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Thursday, July 29, 2004
MEDITATIONS of Marcus Aurelius down off the shelf and consult. Landed on chapter 8, and here are some excepts. Sometimes this kind of thing helps. Who knows? Hit it, Marcus:
Consider that men will do the same things nevertheless, even though thou shouldst burst.
Thou hast not leisure or ability to read. But thou hast leisure or ability to check arrogance: thou hast leisure to be superior to pleasure and pain: thou hast leisure to be superior to love of fame, and not to be vexed at stupid and ungrateful people, nay even to care for them.
Wipe out thy imaginations by often saying to thyself: now it is in my power to let no badness be in this soul, nor desire nor any perturbation at all; but looking at all things I see what is their nature, and I use each according to its value.- Remember this power which thou hast from nature.
It is not fit that I should give myself pain, for I have never intentionally given pain even to another.
Different things delight different people. But it is my delight to keep the ruling faculty sound without turning away either from any man or from any of the things which happen to men, but looking at and receiving all with welcome eyes and using everything according to its value.
Take me and cast me where thou wilt; for there I shall keep my divine part tranquil, that is, content, if it can feel and act conformably to its proper constitution. Is this change of place sufficient reason why my soul should be unhappy and worse than it was, depressed, expanded, shrinking, affrighted? And what wilt thou find which is sufficient reason for this?
A cucumber is bitter.- Throw it away.- There are briars in the road.- Turn aside from them.- This is enough. Do not add, And why were such things made in the world? For thou wilt be ridiculed by a man who is acquainted with nature, as thou wouldst be ridiculed by a carpenter and shoemaker if thou didst find fault because thou seest in their workshop shavings and cuttings from the things which they make. And yet they have places into which they can throw these shavings and cuttings, and the universal nature has no external space; but the wondrous part of her art is that though she has circumscribed herself, everything within her which appears to decay and to grow old and to be useless she changes into herself, and again makes other new things from these very same, so that she requires neither substance from without nor wants a place into which she may cast that which decays. She is content then with her own space, and her own matter and her own art.
Enter into every man's ruling faculty; and also let every other man enter into thine.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Tiredness, sure; as the babies grow there are new concerns and demands all the time and I’m too brain-tired at day’s end to write at all. This applies to email as well, and as a consequence my “social” circle has dwindled drastically; email having long been the main avenue of adult human contact outside the family.
Mainly, though, it’s disgust that all I ever write about is personal angst shit that is a personal drag as well as nobody’s business. However, the two things that seem to have been central in the past – friendships and creative work - are effectively nonexistent. This leaves the blog as double substitute. Written monologue replaces live discussion… web-published kvetching replaces songwriting, recording, artwork and all other outlets of this once-precocious art-maker turned superannuated also-ran.
Been trying to get started on a comic and some songs. I've got plenty of ideas, but they sorta sit there unexplored. There’s no urgency on these projects, since neither is awaited by anyone at all. Also, time has demonstrated that anyone with an interest in prior work will reject the new work. This leaves a possible handful of new arrivals who’ll drizzle faint praise upon the shit, and this is cold comfort. The only reason to work, then, is to keep myself occupied with something resembling what used to be a driving passion. This is not exactly irresistible. In fact, it fucking sucks. There is no answer… either I’ll make something or I won’t. It makes no difference either way.
It’s likely any album completed will still be released by KRS, unless it is deemed truly rotten. I can’t say for sure what KRS thinks, since there’s no longer any kind of contact with them. The entire relationship was based upon Slim’s affection for WILLOUGHBY. Nobody else there really cared for my work, and certainly nothing has happened to change anyone’s mind. Likewise, any comic will be a self-published venture to amuse a few friends. There is no place in the wider world for any comics I make.
Well, you are what you eat.
So that’s the deal. I am not saying any of this to elicit sympathy; this is merely the state of affairs around here. Wish something I do could eventually bring in money for the sake of Lily and Miles, but that seems impossible. In view of that, the only reason to consider working is to fend off depression and generate positive energy to spend on the kids. This is, in fact, a better rationale for working than all the selfish ambitions (self-expression, fun, applause) that used to fuel the work. So far it hasn’t inspired any white-hot explosions of creativity, though. There’s today’s lecture on a subject about which you already knew everything.
I would like to make mention of my friend Brad’s nomination for an Emmy award for his role on HBO’s DEADWOOD. Well-deserved, that, although this superb show and its additional cast was largely overlooked in favor of bores like the WEST WING and the once-great, now-good SOPRANOS. Brad was nice enough to submit my music to the producer of Deadwood in the hope of snagging a place in the score. Of course, my music merely scored another snag instead. Still, my kudos to Brad, and here’s hopin’ he nails the statue.
I might also point out that regan grice-Vega, who succeeded in breaking what was left of my late Father’s heart by remaining steadfast in her rejection of my entire family, refusing him even one more moment with his great-granddaughter before his death, is officially a multi-millionairess. The cunt has already received 3 million from the fund that all you nice people sent to the fire department after the muslim holocaust of September, 2001. She summers in the Hamptons, spending this blood money and the further millions to come, complaining that my sister and other loved ones – in interviews with a writer – said things that were “too revealing” of Pete’s difficulties in life. Things like the dyslexia he overcame, youthful brushes with the law and such. Things that were then published in an obscure book on 9-11 victims and which thereby brought untold embarrassment to regan grice-Vega. SHE IS HUMILIATED BECAUSE IT’S NOW KNOWN THAT HER DEAD HUSBAND HAD DYSLEXIA!
My sister still lives in the small apartment where she raised Pete and David. The large home that the cunt and Pete bought– down payment provided by my parents – was sold promptly after his death. My parents were never refunded a fucking dime. Waiter: another sea breeze for the grieving widow!
We see now that all bromides about “karma” and “what goes around comes around” are utter bullshit. My nephew’s widow is set for life, and she continues to cluelessly whine about trivia like this to a cousin of ours who insists on remaining in touch with her. My nephew’s daughter Ruby, no doubt fed venomous lies about us by her mother and brood, is a lost soul already, consigned by fate to the same pit of scorpions that produced her unbelievably awful mother. My family continues to struggle on through the dimming world, with several of them (my Mom, my brother) sending Ruby gifts and money they can ill-afford. Ruby couldn’t possibly even remember them, and they get nothing back. Nothing.
People get murdered over far less than this, and wouldn’t that be nice?
But “what goes around” just keeps going around, and I’m living proof that “follow your bliss” leads to the void.
I’d still rather be me than her. Because Lily and Miles love me, and so does their Mom. The smiles on those two little faces are my fortune.
But oh how I hate regan grice-Vega, and oh how I hate all those who impeded, betrayed and ultimately killed my dreams. Oh how I hate ever having had those dreams.
Maybe I’ll eventually blog enough of the poison out of me to allow for one last windmill-tilt before accepting complete defeat, or maybe it’s way too late. The meaninglessness of all my efforts is assured, as is any delusion that this kind of confession will provide much cathartic relief. That’s why it’s hard to write. Mind you I do have days when I’m in great spirits. Days of laughing with Shelley, goofing around with David, and kissing these blessed babies. But why waste any of that time writing here on this shit-house wall?
Maybe soon I’ll be in a good mood AND a mood to write here. Wheee! Won’t THAT be swell?