“…if love can be prideful or intrinsically desultory, and I’m not sure that it cannot, then I loved her fully — malignant pretense and glittering insipidity without doubt.”
I don’t know why that makes me feel like such a goddamn genius.
But it does.
Hopefully the rest of the book will, too.
Any posts you would like to nominate for publishing?
I should have a book out by the end of the year. It will be ego-published by Lulu, which is good news as far as not requiring much from me.
So, here’s the deal.
It won’t be all new material. I was sitting around yesterday and realized I have more than enough writing just in blog entries to make a book. That isn’t to say the book will just be a blog on paper. Some of the entries from the old blog and some of the ramble from the old days will be on there. A lot from this one will be.
But it won’t be following the theme of this blog. It will be more along the lines of a string of stories from growing up around this area. I don’t intend it to be a charming coming of age story or even all the way true. More like stories of getting stuck in the mud and setting cars on fire out in the desert. Basic redneckery. I would expect it to be around 50% new material, but I’m shooting for 80%. Then there’s the possibility I completely am useless and make it more like 25%. If I cop out like that, don’t expect to pay much.
The production cost of the book would be around $6 USD, and I plan on only charging for the new material as far as my cut of the final cost. I also know the shipping added to the cost would add to the final price for people, so it behooves me to not try and get rich off this thing. Besides, I can count on one hand the number of these things that will sell. If I manage to sell eight of these things at a two dollar profit, I will have a nice down payment on a nice bottle of Wild Turkey. Yay me.
Anyway, the premise of the book is simple and it looks like the publishing will be simple. I should have done this years ago.
If anybody has any pointers for arranging and formatting for Lulu, let me know.
I took a job as a bouncer immediately after my discharge from the military. It was an unfortunate choice. My first night I choked my own boss unconscious. The next night I kicked a guy’s knee in. One night I broke a customer’s head open trying to eject him from the establishment. Specifically I used his head to hit the panic bar handle. It took me several tries to hit it just right. Then I just sort of shoveled him into the parking lot. One guy called a good friend of mine, a former ordie like me, a baby killer. I threw one of those big, sloppy rage filled overhand rights you see in the movies, caught him in the lower lip and he lost some teeth. The truth hurts. I knew my friend was a baby killer. I know I am, too (at least it is statistically impossible that I am not). Still, it’s a little uncouth to point it out.
I woke up that morning with the cold water. The Colorado ran by my feet. I was under a bridge wearing my best camo and beat up. I forensically investigated, such as I could, to discover I had fallen off of the bridge. Obviously, a woman was involved. I picked myself up out of the muck and sand and tamarisk and stumbled to a bus stop. That morning served as a pretty good warning shot. A lot of men in my place end up in their best camo soaked in whiskey sleeping under bridges as more of a lifestyle than a one-time thing.
I straightened myself up and went to church. I’m not sure if it was god or familiarity, but I felt better. I decided to give up on everything I had been. I’m not allowed to kill anyone anymore. I can’t. I can’t even shoot a dog without binge drinking myself into a slobbery mess for days. When I shoot an animal for food, I have a brief panic of character. I don’t think I would even have what it takes to do that job anymore. I try and reserve my ridiculous drunkenness for bullshit like Veteran’s Day, anymore. I couldn’t do it as a job requirement.
No one reading this now ever read any other journal I’ve kept through October, except for maybe one guy who smells of Vegemite and Moog. You can look it up if you want. October was a tough month for me. As is March. But honestly, I don’t feel a thing about it this time around. I’m a little unmotivated, but that is more a product of not eating well. Honestly, I think I’m over October. It doesn’t even register anymore. Now I’m just feeling a little thrill when I see the squash and pumpkins in the field. I look forward to the first frost. Fall is still a good time to remember you’re alone, but it’s also a good time to dust off my espresso maker and settle down with the cathode glow of a computer monitor and write real things. Real thoughts.
Fall is here. With the explosive yellows of the cottonwoods and aspen and the arterial bleed of the oakbrush. Come November, I’ll be in the high country with a rifle. Come December, I may have backstrap roasting over a smokey fire out back and a freezer full of ruby red meat.
I have no idea what is meant by this ramble. I’ve given up on meaning. Probably why I’m happier now.
I worked out the vectors of σx forces involved in the joint system of the Klondike Bluffs region tonight. I was called adorable today. I have gotten that in the past. But I don’t care, I am vectoring. I just let the phone ring. I let the room mates fight. I got nothing for them. I am lost in the wilds of full-on nerd. They know this. They ask me questions through the door. Then they hear the subtle inhale while I unsheathe death, the death I create in my cold, dark, adorable heart. They know to leave.
Once, I was deeply, fully involved with a bipolar woman. A large streak of my character has been colored by it. Any craziness and/or drama finds a short route straight out of my life. At least usually.
Sometimes I just sit here and drink. Not to prove a point, and not to see anything differently. I just drink because I want the immediate sweet, painful sip; coating my mouth, washing down my throat, making me drowsy.
It seems like anymore the only good rain is a cold rain. And the only good news is the steady state nature of the blue banded agate sitting on my desk.
One night, I built my desk. I found materials laying around, and I had a circular saw and a drill. Now I have a desk. The word “desk” does not do this monstrosity justice. It’s more of a workbench with attached bookshelves. The book shelves are full of eclecticism. Conspicuously missing are a couple of anthologies I loaned to a female. And now every attempt to get them back delves me deeper into perhaps the most melodramatic family on earth. Were it not for the books, I would long ago have cut myself off completely. Jesus fuck. At least I have whiskey.
There it goes. The light brown catching the blue light of my monitor and looking like blood. One drip at a time gives up and falls back to the adhesion distorted pool inside the miniature glacial base of the glass. It’s a beauty. Subtle and true and mine.
One more sip will kill all of it off.
I guess I should call it a night.
