, if we just pay attention. From small observations, big thoughts. Something like that. And it's bad, focusing on yourself, because it makes you seem arrogant, I suppose. Me, me, me. If you make it public, that is. But look. I'm highly introvert. I think anyway. Don't really know. I like people, in general, but I don't like them too. Mostly, I don't like spending my money that I must waste my time—my life!—at a job in order to get. So, I don't go out and socialize much, I suppose, at the popular watering holes and such. I spend money only where I need. And I make little friends there. The grocery store, the gas station, like that. Which never escalates to anything, however, to real friendships, relationships.

Which I think having close friends for most of my life spoiled me. I never had to seek others. But, we grow apart, move away, things happen. How it goes. And connection is still at our very core, we humans. A lesson I only just very recently learned. If me, then others.

Had no idea I'd be going-on about this. Like I'm lonely. Like desperately. But I'm not. But I focus on myself because I have such a preference to be alone. Or am I only rationalizing? Who knows?

But I'm writing again mainly as a form of procrastinating. That damn painting still, I'm so nervous about. Like I'd rather not even do it—to keep alive the illusion—than do it bad, or fail. Which is foolish. How we only really ever do learn when we do things ourselves. And I don't feel much like reading, nor working on that damn computer—my eyes are heavy anyway. Which are about the only things I have to do. Else browse-round Twitter. Which gets boring quickly. Otherwise, my phone is silent. And I've no friends here. It sounds so sad. Maybe it is. I don't know. It's over there charging a bit now, the damn phone. Wish I had some music though. Which I have had all night, ever since I returned from the grocery store, probably about 21:00. And I'm so sick of all these songs I keep hearing anyway. It's probably about 2:30 now, and the breeze coming in from the window is cool. The crickets are out there chirping. There's an occasional yell or noise in the night, these crazy kids, and an occasional—though actually, kind of frequent—train whistle. Kind of relaxing, it's nice without the music really, actually.

***

Had to knock-off there for a bit. I was suddenly very, very tired. I haven't been sleeping so well, or so much, since I've been here. Though I do feel fine, rested enough. Else I'd just simply sleep more. Maybe. The "bed" is not very comfortable, to be true. One of those blue camping pads on the floor covered by a couple sheets and the sleeping bag, and a pillow. The floor is wood too. But I fall right to sleep anyway, almost the moment I do lie down. Been having strong dreams. Vivid. Or, I remember them upon waking. For the passed few weeks actually. The women in my life—or not, like re-meeting them now, conversations, old feelings, catching-up. Strong feelings. But I've only been sleeping a maximum of 5 hours. And then my knee is sore, or my hip, drove into the floor on my side, and I'm awake anyway.

So, I'm writing here. Good morning. Though I've nothing much to say, no particular topic, as always. Like I'm wasting the time of anyone reading.

I'm writing to show you how prolific it is, walls of text, hour after hour. All's to do is lift the pen, and go. Though I've no particular topic, like I said. It's about the writing. Don't pretend you must have something to say in order to write. That's the main thing. Maybe Joe has a wonderful, actionable post on his blog on how to make some money. But he writes dry as a brick, because he only lifts the pen when he has something wonderful to say. Which is rarely, honestly.

That's this entire blog, my blog, the entire idea behind it. Look at all this junk. If I can do it, anyone can. So can you, see. Just write.

But why publicly? Maybe Joe does write every day. Like your journaling. But he doesn't show it. Or, he does. Or well, his writing does. If I'm boring, I at least know what good writing looks like. Cadence, rhythm. Bump, bump, bump. Like Shakespeare's blank verse, unstressed, stressed. Or Milton, I suppose—though have still never read. Or Keats. Younger me, through the nature paths, how I'd walk to the library to use their computers, just to talk to the girl who's currently haunting my dreams, unemployed, and she's off up in college. If she even has time for me, I don't know. Go see anyway. Only a short, little walk up to that library. How it felt so long back then. The sun cooked my skin, made it smell like—well, I have no idea what that smell is. Like your own particular laundry. Was thinking last night too, on the walk to the grocery store, how, when I lived here before, I hated that damn walk so much. Like it was such a hassle. But it's only just a short, little, harmeless skip really, honestly. I had no idea back then the walks I'd do afterwards. And now I am here, laughing at my foolishness. Just like in 5 years from now—or so, or whatever—I'll look-back on to-day and laugh too. I get that rhythm from the air—all the time, not just writing. But it was writing I chose to pursue, the instrument I'd decided to attempt to master, to transcribe.

You want to see what it takes? the curse it is. Here, let me go on and show you just how prolific I am. And I still suck. Keep truth to the serious. Businessmen looking to make a quick buck on a hot medium. Though have watched Holiday improve leaps right before our eyes—if not personally, then mechanically, like his writing style. Tucker Max doesn't even write anymore. Publicly anyway. Though who am I to criticize? He has like 4 books to the good. Started a start-up. A businessman. In the end. Holiday started-out at all those fancy jobs, trying to pursue that businessman-like life himself, writing. But seems to have decided somewhere along the way, that writing is the business. My teachers. Whom I read up at that damn library. On those lonely days. When she was indeed too busy. Which became more and more frequent. Till eventually neither of us used that AOL Instant Messanger to communicate anymore. So read blogs to fill the time now. Got inspired. Never looked back. I had to create a life of my own—on my own, it looked like, regardless. Like my dad constantly reminds me. Like he's always like "What the hell are you doing here?" it seems like. "This is my life. Go and get your own." My supposed indian blood. The Mexican certainly. The Mick. If it's not painful enough already, if I didn't realize and feel it myself already. But maybe exactly that, because I do feel it myself so strongly. I vibrate at that frequency, and then influence those near to do the same, we must be mindful.

Had a whole chub of hamburger last night to eat. I've been keeping-track of in my journal. To recognize energy levels. And it's why I think I was so tired last night, so unproductive, really, procrastinating, writing. I was heavy with food. And I still feel it in my stomach. Got 2 more chubs sitting in the freezer too, there was a sale. Only $1 each, only 3-a-visit allowed. How I'm a sucker for sales, like my mom, her compulsion. Though only indulge if it's immediately useful, or soon will be. She just can't help regardless, she never touches again most of the junk she buys.

Still on this one-meal-a-day trip though. Which began at mom's, months ago. Because if I didn't eat by 15:00, the stepdad was home, hogging the kitchen. If I didn't want to eat whatever he was microwaving to feed the family for dinner. Though he can cook too. Though he seasons his cooking way too much. So, even when he did cook, I was reluctant. How I like simple foods. Rice, beans, eggs, plain hamburger, corn, corn meal, a glass of milk, like single ingredient foods. Not the milk. But the milk, still. And he'd be in the kitchen cooking, or "cooking," and then eating and then cleaning, till just after 18:00. Which left me no time to cook and eat a meal myself, having to leave for the job about then. So, I'd wake, make my food before 15:00, and that was that, I'm so used to. And everyone is raving about fasting anyway. Which inspired this, seeing some things on it. How it's normal for me now to go 20 hours, 22 hours, between meals. And then the meals are fairly light. Indulging only every now and then. Tea in between like Sam Johnson, copiuous amounts. And water. Though was much thirstier for water when I had the big bag of weed. I must remind myself to drink now, when before I was craving for it. How it's delicious either way. This intermitted fasting, or whatever it's called, the trend, it makes me feel strong and light. Seems to induce creativity too.

The other day, here, I had rice the day before at like 14:00. Next day, at noon, the stomach was growling. Hungry. Almost 24 hours, I wanted to make it. Why not? But had just soaked some beans, which I'd wanted to add to the rice for more of a hearty, heavy meal, which takes about 8 hours for the beans to soak. No way I could wait to eat till then, I was too hungry. Told myself I must learn to work-through—despite—the hunger, though. And that's when I went on a tear coding, trying to get that Mastodon instance to work. And wrote, and read. Red. Didn't eat till 23:00, I'd almost forgot about, I was so wrapped-up in creative activity. Almost started painting even.

Next post, some time later to-day probably, in boredom, or to-morrow at least, I'll try to have a particular topic. Something interesting. Like most blogs are. Or not. I make no promises, however. And I'm going to write regardless, to show you how it's done, scratching the vein in order to get it to flow. Like you just gave plasma for $25 for food for the week, and you're sitting in that chair, Oregon, empty apartment, seperated from everyone you know, diffuculty making acquaintences. You're scratching raw your dry scalp, itching to go spend some money. On something, at least. Something! Anything. To get out of this cupboard of an apartment. And so, you begin scratching the little hole in your arm now too, where was the needle from the plasma-extraction. And you scratch and scratch. Like track-marks. Heroin. No, these are just from money, for food to eat, I swear. And you open the scab back up, how it starts to flow. Like you stop a piss.


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