I pulled off your wings...
Then I laughed
i should be cleaning house, and folding laundry right now.
well, actually, i should be working, earning a paycheck, but since that isn't gonna happen this week, my alternative is to straighten out my abode.
i should be pouring out page after page of my new manuscript like a man possessed, but alas. i'm just not feeling it right now. this might be a big indication as to why it took me ten years to complete The Unfinished Work. apparently, it is gonna take another ten fucking years for the godforsaken publishers to get it done. i kinda wish they would just email me and say, "we cannae publish this tripe, what t'e fuck's wrong wit' yeh?"
at least then i would know.
i probably shouldn't be such a fucking whiner. and i don't really mean this to be whiney, but no doubt it is sounding like that.
i just kinda feel blah.
n it's not that i haven't thought of clever things to blog about, o ye beloved and long-suffering non-existant readers, who have, no doubt, moved on to greener pastures where decent writers regularly spin tales of sun and heroism and beautiful lust and clever characters who ever do the noble thing, but every time i want to sit down to capture these clever bits and perceptions, some other thing looms, daunting, hanging over my shoulder like a spectre of a mountainous(and i have changed and retyped that word about 5 times because the spelling just looks horribly wrong to me. looked it up in the dictionary and it does, in fact, have both a u and an i. huh. interesting) pile of unfolded, and yet clean, laundry that threatens to engulf me.
in the past, my writer's blocks have been like short stabs. a day or two of not being inspired and/or not having the energy to capture the thoughts. this time round, it appears they have been happening in rapid succession, mini-strokes that threaten to build into a massive explosion that will, once and for all, rob me completely of any talent i might've been harboring like a stowaway.
life, in and of itself, is good. things are well. as i might've alluded previously, amid the economic slump, we find ourselves with more expendable funds than we have ever had, and are (wisely, we like to think) using them (mostly) to pay off bills in a timely fashion.
nos. 1 and 2 are well, and progress in leaps in bounds, though i have to say, no. 2 has taken to watching the indiana jones movies in french or spanish and then attempting, (rather poorly, i might add) to mimic them: walking up to me while i wrestle with autocad homework, and saying, "gallump badump gump." to which i am forced to reply: "que joda de bromiado me haces, che!" and he fires back with "dododo magoodoo." after which, i tell him, "your english is still desperately lacking, let's take it one language at a time, yeah?"
my fucking italics button is bollocking me bad this entire post, which is, as you can imagine, frustrating the sweet bejesus out of me.
hence, i am just gonna wrap this little shitball of a post up right here rather than drag it out painfully to some bitter and disappointing end.
more soon, i hope. and in a happier vein.
darth sardonic
i should be cleaning house, and folding laundry right now.
well, actually, i should be working, earning a paycheck, but since that isn't gonna happen this week, my alternative is to straighten out my abode.
i should be pouring out page after page of my new manuscript like a man possessed, but alas. i'm just not feeling it right now. this might be a big indication as to why it took me ten years to complete The Unfinished Work. apparently, it is gonna take another ten fucking years for the godforsaken publishers to get it done. i kinda wish they would just email me and say, "we cannae publish this tripe, what t'e fuck's wrong wit' yeh?"
at least then i would know.
i probably shouldn't be such a fucking whiner. and i don't really mean this to be whiney, but no doubt it is sounding like that.
i just kinda feel blah.
n it's not that i haven't thought of clever things to blog about, o ye beloved and long-suffering non-existant readers, who have, no doubt, moved on to greener pastures where decent writers regularly spin tales of sun and heroism and beautiful lust and clever characters who ever do the noble thing, but every time i want to sit down to capture these clever bits and perceptions, some other thing looms, daunting, hanging over my shoulder like a spectre of a mountainous(and i have changed and retyped that word about 5 times because the spelling just looks horribly wrong to me. looked it up in the dictionary and it does, in fact, have both a u and an i. huh. interesting) pile of unfolded, and yet clean, laundry that threatens to engulf me.
in the past, my writer's blocks have been like short stabs. a day or two of not being inspired and/or not having the energy to capture the thoughts. this time round, it appears they have been happening in rapid succession, mini-strokes that threaten to build into a massive explosion that will, once and for all, rob me completely of any talent i might've been harboring like a stowaway.
life, in and of itself, is good. things are well. as i might've alluded previously, amid the economic slump, we find ourselves with more expendable funds than we have ever had, and are (wisely, we like to think) using them (mostly) to pay off bills in a timely fashion.
nos. 1 and 2 are well, and progress in leaps in bounds, though i have to say, no. 2 has taken to watching the indiana jones movies in french or spanish and then attempting, (rather poorly, i might add) to mimic them: walking up to me while i wrestle with autocad homework, and saying, "gallump badump gump." to which i am forced to reply: "que joda de bromiado me haces, che!" and he fires back with "dododo magoodoo." after which, i tell him, "your english is still desperately lacking, let's take it one language at a time, yeah?"
my fucking italics button is bollocking me bad this entire post, which is, as you can imagine, frustrating the sweet bejesus out of me.
hence, i am just gonna wrap this little shitball of a post up right here rather than drag it out painfully to some bitter and disappointing end.
more soon, i hope. and in a happier vein.
darth sardonic
Labels: deftones, i'm a lazy sod, morose, sanity is for the weak-minded
posted by darth sardonic at 9:19 AM
4 Comments:
In no way do I feel obliged to comment on this post on account of our chat in which you had informed me that the said post was, in fact, posted. (That was nice, BTW, talking to you.)
Anyhoo.
o ye beloved and long-suffering non-existant readers, who have, no doubt, moved on to greener pastures where decent writers regularly spin tales of sun and heroism and beautiful lust and clever characters
Just so you know, yours is one of the rare blogs I still check regularly. THIS is my greener pasture.
life, in and of itself, is good.
And yet you feel blah. I had a conversation about this very phenomenon with Bel the other day. Makes you feel like an ungrateful jerk, but you just. can't. help it.
I have good news for you: it passes. Or we'd all be dead by now.
And that's my happy thought for the day.
yes, krissie, chatting with you was really cool.
and ty, yes, it does always pass, but i sure appreciate the positive energy.
and fuck those people who think you are the grumpy one.
Hi Darth,
I love the Indiana Jones in Spanish reanactment with n2, it's really funny. I don't know how you get any writing done,even on the blog with everything else that you do.I am so tired in the evening after work and taking care of the kids that the only brain activity left is the one that enables me to get my toothbrush and find my bed.
Take care.
Sandrine
lol sandrine, i have to write! it keeps me sane
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