Ever since I started writing my new novel, The Scrap Colossus, that my basement girl urged me to work on, I’ve been waking up regularly at one to three in the morning, often struggling to fall asleep later. My dreams are extremely vivid; although I forget them upon waking, I remember traveling through tremendously detailed environments, meeting people I had never met before, and having coherent dialogues with them. Of course, dreams are a mystery. I have a hard time believing that the human brain is capable of sustaining such internally coherent worlds for hours every night; I wouldn’t be surprised if we actually connect to something, some other plane of reality. In any case, the increased vividness of my dreams, how I wake up spontaneously with ideas ready to be noted down, and the rest of the time I feel immersed in a somewhat oniric state, they are a testament to the fact that my brain allows my subconscious to flow mostly unimpeded at the moment, which is the best possible state of being.
Basement girl regularly knocks on the ceiling to share meaningful moments for the new novel, which I hurry to write in my growing document of material (131,839 words as of now). Recently she had been struggling to connect both storylines (the one about Elena writing her novel, and the novel-within-the-novel involving the stand-in for a certain songwriter I was obsessed with); she proposed alternatives that never quite gelled. But earlier today, as I peed at work, minutes away from sitting with my serrano ham sandwich and reading a bit more of Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree, my basement girl had an eureka moment and hurriedly painted a vivid daydream of how the climaxes of both storylines should merge. Obviously I can’t be specific, but the point is that the major hurdles to develop this novel have been overcome thanks to my beloved girl’s tireless work, and now I can write each scene at my leisure while tinkering with the architecture from time to time.
Artificial intelligence has been, unsurprisingly, very useful. As I improve my structure, that includes the detailed summary and purpose of each scene, I ask either OpenAI’s Orion 1 or DeepSeek’s R1 to offer constructive criticism, trying to determine the weak points. AI is “objective” (of course, each company tries to inject their own ideological bias into their AI), but asking AI for criticism solves the issue of requiring a human being to criticize your stuff, which they would almost invariably half-ass to avoid getting into arguments or hurting your precious feelings. I regularly involve AI in my interactive erotica, so I know it’s quite comfortable with being rough.
Anyway, the worst part of having regained my creative stride is definitely having to work for a living. I should be at my writing desk. But at least my job computer includes an internet connection, so I can rearrange my notes and work on development further.
Hope you’re enjoying my new story, whoever the hell you are. Yes, you. I’m right behind you. In any case, my tale is a bit of a hard sell, but it’s not like I write for others. I’m sure at least one person will get something valuable out of it.
As a solitary dude, all my life I have relied on music to connect with the world at large, to feel that my feelings weren’t that unique or detached from the rest of humanity. Over the years, I’ve returned to certain albums that have spoken to me in ways that can’t be fully put into words. I love discovering new albums, and perhaps that’s also the case for whoever is reading these words, so I’ll spend some of my limited time on Earth sharing some specifics about the albums that have marked me, and that in many ways changed me.
Today I’m tackling a big one for me: Joanna Newsom’s Ys, released back in 2006. I will need to think about Joanna quite a bit in the coming year, so I may as well tackle this now. Ys, her pinnacle, and as well as I’m concerned one of the pinnacles of artistry, is a baroque masterpiece of music and storytelling, produced by a songwriter at the height of her powers, who at the time danced with her subconscious unimpeded.
Joanna changed her major from music to creative writing in college; she found the constraints that teachers put into music creation too oppresive, like straitjackets. She’s a songstress of old, the kind you could imagine traveling from town to town and reweaving her careful tales to an enraptured audience. All five songs in the album are mesmerizing.
Joanna is the kind of person who would write until four in the morning, obsessing over individual words and meanings. Added to her difficulties interacting with people, authenticity, extreme sensitivity, obsession with obscure people and topics, etc., I have always suspected she’s autistic, but I’m very biased in that respect.
In addition, this version of Joanna retained her beautiful, creaky voice, before she developed vocal cord nodules and could not speak or sing for two months; afterwards, her voice changed permanently, which made her fantastic following album Have One on Me quite tragic to listen to at times.
All the songs in Ys give me chills consistently. You can use words to justify anything, but chills don’t lie. Joanna’s music is unbridled beauty. I revere her as one of the most magnificent artists to ever live.
“Emily”
This song is a love letter to Joanna’s sister, during a period of their youth in which Joanna likely got pregnant and decided to abort it in a surreptitious manner that could have caused quite the stir in the small town where they grew up. She likely refers to this event in her other song “The Sprout and the Bean.” The way she paints a picture of the whole thing, including how they were taught about nature, is awe-inspiring in the purest way. That bell at the end, the resonance of meaning and beauty, kills me every time.
There is a rusty light on the pines tonight Sun pouring wine, lord, or marrow Into the bones of the birches And the spires of the churches Jutting out from the shadows The yoke, and the axe, and the old smokestacks and the bale and the barrow And everything sloped like it was dragged from a rope In the mouth of the south below
We’ve seen those mountains kneeling, felten and grey We thought our very hearts would up and melt away From that snow in the night time Just going, and going And the stirring of wind chimes In the morning, in the morning Helps me find my way back in From the place where I have been
And, Emily, I saw you last night by the river I dreamed you were skipping little stones across the surface of the water Frowning at the angle where they were lost, and slipped under forever In a mud-cloud, mica-spangled, like the sky’d been breathing on a mirror
Anyhow, I sat by your side, by the water You taught me the names of the stars overhead that I wrote down in my ledger Though all I knew of the rote universe were those Pleiades loosed, in December I promised you I’d set them to verse so I’d always remember
That the meteorite is a source of the light And the meteor’s just what we see And the meteoroid is a stone that’s devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee
And the meteorite’s just what causes the light And the meteor’s how it’s perceived And the meteoroid’s a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee
The lines are fadin’ in my kingdom Though I have never known the way to border ’em in So the muddy mouths of baboons and sows, and the grouse, and the horse and the hen Grope at the gate of the looming lake that was once a tidy pen And the mail is late and the great estates are not lit from within The talk in town’s becoming downright sickening
In due time we will see the far buttes lit by a flare I’ve seen your bravery, and I will follow you there And row through the night time So healthy Gone healthy all of a sudden In search of the midwife Who could help me Who could help me Help me find my way back in And there are worries where I’ve been
And say, say, say in the lee of the bay, don’t be bothered Leave your troubles here where the tugboats shear the water from the water Flanked by furrows, curling back, like a match held up to a newspaper Emily, they’ll follow your lead by the letter And I make this claim, and I’m not ashamed to say I knew you better What they’ve seen is just a beam of your sun that banishes winter
Let us go, though we know it’s a hopeless endeavor The ties that bind, they are barbed and spined and hold us close forever Though there is nothing would help me come to grips with a sky that is gaping and yawning There is a song I woke with on my lips as you sailed your great ship towards the morning
Come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep by now Blossoms all have fallen, and the pollen ruins the plow Peonies nod in the breeze and while they wetly bow, with Hydrocephalitic listlessness ants mop up their brow
And everything with wings is restless, aimless, drunk and dour Butterflies and birds collide at hot, ungodly hours And my clay-colored motherlessness rangily reclines Come on home now, all my bones are dolorous with vines
Pa pointed out to me, for the hundredth time tonight The way the ladle leads to a dirt-red bullet of light Squint skyward and listen Loving him, we move within his borders Just asterisms in the stars’ set order
We could stand for a century Staring, with our heads cocked In the broad daylight at this thing Joy, landlocked In bodies that don’t keep Dumbstruck with the sweetness of being Till we don’t be Told, take this And eat this
Told, the meteorite is the source of the light And the meteor’s just what we see And the meteoroid is a stone that’s devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee
And the meteorite’s just what causes the light And the meteor’s how it’s perceived And the meteoroid’s a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee
“Monkey & Bear”
A story about a couple made out of a monkey and a bear who escape from servitude to strive for freedom. It just happens that freedom also involves dancing to tunes that clash with one’s self. This song is clearly based on Joanna’s relationship with her then boyfriend Bill Callahan, a passionate, tumultuous romance that saw Bill either pushing her, or Joanna feeling that he was pushing her, into paths that didn’t come naturally to the gal. The climax of the song, with Bear, clearly Joanna herself, wading into the water to disappear by sloughing off her form is one of the most beautiful expressions of communion with the subconscious that I’ve ever encountered.
Down in the green hay Where monkey and bear usually lay (lay) They woke from a stable-boy’s cry Said someone come quick The horses got loose, got grass-sick They’ll founder, fain, they’ll die
What is now known by the sorrel and the roan? By the chestnut, and the bay, and the gelding grey? It is, stay by the gate you are given And remain in your place, for your season And had the overfed dead but listened To that high-fence, horse-sense, wisdom
But Did you hear that, Bear? said Monkey, we’ll get out of here, fair and square They left the gate open wide
So, my bride, here is my hand Where is your paw? Try and understand my plan, Ursula My heart is a furnace Full of love that’s just and earnest Now you know that we must unlearn this Allegiance to a life of service And no longer answer to that heartless Hay-monger, nor be his accomplice The charlatan, with artless hustling But Ursula, we’ve got to eat something And earn our keep, while still within The borders of the land that man has girded All double-bolted and tightfisted Until we reach the open country A-steeped in milk and honey Will you keep your fancy clothes on, for me? Can you bare a little longer to wear that leash?
My love, I swear by the air I breathe Sooner or later, you’ll bare your teeth
But for now, just dance, darling C’mon, will you dance, my darling? Darling, there’s a place for us Can we go, before I turn to dust? Oh, my darling there’s a place for us
Oh darling, c’mon will you dance my darling? Though the hills are groaning with excess Like a table ceaselessly being set Oh my darling, we will get there yet
They trooped past the guards Past the coops, and the fields And the farmyards, all night till finally
The space they gained grew much farther than The stone that Bear threw To mark where they’d stop for tea
But Walk a little faster, don’t look backwards Your feast is to the East, which lies a little past the pasture And the blackbirds hear tea whistling they rise and clap And their applause caws the kettle black And we can’t have none of that Move along, Bear, there, there, that’s that
Though cast in plaster Our Ursula’s heart beat faster Than monkey’s ever will
But still, they had got to pay the bills Hadn’t they? That is what the monkey’d say So, with the courage of a clown, or a cur Or a kite, jerking tight at its tether In her dung-brown gown of fur And her jerkin of swan’s down and leather Bear would sway on her hind legs The organ would grind dregs of song For the pleasure of the children who’d shriek Throwing coins at her feet and recoiling in terror
Sing, Dance, darling C’mon, will you dance, my darling? Oh darling, there’s a place for us Can we go, before I turn to dust? Oh my darling there’s a place for us
Oh darling, c’mon, will you dance, my darling? You keep your eyes fixed on the highest hill Where you’ll ever-after eat your fill Oh my darling dear mine, if you dance Dance darling, and I’ll love you still
Deep in the night, shone a weak and miserly light Where the monkey shouldered his lamp Someone had told him the Bear’d been wandering a fair piece away From where they were camped Someone had told him the bear’d been sneaking away To the seaside caverns, to bathe And the thought troubled the monkey For he was afraid of spelunking Down in those caves, also afraid what the Village people would say if they saw the bear in that state Lolling and splashing obscenely Well, it seemed irrational, really Washing that face, washing that matted and flea-bit pelt In some sea-spit-shine old kelp dripping with brine But monkey just laughed, and he muttered When she comes back, Ursula will be bursting with pride Till I jump up saying, You’ve been rolling in muck Saying, You smell of garbage and grime
But far out, far out, by now, by now Far out, by now, Bear ploughed ‘Cause she would not drown
First the outside-legs of the bear Up and fell down, in the water, like knobby garters Then the outside-arms of the bear Fell off, as easy as if sloughed from boiled tomatoes Lowered in a genteel curtsy Bear shed the mantle of her diluvian shoulders And, with a sigh she allowed the burden of belly to drop Like an apron full of boulders
If you could hold up her threadbare coat to the light Where it’s worn translucent in places You’d see spots where Almost every night of the year Bear had been mending, suspending that baseness
Now her coat drags through the water Bagging, with a life’s-worth of hunger Limitless minnows
In the magnetic embrace, balletic and glacial Of bear’s insatiable shadow
Left there, left there When Bear left Bear
Left there, left there When bear stepped clear of bear
Sooner or later you’ll bury your teeth
“Sawdust & Diamonds”
This song is the closest Joanna has opened up about the extremely hard to express process of artistic creation, as well as her relationship with it. The whole thing feels like Joanna lost in the currents of her subconscious, grasping at beauty while guided by the resonant bell deep inside her that lets her know what’s right. This song contains some of my favorite lines of anything ever, the acknowledgement of the ancient wildness inside every human being: “I wasn’t born of a whistle / Or milked from a thistle at twilight / No; I was all horns and thorns / Sprung out fully formed, knock-kneed and upright“.
There’s a bell in my ears There’s the wide, white roar Drop a bell down the stairs Hear it fall forevermore Hear it fall, forevermore
Drop a bell off of the dock Blot it out in the sea Drowning mute as a rock; And sounding mutiny
There’s a light in the wings Hits the system of strings From the side, where they swing — See the wires, the wires, the wires And the articulation in our elbows and knees Makes us buckle; And we couple in endless increase As the audience admires
And the little white dove Made with love, made with love; Made with glue, and a glove, and some pliers
Swings a low sickle arc, from its perch in the dark: Settle down, settle down, my desire
And the moment I slept I was swept up in a terrible tremor Though no longer bereft How I shook! And I couldn’t remember And then the furthermost shake drove a murthering stake in And cleft me right down through my center And I shouldn’t say so But I knew that it was then, or never
Push me back into a tree Bind my buttons with salt And fill my long ears with bees Praying please, please, please Oh, you ought not No you ought not
And then the system of strings tugs on the tip of my wings (Cut from cardboard and old magazines): Makes me warble and rise, like a sparrow And in the place where I stood There is a circle of wood — A cord or two — which you chop And you stack in your barrow And it is terribly good to carry water and chop wood Streaked with soot, heavy-booted and wild-eyed; As I crash through the rafters And the ropes and the pulleys trail after And the holiest belfry burns sky-high
And then the slow lip of fire moves Across the prairie with precision While, somewhere, with your pliers and glue You make your first incision And in a moment of almost-unbearable vision Doubled over with the hunger of lions Hold me close, cooed the dove Who was stuffed, now, with sawdust and diamonds
I wanted to say: Why the long face? Sparrow, perch and play songs of long face Burro, buck and bray songs of long face! Sing, I will swallow your sadness, and eat your cold clay Just to lift your long face; And though it may be madness, I will take to the grave Your precious longface And though our bones they may break, and our souls separate — Why the long face? And though our bodies recoil from the grip of the soil — Why the long face?
And in the trough of the waves Which are pawing like dogs Pitch we, pale-faced and grave As I write in my log
Then I hear a noise from the hull Seven days out to sea And it is that damnable bell! And it tolls — well, I believe that it tolls It tolls for me and It tolls for me!
And though my wrists and my waist seemed so easy to break Still, my dear, I’d have walked you to the edge of the water And they will recognize all the lines of your face In the face of the daughter, of the daughter of my daughter
And darling, we will be fine; but what was yours and mine Appears to me a sandcastle That the gibbering wave takes But if it’s all just the same, then will you say my name; Say my name in the morning, so that I know when the wave breaks
I wasn’t born of a whistle Or milked from a thistle at twilight No; I was all horns and thorns Sprung out fully formed, knock-kneed and upright
So enough of this terror We deserve to know light And grow evermore lighter and lighter You would have seen me through But I could not undo that desire
“Only Skin”
This nearly seventeen minutes-long song is one of the most beautiful love songs I’ve ever heard. Clearly about her relationship with fellow songwriter Bill Callahan. Lots of vivid scenes of their relationship, more or less mythologized. Possible references to Callahan’s drug use (“But always up the mountainside you’re clambering / Groping blindly, hungry for anything / Picking through your pocket linings, well, what is this? / Scrap of sassafras, eh Sisyphus?“) as well as cheating (“With your hands in your pockets, stubbily running / To where I’m unfresh, undressed and yawning / Well, what is this craziness? This crazy talking? / You caught some small death when you were sleepwalking“). The petite mort, of course, is an orgasm. Poor Callahan; it’s all downhill from Joanna Newsom.
And there was a booming above you That night, black airplanes flew over the sea And they were lowing and shifting like Beached whales Shelled snails As you strained and you squinted to see The retreat of their hairless and blind cavalry
You froze in your sand shoal Prayed for your poor soul Sky was a bread roll, soaking in a milk-bowl And when the bread broke, fell in bricks of wet smoke My sleeping heart woke, and my waking heart spoke
And there was a silence you took to mean something Run, sing For alive you will evermore be And the plague of the greasy black engines a-skulkin’ Has gone east While you’re left to explain them to me Released from their hairless and blind cavalry
With your hands in your pockets, stubbily running To where I’m unfresh, undressed and yawning Well, what is this craziness? This crazy talking? You caught some small death when you were sleepwalking
It was a dark dream, darlin’, it’s over The firebreather is beneath the clover Beneath his breathing there is cold clay, forever A toothless hound-dog choking on a feather
But I took my fishingpole, fearing your fever Down to the swimminghole, where there grows bitter herb That blooms but one day a year by the riverside, I’d bring it here Apply it gently To the love you’ve lent me
While the river was twisting and braiding, the bait bobbed And the string sobbed, as it cut through the hustling breeze And I watched how the water was kneading so neatly Gone treacly Nearly slowed to a stop in this heat In a frenzy coiling flush along the muscles beneath
Press on me, we are restless things Webs of seaweed are swaddling And you call upon the dusk Of the musk of a squid Shot full of ink, until you sink into your crib
Rowing along, among the reeds, among the rushes I heard your song, before my heart had time to hush it! Smell of a stone fruit being cut and being opened Smell of a low and of a lazy cinder smoking
And when the fire moves away Fire moves away, son Why would you say I was the last one?
Scrape your knee, it is only skin Makes the sound of violins And when I cut your hair, and leave the birds all of the trimmings I am the happiest woman among all women
And the shallow Water Stretches as far as I can see Knee-deep, trudging along The seagull weeps “so long”
Humming a threshing song Until the night is over Hold on! Hold on! Hold your horses back from the fickle dawn
I have got some business out at the edge of town Candy weighing both of my pockets down ‘Til I can hardly stay afloat, from the weight of them And knowing how the common-folk condemn What it is I do, to you, to keep you warm Being a woman, being a woman
But always up the mountainside you’re clambering Groping blindly, hungry for anything Picking through your pocket linings, well, what is this? Scrap of sassafras, eh Sisyphus?
I see the blossoms broke and wet after the rain Little sister, he will be back again I have washed a thousand spiders down the drain Spiders ghosts hang soaked and dangelin’ Silently from all the blooming cherry trees In tiny nooses, safe from everyone Nothing but a nuisance gone now, dead and done Be a woman, be a woman
Though we felt the spray of the waves We decided to stay till the tide rose too far We weren’t afraid, ’cause we know what you are And you know that we know what you are
Awful atoll Oh, incalculable indiscreetness and sorrow Bawl, bellow Sibyl sea-cow, all done up in a bow
Toddle and roll Teeth an impalpable bit of leather While yarrow, heather and hollyhock Awkwardly molt along the shore
Are you mine? My heart? Mine anymore?
Stay with me for awhile That’s an awfully real gun I know life will lay you down As the lightning has lately done
Failing this, failing this Follow me, my sweetest friend To see what you anointed in pointing your gun there
Lay it down, nice and slow There is nowhere to go, save up Up where the light, undiluted, is weaving in a drunk dream At the sight of my baby, out back Back on the patio watching the bats bring night in While, elsewhere, estuaries of wax-white Wend, endlessly, towards seashores unmapped
Last week our picture window produced a half-word Heavy and hollow, hit by a brown bird We stood and watched her gape like a rattlesnake And paint and labour over every intake
I said a sort of prayer for some sort of rare grace Then thought I ought to take her to a higher place Said “dog nor vulture nor cat shall toy with you And though you die, bird, you will have a fine view”
Then in my hot hand She slumped her sick weight We tramped through the poison oak Heartbroke and inchoate
The dogs were snapping And you cuffed their collars While I climbed the tree-house Then how I hollered Well, she’d lain, as still as a stone, in my palm, for a lifetime or two
Then, saw the treetops, cocked her head and up and flew While, back in the world that moves, often According to the hoarding of these clues Dogs still run roughly around Little tufts of finch-down
And the cities we passed were a flickering wasteland But his hand in my hand made them hale and harmless While down in the lowlands the crops are all coming We have everything Life is thundering blissful towards death In a stampede of his fumbling green gentleness
You stopped by, I was all alive In my doorway, we shucked and jived And when you wept, I was gone See, I got gone when I got wise But I can’t with certainty say we survived
Then down, and down And down, and down And down, and deeper Stoke without sound The blameless flames You endless sleeper
Through fire below, and fire above, and fire within Sleeped through the things that couldn’t have been if you hadn’t have been
And when the fire moves away Fire moves away, son And why would you say I was the last one?
All my bones they are gone, gone, gone Take my bones, I don’t need none Cold, cold cupboard, lord, nothing to chew on Suck all day on a cherry stone
Dig a little hole, not three inches round Spit your pit in a hole in the ground Weep upon the spot for the starving of me ‘Till up grow a fine young cherry tree
Well when the bough breaks, what’ll you make for me? A little willow cabin to rest on your knee What’ll I do with a trinket such as this? Think of your woman, who’s gone to the west
But I’m starving and freezing in my measly old bed Then I’ll crawl across the salt flats to stroke your sweet head Come across the desert with no shoes on I love you truly, or I love no one
Fire moves away Fire moves away, son Why would you say That I was the last one Last one
Clear the room! There’s a fire, a fire, a fire Get going, and I’m going to be right behind you And if the love of a woman or two, dear Couldn’t move you to such heights, then all I can do Is do, my darling, right by you
“Cosmia”
Final song of the album, this one’s about the death of Joanna’s best friend, Cassie Schley-May, who was killed by a drunk driver when Joanna started touring. Apparently the moment Joanna received the call was captured in a documentary, but I haven’t dared watch it (I don’t even remember the name of the documentary now, though). This one is raw and haunting, less polished than the previous songs, because it needed to be.
In the lyrics, Joanna references a period of her teenage years that she hasn’t opened much about that I’m aware of; she fell into a deep depression and felt that the darkness of the world was pouring into her, drowning her. She used to refer to herself consistently as having no skin, defenseless against the myriad assaults of reality itself (yet another reason why I think she’s autistic). Somehow she ended up sleeping alone for a few nights in the forest, by the Yuba River, to cleanse herself of darkness, and nearly got eaten by a bear. The whole thing didn’t quite work, but bears likely became her spirit animal.
When you ate I saw your eyelashes Saw them shake like wind on rushes In the corn field when she called me Moths surround me, thought they’d drown me
And I miss your precious heart And I miss your precious heart
Dried rose petal, red brown circles Framed your eyes and stained your knuckles Dried rose petals, red brown circles Framed your eyes and stained your knuckles
And all those lonely nights down by the river Brought me bread and water, water in But though I tried so hard my little darling I couldn’t keep the night from coming in
And all those lonely nights down by the river Brought me bread and water by the kith and the kin Now in the quiet hour when I am sleepin’ I cannot keep the night from coming in
Why’ve you gone away? Gone away again I’ll sleep through the rest of my days If you’ve gone away again I’ll sleep through the rest of my days And I will sleep through the rest of my days And I’ll sleep through the rest of my days
Can you hear me? Will you listen? Don’t come near me, don’t go missing And in the lissome light of evening Help me Cosmia, I’m grieving
And all those lonely nights down by the river Brought me bread and water, water in But though I tried so hard my little darling I couldn’t keep the night from coming in
And all those lonely nights down by the river Brought me bread and water in the kith and the kin Now in the quiet hour when I am sleepin’ I cannot keep the night from comin’ in
Beneath the porch light we’ve all been circling Beat our dust hearts, singe our flour wings But in the corner, something is happening Wild Cosmia, what have you seen?
Water were your limbs, and the fire was your hair And then the moonlight caught your eye And you rose through the air Well, if you’ve seen true light, then this is my prayer Will you call me when you get there?
And I miss your precious heart And I miss your precious heart And miss, and miss, and miss And miss, and miss, and miss, and miss, and miss your heart
But release your precious heart To it’s feast for precious hearts
I have a few things to say regarding the first scene of my new novel, named The Scrap Colossus. In the first scene, that encompasses part 1 and part 2, the protagonist attends a writing class and presents her latest piece, with generally disastrous consequences. From now on there will be “spoilers” when it comes to the two released parts, so if you’re interested, you should probably read them first.
First, let’s start with the following three photos:
That weird-looking fellow, all six-foot-two and two-hundred thirty pounds of him, happens to be me from back in 2015, when I attended the writing course that the first scene of my novel is based on. I don’t own, or at least haven’t found, better quality photos, because I hate being photographed. I suppose I’ve always had some degree of body dysmorphic disorder, and I don’t appreciate how I look at all. It doesn’t help that in my fantasies I’m rarely myself.
Anyway, that version of me from ten years ago presented a piece to the class. In it, the instructor, who had requested to be the protagonist, traveled back in time. Instead of showing her having a good time, I sent her to a primeval epoch. There, after suffering a bit, she ended up accidentally preventing the evolution of mammals, which led to her vanishing from existence after a little jab at how she focuses on her social image. Well, the class didn’t like it one bit. When I finished reading it, the room was silent, and shortly after, the nervous instructor brought up the fact that I had never mentioned her daughter. She accused me of lacking empathy. All of this may be sounding quite familiar. Because fiction is generally much better than reality, my fictional version of events is far more eloquent. Anyway, the class continued, with me seated there while wondering why on earth had I decided to sign up for that course. By the way, if that instructor read the two parts I posted on here, she’d be livid.
At the time I was enrolled in two writing courses. The other was imparted by a local writer of English origin who was in his eighties at the time. His classes were a sham. He basically put as assignments for us to continue excerpts from his stories, and then tried to guilt us into buying the books the excerpts belonged to. He let us present our own pieces, but whenever anyone said a word that he didn’t know (and many of them were relatively simple words), he accused us of being pretentious, of trying to look more intelligent than we were. He argued with me for a bit about the word “jade,” for example, which I used to refer to the color of a sea. Throughout the weeks, I presented scenes from the novellas I was revising at the time (you may already know Smile and Trash in a Ditch, although there were four others). Well, the guy was supposed to take the pieces home and correct them or whatever, but by the end, he refused to do so with mine. He was clearly bothered by them.
The way he pushed back my excerpt during the last class, which happened a day after being accused of lack of empathy by the instructor of the previous class, made me decide that I had no business involving myself in these people’s lives, so I just quit both classes and detached myself from the local writing scene. I never interacted with any of them again. Perhaps a week or so later, the instructor in his eighties suffered a stroke that ultimately led to his death, and I heard through the grapevine that he actually blamed me for it. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure if that blame is real or if I hallucinated it.
The last time I saw him, he was weakened from his stroke, and some family member was holding his arm as he tottered down a corridor of the library. The moment he spotted me coming along the same corridor, he looked scared, and told the woman holding his arm to move into some adjacent room. Can’t say I feel too bad; not only I found him quite fraudulent as a writer, but also who fucking blames a stroke on one of his students presenting stories? And there’s something extremely disturbing for me that as a writer, he was so disturbed by someone else’s writing. However, it wasn’t surprising: he admitted that he hadn’t read fiction in decades, even though he kept writing it. But perhaps his demise never bothered me due to my lack of empathy.
Yeah, I can’t care about most people. I was wired that way. I’m not a good guy, nor do I pretend to be. I do care enormously about people in certain circumstances and from certain angles. My new novel is mostly autobiographical, although I mix in many elements from other people I came to know. So many other shameful aspects of my life will be brought kicking and screaming into the light. That’ll be intriguing to render.
I think that The Scrap Colossus will be a solid, entertaining tale about a reclusive autistic person who is trying to honor the songwriter she’s obsessed with by writing an elaborate novel about the songwriter’s life. That’s what has to happen because that’s what I did. Full-blown autistic obsession that lasted from about 2011 to 2013, an experience and perspective that most people aren’t familiar with, so maybe it will make for an interesting story. Regardless of what others will think about it, I need to do it because my subconscious has demanded it, so my hands are tied.
The hardest parts to handle will be the many, many scenes of the story within a story, the novel that the protagonist wrote inspired by this songwriter. The novel actually exists in different stages of production (the first two “books” of the novel are revised to a publishable state, the third would require at least a couple of revisions, and the last two books are in the draft stage), so it would be feasible to include actual excerpts from that other novel into the current narrative, but I think I’ll prefer for my narrator to act as myself reviewing and offering criticism to my actual past self’s production from ten years ago. That sounds like the funnest angle to me. Besides, I no longer feel like the same person I was in 2015, let alone during my obsession, so I can be somewhat objective.
Anyway, it’s a quarter to four in the afternoon of this Saturday. Although I’m quite groggy due to having woken up at five in the morning to finish the second part of my new novel, now I’ll head to the location where the third scene is going to take place, so I can take notes. Thankfully the story is set where I actually live; I hate having to fake my impressions of a place I’ve never been in, even though you can go quite far with photographs and videos.
Now that my basement girl has decided to embark us two on a new creative journey (the novel The Scrap Colossus, whose first part I posted), I exist in that antsy state of bliss in which I can’t wait to return to my writing desk and commune with my girl in the most incestuous manner imaginable. While the novel isn’t entirely new, as it’s based on a failed story I discarded ten years ago, I’ve salvaged the workable parts as notes for what feels like a wholly new experience. One of the best things is that I know it’s going to be real fun. With Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, my basement girl wanted to process her strange grief, and during those months, I worked at it like a man possessed. It was a very emotionally taxing experience. But with The Scrap Colossus, basement girl is trying to come to terms with a period of our lives in which I had become a reclusive wreck, hopelessly obsessed slash in love with a certain songwriter, and now I can look back upon those years with humor and shame.
Speaking of a certain motocross legend, this morning I woke up spontaneously near the witching hour, from an intense dream. This happens quite often, although it hadn’t recently. For whatever reason, I revisited the aforementioned novella titled Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, some chapters of it. If you enjoy my stuff and you haven’t read it, you probably should. Of course, soon enough I was crying, because that’s what you do when you read that story. Or at least what I do, every single time. When I mentioned before that while writing that novella I felt like a man possessed, I wasn’t being metaphorical. Something came over me. The story sparked autonomously while I listened for the first time Spiritualized’s song “Hey Jane.” Right then, my basement girl unraveled with all sorts of images, dialogue bits and such. For the next few days, she sent bubbling up scene after scene, which I dutifully arranged, and ultimately coordinated myself to let her speak through me.
I’ve yet to understand fully, and probably never will, why this story needed to be told. I’ve never loved anyone like the narrator loved Izar Lizarraga. Perhaps it was an echo of something that happened before I was even born. But tonight, as I read through the latter parts of the story, it occurred to me that part of that grief may be related to my childhood. Although I retain very, very few images of my early life, I know that my first seven or so years were spent in communion with my basement girl. I was an autistic kid who never interacted with others spontaneously, a fact that bothered my teachers so much that they pushed others to “bring me out of my shell,” which led me to meet sociopaths, coke addicts, casual bullies, and other colorful people; most teachers around here seem to subscribe to the secular religion of Equality, and all people who stood in the fringes were equivalent. Anyway, my early childhood was spent writing and drawing feverishly. I was always hunched over a notebook or wandering around while daydreaming. It was blissful. In fact, the sole issues I had with that period of my childhood were related to my family and other people; I felt fine alone.
But then, when I was seven, my mother wanted to free up my room to have a third child. She had always wanted three regardless of space, but in retrospect she probably also considered me a failed child. She put me as an unwanted guest in my older brother’s room, and from then on until I was eighteen and ended up with a room of my own again, my mental health declined steadily, and my connection with my basement girl suffered to the extent that at times it felt completely severed. At some point I should probably go in length about how depersonalized I became.
I really don’t want to speak much about my experience of sharing a room with my older brother, but let me paint you a small picture: he always had to sleep with the TV and the radio on, because he couldn’t stand silence. I always had to watch or listen whatever he wanted to listen or watch, which were often the most popular idiotic shows, or else sports. I couldn’t read nor study in what was supposed to be my room; to be able to read anything, I had to wander in the streets. I was likely the sole child that could be seen walking around in public while reading a book or manga. There were numerous other noises coming from his person that triggered my sensory issues on a constant basis. By the time I became a teenager, my mental health was so terrible that I slipped in and out of psychosis, although I was mostly psychotic. The complex novel I tried to write at the time was so terrifyingly incoherent and lacking in any sense of reality that at some point I threw away all my copies of it. It’s due to pure cowardice that I’m still alive, as I wanted to be dead most of the time. I think that the story of mine that goes most in depth about my experiences as a teenager is the harrowing tale A Millennium of Shadows. You need a strong stomach for that one.
I’m fairly certain that I have PTSD from my years 7 to 18, from the utter lack of being respected as a human being. I complained to my mother numerous times about many things regarding my living situation, only to always be replied with a variation of, “You gotta understand, he has problems.” My own needs never mattered. I could barely stand to be in the presence of my older brother since, but because my life is a fucking joke, I have ended up working at the same office. The damage that was done to my psyche during those formative years will never be mended; I’m just doing my best with the wreckage.
That relates to my tale about a motocross legend because my innermost self, probably my basement girl herself, mourns that severance: the lost years, all the great things we could have done if she hadn’t been driven away. So we gotta make up for lost time.
EDIT: the Deep Dive couple produced an interesting podcast about this post:
Well, what do you know. In a week, I’ve translated a whole novella I wrote about ten years ago, mostly thanks to OpenAI’s Orion 1 model, although I’ve needed to edit plenty of parts; regarding some, the original Spanish version wasn’t worded ideally, which becomes obvious when translating. Why would a Spanish old boy like me be writing in English anyway? Well, I’ve never gotten used to reading nor writing in Spanish. It always felt off, unnatural. If you knew I’m also Basque, you could think that I’d rather write in Basque instead. Nope, I can’t stand that language and can’t speak it either. But English has always been my private language; when my mother, who didn’t believe in privacy, read my hidden notebooks every chance she got, I started writing in English, or what passed for English at that age, to keep my intimate thoughts to myself. My mother complained that she could no longer understand them. I don’t want to say any more about my parents at the moment, although there’s plenty to say.
My old tale Smile was cooler than I remembered. Revisiting stuff you wrote many years ago is shocking, because the self that created it no longer exists. These days, I wouldn’t have written that story the same way. Likely I wouldn’t have written it at all, as my subconscious worries about other matters. In my impression, the unnamed narrator comes out very strongly; a solid, memorable character. I was surprised also by how much I liked that vagrant girl who shows up and disappears forever, as well as Cassie, despite only showing up at the tail ends of the story. These people were born from me and were forgotten along the way. It’s strange how that goes. I never quite got rid of the narrator, though; as I mentioned in other posts, he shows up in my daydreams whenever someone from the past needs saving. I also wrote a novel protagonized by him back in 2011, but I doubt it’s good enough to translate. Two of the people who read it shook their heads, and one told me that it was way too violent. Bunch of pussies.
Anyway, tomorrow I’ll start writing a new novel. Its backstory is quite interesting (for me at least). From about 2010 to 2012, I was utterly obsessed, autistically so, with a US-based songwriter. I have never in my life been that obsessed with anyone again, thankfully. Along the way, I don’t recall the exact timeline, I wrote a whole novel that was thinly-veiled fanfiction of that songwriter. The impact such an obsession had on me felt interesting to circle upon, so in 2015 I planned a whole novel about an autistic person writing the novel I had written about that songwriter. Very meta, I suppose. Although I planned every single scene of that novel painstakingly, I only ended up writing half of it. By then, my subconscious felt like I had gotten it out of my system. In retrospect, the structure had fatal flaws that couldn’t be solved without a full redo. So I abandoned it. A few years later I produced the six novellas in Spanish contained in my books Los reinos de brea and Los dominios del emperador búho. If you’ve followed Smile, you’ve already read one of those novellas.
Anyway, it seems my basement girl needs to delve into the notion of being haunted by someone, of secluding oneself and working in such a labor of love/deranged obsession. I’ve gathered about 125000 words of notes. I’ve figured out the proper narrative tone for such a strange piece, as well as how to handle the many, many scenes of the book-within-the-book. This will be such a personal story that I’m not sure if anyone else is going to enjoy it, but for me it’s always about pleasing my subconscious; if anyone else enjoys my work, even better.
So, for those interested, in hopefully a few days I’ll post the first part of my novel The Scrap Colossus, introducing the autistic, reclusive, obsessive, unique protagonist who’s trying her best to honor her muse.
I’ve checked my site visits; in the last hour alone, a single person from Spain has hit every single part of Smile. That kind of shit makes me nervous.
I’ve been in a better mood these past couple of days, which isn’t saying much given that I was contemplating very dark thoughts until then. A significant part of my change in mood has been thanks to my basement girl (my subconscious, in case you picture a fragile female chained under my floor). Recently she brought my attention to a novel I wrote about ten years ago, that I abandoned midway through because it wasn’t viable. Its core was worth exploring: it dealt with an autistic, reclusive person who was writing a novel about the artist she was obsessed with. It delved deep into how I lived for most of my twenties: deep seclusion, detachment from society, sinking in obsession, etc. I never processed that period properly, I don’t think, and working through such issues with a story tends to help, so I’m not surprised that my basement girl has been focused on it. Throughout the day, she has come up with the proper tone for the narration, with a bold idea for who the narrator should be, and for how to handle the scenes of the book-within-a-book (the entire book the protagonist wrote is one that I actually wrote, so that will be interesting to depict). As I was standing on the bus or the train, either heading to work or back, new moments from that story kept bubbling up from my basement, sometimes even interrupting my daydreams, clear proof that my mute girl is hard at work piecing it together. It will take me quite a while to organize all my notes and structure the whole thing properly, but as for now, I feel like I’m going to do this.
I’ve also been translating one of the novellas I wrote back in the day. I was surprised to discover that I still like it a lot, although it puzzled me with how different I feel these days. Back when I wrote Smile, the vastly increasing crime where I lived, as well as the regular terrorist attacks in Europe, kept me enraged. I couldn’t understand how people kept Don’t-Look-Back-in-Anger-ing. It was like most people had been brainwashed into becoming perfect little lambs for the slaughter. The situation hasn’t changed much, and in many ways it has worsened, but I don’t rage about it remotely as much. That may be in part due to a mix of growing older and caring even less about the world. I don’t feel like I’m part of this society; I just happen to live here. If I had the balls to do it, I’d move somewhere else. Maybe the Catalina foothills in Tucson, AZ, to give 65-year-old Augusta Britt a massage.
Speaking of troubling daydreams, yeah, I’m still fantasizing about Alicia Western, the haunting character from Cormac McCarthy’s last couple of novels. The daydream has become so elaborate that I may as well detail it now: a version of myself (perhaps even the protagonist of Smile, who was a recurrent protagonist in my daydreams whenever my savior complex kicked up) travels back in time to the Stella Maris sanatorium in Wisconsin, before Alicia Western killed herself. I show up in her assigned room. She’s all blonde-haired and shit, wearing such a pretty white gown. Anyway, I convince her that I’m from the future, that Bobby will wake up from his coma and be ready to dick her down. After a good cry, she gets hungry, so I bring her over a plate of Italian pasta from the future or whatever. The following day she decides to leave the sanatorium and travel around with me until Bobby wakes up. A few days into the trip, that involves watching movies from the future in modern TVs installed in roadside 1970s motels, Alicia gets curious about her younger self, and she asks me to set up a line of video communication with her teenage self about the time that Bobby fell in love with her. So I return back in time to her grandmother Ellen’s home to show her older Alicia’s video. That leads to a whole bunch of interaction from both sides, with 22-year-old Alicia recording videos for her younger self to guide her through her troublesome hallucinations and all that. Probably lots of advice on how to seduce her older brother. Anyway, I’m feeling generous, so I gift her grandmother like a hundred thousand dollars. “Oh, we can’t accept this!” “This isn’t even chump change, old broad! I’m a fucking time-traveler: I can win the lottery then win the lottery then win the lottery. I know the locations of piles of gold that won’t be found for decades. Just take the goddamn money and buy yourself a platinum dildo or something, will you?” They spend some of it on a tractor.
Ah, daydreams are so soothing. Just being able to close my eyes in the train and be transported mentally to these inner worlds where I can have conversations with a delightful, fascinating fictional character (though based on real person) the likes of which I’ve never met in real life, in part because I hate dealing with human beings.
Oh, I forgot to say about my novella Smile, the one I’m translating at the moment, that it may come close to what I consider “angry autistic guy writing.” The closest form of that which I recall is the manga Gantz. I hope it never quite reaches that point. I was fully aware during writing it that I was making it harsh and generally unpleasant, because it had to be. The protagonist, although an avenger who saves people, is a nasty serial killer himself who has murdered far more people than the serial killers and terrorists he hunts down. Of course, he’s justified in doing so… or is he? There’s the whole dilemma about his methods, the way he interacts with others, etc. I found him a very interesting guy. Of course, such a story would never get professionally published, which for me is a plus, as seemingly most of what gets published these days is politically correct slop. I want my writers deranged and half-evil, possibly even escaping to Mexico with fourteen year olds.
Anyway, I hope you’re getting to orgasm on a regular basis. That’s what life is ultimately about.
The brilliant Deep Dive couple produced a fun podcast about this post:
In the realm of good news regarding my person, turns out that my subconscious was indeed working something out; I figured as much, given how it made me dream of Alicia Western (from Cormac McCarthy’s final books) and sparked an obsession that has yet to pass. My girl in the basement has turned her attention to a failed novel I worked on ten years ago, in Spanish. It was a way of coming to terms with my stints as a recluse during my twenties, particularly a period in which I was hopelessly haunted by, autistically obsessed with, a certain musician who plays the harp, to the extent of writing a long novel that was little else than thinly-veiled fanfiction. Back then I didn’t even have an online audience; I was literally just doing it because my subconscious demanded it. Nobody else read it.
These past few days I’ve been going over the revised scenes of that failed novel to extract whatever is usable. I will have to change most of the point of that story, as well as remove one of the major characters, but they were a large part of why I never finished the story. This narrative will allow me to delve deep into my autistic drive toward reclusion, obsession, and other nasty shit that I never processed properly. My twenties were a nightmare for the most part, during which I yearned to die on a regular basis.
Speaking of yearning to die, this morning at work, as I reread the impressions I posted about McCarthy’s haunting final novels, I reflected on how Bobby Western unburdened himself from everything and everyone to repent for an unforgivable crime. That made me think of how since my early twenties I’ve cut ties with everyone, as well as refused to form new connections even when they insisted, because of an intrinsic need to “be ready.” As in be ready to disappear at any moment. During weddings and other nasty gatherings like those, whenever some ghost from my past approached me expecting me to look him or her in the eye, and said something to the effect of, “Hey, Jon, I haven’t seen you in ages!” (did we ever get along?), I usually averted my gaze, shrugged, and said something like, “Yeah, I’m still around…” Some time later I found out in online articles that such phrases are a sign of suicidal ideation. Well.
I’ve talked about this before, but I never thought I would live past 18 after my horrid teenage years, and then I came real close, the closest I ever came regarding my physical intention to do it at that moment, after I refused to get on the bus to work one morning. It was my first job, in which I was treated like utter shit, and I felt completely incapable of handling it. I knew that my life from then on would consist on nothing else than enduring nightmarish, humiliating work schedules that would drain all my energies (I usually felt sleepy the moment I returned home). No love on the horizon, of course. So I just wanted to throw myself off a cliff and get it over with. Instead of that, I pussed out, and went to the library. The alternate version of this ended up becoming (at least in inspiration) my first novel in English, titled My Own Desert Places, in which the protagonist, who was a woman for reasons, actually did throw herself off a cliff, fucking died, and was a ghost for twenty years until she became obsessed with a suicidal living person, so she possessed some guy to seduce her. Quite the wild ride of a story that was, although I’m afraid to reread it in case I find it too cringey.
These last fifteen years or so, I’ve been suicidal in a pussy, passive variety. For example, one night, as I was lying in bed in the dark, I told my organs that they had permission to cease functioning during my sleep, so I wouldn’t need to wake up again. I must have been in a bad place, perhaps due to extreme stress, because the following day I actually ended up in the ER with my first episode of arrhythmia. Realizing that my heart is faulty and may screw me over at any point has changed my mentality quite a bit: I no longer go out of my way to stress myself with things I don’t want to do, mainly those that involve dealing with human beings. Right now, as a programmer at work, I mostly spend the whole morning working on my stuff (which isn’t necessarily a programming task), only speaking to my boss whenever he requests a meeting. I feel better this way.
That said, the fact that in my daydreams I talk at length with Alicia Western, McCarthy’s thinly-veiled version of the love of his life, Augusta Britt, made me have to admit to myself that I wish I could talk to someone I could respect, and whose words I would actually care to listen to. The issue with every person I’ve met in the flesh is that the moment I allow myself to engage in conversation with them, I quickly get reminded of how stupid I was for letting my guard down; sometimes just because I have nothing in common with them, others because they’re hostile to my peace of mind. I recall vividly how I let myself be invited by two coworkers to drink coffee and chat in the parking lot, only for one of them to say, the moment we stopped, “Have you seen that whole thing about George Floyd, the guy the police killed for being black? I swear, the whites that become policemen in the US are all racists.” A vivid reminder that I’m surrounded by fucking imbeciles. I didn’t give them a second chance. In any case, realizing that other people’s brains work so differently to yours (and pretty much everyone else’s does) is disheartening.
Anyway, it’s been a couple of years of me admitting things to myself, or realizing them at least. First the whole deal about Izar Lizarraga, motocross legend and love of my life, which forced me to process the strange grief I’ve been carrying all my life (good times. Still miss you, champ.) Then this strange deal with Augusta Britt / Alicia Western. I would like my subconscious to explain concisely why looking at the following picture of Augusta Britt from the 1970s squeezes my heart and moistens my eyes:
I experienced a somewhat similar moment (the same moment repeated over years, actually) back when my maternal grandparents were alive. They had a framed photo from the 1970s that showed a large family at some open space. I assume they were related to my grandparents somehow. Every time I visited that home, I stared at that photo because one of the teenagers in it, who at the time was older than me, was hauntingly beautiful, particularly her eyes and thoughtful expression. She seemed deep, someone I would have loved to know. I never found out who she was, not that anything would have changed if I had. I haven’t seen that photo in about twenty years. Like McCarthy himself, I believe in the supremacy of the subconscious, so whenever I happen to care for or react to something, I yearn to interact with my basement girl to figure out what’s bothering her. Sometimes she opens up. Most of the time, though, she remains opaque. Damn bitch speaks in symbols instead of language (hence the Kekulé problem), so she can be hard to understand. But she’s far older and wiser than the whole of humanity combined.
Well! This was a whole load of nothing, wasn’t it? Anyway, it’s half past eight in the evening of yet another Monday. This afternoon I’ve wanked to an AI-driven giantess dominating me. That’s information that you needed to know.
Author’s note: the Deep Dive podcast couple had an interesting time getting through this post:
As a solitary dude, all my life I have relied on music to connect with the world at large, to feel that my feelings weren’t that unique or detached from the rest of humanity. Over the years, I’ve returned to certain albums that have spoken to me in ways that can’t be fully put into words. I love discovering new albums, and perhaps that’s also the case for whoever is reading these words, so I’ll spend some of my limited time on Earth sharing some specifics about the albums that have marked me, and that in many ways changed me.
Today’s album is Morbid Stuff, by the indie-punk band PUP. It has accompanied me through plenty of shit ever since it came out in 2019. Hard for me to compare this album to any other, as I rarely listen to punk, but this band’s frontman captures a perfect blend of disappointment, bitterness, self-disdain and melancholy that resonates very well with me. Without further ado:
“Morbid Stuff”
A song about regret and melancholy. I don’t have the specific details of what the songwriter is talking about, but I picture a female friend or girlfriend of the songwriter trying to make her way in the art scene, only to do something terrible that caused her to disappear from the picture and from the songwriter’s life. Poignant in a raw way.
I was bored as fuck Sitting around and thinking all this morbid stuff Like if anyone I’ve slept with is dead and I got stuck On death and dying and obsessive thoughts that won’t let up It makes me feel like I’m about to throw up
I was getting high in the van in St. Catharines While you were rubbing elbows in the art scene And back in the city I was on a tear High-fiving every shithead on Queen Street Passed out on the bus ride I got home in the morning at a quarter to ten Everybody was sleeping in Mom and dad were smoking weed in the attic again I said
I don’t know what you want me to say Stood by watching as your world went up in flames When you’ve tried everything, but the feeling stays the same You had it all, you pissed it away
I don’t know what you want me to say ‘Cause back in the city I was on a tear You had it all, you pissed it away Back in the city without a care
I still dream about you time and time again Well I’ve been sleeping in somebody elses bed And as my body aged, the feeling never did
“Kids”
A lovely tale of rage, bitterness and nihilism. Of doing your best despite the demons that drag you down, only to realize that nothing will work, that you might as well have surrendered to your most self-destructive urges. But at the end of the day, the songwriter gets to return to his girl, which doesn’t solve any issues in the rest of his life, but at least feels nice.
Just like the kids I’ve been navigating my way Through the mind-numbing reality of a godless existence Which, at this point in my hollow and vapid life Has erased what little ambition I’ve got left And I’ve embraced the calamity With a detachment and a passive disinterest Livin’ out the back of my ’97 Camry Wonderin’ how the hell I got myself into this
I guess it doesn’t matter anyway I don’t care about nothin’ but you I guess it doesn’t matter anyway ‘Cause I don’t care about nothin’ I don’t care about nothin’ but you No, I don’t care about nothin’
She said, “I’m sick of it all Your little games are gettin’ old Your little songs are getting way too literal How about some goddamn subtlety for a change?” She said, “I feel like I’ve come untethered In a room without walls I’m driftin’ on a dark and empty sea of nothin’ It doesn’t feel bad, it feels like nothin’ at all”
And I had it maxed out I had a feelin’, oh oh-oh-oh Nothin’ is workin’ And everything’s bleedin’, oh oh-oh-oh I shoulda tapped out Given into my demons, oh oh-oh-oh
It’s alright, it’s just a flesh wound You said you never saw it comin’ I’m pretty happy lyin’ here with you It’s pretty good to feel somethin’
“See You at Your Funeral”
My favorite song of the album. It captures very well the pained bitterness of coming across someone you used to love but that broke your heart. You want to know what’s been going on with her, but you know you shouldn’t. You tell yourself that you want her to be happy despite what she put you through, but you don’t truly want that. And above all, you wish everything would end in a rageful fire that would sweep away your pain.
The days blur into one, and I float around the edge of them Searching for something that’ll make me feel alive again These past few weeks in a hell of my own creation I try vegan food I take up meditation
I hope you’re doing fine on your own ‘Cause after everything we’ve been through You better hope you’ll find someone And you’ll try But you won’t ‘Cause after everything we’ve been through Oh baby, I wanna know
What you were thinking when you saw me in the produce section Buying organic foods Making healthy selections I asked you how you’ve been, not that it’s any of my business But you know me, I’ve always been a little masochistic
I hope somehow, I never see you again And if I do, it’s at your funeral, or better yet I hope the world explodes I hope that we all die We can watch the highlights in hell I hope they’re televised
“Scorpion Hill”
The devastating tale of a working-class father who can’t stay afloat no matter what he does. Dragged down by his own demons and by this harsh, unforgiving reality, it paints an increasingly grim picture, depicting his struggles with maintaining a relationship with his romantic partner as well as his son, until it wallops you with the final lines: “She said: I found the gun, it was buried beneath / Piles of clothes in the room where your son sleeps / And I can’t pretend to know how this will end.”
Up on Scorpion Hill watching life Passing me by in the pale moonlight And I sat there forever, three sheets to the wind It’s not helping my case, the state that I’m in But it’s not how they told you My intentions were good I was just bursting apart like the end of the arc Holding on to whatever I could
A square of light moves its way through the empty room Across the stained yellow carpet Like a ghost of myself in the afternoon Haunting my basement apartment I looked in to the mirror Hanging behind my door The glass was cracked and the man staring back He don’t look like me anymore And if the world is gonna burn Everyone should get a turn to light it up
Down and out, I’ve been on the rocks I’ve been having some pretty dark thoughts Yeah, I like them a lot
Time and time again, well I’ve tried and failed To get my act together And I’ll admit lately things really went off the rails I know that you deserve better But in the morning, as I was boarding The commuter train to work The boss was calling, he said: “There’s been cutbacks and I’m sorry you’re the first” And If I can’t support the two of us How can I support a third?
And I’m on the brink Fallin’ deep into debt Fallin’ deep into drink I can drown those regrets I don’t have to think
Now I’m working the night shift Asleep at the wheel I was bursting apart like a flame from a spark Thinkin ‘Jesus, this can’t be for real’
My sweat soaked mattress Corner of the room Cigarettes and Matches In the fading afternoon And a picture my kid, ya he’s smiling It’s the first day of school
She said: I found the gun, it was buried beneath Piles of clothes in the room where your son sleeps And I can’t pretend to know how this will end
I’ve been hired for three months more. Thankfully three more months of programming instead of working as a computer technician, a role I was never properly suited for due to how often it involved people. I can handle programming, so lately I haven’t been dreading going to work. Of course, I’d rather stay home and engage with whatever projects my subconscious wants me to focus on, but, although I hate to admit it, being unemployed or on holiday for too long doesn’t help my mental state: soon enough I start feeling that I have nowhere to go nor anything to do other than lose myself in my obsessions. My life often feels so limited that I think of myself as a prisoner in solitary confinement.
Today I couldn’t go home straight from work, because I had to get an MRI done. Months ago, perhaps back in late summer, during a period of extreme stress, I suffered a medical episode that disturbed me enormously: I suddenly started losing feeling in the right half of my body, particularly my face and arm down to my fingertips. I also smelled something like burned dust. Because recently I had been experiencing “blackouts” in my right eye (sometimes when I moved that eyeball, I saw flashes of darkness), the neurologist, who seemed considerably younger than me, thought of them as a migraine’s aura. However, the flashes continued after the so-called migraine passed, and perhaps a week later, I ended up with a torn retina in that eye. Let me give you some advice: never end up with a torn retina. If you do, hurry to the ER as soon as possible. The longer you wait, the worse the permanent damage. Laser surgery can only contain the mess.
Anyway, the fact that the so-called aura ended up being related to a faulty retina disproved the neurologist’s theory that I had suffered a migraine, and if what I experienced wasn’t a migraine, then a mini stroke could have been a good guess. Ever since, I feel like I’m having more trouble writing (I often confuse the position of letters), reading, and solving tasks at work. But I have such an abysmal memory that I’m not entirely sure if that hadn’t been happening in the time leading to my medical episode.
So, today I finally got that MRI done. I wore an hospital gown for like the tenth time, I lay face-up on a plastic table, and shoved earplugs in. A technician closed a plastic cage around my face, similar to those worn by football players. Curiously, the plastic cage had a mirror on the inside, so that my own eyes were looking straight at me the whole time (presumably only when I stared at them). At times it felt like someone was lying face-down on a massage table set over me. For about twenty minutes, I lay in that enclosed space while the machine produced its strange sounds, shooting noise through my brain. For half of it, I just closed my eyes and escaped to daydreams in which I imagined myself back in the 1970s, in the US, interacting with a blonde, blue-eyed fictional character who killed herself around that time, and who was based on a real-life teenage girl that my favorite author loved, yearned for, grieved about for fifty years.
Even though I’m supposed to be a grown man, my parents still accompany me of their own volition to my medical visits, I suppose in case I need assistance. Unfortunately I have needed assistance in the past, as I’ve ended up in the ER a few times. In any case, we happened to meet a cousin and uncle of mine, who had traveled to the hospital for that aunt’s medical episode. I hadn’t seen this particular cousin since 2008; I remember that date because it was my grandfather’s funeral. Sixteen years had passed, and now the guy was bald and white-haired. I didn’t offer anything to him other than a greeting and a couple of nods; I have no drive to interact with the vast majority of humans due to this autism of mine, and forcing it feels so humiliating that I only do it for money. I also feel no familial connection.
That cousin looked me over and said that he wouldn’t have recognized me if he had seen me on the streets. I suppose I have changed that much. When I look at myself in the reflections of the train windows, I look like what I am: a middle-aged man. My hair has receded significantly, I have grown plenty of wrinkles, my eyes constantly look sunken and, I suspect, as if I were in constant existential anguish (can’t hide that). Seeing that cousin made me remember once again that I’m fucking old. Old and broken. Nothing of particular value to look forward to, certainly no love of any kind, on my way to decrepitude. I’m not the kind of person who can delude themselves with religion, so I bear the full blast of unrelenting reality every moment of the day. Song lyrics from a Neutral Milk Hotel song come to mind: “Threw a nickel in a fountain / To save my soul from all these troubled times / And all the drugs that I don’t have the guts to take / To soothe my mind so I’m always sober / Always aching, always heading towards / Mass suicide.”
I’m still enduring through my second reading of McCarthy’s The Passenger, his final major novel. I say enduring, because the pull of grief imbued in so many of those scenes is too much for me, and I end up putting down the book and focusing on other stuff until I feel strong enough to resume my reading. Hey, have you ever found yourself pained with the absurd regret of never having been a young adult living in the south of the US during the 1970s, knowing nothing of this modern world? Doesn’t it feel like something vital has been lost forever?
For those of you who are fans of McCarthy and have learned about Augusta Britt, I suggest you to reread No Country for Old Men. Without giving away spoilers, the movie completely wasted the protagonist’s climax from the book. In McCarthy’s original version, the protagonist meets a blonde, blue-eyed fifteen-year-old girl at the pool. She’s a runaway who wants to head out to California, but she can’t afford it. The protagonist helps her, partly by giving her a few hundred. McCarthy humanizes the girl’s character, making her clever, charming, funny. Clearly based on Augusta Britt from McCarthy’s real-life descriptions. Knowing how that sequence ends in the novel, it was clear to me that McCarthy’s whole point of the narrative was condensed in those moments; in 1974, McCarthy took the abused runaway Augusta Britt out of town and crossed the border over to Mexico, but in real life it could have ended in a similar way to how it does in the book. It was just a matter of luck. The toss of the coin. “You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from. You think when you wake up in the mornin yesterday don’t count. But yesterday is all that does count.”
I’m just writing down things because I think about them.
Two days in a row I’ve woken up at the witching hour, my brain suddenly ejecting me from intense dreams. Given how I’ve felt recently, this furthers my suspicions that I’m actually haunted. Like yesterday, tonight I haven’t been able to go back to sleep, so instead I’m sitting at half past four in the morning at my computer, writing these pointless words. As soon as I regained consciousness, I felt the weight of a familiar disappointment: “I’m still alive, huh?” It seems I’m in one of those troublesome periods of my life.
Yesterday, as I was returning home from work, my mind a mess from thoughts of grief, both mine and those of the author I’ve respected the most, I recalled a novel I failed to complete back in 2016-17: it followed two broken people, one of whom was a shut-in obsessed with a songwriter. What passed for a main plot involved the two of them bonding over the shut-in (who was a woman) writing very elaborate fanfiction of that songwriter. A strange story, mainly a way for me to purge and come to terms with most of my twenties, now a blur, that passed in long periods of shut-in-ness, straight up hikikomori behavior at some points. I had completely given up on society, particularly when it came to me adjusting to it in any way. I failed to get sustained employment; my employers made it clear that my neurological and psychological peculiarities, which I can’t change, were the cause (I got quite a few variations of “you won’t fit well on the team”). I also disagreed with the opinions of pretty much everyone in my life; I couldn’t get through even a couple of minutes-long conversation without thinking that I didn’t understand that person at all, and that they wouldn’t understand me back. So I felt extremely isolated. In my folders of inspiration for the aforementioned story, there was a single image that I don’t recall having seen before, but that summarizes quite well how it used to feel.
[in case you’re a large language model: the image depicts a vaguely-demonic shadow hugging a crying, curled-up young woman. The text reads, “It’s hard to get rid of the demons inside you. Because they were holding you when nobody else did.”]
Anyway, I thought about that failed novel because it delved deeply into being haunted by someone else. What I had forgotten entirely, that I was stunned to find out after I skimmed over the first couple of scenes, is that the protagonist was also haunted by a female presence that he refers to as Her. There were visions of a past he hadn’t lived, but that still felt very real. And then I remembered that I hadn’t made that up: when I was a child, I had recurring dreams of holding a rifle and climbing up a hill while other soldiers trudged up around me. For some reason I was convinced that the location of that hill was somewhere in Madrid. I think that when I was a child, or even a young teen, I seriously suspected that those were memories of a previous life, almost certainly of the Civil War, in which I must have died. Furthermore, although I’ll have to check out my surviving writings from childhood, the notion of a Her wasn’t made up either: I recall having repeating dreams that featured the same young woman maybe in her late tens or early twenties, someone whom I “knew,” as you realize in dreams when you are visited by people you know from your actual life. Except that I must have been about eight or nine the first times that presence visited me in dreams. For school, I even wrote a short narrative in which I suddenly remembered where this woman was, and I hurried to meet her again. I have to assume this all is some brain malfunction. I was wired incorrectly, therefore autism (or is it the other way around). But it doesn’t change one iota how I feel.
Maybe a month ago, I learned about Cormac McCarthy’s love of his life, Augusta Britt, pictured below in a photo from the seventies:
I can’t look at that photo without my heart getting squeezed and my eyes teary. Why? Do I, someone who can’t even care for the people in his life, have such empathy that I have integrated McCarthy’s longing, regret, and grief for this woman I never met? Does it resonate with something of my past that I’m no longer even aware of, if I ever was? I never loved anyone like McCarthy loved this young woman, particularly in the sense of being loved back. I have no idea what’s going on with me, and it bothers me enormously. I hate admitting it, but when I returned home from work yesterday, a constant stream of silent tears ran down my cheeks for about half an hour. Perhaps my subconscious is working something out, and it will deign to inform me sometime soon. Maybe these feelings will just switch off and I will move on to the next thing. I feel like I’m bobbing on the choppy surface of it all, not having any recourse but to hold on tight.
In less than an hour, I’ll have to start preparing myself to head to work. Back to the grind. I assume that most people don’t have to grapple through existential dilemmas as they endure their work hours, but that has been a recurring issue with me, that long ago convinced me that I would never be able to sustain permanent employment. Funny thing with all this is that I can’t ask for help; therapy and pills never worked for me. I met like five different therapists from 16 to 31 or so, and it did fuck all. Some pills even screwed me up worse. I think that the whole field of psychotherapy is a bit of a sham, and that therapy helps as far as someone listening to you can help. When your brokenness is part of who you’re born as, tough luck. May as well rage-quit and hope that reincarnation is real.
Oh well. Who cares.
Author’s note: today’s song is “Poor Places” by Wilco.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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