It’s difficult to get women.  You have to make some sort of performance; you have to impress them, certainly if you’re trying to impress more than one.  And there are many different types of women in the world, nearly as many varieties as there are means and strategies for seeking their bountiful affections, but those women impressed by material things are the simplest and most straightforward to impress assuming material things you have the material to afford.  Devil knows.  Jules wasn’t much of a mariner; his boat wasn’t even his own.  His father, a retiring stockbroker for a large financial firm had purchased the vehicle a few years previous but admitted in private he never had the time to take the girl out for a ride, much in the way you would maintain a riding horse.

But Jules wanted to take the girls out for a ride.  He frankly didn’t know them, only the initials of one carved with iron ink into the crack above her oblivious ass, and the first name of another–at least so he thought; “Sally” she seemed but in reality her name was Florence, though she preferred to go by “Krystal.”  Of a high quality is a woman that likes to identify as an overpriced liquor.

Jules had a driver’s license.  He didn’t even consider whether or not he needed a license to drive a boat.  The keys were easy enough to come across, and the harbormaster was passed out in his office.  That’s what life is like in Kennebunkport.

A few girls and his wingman, an old friend he picked up from a party three weeks ago when he was inebriated enough to compare pieces–and a little more–they tore out into the night–or afternoon–to give the girls a rise as the combustion engine of the old girl sent her high above the crest of the waves; how fleet her feet.

But turn and turn and twist and dive and drive and drive, she whirled about against the waves, spinning like a top, till thankfully she redressed herself and resettled her bangs above the spray of salt.  But Jules would never forget that day when he lost control, launched the women wide, and recorded himself for his father’s later entertainment having lost himself and his senses hurling face forward into the floor like a man struck hard unguligrade upon the jaw.

I’m reworking the first two books I wrote in the Goliath Thunder series.  Further work in the series just seemed to make it a necessity as the universe became more and more fleshed out both before my eyes and within my imagination.  You should see the reams of notes clogging up the arteries of my workspace.

But I haven’t been sitting on my hands, either.  There’s loads of new content on the way.  In fact, I’m sitting on so much of it that my ass hurts and I’m suffering from a lack of oxygen while I watch in realtime the imaginary flights of SR-71 Blackbirds.  Some of that new content will be completely new content in the upcoming books.  Some of its shit that’s a secret held between only myself and whatever perverted voyeur deities deign to see me emerge in my Neanderthal glory from the steaming shower.

Don’t think too much about it.

Little man lives big for a moment, for some moments, for a few minutes, perhaps an hour, too big to suffer being a joke between the ears of others even as he can glimpse the guffaw of laughter over the rumbling engine’s din.

But he’s stronger than you are.  He knows he’s being laughed at, but it doesn’t bother him; he doesn’t care.  Just look at the determination in his eye even a mere millisecond before the moment of impact.

He’s stronger than you are.  He knows it and he doesn’t care, and you don’t know a damn thing at all.

Not fundamentally different, but fundamentally enough, he suffers under a presupposed curse that cannot be remedied by diet or surgery.  Assuming you could climb in the car, could you endure what you would consider public humiliation?

Or would you own it?

Creative people have creative habits, by which I mean that creative people have bad habits–not so much in the application and prosecution of their craft inasmuch as their own personal habits.  You could argue that creative people don’t reserve much of their consideration for themselves after they’ve spent it all in their work.  This is to avoid altogether the discussion of what constitutes a creative person, which I would tend to mean as anyone who creates, specifically as a sort of sole proprietor in a personal obsession with a certain craft.

It’s apparently a sort of personality trait.  There are some kind gentle souls who put others and the world before themselves.  And then there are other people who can’t be bothered to take care of themselves because they’re too busy writing or painting or whathaveyou.  In truth, I wouldn’t ascribe to it anything glorious or romantic; I see it rather differently.  There have been many bright minds and shining stars struck down amidst the height of their profession because they didn’t care for the consequences.  All different names of scientists, writers, some painters, and certain even very professional performers.  This condition seems to strike men far more than it does women.

And when I talk about taking care of oneself, I’m not really talking about daily bathing and the occasional clipping of nails, though these are also good habits.  In general what I’m talking about are issues of substance abuse, which strike amongst the creative like the dart of Apollo.  Writers tend to be drunks.  Others are chainsmokers.  Some of them also have terrible drug habits.  Many of them have even produced their best work while so driven.  I think that’s precisely why they opt not to consider the consequences; by and large, it has become a portion of their creative process, whether good or ill, and to disrupt this allegiance would the height of inimical.

I frankly have to wonder, does the creative endeavor attract substance abusers or is it almost a necessity to be a substance abuser to be creative?  “No smack, no soul?”

A lot of people say that life is suffering.  I would counter with the assertion that “life is desire, and desire hurts just as much as it helps.

This is something I started writing some months ago, but I never finished it.  I’m just going to leave this here as is.

I had a dream where I was trying desperately and unsuccessfully to get Milo Yiannopoulos to keep his clothes on.

You know, I’ve never really had what I’d called a “Writer’s Block” problem before.  Sometimes I was at a loss for ideas, but I was always able to get things on a page.  But recently, just looking at my own writing evokes a preternatural terror I can neither relate nor understand.  To be honest, I don’t think this is something that others haven’t experienced before, and I don’t think it’s a phenomenon specific to writing; anything you do as your primary vocation might be able to elicit this reaction.  The really interesting question is “Why?”

I am so fucking far ahead of my work schedule, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.  I’m pushing two year’s of content completed that is completely unreleased.  There can be no anxiety about the deadline; I’m not even willing to consider that possibility.

I have been knocked down a few pegs.  A good part of my job is marketing my own work, and several of the platforms I had historically used to that end have shifted me off, leaving me high and dry and keeping my money anyways.  I still am unsure about how to deal with the marketing side of things.  Thing is, I don’t have any difficulty doing marketing research; so why would that effect my writing only?

I don’t know.  I feel like I am an unwilling explorer in the vast depths of human emotion, places most people in their lives will never go, long lost caverns littered with the scribblings of strange tongues.  I already knew that writers were unpleasant people, but I still refuse to believe it is a result of the vocation, rather that writing invites certain types into its fold.  I wonder how many such letters go forever unreported.

I was watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas again recently.  It’s a film I’ve watched many times–perhaps over a dozen.  I never got it, as a kid.  I wonder if I really should have been watching it, as a kid.  The loss of meaning is so tangible in characters that eke out a miserable existence in narcotics and alcohol and all the fury that entails.  It was a difficult watch recently, never was before.

I’ll keep it short and sweet.  Looks like additional content for the upcoming 2 books will be finished on time.  As regards how long the editing, I cannot here comment faithfully, but things are looking nice.

I’ve been thinking about what are the essential themes of the various things I’ve written.  Goliath Thunder is about many things, but among them are the conception of family and the distinction between self and universe.  Something else I’ve written but haven’t published is fundamentally about sexual politics and competition.

Something I’ve heard from the mouths of people that typically espouse Green Party beliefs, people that typically indulge in the abusive use of recreational drugs in spite of the harm it’s done to nations like Mexico and Colombia, is that we are all connected, we are all part of a gigantic whole, not merely us and the rest of mankind, but with us and all things that live, all part of an interconnected web where anything we do and suffer is shared in some form universally.

Truth is, you can make a good argument that much of what’s being said is self-evident–pure cause and effect; the question is more specifically a matter of extent, what’s termed in the legal world as “proximate cause.”

Now, I don’t think most people that espouse this viewpoint do so out of malice; most of them are just helpless stoners, but I do think that they haven’t taken this attitude to its natural end.  Specifically, if we are not atomized and are rather a natural collective, I’m just as responsible for you as I am for me, and we both have a vested interest in each other.  This means I have some right to control your behavior beyond merely what I’d term the “proximate cause.”  If, for example, I can show conclusively that a reproduction deficit is a social ill, I could very well take away your right to not only abortion but perhaps even contraception.  I could even compel you to procreate against your will.

What I mean to show is “what sounds good,” may very well be monstrous, often without that intention, often without even malice

Is Charlie Sheen the Diogenes of the Hollywood elite?

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diogenes

He even rejected normal ideas about human decency. Diogenes is said to have eaten in the marketplace, urinated on some people who insulted him, defecated in the theatre, and masturbated in public.

Been a few weeks since I’ve shared anything of any import with virtually anyone.  I’m still here.  Still alive.  Just had to sort a lot of problems at once and I lost track of things.  Anyways, expect things to return to normal next week.

Looks like some of my published work is going to be rearranged, modified, and revised into what will probably be a trio of new works with a great deal of new and additional content.  All very exciting.  Bank on a lot of science fiction.  What I have to wonder and worry about, in all honesty, is my other work.  I’ve completed some material variously in the fantasy genre that has nothing to do with the work I’ve already published.  They say the safe road, that one that comes without living in doorways, lies in specializing in a certain genre, specifically in a certain series, and just running with it until your audience turns up tired.

But that’s not really me.

I don’t even think it’s good form.  How can you possibly do good writing if you’re dead inside for having to write for paycheck merely–long after you’ve stopped caring about the work?

I don’t know.

Truth is, I’ve yet to materialize an actual novel out of my Goliath Thunder work.  Short stories, a novella or two, and a few miniseries.  Haven’t yet felt the pull to bury myself in this sort of epic.

Is what it is.

Anyways, there’s not much to report.  I’m just working.  The terminus is rather far away.  Oh well.  I promise that when the hammer comes down, it will be glorious.