People are starting to die.
11.29.21 #article #blog #kfo #thisisthenew.me #hardware #holiday #family
People are starting to die.
I should reach out.
All the dictators are turning into kind old, cat lovers.
It’s all a bunch of bullshit, but they are the people I welcomed into my life. They are my past.
I need to let go of my resentments, before I find myself dancing on graves.
Oh yeah!
Thanksgiving happened. If I want to say anything about thanksgiving it is this…
“Balsamic vinegar will fuck up your gravy.” Go easy.
Your sister is a whore
11.21.21 #article #blog #kfo #thisisthenew.me #hope
I wrote something yesterday, but it just didn’t feel worthy of posting. You gotta have a standard and I didn’t feel it. This is in opposition go just doing it, which is the whole point. I did write something. It was fine.
Today it was fine. Yesterday it was garbage, and today I thought “This is fine, why didn’t I post this?”
There are hangups I am going to have to get around if I want to get on the other side of this…
The devil is in the details....
The remodel is getting serious. I have no breathless desire to document. Each remodel is the same, talking details out with your support network is fatiguing to your support network.
There are so many ways to do everything.
It isn’t fun…
The Girl at the Train Station
11.18.21 #KFO #thisisthenew.me #writing #girl #grl #train #atlanta #marta
The girl at the train station was ageless. I couldn’t tell if she was 14 or 26. She was seasoned with only a feint sense of wariness. She mostly was just making her way.
My memory is foggy on this one. Either I got a bug to walk to the train station for a meeting I had in town. Or it was the time when I left a meeting, hopped a train and made my way back home. Either way, I think I was out on business, and I had my RX with me.
It matters to be consistent
11.18.21 #KFO #thisisthenew.me #writing
Day 2.
The first rule of comeback club is get back to basics. You always want to strip it back down, and it doesn’t hurt to go in the woods, or get a place with no distraction.
Life doesn’t care if you get back to basics. Life isn’t really going to throw a cabin in the woods, or a chalet at you, unless you got the cash and time off for that.
Life isn’t a character though, if anything life is just the measure of your time you spent here.
life | līf |
noun (plural lives | līvz | )
1 the condition that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter, including the capacity for growth, reproduction, functional activity, and continual change preceding death: the origins of life.
I know the definition thing is old hat, but bear with me, we are going back to basics.
First and foremost, my desire is to talk to myself, and then talk to you (“you” is officially no one, these days), and that is refreshing. As a child I had myself. Just me mostly. I was not a loner. I had friends, but most of my stimulation came from me, the relationships I did have gave me a break from me. Everyone needs a break from Paul, how much are you going to talk to yourself, or live in your imaginarium?
Wanting to make my second marriage work. Having ten years to be Ted Hughes to Jennifer’s serviceable Sylvia Plath was an effort for both she and I. Public relationships are a good show, but ultimately messy. We knew no better, we were young. I hope we grow to both forgive each other and our perceived wrongs and truly the wrongs we did inflict on each other. No one comes out of a failed marriage clean.
This isn’t what I meant to write, but I’m glad I did.
Dogma questions
11.17.21 #blog #article #KFO #thisisthenew.me #writing
Note: I’m trying to service the early seed of routine.
Recently…
I’m trying to think outside of how I feel about the ongoing professional challenges. I think enough has happened in my life to make me question my dogma.
dog·ma | ˈdôɡmə |
noun
a principle or set of principles laid down by an authority as incontrovertibly true: the rejection of political dogma | the Christian dogma of the Trinity.
Yes… I question my dogma.
My thing was I always figured it made sense to imagine a world where I dance on the graves of fools who didn’t see very far.
I’m just saying.
I do not know how I’ll die. I know I want whatever those last days to be comfortable. I know I’m comfortable now. I know I want to be able to set aside enough of now, to use later. I know my end days are more likely to drag out, then be sudden. If I drop dead of a heart attack, so be it. I might be a little disappointed about how the last few weeks of my life went. I admittedly live a comfortable boring life. Maybe that means I’ll be content. I think I vacillate cause I want my life to always be like this, but I don’t want to work the rest of my life.
My Dogma…
I still believe in America?
I still believe in America…
I believe if we work hard and save for the future we can have a good life in those times when we no longer want to work, maybe even before we get our social security check, or whatever we managed to save over the years.
I admit I wasn’t thinking big. I have not imagined world domination or wanting to be corrupted by money. Am I obsessed about money? Yes, probably... I am not dominated or corrupted by money though, maybe I’m at worse unerring in my hopes of at least taking some of my great wealth and setting it aside versus greedily sucking at it like a hummingbird. Flittering hear and there, paying for micro pleasures and convenience.
2. “I’ve had the feels lately”
A lot has happened in the last few years. My dogma seems dogmatic, surely that isn’t the needle scratched on the magnetic. I don’t know where north is anymore. At least I see the clouds again.
Caught in the grind
Journal bits
I’m trying to work through the disconnect I have with writing. A disconnect i’ve had since struggling to leave my fat self.
In this space (today 11.17.21), my thoughts are intermingled between what i’ve come to understand to be my present voice (something which is tight and tweetish), versus my old writing voice. I admit that having a voice in writing is tricky. It is like a muscle you build. The stronger the voice, the more you build a box around how you express those thoughts.
The other thing that is in my mind is my inability to find a way to think, muse on paper, convert said thoughts to the digital realm, then check in, revise and ultimately publish.
“How many garbage words do you spew out before you find your rhythm again?
How long can you have a writers drought”
When I write on the computer my voice and sensibility call back to the old days. My fingers and eyes know what they want to see. This is like being an over the hill rocker, sitting with a over the hill producer, and trying to brainstorm a hit that has the charm of past glory. I spent so many years writing at KungFu, writing a certain way. Any writing other than just a initial thought is very much overcast with this filter, this style that panders to an audience that isn’t there anymore. An audience that isn’t there, of which I am one of those people not there.
When I write by hand it is usually small notes, left behind, to caution me.
Recently I went through the dashboard of my car and found a note to myself “I’m caught up in the grid”. Jesus… Thanks, Paul. It is true though, I’m in the grind. I’m always in the grind, so much so that I don’t even notice it. When I do finally catch wind of my toil, my surroundings seem foreign, look different. I no longer feel like I’m in control, I’m in the captains chair, but the computer is flying.
