The game is a masterpiece of entropy: no matter how expertly you organize the pieces, control is slipping farther and farther away from you. You cannot win. You cannot escape your ultimate undoing. So why even bother?
Because manipulating your odds is what it's all about.
Monday
A Theory on 4-Quels.
What else do you call it? At the Chain tonight I watched, for the umpteenth time, a commercial promoting the new Shrek boxset, which includes all four movies in one package.
Four movies? Last I checked, stories were told in sets of three. But now there are four Shrek movies (I've only seen the first two), and a fourth Indiana Jones movie, and probably other examples to boot that I can't think of because I'm tired, and a few drinks in (The Terminator, not to mention the television series). This commercial tonight got me thinking about 4-Quels, however, and what they might possibly demonstrate about the changing face of American entertainment, and the more important aesthetics of the structure of modern story telling, which are entirely profit-minded.
Shrek is a good series, there's no denying. The characters and stories are solid, the actors are strong and the jokes are intelligent. Why does this franchise need a fourth installment, besides the fact that there's a willing market for it?
Three is a holy number in some books and a perfect number in mine. Three is the number of Star Wars films, and Lord of the Rings books AND films, the number of original Indiana Jones films, the number of Pirates of the Caribbean films (a fourth is on the way); etc. But, I want to focus attention on the Matrix franchise, which represents three films in what I consider to be the crux of a mythology's three-motion arc trifecta: the cycle of birth, life, and death.
What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs at night? This is the Riddle of the Sphinx, a contained statement that's been around for thousands of years, and really puts a lid on my philosophy of a three-motion arc, that life happens in three stages. We are born, we live, we die. In the most successful three-film franchises this riddle explains the framework of each installment: the character is born into his circumstances in the inaugural film, suffers any and all circumstances in the sequel, and completes his story in the final piece. Think about Star Wars, where in the Part I. Luke discovers he's a Jedi, learns the ways of the force and gains wisdom (through suffering) in Part II., and ultimately defeats the Evil in Part III. (Nerds, leave me alone on the technicalities). I suppose Indiana Jones doesn't quite follow this exact logic, but the third film is still supposed to be the finale, and that's why they blow their budget on bringing Sean Connery in as Indiana's father.
The Matrix is really the best franchise to explore, because in the first film Neo is literally born (that whole scene after he takes the red pill, and the crew picks him out of a sewer; and then Neo discovers who and what he really is, when he starts believing); in the second film Neo lives (an sharp observer might realize that this is the only of the three films which explicitly features SEX); in the third film, many of the characters die (yes, Neo dies), completing the cycle.
I'm just going to come out and say that the Matrix franchise, as a whole, is really underrated. I don't care what you say about the last two films.
But, if we accept the subversion of this time-honored tradition of presenting stories in inherently metaphorical épisodes de trois, what does is say about how we stand as a unified consciousness?
My only solution to this question is that we've reached a point, probably in the last fifteen years or so, where we break our life in half, and break those halves into halves, instead of defining the chronology of our individual lives into three key eras. We no longer are born, live, and die; now, we are born, live, live some more, and then die.
Essentially, adulthood is being broken into three stages instead of two. I propose that the first stage begins around college-age, when you're no longer living under your parents' roof but are still too stupid or young to be a functionable adult; the second stage is between your initial awakening as a functionable adult, and subsequent bloom into the impossibility of adulthood, which seems to be coming later and later to today's youth, although my standards are based on strongly biased observations; the third stage begins with that first trip to the eye doctor, or gynecologist, or proctologist, or whatever. Maybe the third stage begins when you fully realize that you are, "too old."
I could be full of it, but I think that if Hollywood continues to turn against tradition in order to make a few more bills, and keep a few more employees busy, there will be consequences. A restructuring of what is the inherent Western aesthetic. We know, when the third film in a series is released, that the series is finished (making concessions for the clear outliers, like James Bond, and Batman). How are we supposed to accept a franchise's neat conclusion when it's the fourth film? How do we reconcile that?
Perhaps two more Shrek films are on the way, but as a final point, I simply can't take six movies starring that great big oaf and his irritating donkey sidekick. Especially in the span of only so many years. At least these older franchises have history on their side. What burns me the most is this, a studio that knows it can rake in so much cash based on an established franchise, will pursue such a course, with little or no regard for the franchise as tabled, instead of trying to come up with something new and interesting. We like Shrek, but maybe that's because DreamWorks hasn't given us anything new to take our minds off of Shrek, through since it's their budget it's partially their responsibility to manufacture new entertainment material. I can't really argue for the masses, however, one way or the other.
I can't finish this though as completely as I want to, either, but I wanted to get the grease out there, on any other gears that come through here. Maybe someone else has deeper thoughts than I can muster, and would be interested in pursuing them.
I'm going to try waking up at ten tomorrow, and it's not going to happen.
Four movies? Last I checked, stories were told in sets of three. But now there are four Shrek movies (I've only seen the first two), and a fourth Indiana Jones movie, and probably other examples to boot that I can't think of because I'm tired, and a few drinks in (The Terminator, not to mention the television series). This commercial tonight got me thinking about 4-Quels, however, and what they might possibly demonstrate about the changing face of American entertainment, and the more important aesthetics of the structure of modern story telling, which are entirely profit-minded.
Shrek is a good series, there's no denying. The characters and stories are solid, the actors are strong and the jokes are intelligent. Why does this franchise need a fourth installment, besides the fact that there's a willing market for it?
Three is a holy number in some books and a perfect number in mine. Three is the number of Star Wars films, and Lord of the Rings books AND films, the number of original Indiana Jones films, the number of Pirates of the Caribbean films (a fourth is on the way); etc. But, I want to focus attention on the Matrix franchise, which represents three films in what I consider to be the crux of a mythology's three-motion arc trifecta: the cycle of birth, life, and death.
What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs at night? This is the Riddle of the Sphinx, a contained statement that's been around for thousands of years, and really puts a lid on my philosophy of a three-motion arc, that life happens in three stages. We are born, we live, we die. In the most successful three-film franchises this riddle explains the framework of each installment: the character is born into his circumstances in the inaugural film, suffers any and all circumstances in the sequel, and completes his story in the final piece. Think about Star Wars, where in the Part I. Luke discovers he's a Jedi, learns the ways of the force and gains wisdom (through suffering) in Part II., and ultimately defeats the Evil in Part III. (Nerds, leave me alone on the technicalities). I suppose Indiana Jones doesn't quite follow this exact logic, but the third film is still supposed to be the finale, and that's why they blow their budget on bringing Sean Connery in as Indiana's father.
The Matrix is really the best franchise to explore, because in the first film Neo is literally born (that whole scene after he takes the red pill, and the crew picks him out of a sewer; and then Neo discovers who and what he really is, when he starts believing); in the second film Neo lives (an sharp observer might realize that this is the only of the three films which explicitly features SEX); in the third film, many of the characters die (yes, Neo dies), completing the cycle.
I'm just going to come out and say that the Matrix franchise, as a whole, is really underrated. I don't care what you say about the last two films.
But, if we accept the subversion of this time-honored tradition of presenting stories in inherently metaphorical épisodes de trois, what does is say about how we stand as a unified consciousness?
My only solution to this question is that we've reached a point, probably in the last fifteen years or so, where we break our life in half, and break those halves into halves, instead of defining the chronology of our individual lives into three key eras. We no longer are born, live, and die; now, we are born, live, live some more, and then die.
Essentially, adulthood is being broken into three stages instead of two. I propose that the first stage begins around college-age, when you're no longer living under your parents' roof but are still too stupid or young to be a functionable adult; the second stage is between your initial awakening as a functionable adult, and subsequent bloom into the impossibility of adulthood, which seems to be coming later and later to today's youth, although my standards are based on strongly biased observations; the third stage begins with that first trip to the eye doctor, or gynecologist, or proctologist, or whatever. Maybe the third stage begins when you fully realize that you are, "too old."
I could be full of it, but I think that if Hollywood continues to turn against tradition in order to make a few more bills, and keep a few more employees busy, there will be consequences. A restructuring of what is the inherent Western aesthetic. We know, when the third film in a series is released, that the series is finished (making concessions for the clear outliers, like James Bond, and Batman). How are we supposed to accept a franchise's neat conclusion when it's the fourth film? How do we reconcile that?
Perhaps two more Shrek films are on the way, but as a final point, I simply can't take six movies starring that great big oaf and his irritating donkey sidekick. Especially in the span of only so many years. At least these older franchises have history on their side. What burns me the most is this, a studio that knows it can rake in so much cash based on an established franchise, will pursue such a course, with little or no regard for the franchise as tabled, instead of trying to come up with something new and interesting. We like Shrek, but maybe that's because DreamWorks hasn't given us anything new to take our minds off of Shrek, through since it's their budget it's partially their responsibility to manufacture new entertainment material. I can't really argue for the masses, however, one way or the other.
I can't finish this though as completely as I want to, either, but I wanted to get the grease out there, on any other gears that come through here. Maybe someone else has deeper thoughts than I can muster, and would be interested in pursuing them.
I'm going to try waking up at ten tomorrow, and it's not going to happen.
Sunday
The Cunnilingus Pun
This was one of the better ones I've had in a while. After a long shift of throwing out anything made available to me, and most of the material falling flat (though a chorus of groans should count somewhere) the topic of conversation between me and Dapper and all of the lovely ladies came to a connotative comparison of cunnilingus and falatio, and I was the proud owner of the final words when I declared, in a dirty, low-voiced sort of way, that I liked how cunnilingus rolled off the tongue. Pause, as I exit, having walked straight through the passout without missing a beat; and the seconds of silence, as the witnesses put it all together, and realize with low rumbles of approval just what a dirty little ditty I've just layed on them all; and I'm walking away hoping I've impressed Verano, through really I'll take whatever I've gotten. A few nights ago Verano walked off with La Playa, and while I'm happy for one or both of them, Verano's quite the linda, and I'd like to think that the only things standing between her and I are careers and La Playa himself. He's in a bit of a fix, I don't need to step on his toes. I don't want to.
He still hasn't listened to Peace Sells or ...And Out Come the Wolves, though I've insisted he'll like them both. He's been drinking too much instead.
Not that I have much room to talk, but it's not like my habits, in this regard, are controlling me. It's just getting close to, is all. I've learned a degree of control, and La Playa insists he's younger than me.
I was texting with Maow today and I wonder, from the nature of her texts, if Life is draining on her or not. I know what she's like when it's been her and Karfilov for too long. It doesn't help that she's one of the many girls/women that I might be in love with. It depends on how you tip the scales.
Richard has managed to claw up one side of my hand, which will be more of a problem when the Chain busies up again and I'll be handling more citrus. Tonight we shared stale bread and fought over una empanada de la cocinera Aja, and while he didn't lift a paw to aid my dishwashing labors, at least he made it all interesting. Richard doesn't like cigarettes, tequila, or celery, and what's got me is that, after everything he does like, which is generally summed up in the manner of decent food, I'm starting to wonder if the former are emotionally wise choices. Celery included.
I had a strange dream last night that I'm considering turning into a story. I described it to Dapper on the way home so I don't want to describe it again. I'm training Dapper on the bar, even though I don't have the go-ahead. Truth is, he's the best logical choice the Chain has, and I don't want to be around there much longer.
He still hasn't listened to Peace Sells or ...And Out Come the Wolves, though I've insisted he'll like them both. He's been drinking too much instead.
Not that I have much room to talk, but it's not like my habits, in this regard, are controlling me. It's just getting close to, is all. I've learned a degree of control, and La Playa insists he's younger than me.
I was texting with Maow today and I wonder, from the nature of her texts, if Life is draining on her or not. I know what she's like when it's been her and Karfilov for too long. It doesn't help that she's one of the many girls/women that I might be in love with. It depends on how you tip the scales.
Richard has managed to claw up one side of my hand, which will be more of a problem when the Chain busies up again and I'll be handling more citrus. Tonight we shared stale bread and fought over una empanada de la cocinera Aja, and while he didn't lift a paw to aid my dishwashing labors, at least he made it all interesting. Richard doesn't like cigarettes, tequila, or celery, and what's got me is that, after everything he does like, which is generally summed up in the manner of decent food, I'm starting to wonder if the former are emotionally wise choices. Celery included.
I had a strange dream last night that I'm considering turning into a story. I described it to Dapper on the way home so I don't want to describe it again. I'm training Dapper on the bar, even though I don't have the go-ahead. Truth is, he's the best logical choice the Chain has, and I don't want to be around there much longer.
Thursday
Richard
Kansas left Philadelphia for a time when things began to fall apart, and I was sad. She's just like Her, which I recognized right from the off, but not like Her at all, which is an unfair and illogical way to end this sentence.
I don't remember the first time I met Mad, but I remember the first time I met Aja, who was drunk and giggling on the porch at the castle the night Mad brought her over. I now consider Aja a close friend and ally, and while I don't feel attracted to her in the same way that I do many other women, I fully acknowledge and appreciate how powerful and strong a relationship with Aja could be, and chide myself for being so stupidly obstinate about at least any possiblities.
I remember the first time I saw Her, though, and I remember the first time I saw Kansas, who was training at the Chain. They're the same height, share many of the same facial features and expressions and tics and similar attitudes towards life, a sort of surrendered obligation to circumstance with little stabs at living thrown here and there when things are good, or really bad. She stopped by work tonight and had a beer, which was nice. Yesterday she passed along one of her roommate's cats to me, and I've decided his name is Richard.
Richard and I get along, and he's giving me a firmer footing in the real world. Right now he's trying to entertain himself as best he can, with a pretty bland apartment, and I only ask that he not shred the Boston Acoustic covers (we're working on this, I told him the couch is fine) and not tip over any alcohol, and not piss on anything just yet. We both share a love of any food we can get our hands on, paws on, whatever, and for the most part I think we make good companions. Fish isn't exactly impressed, but then, Fish and I never really connected on the such a level.
Mad says she doesn't like Richard, but I know better. Mad has to put up with both of us now, and I think she'll enjoy it. Mad and I are going to Abuela's tomorrow for Thanksgiving, and then I'll do my own little feast here with some amazing garlic turkey from the grocer.
I just tapped a bottle of Jose Cuervo's Black Medallion, and let me tell you, sir: this is an amazing tequila. More body than the only somewhat cheaper Gold Especial, and the burn is welcome. I know tequila is one of the more complex liquors, and Cuervo has a way of putting perfection into a bottle at a very affordable price. Sorry, Patron. I appreciate the finer accents of an expensive silver or reposado, but holy shit, if you haven't tried Black Medallion then get yourself a rocks glass and maybe a modest chaser--glass-bottled coke or orange juice will do just fine--and get ready for the most mellow evening of your life.
I'd let Richard have some but he's really not old enough.
I don't remember the first time I met Mad, but I remember the first time I met Aja, who was drunk and giggling on the porch at the castle the night Mad brought her over. I now consider Aja a close friend and ally, and while I don't feel attracted to her in the same way that I do many other women, I fully acknowledge and appreciate how powerful and strong a relationship with Aja could be, and chide myself for being so stupidly obstinate about at least any possiblities.
I remember the first time I saw Her, though, and I remember the first time I saw Kansas, who was training at the Chain. They're the same height, share many of the same facial features and expressions and tics and similar attitudes towards life, a sort of surrendered obligation to circumstance with little stabs at living thrown here and there when things are good, or really bad. She stopped by work tonight and had a beer, which was nice. Yesterday she passed along one of her roommate's cats to me, and I've decided his name is Richard.
Richard and I get along, and he's giving me a firmer footing in the real world. Right now he's trying to entertain himself as best he can, with a pretty bland apartment, and I only ask that he not shred the Boston Acoustic covers (we're working on this, I told him the couch is fine) and not tip over any alcohol, and not piss on anything just yet. We both share a love of any food we can get our hands on, paws on, whatever, and for the most part I think we make good companions. Fish isn't exactly impressed, but then, Fish and I never really connected on the such a level.
Mad says she doesn't like Richard, but I know better. Mad has to put up with both of us now, and I think she'll enjoy it. Mad and I are going to Abuela's tomorrow for Thanksgiving, and then I'll do my own little feast here with some amazing garlic turkey from the grocer.
I just tapped a bottle of Jose Cuervo's Black Medallion, and let me tell you, sir: this is an amazing tequila. More body than the only somewhat cheaper Gold Especial, and the burn is welcome. I know tequila is one of the more complex liquors, and Cuervo has a way of putting perfection into a bottle at a very affordable price. Sorry, Patron. I appreciate the finer accents of an expensive silver or reposado, but holy shit, if you haven't tried Black Medallion then get yourself a rocks glass and maybe a modest chaser--glass-bottled coke or orange juice will do just fine--and get ready for the most mellow evening of your life.
I'd let Richard have some but he's really not old enough.
Sir Mantlepiece the Well-Intentioned...likes to hyperlink.
I was perusing Something Else's month of May, reading about GERMAN HISTORY, and revisted my old report on the Phillies/Giants series early in the season. I make some crack about not even knowing that San Francisco had a team.
Ate my words this year, didn't I?
Next year, boys. Speaking of the Spoof, you can access my five-year-old stories here. I think I'll try to revive Moby's career, too, he's due to come out of retirement.
Ate my words this year, didn't I?
Next year, boys. Speaking of the Spoof, you can access my five-year-old stories here. I think I'll try to revive Moby's career, too, he's due to come out of retirement.
Minuet - Bach
Reading over the posts I left behind this summer and I can detect a change in my voice, my mind. So many questions from only months ago, possiblities, that I've either answered or altered; or, perhaps most appropriately, simply replaced. A childish mind will turn to noble ambition...Young love will become deep affection...The clear water's surface reflects growth...
When Beatrice and Karfilov visited me at work last week I was in a rotten mood. When Beatrice proceeded to pry into my oyster of a guitar-playing career, I was not a little terse with him. The opportunity to plant a little grain of sand, something to polish into a genuine pearl, has since passed: regardless, I fear most of our relationship will remain dangerously built on an eroding hillside of ifs and somedays. No more, I'm not going to exist in the radius of Beatrice's fantasy anymore. I don't live with him and I'm only obliged to see him when he makes the effort to visit Philadelphia.
He's building a recording studio in his parents' basement, with his parents' money. When he asked how my hand was coming along I told him that it wasn't and that I needed people to play with if I want any chance of improving. He suggested I jump into open-mike night at the Cube; it's a familiar, accomodating location (by virtue of my own labors, not his) and provides an atmosphere for the blossoming performer, especially because, on many Sunday nights, there are more people on stage than there are at the bar. I told him to do the same and his reaction mirrored mine. He attempted a joke at his own playing surpassing mine, and years of let-down feelings finally began to spill out. Beatrice, we had three years and a basement to be something. It means more to me than you, I have no doubt about it.
But, it felt good to finally tell him off for his own time wasting. I've determined that Beatrice will be the same person in five years that he is now, confident of the ends and still struggling to even grasp the realm of the means. Still sure that, some where down the line, he'll launch his attempt on the world, once he's gathered all of the salty pieces to do his dirty work for him. I'm sorry, Beatrice, but I've spent nearly a year and a half on Something Else complaining about you.
And with that, you've been written out. Time for more interesting characters.
I've been in contact with Army, my exgirlfriend whose occupation I've not disguised too cleverly. I would like to see her again, someday, and if I'm reading her messages as she's intended them it may well be a shame that she's married. But we hardly know each other any more, and I'm only beginning to figure myself out, anyhow. I mention this because Verde found me online yesterday while I was indulging in an Evony riff on Facebook (Rojo is playing now, as well); and, I'm getting strong signals from one of the new girls at work (two, as a matter of fact, but the other is young), and I surrender to the fact that La Playa del Cochinero, whom I respect, has an indiscrete crush on her. What's a conscious son-of-a-bitch to do? I thought my days of stabbing friends and equals in the back were over, not merely preambulatory. I'd finish the thought with, "Oh well," but that seems a little preemptive and a little more presumptuous.
I'll admit I was hoping for something introspective or relavatory to come out of today's session and it just isn't happening. I've accomplished almost everything I laid out in the last post, however, so I'll make some new bullets to load up and fire.
The Revolver Method. Might be on to something there.
On a final thought, I was kidnapped Monday night, by aliens, who infiltrated my body in the clever forms of sleeplessness and alcohol; they took me away, performed their tests and procedures, wiped my memory of the whole affair, and returned me to earth within the hour. I know that twenty or thirty minutes lapsed between the kidnapping and my reinstatement, because I remember being at the bar, and then waking up as Aja walked me home: I wasn't drunk (I fried two beautiful eggs as soon as she got me upstairs, perfectly sober). I was very cold, however, and wet, and rewired in such a way that the boot-up process took two blocks' worth of time for me to remember who and what I was, and what everything around me was, the shapes and shadows of dark buildings at one in the morning under the soggy tungsten wash of high street lamps, and where we were, that stretch of avenue that I walk almost every day, but couldn't recognize regardless, and how the rain was and why the cold meant. If a dentist has ever put you under and you wake up without teeth, wondering how you got ten feet down the hall and why you can't feel anything in your mouth, you've probably been kidnapped, too.
When Beatrice and Karfilov visited me at work last week I was in a rotten mood. When Beatrice proceeded to pry into my oyster of a guitar-playing career, I was not a little terse with him. The opportunity to plant a little grain of sand, something to polish into a genuine pearl, has since passed: regardless, I fear most of our relationship will remain dangerously built on an eroding hillside of ifs and somedays. No more, I'm not going to exist in the radius of Beatrice's fantasy anymore. I don't live with him and I'm only obliged to see him when he makes the effort to visit Philadelphia.
He's building a recording studio in his parents' basement, with his parents' money. When he asked how my hand was coming along I told him that it wasn't and that I needed people to play with if I want any chance of improving. He suggested I jump into open-mike night at the Cube; it's a familiar, accomodating location (by virtue of my own labors, not his) and provides an atmosphere for the blossoming performer, especially because, on many Sunday nights, there are more people on stage than there are at the bar. I told him to do the same and his reaction mirrored mine. He attempted a joke at his own playing surpassing mine, and years of let-down feelings finally began to spill out. Beatrice, we had three years and a basement to be something. It means more to me than you, I have no doubt about it.
But, it felt good to finally tell him off for his own time wasting. I've determined that Beatrice will be the same person in five years that he is now, confident of the ends and still struggling to even grasp the realm of the means. Still sure that, some where down the line, he'll launch his attempt on the world, once he's gathered all of the salty pieces to do his dirty work for him. I'm sorry, Beatrice, but I've spent nearly a year and a half on Something Else complaining about you.
And with that, you've been written out. Time for more interesting characters.
I've been in contact with Army, my exgirlfriend whose occupation I've not disguised too cleverly. I would like to see her again, someday, and if I'm reading her messages as she's intended them it may well be a shame that she's married. But we hardly know each other any more, and I'm only beginning to figure myself out, anyhow. I mention this because Verde found me online yesterday while I was indulging in an Evony riff on Facebook (Rojo is playing now, as well); and, I'm getting strong signals from one of the new girls at work (two, as a matter of fact, but the other is young), and I surrender to the fact that La Playa del Cochinero, whom I respect, has an indiscrete crush on her. What's a conscious son-of-a-bitch to do? I thought my days of stabbing friends and equals in the back were over, not merely preambulatory. I'd finish the thought with, "Oh well," but that seems a little preemptive and a little more presumptuous.
I'll admit I was hoping for something introspective or relavatory to come out of today's session and it just isn't happening. I've accomplished almost everything I laid out in the last post, however, so I'll make some new bullets to load up and fire.
The Revolver Method. Might be on to something there.
On a final thought, I was kidnapped Monday night, by aliens, who infiltrated my body in the clever forms of sleeplessness and alcohol; they took me away, performed their tests and procedures, wiped my memory of the whole affair, and returned me to earth within the hour. I know that twenty or thirty minutes lapsed between the kidnapping and my reinstatement, because I remember being at the bar, and then waking up as Aja walked me home: I wasn't drunk (I fried two beautiful eggs as soon as she got me upstairs, perfectly sober). I was very cold, however, and wet, and rewired in such a way that the boot-up process took two blocks' worth of time for me to remember who and what I was, and what everything around me was, the shapes and shadows of dark buildings at one in the morning under the soggy tungsten wash of high street lamps, and where we were, that stretch of avenue that I walk almost every day, but couldn't recognize regardless, and how the rain was and why the cold meant. If a dentist has ever put you under and you wake up without teeth, wondering how you got ten feet down the hall and why you can't feel anything in your mouth, you've probably been kidnapped, too.
Monday
H I A T U S
"Welcome Back!" He claps his self on his shoulder, a difficult gesture that ultimately ends with him in a twisted knot on the floor with bruised knees.
In good fashion, I haven't slept all night. One p.m. is the twenty-four hour mark, and I have work at four. And how have you been?
As he cleans out the coffee pot in preparation for the next four hours of work, he considers everything he MUST set out to do. Write. No, that's not important. So he'll probably do that first. What is important? They agreed, over the weekend, about his agenda. A haircut. A job application. Life needs to move forward. That night at the chain, and each subsequent one, has been nothing but a string of one-man battles against Hell's brigade with neither side giving in. But, one side is relentless, tireless. He's not on that side.
Why all this debt, you might ask? Perhaps that because he's allowed himself to lay down in a muddy rut and let each passing shit-cart tread over him. They don't get bogged down, only push him deeper into the muck, and he doesn't wade up onto his knees or find some unfirm footing that lets him stand up, and doesn't politely ask the burden-bearer to kindly go around, no: And if he keeps this up, the mud gets deeper. Or, he can dig into it and pile it all up around him, so that the driver can't go through; and then, the mud will dry in a castle-cake around him, but finally he'll be able to burst through it, a butterfly out of metamorphosis, and he'll be stronger, and beautiful, and ready to fly.
A haircut, which I was going to walk into, but I'm trying to schedule instead. That's step one. Step two: call the office. Or maybe you want a shower first. Write these all down, mind you. Step three: a new email, step four the business online. Step five, the application, step six the phone call. It's your plan for the next three days. IN THREE DAYS, it will be done, all of it. No excuses this time, not when your life is finally yours and completely on the line.
He did so much to show you you're worth it. Don't disappoint him. It's finally your time to shine.
He told me to make lists, one for the next week, one for the next year. In one year, I hope I have a visitor here.
In good fashion, I haven't slept all night. One p.m. is the twenty-four hour mark, and I have work at four. And how have you been?
As he cleans out the coffee pot in preparation for the next four hours of work, he considers everything he MUST set out to do. Write. No, that's not important. So he'll probably do that first. What is important? They agreed, over the weekend, about his agenda. A haircut. A job application. Life needs to move forward. That night at the chain, and each subsequent one, has been nothing but a string of one-man battles against Hell's brigade with neither side giving in. But, one side is relentless, tireless. He's not on that side.
Why all this debt, you might ask? Perhaps that because he's allowed himself to lay down in a muddy rut and let each passing shit-cart tread over him. They don't get bogged down, only push him deeper into the muck, and he doesn't wade up onto his knees or find some unfirm footing that lets him stand up, and doesn't politely ask the burden-bearer to kindly go around, no: And if he keeps this up, the mud gets deeper. Or, he can dig into it and pile it all up around him, so that the driver can't go through; and then, the mud will dry in a castle-cake around him, but finally he'll be able to burst through it, a butterfly out of metamorphosis, and he'll be stronger, and beautiful, and ready to fly.
A haircut, which I was going to walk into, but I'm trying to schedule instead. That's step one. Step two: call the office. Or maybe you want a shower first. Write these all down, mind you. Step three: a new email, step four the business online. Step five, the application, step six the phone call. It's your plan for the next three days. IN THREE DAYS, it will be done, all of it. No excuses this time, not when your life is finally yours and completely on the line.
He did so much to show you you're worth it. Don't disappoint him. It's finally your time to shine.
He told me to make lists, one for the next week, one for the next year. In one year, I hope I have a visitor here.
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