Day 15 Nightmare

10/15/23 8:38 AM

Day 15

Think of a bad dream you had that has remained stuck in your mind. Write lyrics surrounding the events and/or what you think it all means.

 

Pipes leaking water under my house

If it happened in real life, does it still count?

I don't have nightmares of monsters or such

That would just be too much fun

 

Bad plumbing, rat bodies, spiders and snakes

A crawlspace of horror awaits

A can of worms safely labeled, confined

I can ignore them all, out of sight out of mind

Taxes late, not much entertainment there

First day of school, showing up in underwear

Some vague sense there's something I forgot

But nothing I can put my finger on

Cucumber surprise

Dust bunnies, potato bugs

Why?

Never the Easter Bunny

Never a pumpkin pie

Nightmares don't exist, except for here

Everything I dread exists for real

Nothing can touch me

In my astral body

Where I'm the captain, the vessel and the sea

----

Gotta cut it short for today. I have a few to-dos. It's been nice decomposing with you!

Day 14 How YOU Doin'?

 

 

10/14/23 3:03 PM

Day 14

Call ahead to find out what kind of day a friend, family member, or co-worker might be having. Write lyrics relating to how they described it and any wish they might have for changing the circumstances.

 

Asking For A Friend

 

I asked the sun how the day would be

Clouds or rain or shine

Thanks for asking is what she said

And this was her reply

 

Some days, I don't want to get out of bed

I'm calling in sick today

My favorite planet, Little Blue

Don't cry, I'll be OK

 

An interaction made her uneasy

Left a very bitter taste

Many questions still remained

As evidenced by her face

 

Later on, she made an appearance

Just in time to eat

Breakfast dinner, supper lunch

Then to bed, but not to sleep 

 

Into the waste basket

Went all of my sensibility

Things were looking pretty dark

For about a week

 

Breaker breaker, a voice on the line

Can I interrupt this call?

Your life is normal, my life is normal

I don't want to live here anymore

Extra curricular demigods

Flying in formation

Some roosting high upon my roof

Pay in quarters for salvation

 

Some days I just don't want to get up

Don't want to make the trip

Nothing can make me, she said pouting

A cigarette dangling from her lip

 

Hey, knock it off, I thought you quit

I said in frank disgust

She vaporized me with a glance 

I turned to ash and dust

 

I've only been bitten a couple times

Since the plague has come and gone

You weren't here, you were there

Sleeping on the lawn

 

I'm going to screw together everything you own

Weld it into a grand illusion

Inkblot millionaires, irritated tourists

Lost in a land of confusion

I'm just going to sit down here and take notes

Everything you throw at me

Freedom withers, burning bridges

Unsympathetically

 

Look at the corn growing

Singing to the dawn (that's me)

I guess I better get a head start

And buy some cutlery

 

Silicone transplant, cellophane lies

Needles in your skin

No point in hiding what's inside

Your disguise is paper thin

 

----

Half asleep, I started writing down whatever came into my mind. Then I would jerk back awake and wonder, "What the fuck is this shit?" I've discovered an interesting method of songwriting, utilizing the debilitation/dilation that comes from being forced to write from a slightly dissociated state of consciousness. 

I'm doing this now, since I don't know if I will be in the mood to write tomorrow morning. It IS Saturday, technically, so I guess I'm not too far out of line. 

Here is a link to a spoken word version of this. It is even rougher and has more bleeps and bloops than this original, which I went back and tidied up slightly...I mean, not much, just a tweak or two for no good reason.

 

----

I got very little sleep last night, but that's really not abnormal. What is a little different is that while writing the above drivel, I was in a semi-conscious state, still lucid, but heavily susceptible to invasive thoughts. These thoughts appeared as distinct voices, personalities other than my own. 

I was hearing April's voice making random statements that were not altogether incongruous with things that she would normally say, tone and inflection included. Other sentences and phrases came drifting in, non-sequitur, blurts and blurbs, nonsensical, whimsical. 

That's just a report. Not going to interpret it or anything. But I will say that I googled "Lamotrigine induced auditory hallucinations," and wouldn't ya know...it's a thing. An extremely rare thing, but documented, nonetheless. 

I will also say, I've been having a bit more energy lately. A restless, dissatisfied energy, mostly, with the usual amount of rage but a tad less despair. Just a gritty determination, like a song with a slowly building rock beat, leading up to--something.  <cymbal crash> A sneeze? A "whoo-hoo?" The beginning of mania?

 

Being that it's Saturday, and I have had 1/2 cup of coffee thus far, I feel as jacked as a tweeker with ADD. I'm all over the place, so much squirrelly activity going on upstairs, with minimal focus. It's kind of a thrill, I won't lie. However, I don't think I'd be able to function like this for long without crashing. And what dumb shit I might do in the meantime frightens me not a little 

 

I don't know, but tomorrow, I am supposed to start on 100mg, doubling my dose. so stay tuned.

Short TImer Shoes

 

10/14/23 8:55 AM

I was a prisoner, incarcerated in a high security facility. Cement and bars, pale green  paint, guards to escort you everyplace. Of course, fights would still break out, and people would get shanked on a regular basis. Not the same person over and over, but, you know, kind of a random rotation of retribution, the original provocation barely remembered by some of the very oldest inmates. 

Those were the grey beards, Charlie Manson types, their steely eyes still determined, despite years of surreptitious state sponsored drugging. Teeth falling away, they would grin and squint as if to say, "I am not physically capable of harming a flea, but inside, deep inside, you still can't kill the beast."

I was being shuttled from somewhere to somewhere else. They never told you where they were taking you, but one could usually guess by the claw marks on the wall or bloodstains deep in the cracks of the cement, which gave the floors an appearance of rosacea, that it was not good.

OK. It was to the shower that I was being taken. Good. Except for my two guards, I was alone. One never got the privilege of showering alone unless they were going to be released or executed. I hadn't committed murder, but I had been in there so long, I couldn't recall when my release date was, or if there even was one. 

"Better leave those here," the guard said, pointing down at my well-worn black rubber garden clogs. "Someone will appreciate them." Foot fungus was a big deal in there.

The shoes, though crumbling and cracking with age, still had some life in them -- but perhaps, I wouldn't. I still didn't know where they were taking me, but It was apparent that I wouldn't be needing them anymore. 

I wasn't particularly worried. Either option, execution or release, seemed equally appealing. It would be something different, a break in the routine. If it was execution, I'd at least get a decent last meal. I was thinking pancakes, bacon and eggs, maybe toast and jam, coffee...(OK, that's just me getting hungry now, as I write this.)

Or if I was to be released, well, that would be alright too, I guess. I didn't know where I would go. I didn't really think about it much. I wasn't really capable of doing very much thinking, which was what they wanted. No questions, no suspicions, just compliance. Like a sheep to a shearing or a lamb to the slaughter, do robots even know that they are robots?

As they led me out of the shower, an unlikely door in the hallway wall opened up to the outside world. Not the prison yard, or even the fenced in work area, but the real outside world. The light was so bright, my eyes could barely perceive what this world looked like. It would take time to figure things out.

I was glad enough just to be leaving those black rubber shoes behind, so I didn't care. 

----

First dream I've been able to recall for a while now. I've still been dreaming, but upon awakening they get locked up, and I'm barely able to perceive that there is a whole other life I am living while I'm asleep. And like that show "Severance," where people have their consciousness separated into two distinct people, one for work and one for home life, never the twain shall meet.

Today is Saturday, so I'm going to transition into my next phase, my next incarnation after incarceration. What will I do with my freedom? What does freedom look like or even mean? I don't know, but I guess I'm going to find out.

Day 13 A Place To Visit

10/13/23 9:23 AM

Day 13

Write lyrics about a place you want to visit. Think about its attractions, people, history, etc. and how being there will make you feel.

 

Cosmic Muffin Protocol

 

If you see me on the highway, bag in hand, thumb outstretched

Cardboard sign and no regrets

Face tinged with road dust and soot from the fire

Walking sandals made of tires

 

Pay no mind to my blank expression, I have no expectation

That where I'm going will be any better

My sign says Further, while my face says not too much

My destination is not a place as such

 

Anyplace is better, I'm not particular

Walking's fine, but I prefer a car

Someone to talk to as the miles go by

Fast enough that we could fly

Heaven is a state of mind

Like the hell I've left behind

In between, so many miles

Insincere faces, empty smiles 

You say you would like to go to France

An actual place, measurable distance

Close your eyes, I say, and you'll be there

If you can think it, then it will appear

Moon and stars light up the road ahead

Places to be seen before I'm dead

Autumn leaves and raindrops in my hair

Wishing that I was already there

----

I rebelled again. Nothing to see here, just a guy doing some pushups, thinking about a muffin. Nothing cryptic or morbid going on. But really, I do have to go now...

 

Day 12 A Place Where I Had A Good TIme

10/12/23 9:14 AM

Day 12

Write lyrics about a place you have visited where you had a really great time.

 

 

<Title Goes Here>

Once upon a time, before all of this, I carried around with me

All of the recipes, seasoning packets

For a good time anywhere

 

All I had to do was, open my eyes, look around and see

If it wasn't your face, love, it was some pretty flower

That might find its way into your hair

 

Like the moon in the daytime, I'm a pale reflection

Of the light you used to shine

Memories of a place and time, you and I

I carry that place 'round all the time

Ocean lady, wishful thinking

Trying to encapsulate

All of life's beauty

Mystery

Oh, but that was not our fate

 

Physicality, taken away so soon, brought about a change in me

Glass never half-full, losing the push-pull

Sometimes it just makes me cry

Short on time now, just a little bit longer, I no longer question why

Ocean lady, do you still remember

The place our foggy trail did end?

Fearless until the end, I'm looking to you my friend

Let's go find that place again 

Homecoming, coming home

The way it's always been

Home, home, home

Get your ruby slippers

We're going home again

 

 

 

 

 

Well, shoot. I didn't intend to write that. I was s'posed to write about a place I visited where I had a good time, as in, you know--Hawaii, the fair, the Grand Canyon, some high mountain lake. Well, you know that's not me. I jumped onto the raft and let the current take me elsewhere.

I switched it around because, like those inverted glasses, I've learned to see life upside down. I wanted to express that this place, my "happy place," wasn't a mere locale. It was more of a person type of thing. It is a place I still carry around with me. 

 

Things devolved quickly, however, and the good times, brief as they were, got eclipsed by pain. Now the pain is all that's real. That's the sense of it, anyway. Pain is all I tend to feel. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I bring the pain along with me. I don't see what I see. I see what I feel.

 

But I'm a hodgepodge, a veritable quilt of sentimental insanity. I have only a flitting focus, landing here, landing there, collecting the pollen of emotion from many different sources. I can't really separate the 3 or 4 disparate elements I was drawing from this morning trying to spark some inspiration, so I made them into a composite and spray-painted the whole thing blue. As I do.

 

Occasional flickers will still happen, lighting the darkened room I'm in, giving glimpses of times and places that meant so much to me. But it's like trying to describe the smell of pancakes. Describing the  sensation, you don't necessarily want to talk about the physical, anatomical details of the pancake particles. Or maybe you do, I don't know.

It's just an exercise, I tell myself, just a drill, all of this writing of songs and ditties. It doesn't pay the bills. Why do it? Because it seems to be helping. Something is helping. I'm starting to feel something. Of course, when you start getting feeling back, as with atrophied limbs, the first sensations aren't pleasant ones. But from a paralyzed person's perspective, any sensation is a good thing.

I won't say "Good job, Me," like I've just completed my Magnum Opus, but I will allow myself this meager praise: 

 

"That'll do, pig."

<snort> <snort> <snuffle> <snort>

 

 

 

 

Day 11 The Latest News Story

10/11/23 9:09 AM

 

Day 11

Think of the last news story you read, watched, or listened. Write some lyrics about how it impacted you, negatively or positively, on an emotional level.

 

 

 

 

Hubble Trouble

 

They built a bigger telescope

To see how far they could see

Into the past, into the future

Into eternity

 

What they discovered with their great big eye

Was not what they expected

It did not compute, and doesn't jive well

With the data that they've collected

"The universe is expanding at a rapidly increasing rate"

But the closer they look, the faster it runs away

 It came to me in a flash--and it made me laugh

The universe is running away

The universe 

           is running 

                      away

 

A snowball gets faster going downhill

Simple gravity

Collecting mass and gaining speed

Easy as 1, 2, 3

Accelerated expansion

How hard to fathom

Rules are changing every day

As fast as we make 'em 

The universe breaks 'em

Who needs our damn rules anyway?

Pretzel logic

Mathematics

Can prove almost anything

But can they really 

Answer the question

"Why are you running away?"

 

We can't make glasses big enough, really

To let us read the fine print

It just gets harder to understand

This thing we're all living in

 

Cut to the punchline, what made me laugh

What even a child can see

Is that the reason for all this confusion

God likes to play hide and seek

God likes to play hide and seek

            ...and He really doesn't like to lose 

                        <guitar solo fade out, why not?>

Eh. Well, I liked the idea. It didn't flesh out the way I'd hoped, but I can always revisit the idea later. Or not. Like an oil painting, keep adding layers and scraping off the big chunks that I use to cover my mistakes. 

Mistakes? There's a concept I need to lose. Unintended, unique, artistic flourishes--not mistakes. Anyway, I just renewed my artistic license. I can do whatever I want. I'm the chief of police.

At any rate, this is just an exercise, practice, I tell myself. It's not some work of art I'm trying to sell for profit. I'm just doing some push-ups and sit-ups, not making a workout video. If you don't like the product, don't pay me. 

Wait a minute...why am I still talking? I don't have to justify myself to you! 

            To ANYONE!! 

                     I.....

<clunk>

 

Day 10 Finish and Polish

10/10/23 9:08 AM

Day 10

Assess your progress. Take the time to polish off the lyrics of any song you have managed to complete or try to finish ones that you have started but have failed to complete.

 

 

On the first day of school

You glanced at me so cool

And shot me in the ass with a rubber band

Perfect face

Perfect smile

Acne and braces not withstanding

Plaid skirt, fishnets

Doc Marten boots

So punk rock, hanging with your crew

Lunch box, tape deck

Short hair, long legs

You must have caught me looking at you

 

Statue of Liberty

"Come sit down!"

You beckoned me

 "What are things like where you come from?"

Four or five, of similar mind

Hard stares, begrudging smiles

"I think we're gonna have ourselves some fun!"

We had French and History

I got As, you got Bs

Me, the dreamer, you a fantasy

As life unfolded

We got older

High school gave way to reality

Summer nights, feeling free

Fireworks, 9:30 

Still we had to make it home by 10

Disneyland, down the street

Parties, shows, go out to eat

I thought that we were always going to be friends

 

Summer's end, life got hard

Go to college, get a job

Try to find an apartment fit for three

Roaches and painted mold

Even so, we were told

"This ain't no goddamn punk Three's Company!"

 

Your boyfriend got beat up by gangsters

Face all smashed, became a racist

Everything we knew was going to change

You moved away, and I found Jesus

Broke our friendship into pieces

So we drifted off our separate ways 

Facebook friend, three years ago

Or so, I dreamed of you 

It was racy

And I told you plainly

About the crush of which you never knew

You laughed and said

"Glad I could help"

When I told you about my dream

But we had long 

Moved past the point

Of irrevocability

But in telling you this, I feel free

Embarrassed, yes, but free

There aren't enough hours in the day, not enough elbow grease, nor polish or spit to make this geode into a diamond. Perhaps, it's just the idea, the practice, the utilization of brain cells, that makes this challenge a productive thing. Finished? Polished? Mmm, no.

 

Oh, and there's one completely fictitious detail that I added. Can you guess what it is?

Day 9 The First Kiss

 

10/9/23 7:38 AM

Day 9

Think about your first real kiss. Write lyrics describing how it made you feel.

 

First Kiss?

Sitting on my bed, chewing gum

Thrift store men's shirt, hair like Catwoman

I don't know how, just know we kissed

I tried for more, but you grabbed my wrist

Elevators, butterflies

I looked at you, you closed your eyes

Anticipation, exquisite longing

Can't believe this is happening

 

(chorus)

Some things I remember

Some I can't forget

I know that it was you

But I don't know how it went

 

New Rose, Jet Boy -- something from the Damned 

But it was a school night

And I was a placeholder

A boy, not yet a man

Your sister Karen didn't like me either

She teased me mercilessly

But I had a car, and in it we'd drive

From scene to fetid scene

(2nd chorus)

Some things I don't remember
Some I can't recall

I just know that before you

There was nothing at all

----

I'm not certain that the person I'm referring to would even remember this event. I'm certain she never knew the significance it held for me. I'm not absolutely certain that it was my first, but it was the first one I remember. We were just teenagers, friends fooling around. I still consider her a friend (Hey, Kim!) although we haven't spoken for many, many years...and we're not teenagers anymore. 

Day 8 The Secret Crush

 

10/8/23 8:05 AM

Day 8

Write lyrics about a secret crush you had in high school that you haven’t seen in years and often wonder what would have happened if you had expressed your feelings.

 

Sophomore Crush

On the first day of school, 

You glanced at me so cool

And shot me with a rubber band

Perfect face

Perfect smile

Acne and braces not withstanding

Plaid skirt, fishnets, Doc Marten boots

Short hair, long legs, 

Lunch box, tape deck

You were so punk rock, hanging with your crew

 

Statue of Liberty

"Come sit down!"

You beckoned me

 "What are things like where you come from?"

Four or five, of similar mind

Hard stares and begrudging smiles

"I think we're gonna have ourselves some fun!"

 

We had French and History

I got As, you got Bs

Me, the dreamer, you a fantasy

 

Summer nights, feeling free

Fireworks, 9:30 

Still we had to make it home by 10

Disneyland, down the street

Parties, shows, go out to eat

I thought that we were always going to be friends

----

That's it for now. As I reflect on this, I wonder how many of my "secret crushes" have actually ever been secret? I don't seem to be very good at containing myself, which leads to cats coming out of bags with alarming regularity. I'm fairly certain that every pretty girl I've ever made eye contact with must have known to some extent what was going on in my transparent cranium.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 7 Noun and Verb Swap

10/7/23 8:03 AM

 

Day 7

Take the first line of your favorite song. Replace the verbs and nouns. Discard the original line and write entirely new lyrics to support the new line you created. Example: “Look at this photograph,” the first line from “Photograph” by Nickelback, could be turned into “Staring at this clock on the wall.”

 

----

 

The first problem with this assignment is that I can't seem to hone in on a particular song as "my favorite." All time? Current? Nothing is coming to mind except the most overplayed song from my youth. I'll let you try to guess what it is. 

 

And the example cited in the instructions is making me question whether or not the people who came up with this challenge actually reside in this universe. Nobody, in the entire history of people liking things, has ever actually liked Nickleback. Google it. Snope it out. It's a fact.

----

Stepstool to Indifference

There are children who cry: "All that's dead was alive" as they sigh in a weepy abandon

When the time comes to go, we all want to know

But the roadmap is folded and tattered

Ooo yeah, yeah

Given time to reflect, will we all recollect

Anything if there isn't a picture

While you dine out alone, staring down at your phone, never glancing around at your neighbor

Oh, oh oh

----

Ran out of time. And juice. This one's a stinker, no doubt about it.

Day 6 -- Write about a movie (spoiler alert: It's a shit song, and I hate it)

10/6/23 7:22 AM

Day 6

Write lyrics relating to a movie that you have watched, whether about the protagonist, the villain, a standout supporting actor, or the plot.

 

 

Workday in LA

 

LA morning, chatting enjoyably

The two men drove

One black, one white

Just a couple of blokes

Carpooling to work

Black suits and ties

They work in collections

Handguns in the trunk

They aren't here for fun

Should've brought shotguns

 

(chorus is a vocal version of Miserlou, the opening theme from the movie) 

La la la la la la la la la -- Pulp Fiction

La la la la la la la la la -- Put them in a bad condition

 

Inside the apartment

4 or 5 guys

Need to be questioned

Put an end their lives

For a stolen briefcase

 

Hamburgers and Sprite

The cornerstone

Of any nutritious breakfast

But it's their last one 

As the two men unload their guns 

 

La la la la la la la la la -- Pulp Fiction  <sung kinda like Rock Lobster>

La la la la la la la la la -- Put the fuckers in a bad condition

 

<1st half of sound clip -- Jules reciting Ezekiel 25:17, half volume under guitar solo>

 

One more in the bathroom

Listening to this

Comes out firing

But all six shots miss

Then the end comes for him

<2nd half of sound clip -- full volume -- ends the song with gunshots>

You know how, on an album*, there are always a couple of songs you just don't like? This is one of them. 

 

I just wasn't feeling it, and I struggled to squeeze anything out at all. Needless to say, I, too, find this one to be a stinker, uninspired. Maybe having music would partially redeem it, I don't know. It seems like it would just be a waste of good music.

 

*Kids: An album is a collection of songs released together as a package. One used to have to purchase the entire album in order to listen to the one or two songs that were popular on the radio. 

 

"What's a radio?"

 

<facepalm>

 

 

 

This is NOT an emergency alert. Get your finger off the button.

10/6/23 1:06 AM

SNAFU is an acronym that is widely used to stand for the sarcastic expression Situation normal: all fucked up. It means that the situation is bad, but that this is a normal state of affairs. The acronym is believed to have originated in the United States Marine Core during World War II. 

 

I'm so tired of trying to describe depression, or whatever it is you want to call what is wrong with me. So never mind, forget it...you wouldn't understand anyway. It's not that I think I can make anyone understand anything, since my experience is unique to me, and even I don't understand it. No one really sees things the way I do. Probably for the best.

Nonetheless, I will try to make myself understood. What are my thoughts, exactly? Where do they go wrong? Are they even mine? 

It's easy for some to subscribe to the notion that there are demons and angels that can alter our fate, twisting and turning us this way and that. They subscribe to belief in a god, or devil--some higher power who can claim credit for our good, or upon whom we can heap our guilt and shame, someone external to praise or blame. That might help some folks to get through their day, conscience unscathed, but not me. I am inoculated against such things.

The idea that "Life must have meaning," or more accurately, "You must find things that are meaningful to you" is something that I am finding hard to agree with or do. Whatever I think of, whatever I want to treasure or elevate to some higher stature, seems to fall short of the promise, and the hope it inspired withers. 

Still, I try to make my daily routines--the necessities, the frivolities--a thing that I cherish, like petting the cats or trying on hats, or setting out food for a couple of strays that have adopted me.

Yesterday, I went out walking, on a mission to get to the top of my hill. It's actually Donovan's hill, but no matter. I have chosen it as my morbid obsession. When I am pissed off at life, I go there, at great personal expense to my degenerating body. 

I made it to the top, despite not having done it for a while. I was just so mad. My internal monologue was stuck on "Fuck." Fuck this, fuck that, you know, like the Creature from the Black Lagoon meme, where he's smashing everything and everyone and cursing them blue. 

The problem with just going along with these thoughts, in my condition, while weaning off one med and onto another, is that I might actually take one these thoughts seriously. I tend to emotionally reason that all of these thoughts must  have merit because they feel  true. When you don't feel much at all, you tend to give weight to the things that make you actually feel something.

Hence, my stubbornness in continuing to hike, out of sheer, determined pissed off-ness, even when my feet were hurting and my strength waning. 

I fully expected to go up the hill and come back down, just blow off steam, not blow my head off (even though my head does seem to be the problem and blowing it off, the obvious solution). Nonetheless, my whole intent, my mindset, was that this is necessary training, conditioning for when the time comes.

On the way home, I felt a little victorious. Fuck that mountain too, I thought. I kicked its ass. I found the straightest, least obstructed path, and I made it up to the top and back down in record time. This will be harder to do at 89, my self-prescribed time. 

Nearer to home, I spotted a lizard on the trail. As always, in these situations, I like to give the sunbathing reptile a little nudge to keep them from getting stepped on or run over. I might try to sneak a few gentle pats in. Cold blooded reptiles need love too. "Good lizard, I say. Now be on your way."

But this misguided little guy decided to run between my legs, crawling up my boot, up the inseam of my pants, barely missing the hole in the crotch (I really gotta sew that up sometime) and finally taking up residence in geography very close to where my head was last alleged to be located. This guy was clinging onto the backside of my pants, peeking his head out from in-between my thighs. (I mean, I love animals, but not in THAT way).

He wasn't going to leave on his own, so I made a few attempts at grabbing him, but he slipped out of my hand each time, climbing higher each time. Finally, he fell off, and I wished him well, and I was on my way. 

This little lizard interlude probably took all of 2 minutes, but it made me smile just a little. Somebody liked me. I softened a little. Fuck everything--except this little lizard here. He's OK. And so is my friend Emery. But that's about it. I was still gonna be mad, sad and pissed off, but I could make a couple of exceptions.

----

I've received some harsh criticisms lately, and I'm just now being able to feel their effect on my psyche. I was severely blunted at the time, due to my anti-depressants working too  well. But a few weeks later, the words still lingered in my memory, and now there were some emotions to go with them.

The criticisms were mostly my own, but it was one of those situations where you are trying to tell someone what a lousy fuck-up you are, and you are laying it on real thick. You know, just over-the-top and cruel, self-loathing kind of stuff. You are hoping that person will stop you and tell you, "No, sweetie, that's not true. Stop being so mean to yourself. I love you." 

Well, that's how it's supposed to work. Especially, when the person you are beating yourself up in front of is your mom. 

"Hey," I said after a minute or so, when she didn't try stop me (and those were some pretty vicious things I was saying about myself). "You aren't supposed to agree with me!"

Instead, she added a few items of her own. I guess I know what my mom was trying to express when she said I talk too much. She was trying to say, "Son, you talk to much." She didn't use those words, but her meaning was clear. I talk excessively, and that is annoying to her. It's not just the content, but the quantity. 

I know she's my mom, and she loves me, but I don't think she really likes me very much.

----

The return of emotions after weaning off anti-depressants is like a person coming out of paralysis, or someone who has been frozen. At first, they can't move a thing. Then they may experience some tingling around the periphery. Then they find that they can feel their toes. Then their legs. It starts in extremities and then moves toward the center.

In similar fashion, my emotions returned to my face first. I found my face was in sync with my newly rediscovered feelings. I could feel and express my two main emotions with my droopy, misty eyes, sagging jowls and deeply furrowed brow. We're talking major furrowing here, the kind usually associated with steam coming out of the ears.

I still don't have the gut feelings at all. I haven't thawed out all the way. But my head, wherever it is actually located, is shouldering (ha) the burden. I don't know how long it will take before the melting process reaches my heart and my belly, the seats of love and laughter.

I probably shot myself in the foot by even agreeing to try anti-depressants. It set me back to zero on my emotional growth chart. I'm currently about as evolved as the lizard I encountered. Still, I have to give myself some credit: For a reptile, I'm doing an astounding job of approximating a human.

This bit of whining that I'm doing now, this long-ass, rambling, go nowhere post, is just meant to be therapy. I only put these things out there because 1) I am just narcissistic enough to think that my thoughts are important somehow, and 2) maybe--just maybe--someone else will relate to them. God help that poor person, I hope not. 

----

I came home and found that I have a bunion on my left foot. Like finding an potato bug in the backyard, it was surprising, shocking even. It looks awful, and it's now a permanent part of my landscape, like my missing tooth was for so many years. 

How do I fix this? Can I? Probably not. It's not advisable unless there is constant pain. Walking up the side of a mountain is kind of an exception, so a little pain is to be expected. But my mom had to have foot surgery some years back, and it's likely that these will just get worse over time, and I may have to consider surgery. 

Or I can just keep driving this stupid body around like an old jalopy, not caring about dings, dents and scratches. There's something liberating about that first dent. Now you don't have to wash your car as often. You can stop caring as much.

OK, I have officially wound myself down for the day. Now here's a picture of a lizard crawling out of my butt:

 

 

Day 5 -- The Re-write

10/5/23 10:29 AM

Day 5

Pick one or more songs from your playlist and re-write all the lyrics.

 

 

Blundering and Proud

 

Blundering and proud

Toilet seat made of gold

Angry and loud

As the crowds

Chanting slogans

In your name

You fabricate greatness

Out of yarn

Made of silk

From the lies

That you tell

About yourself

 

Thunderous sounds

Empty words

With the power 

To sell

Anything

To anybody 

With orange tinted glasses

Masses swell

Bringing hell

To the streets

And I try to think

I must be dreaming

But when

Will I 

Awake?

 

 

The song I picked to re-write, Wondering Aloud, a lovely little vignette of domestic sweetness by Jethro Tull, was supposed to be an easy one:

 

The words don't have to fit the meter in this song. They can be bent and stretched. Two syllable words can be drawn out to three or four, as necessary. And rhyming? Non-essential. Oh, and it's a nice, short little number--only a couple of loose stanzas, no chorus. Easy-peasy, right?

 

Why I would take this song that I've loved and turn it into a thinly veiled description of Trump and America, circa 2016? I don't have the answer to that.

 

I guess when it comes right down to it, I am a contrarian. "You say black, I say white, you say bark, I say bite." I am 180 degrees out of sync with consensus. But when the consensus seems to be "Love is hate, war is peace, no is yes..." is that really so bad? 

 

Also, I am coming off my meds, so there's that.

 

 

Comic Book Hero (Day 4)

 

 

10/4/23 9:33 AM

Day 4

Pick a character from your life who has had a major impact on your development. Write a song about him or her, whether about their struggles, success story, relationships, etc.

 

Comic Book Hero

She wears hair clips with roses, dresses and an ankle brace

Like a princess fawn, bounding from the tower she's escaped

She dreams big, she lives big, and deep are the ruts in-between

Dancing on her bed like some magic mischief fairy queen

 

Blushing hard, all awkward, she's amusement unto herself

A neon billboard, no poker face can hide her tell

Weirdness flag aloft, it's the peace sign that she waves

Pursued by dragons, is it security or chaos she craves?

 

(bridge)

One minute fearful gloom--snorting, laughing in the next

Twirling to girly pop, you'd never know she'd been depressed

 

(chorus)

She wants to ice skate, skydive, cliff jump, hang-glide 

Adventure far and wide

Just to feel alive

Just to feel alive

 

She drives her Saturn like some 70's car chase montage

When her key's not stuck in the ignition.

She's got no time for any 9-5 soul sucking work week garbage

A living comic book, the artist's life is her ambition

 

 

 

 

 

I'm not going to reveal the secret identity of my comic book hero(ine).  She already knows who she is. And to the rest of you: Get ready, world, for she is a force to be reckoned with!

 

**Confession: I actually wrote this song back in January of this year. I tweaked it a little bit, but the content is basically unchanged. I know this is kind of obviates the "challenge" part of this exercise, but I didn't want to lose a day, and I still have my song from yesterday to work on. So you can sing me a rousing chorus of "Cheater, Cheater, Pumpkin Eater." The indictment is fair, and pumpkins abound this time of year. It is October, after all.

Day 3 The Cut-up Technique, Part One -- The Story and the Cut

 

10/3/23 9:27 AM

 Day 3

Write a story or random phrases that come to mind and then use the cut-up technique to come up with some song lyrics. The cut-up method, made famous by David Bowie and others, includes cutting up words from sentences and phrases and then rearranging them to come up with unique lyrics.

 

This method was developed before word processors came into being, so it was done with paper, pen and scissors. I am thinking of employing a variety of different methods to see which one works best for me. "Cut and paste" is a feature on all computers and word processing programs, and this might be helpful. There are also "cut-up generators," computer programs which--well, I don't know what they do exactly, but I'll find out here in a minute. 

I'll post the finished product, but additionally, I'm going to include some of the process notes. Sound fun? Too bad, I'm doing it anyway!

 

 

Here's the story part, before the cut-up:

There was a boy who, despite his infirmities, decided to visit the canals in Venice. Venice, California, that is, not the real one. The boy was a cripple, braces on his legs and also on his face. He was a strange kid in some respects, fond of snakes and spiders. In other ways, he was quite a conventional boy who liked milk shakes and rock and roll. He was unsure about girls, dreaming of skateboards and swimming pools. 

He set out walking, and he didn't have far to go. Just one town over, Santa Monica, was his home. He was allowed to use the bike path until he got to the city limit sign, by the jetty which was the last remaining evidence of POP, the famous seaside amusement park from the 60s, now demolished, its strewn wreckage long since eroded by the sea. 

He was supposed to stop before he ever saw a juggler or street merchant, but the siren call of the south, proved too much on this day. After a moment's thought, he placed one foot firmly on the other side of the imaginary line that separated bourgeoisie from the beggar. Fun and frolic awaited just beyond. 

Rollerskating bikini clad blondes, with sunbleached hair, and skin, baked to golden brown perfection, flew past him, some skating backward, solo artists, carving out a flowing script of motion, others, in loose formation, knotting up in bunches along the crowded thoroughfare. 

He hadn't gotten far when one of these  crashed into him, bumping him sideways onto the sand. She whirled to a stop and looked down at him. He looked up at her, a little fearful. He didn't know what to say. 

She broke the awkward silence. "Hello. My name is Stacey. Sorry I crashed into you."

"I'm not," he said. "My name is Phobos. I'm pleased to meet you."

It got awkward again, and Stacey was about to turn and rejoin her group. She was a little leery of someone named after one of the twin moons of Mars, but her curiosity got the better of her.

"Where is your brother?" she asked. 

"How did you know?" he asked. He was surprised at her depth. Most people just laughed at him. 

His name, his braces and his ungraceful gait were easy targets for the inevitable taunts from his peers: "Brace face! Humpty Dumpty!" or "Go away, loser! Lame-o!" They would have called him "Forrest Gimp," but the movie hadn't come out yet.

His black metal leg irons gave them the creeps. Never a hello. No one had ever apologized to him for anything, why should they? He was the strange one. He was un-hip.  With his gingham shirts, Bermuda shorts and black socks, he was the picture of anti-style. 

The way Stacey looked at him was unlike anything in his experience. There was not a trace of pity in her eyes.  It was like he was a completely normal boy, not pathetic at all. He didn't know what to think. 

She helped him to his feet, although he could have managed on his own. He was a proud boy. Not like that. Not with all caps. He wasn't a fascist. He was just a kid with some challenges, which he had learned to deal with long ago. 

"Let's go," she said, and as they proceeded down the bike path, they spoke of many things. 

That's the end of the story. Nothing happened, but it was a nice day. 

Here's what some program generated, rearranging my words into a wall of random words and phrases. I picked the least random setting, as the more random ones tended to be useless, producing only gibberish. I don't think this really qualifies as a cut-up program, really. It doesn't really show you the cuts. It merely moves words around willy-nilly, chopping up phrases with about as much conscious thought as a food processor.

Results

bourgeoisie from the beggar. fun and frolic awaited just beyond. siren call of the south, proved too much on this liked milk shakes and rock and roll. he was unsure of the story. nothing happened, but it was a nice on the other side of the imaginary line that separated solo artists, carving out a flowing script of motion, others, in other ways, he was quite a conventional boy who to a stop and looked down at him. he looked was the strange one. he was un-hip. with his gingham awkward again, and Stacey was about to turn and rejoin strange kid in some respects, fond of snakes and spiders. to say. she broke the awkward silence. "hello. my name Dumpty!" or "Go away, loser! Lame-o!" his metal leg irons what to think. she helped him to his feet, although pity in her eyes. it was like he was a he could have managed on his own. he was a day. after a moment's thought, he placed one foot firmly to golden brown perfection, flew past him. some skating backward, his legs but also on his face. he was a the real one. the boy was a cripple, braces on "my name is Phobos. i'm pleased to meet you." it got rollerskating bikini clad blondes, with sun-bleached hair and skin baked is stacey. sorry I crashed into you." "I'm not," he said. ever apologized to him for anything, why should they? he curiosity got the better of her. "Where is your brother?" she up at her, a little fearful. he didn't know what completely normal boy, not pathetic at all. he didn't know he ever saw a juggler or street merchant, but the name, his braces and his ungraceful gait were easy targets into him, bumping him sideways onto the sand. she whirled of anti-style. the way Stacey looked at him was unlike one town over, Santa Monica, was his home. he was anything in his experience. but the movie hadn't come out yet there was not a trace of bike path, they spoke of many things. that's the end challenges, which he had learned to deal with long ago. proud boy. not like that. not with all caps. he about girls, dreaming of skateboards and swimming pools. he set her group. she was a little leery of someone named asked. "how did you know?" he asked. he was surprised after one of the twin moons of mars, but her from the 60s, now demolished, its strewn wreckage long since the city limit sign, by the jetty which was the at her depth. most people just laughed at him. his wasn't a fascist. he was just a kid with some for the inevitable taunts from his peers: "Brace Face! They would have called him Forrest Gump, .Humpty allowed to use the bike path until he got to last remaining evidence of pop, the famous seaside amusement park thoroughfare. he hadn't gotten far when one of these crashed gave them the creeps. never a hello. no one had out walking, and he didn't have far to go. just there was a boy who, despite his infirmities, decided to day. visit the canals in Venice. Venice, California, that is, not in loose formation, knotting up in bunches along the crowded eroded by the sea. he was supposed to stop before shirts, Bermuda shorts and black socks, he was the picture "let's go," she said, and as they proceeded down the

 

 

 

That would constitute the cut-up phase of the process. I personally believe I could do a better job separating the phrases from one another. So here's my preliminary version of the cut-up:

There was a boy who, 

despite his infirmities, 

decided to visit the canals

in Venice. 

Venice, California, that is, 

not the real one. 

The boy was a cripple, 

braces on his legs but also 

on his face. 

He was a strange kid 

in some respects, 

fond of snakes and spiders. 

In other ways, he was 

quite a conventional boy 

who 

liked milk shakes and rock and roll. 

He was unsure about girls, 

dreaming of 

skateboards and swimming pools. 

He set out walking, and 

he didn't have far to go. 

Just one town over, 

Santa Monica, 

was his home. 

He was allowed to use the bike path 

until he got to the city limit sign, 

by the jetty which was 

the last remaining evidence of POP, 

the famous seaside amusement park 

from the 60s, 

now demolished, 

its strewn wreckage 

long since eroded by the sea. 

He was supposed to stop 

before he ever saw a 

juggler or street merchant, 

but the siren call of the south, 

proved too much on this day. 

After a moment's thought, 

he placed one foot firmly 

on the other side of the imaginary line 

that separated 

bourgeoisie from the beggar. 

Fun and frolic awaited just beyond. 

Rollerskating bikini clad blondes, 

with sunbleached hair, 

and 

skin baked to golden brown perfection, 

flew past him. 

some skating backward, 

solo artists, 

carving out a flowing script of motion, 

others, 

in loose formation, 

knotting up in bunches 

along the crowded thoroughfare. 

He hadn't gotten far when 

one of these 

Malibu Barbies 

crashed into him, 

bumping him sideways 

onto the sand. 

She whirled to a stop and

looked down at him. 

He looked up at her, 

a little fearful. 

He didn't know what to say.

She broke the awkward silence. 

"Hello. My name is Stacey. 

Sorry I crashed into you."

"I'm not," he said. 

"My name is Phobos. 

I'm pleased to meet you." 

It got awkward again, and

Stacey was about to turn and 

rejoin her group. 

She was a little leery of 

someone named after one of the twin moons of Mars, 

but her curiosity got the better of her. 

"Where is your brother?" she asked.

"How did you know?" 

he asked. 

He was surprised at her depth. 

Most people just laughed

at him.

His name, 

his braces 

and 

his ungraceful, ungainly gait 

were 

easy targets 

for the inevitable 

taunts from his peers: 

"Brace face! 

Humpty Dumpty!" 

or 

"Go away, loser! Lame-o!"

His metal leg irons gave them the creeps. 

Never a hello. 

No one had ever apologized to him for anything, 

why should they? 

He was the strange one.

 He was un-hip.  

With his gingham shirts, 

Bermuda shorts and 

black socks, 

he was the picture of anti-style. 

The way Stacey looked at him was 

unlike anything in his experience. 

There was not a trace of 

pity in her eyes.  

It was like 

he was a completely 

normal boy, 

not pathetic at all. 

He didn't know what to think. 

She helped him to his feet, 

although 

he could have managed on his own. 

He was a proud boy. 

Not like that. 

Not with all caps. 

He wasn't a fascist. 

He was just a kid

with some challenges, 

which he had learned to deal with

long ago.

"Let's go," she said, 

and 

as they proceeded down the bike path, 

they spoke of many things. 

That's the end of the story. 

Nothing happened, 

but 

it was a nice day. 

I like my cuts better. I think there are a few lines in there that I might be able to reconfigure, some salvageable bits. The story is shit. Too long, it goes nowhere. It is just bland, unthought-out dribble. Churning out this kind of muck is easy. The hard part comes next: the paste-up. 

 

I will have to take a break and eat something, as I will need a functioning brain for this part of the process. Magic may be involved. Stay tuned for the next post, ETA TBA.

Day 2 of Songwriting Exercise

 

 

0/2/23 12:52 PM

 
Day 2

From the lyrics you wrote the day before, edit the content to come up with at least one structured song (verse – chorus – verse – chorus).

Like a cut flower, waiting for a vase too long,

The timing was all wrong, 

Wondering what steps, which foot to put forward,

We come to the end of our song.

             (chorus)

There's no time like the present, 

Any time is fine.

But sometimes...sometimes...sometimes...

There's just no time.

 

 

Leap ahead or fall behind,

Get your ass back to the grind,

If you don't seek, you'll never find,

So eat the fruit down to the rind.

 

(chorus) 

This bundle of stuff that I call myself,

This hope chest of forgotten dreams,

Will it never open to be seen,

Like a book unread upon the shelf?

 

(chorus)

 

Over the hills and far away, 

I'll ride there on my bike someday.

Just pedal, for once, with no concern,

No halfway point, no time of return.

 

 

OK, I've exceeded my time limit for the day. I'm less pleased than even yesterday with the results. 

 

Editing is something I both love and hate. My words are like my children: I love to fuss over them and polish them them compulsively, but I don't like to chop them up and toss their limbs in the waste basket. I usually just tweak on the original version for hours and wind up leaving it mostly as it is. I like to think of my children as special and unique just as they are, idiosyncrasies included.

 

 

And in other news...

Day Three of Cymbalta withdrawal, Day One of Lamotrigine increase from 25 to 50mg. Nausea, loss of appetite, dizziness, lightheadedness, vertigo. For a drug that never actually made me feel good, quitting Cymbalta sure is making me feel bad.

 

Additionally, my increased cannabis consumption has muddied the waters a bit. I started using it more to stave off the emotional blunting caused by the Cymbalta. All that did was give me another addiction, albeit a familiar and enjoyable one, for the most part. 

There are many problems associated with daily cannabis use, not the least of which is wear and tear on the lungs. And like any drug, a tolerance is built up, requiring higher doses which become less effective over time. Soon, the elevating effects are gone, and you are performing a ritual just to achieve a sense of normalcy. Never mind that the perception of normal has been skewed by continuous use of a mind-altering drug.

So my October challenge is twofold: engage in a positive mind exercise every day and get back on the  Saturday only wagon for the cannabis and caffeine.

That's about it. I am going to have to finish getting my woodstove installed, or it will be 2024 before I get heat up in here.

...and I don't know if this has ever happened to anyone, but I was speaking into my text editor, when I farted. It was just a quick little one syllable number, but the text editor picked it up and transcribed it as "that." So, I am literally talking out of my ass now. Great.