Burned a CD-R last night with all of the MP3 and WMA files I had on the
computer, because I have a portable player that reads them. I now have
almost 9 hours worth of music and other assorted bits available to me on
one flat thing, set to random play. It is a thing of beauty. And there
are some incredibly funny moments-- there are some audio bits which are
essentially the Planet of the Apes and Space:1999 series
told as complete stories in 12 minutes. Unintentionally hilarious,
complete with bad acting and minimal sound effects. I so need to use
these for sound bytes.
Oh, this is giving me an idea...
Feeling a bit better today. The coughing commences in earnest today, but
the sinuses are looser, so I'm on the trailing edge of the cold. I'm
guessing two more days and I should be almost normal. Kind of in and out
today, still medicated, still no voice. Nasal application of carmex to
help with the healing.
Thinking about the house. Setting up a lab in the basement. Workspace.
Still don't have good studio space.
Torn, really. Not knowing future direction, trying to decide, trying to
understand how to decide, knowing it could all be wiped by a
single deus ex machina moment. Gathering information, coiled,
taut, ready to push off in whatever direction I need to go. Harsh and
spidery existence, sparse and labial. Change my existence, change my
shape, change my identity on a whim.
Stability is an illusion. All is decay, all is entropy. Climing the
ladder raises your potential energy, falling off of it turns it into
kinetic on the way down until the impact and sudden deceleration turns
it all into heat in the flash of an instant, inelastic collisions
cooking your internals in a flash, scrambling neurons in a haze of
deception and lust, decay and devastation. The descent is the thing. We
Crossroads. Paths diverging in a wood. No signs, or none that I can
One path leads to Cali, away from friends. It means abandoning
everything, sacrificing the Big Broken Box(tm), turning my illusions of
fixing into yet another abandoned dream. Yet I have to wonder if that is
an illusion worth holding onto. It's a high-entropy illusion, filled
with expensive projections and blood.
The Big Broken Box(tm) is an illusion of home. The only thing that keeps
me centered there is history, and it may be one that should be
It's possible that I could find people to rent the Box, to work on it
and repair it, rebuild and remodel it in my absence. Turn it into a home
again. Yet it would still not be my home, and I don't think it
can ever be. The ghosts are just too big.
Another path brings me back into the arms of friends, yet there still
remains a distance. My heart is broken, and is not easily repaired. The
parallel to the Box does not escape me, and I accept the symbology: I
must mend the damage and clear the Big Broken Box of clutter and the
remnants of the old occupants before I can truly heal. But I know how to
fix the Box. I don't know how to fix my heart.
Am I fooling myself? Does the symbology run in parallel? If I fix the
house, does it help fix me as well? Or am I stuck in some limbo with an
attachment to an illusion of my own making?
25 more days here. That's only three more full work weeks and what
remains of this one, seventeen days and a few hours of actual work time.
A trip home this weekend for which I am not yet prepared. There is still
time, and since I doubt that I will be hitting the gym at all this week,
I can most likely make headway. Yet I am reluctant at the closing of
this chapter of my life. It is narrowing the focus of what I have
available to me, removing little bits of security from my environment,
eliminating distractions. Forcing me to face the temporarity of my
current situation. Forcing me to face the uncertain future, knowing only
that I have a lot of challenges to face, both physical and ephemeral.
I don't think I shall choose the path to Cali. Unless things become
suddenly streamlined and the Hand of God pushes me there, the cost is
I am full of fear and uncertainty, and I feel very alone right now.