4:04 am now. Getting up even earlier. At 3:45: eyes open, engine charged, wheels spinning.
I’ve developed a habit of saying good morning to the dog.
Two more days till Kate and Ellie get back. Need to make the bed in the spare bedroom because the dog peed on it and the sheets are clean but just sitting in a pile on the floor. Also need to go Aldi so it doesn’t look like I’ve been eating eggs, bacon and kale for the last two weeks. Which I have. Also need to take the dead avocado plants out of the living room, which I brought in because they froze to death on the porch. Shouldn’t have neglected them over Christmas break. They’re in the house because I thought I could resurrect them with 60 degrees and regular water and good vibes and maybe some banjo music. But still dead.
During dog walk. A few houses down, there is piano playing. Wailing man inside. Like Bon Iver before Bon Iver became Bon Iver. The dog sniffed the grass, slick with rain smirr. I sniffed the air, ripe with song. Not song like radio play song. Song like ribcage and lung, strings and hammer.
History calls the 1930s The Great Depression only because they didn’t see this coming.
Literary people say tragedy is just underdeveloped comedy.
Last night I went LIVE on Facebook just to see who I could see. We say connect with, but that’s doing disservice to loneliness. The LIVE talk was like talking your pants off at the doctors office. But then you warm up. I talked talked talked. And stirred the kale. Talked some more. Felt satisfied after. Like I’d just gone mountain biking down a steep steep steep switch back single track path through dense woods, without brakes, and made it to the bottom, and didn’t die.
In college philosophy class, we read Camus. On existentialism. At least I did. Now we can stop doing that. Yesterday morning I video-recorded me singing a song on my phone. The chorus is: nobody’s on the internet. It repeats 4x in quick succession. Nobody’s on the internet, nobody’s on the internet, nobody’s on the internet, nobody’s on the internet. I say we can stop reading Camus, because it’s right here, right now, me staring back at you, at this very moment in time.
Every day, sometimes multiple times per day, I read a Scottish woman’s blog. (Godchrist blog is such a geeky early Internet word. If The Alt Dad Diary is a blog, that’s depressing. When I think of blog, I think of AOL and the dinosaurs, so this can’t be a blog, this has to be The Alt Dad Diary.) Anyway, the other woman’s thing is a diary of her daily swims in the sea. It’s exhilarating to read. Swim shiver vicariously. The thing is. She’s always so euphoric. Post swim bliss. Endorphin blast in word form.
And then I see my mediocre mumblings. I read my musings about melancholy. And muttering through Mondays. And mania. And the history of masturbation. “You’re so negative man.” I can hear these whispers in the dim lit hallways in my mind. And the 3rd floor. And the basement. And right on center stage. And I can’t help but frown. It takes a conscious reminder to slap myself and say we’re different dude, we’re different people, different projects, different environments. Lose the terminology of good and bad. Lose the comparison. Just do you.
I know this may not fit thematically. But lastly. I want to write about my history. Of porn use. Of erotic thoughts. Of sex and sexuality. I’m going to. I say this for accountability purposes. And I also say this because I like hearing myself talk. And also because taboo seems like such a necessary and fascinating and exhilarating bridge to cross.
Never been a porn addict, or even regular user, but I don’t need to be. I think “ordinary” sex headspace is the most taboo. Like I remember being 6 years old. With my friend. In a dark closet underneath the stairs. In his house. The bra section of the Sears magazine. 1992. Conical bras. Lace hemlines. Eyes wide open. Like wow. This is the world. I remember this moment as the beginning. And I think it’s worth talking more about.
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