Tag Archives: no life

Animals in the dark

(Aug 25 8:01 p.m.)

So, a few things.  And no photos (except the lead) because most of the subjects have been elusive, or… well, un-publishable.

Tuesday night, during my walk for the day, I spotted one of the neighborhood cats in the greens.  It looked back at me as I shined my flashlight on it— a flashlight with weak batteries, so a dim light on its face.  During one later pass, the cat was in the path; I couldn’t help but approach it, slowly, having to complete the path, whereupon it got scared and bolted off into the woods.

The next day was a bit strange, and I’m not sure if the cat was involved.  Remember the chipmunk I mentioned in a previous post?  Well, I may have found it— or had— in the backyard… on its side, moving only because of the insects beneath it; in other words, deceased.  Not a disturbing picture at that stage, but definitely not a picture that’s going up here.

It only got stranger that night.  Glenn Beck appeared on MSNBC… live.  I won’t go into that ball of stress… it was just unusual.

I contemplated making a long voice message in response to my far away friend, who as it turns out didn’t respond within the week because she was overwhelmed in work, among other things.  I made the decision to do the recording… and at the point it was past 11 p.m.

To fill you in, on past matters, briefly, making a phone call wasn’t possible because of the mobile network she had— not being able to call locals, so the next best thing was to make voice recordings.  When absolutely necessary, anyway.

Problem is… I am bad at speaking as myself.  I’m bad at speaking in general, sometimes losing train of thought mid-sentence, but into a mic, and outside, at night?  I could get paid as a voice actor the way I can bend my voice, but… as myself and quiet, it came out a mumble… as usual.  And not a “cool” mumble as with Elliot on Mr. Robot (even though that show has become rather dull) The content of the message… it was awful, despite preparation— some preparation.  “Wing it,” I cannot.  So that message is not getting sent.  I would have to transcribe it for clarity, which defeats the point of a voice message.

It approached the definition of precarious being outside before the turn of midnight.  The stars were out, the crickets were at full volume, and I had used the screen of the smart phone as a light— no “torch,” as they call it in the U.K.  But it was not particularly safe toward the end.  And what ended the message: There was some kind of barking in the woods, only mere yards away, but not a dog.  Maybe a raccoon, and I think definitely, maybe rabid.  Okay, there have been no reports of rabid animals, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I amplified that portion of the MP3 recording so you can hear it clearly:

Yeah, I returned to the house.

…A house that began to rot four years ago.

…And now, it appears as if aunt J. has given up on me, relinquishing everything onto my mother— someone who, after barely doing anything, doesn’t follow through on the ideas she sells… She doesn’t even remember a written deal she made and I accepted.

Okay, so I’m opening up my depressing circumstances again (and technically it’s more than a few things beyond this point).  Sue me.  I’m alone in all of this.

I know we all are sometimes undervalued and left to ask questions, not always knowing what to ask, but in my case… Am I not like an animal in the dark?

I know I’m not rabid, ha.  But there is definitely darkness, even during the day.  An alien in the neighborhood, where I might as well be some stray animal.  I’m subject to learn in a vacuum living here.  Aunt J. said in 2014, something along the lines of, you a champion, someone who will fight for you.  Of course, she made it a matter of disability… to have the public pay for my help.  No further help from family… whatever family that’s left.

I’m certainly not an animal if I can speak spoken languages and do square roots in my head.  Still, not much of what I say is going to get across anywhere— and doubly right now; the people behind the MERLIN Project say information does not pass well long-term around one’s birthday and six months away from that— biannually.  In my case, that’s early March and September.

(I was also going to link to the Wikipedia page for physicist George Hart for more on MERLIN, but the page had critical opinions stated as fact— and for a long time.  I did my best clearing up the page, but the vandals out there can be so pervasive that my changes may just get undone.  Also, my revisions or wording might not be clear enough or meet standards, so there’s only the win in trying and contributing.)

Right now, I should expect a lot of silence, and making big decisions will fail later on.  I should be taking care of things at home, and of myself, and frickin’ sleeping.  My teeth and gums are in a concerning state, my right ankle is warped, and my neck is messed up. …But those things cost money to deal with, and I should have a job.  It runs in circles.

In my willingness to fight the darkness… as absurd as that gets… I got cocky again.  Online, I recently gave advice to people left and right— the kind of advice that makes me— or anyone else— go oh, God… I wrote that.  And my far away friend, overwhelmed, certainly doesn’t need essays in the form of emails from me right now.

With my words, trying to make change right now is like barking in the woods.

Then again, ‘right now’… is so small in the grand picture of forever… this darkness that never ends.  I’m very much like an animal… on a leash, trapped in my head. …Then again, that could be considered insulting to animals.  Who am I to complain when the smallest of creatures must traverse long distances for food?  They run circles around me.  They reproduce, and I probably won’t… regardless of how much I want a family.

Animals aren’t bothered with human trappings and emotions and judgment… Even the animal people on Penny Dreadful embrace their instincts, and act, whereas I am… reserved in my dreadful absence of support.

—Okay, enough of that.  I should get some more air.

Fall Closing In

Underdeveloped pine cone… perhaps.  A bit sticky. (Aug 8 3:53 p.m.)

“School year is fast approaching.”

Time has run quickly this summer.  The whole year has moved so fast, especially the last four months.  Something of it being emotionally short for me… Fewer unique memories to link the timeline together, and less interaction overall.

On the second Wednesday this month, WordPress notified me with that little trophy, that this blog has been up for four years.  Which made it all the more ridiculous when I saw that the blog had gotten zero views in 48 hours. …It reminds me of the potential quantity over quality of adding posts just for the sake of the Congratulations, you hit another 100 milestone.  (This blog has also reached 400 in count, by the way. 😉 )

So… zero.  And not the first time. …Write “like no one is reading,” indeed.  Okay, enough blog navel-gazing.

2016 is quite a different year— much different.  Sometimes it has been in my face this year how messy real life is.  And I’m not talking merely of people baring their souls without makeup or “graphic content.”  I’ve seen some the limits of the world at large and small, and what it is to be human, and how natural it is.  Some of it’s beautiful.  But it is all very, very messy.

A virtually hollow, roundish seed… perhaps. (Aug 6 4:48 p.m.)

Still, I don’t have nearly enough of the picture.  We’re all limited by our perceptions… But, for me— as the last time I’ve been off the property was maybe two months ago— the view is like impressions from afar..  I practically missed all of 2016.

That isn’t to say I’m alone in the practice of being absent.  There are times I’ve gone to twitter and found the most recent posting was several months ago… Life goes on.  But it hits me, being so out of the loop, and so out of life.

I used to write things down.  I used to get up, and live.  I used to dream.

Mushroom before the porch, further decayed. (Aug 17 1:39 p.m.)

This year, I feel broken.  I put too much weight on being useful, and people have gone silent.  I’m so dependent.  I tried to get back into the loop— or “re-loop,” but it feels futile.  There isn’t much ‘relating,’ and not much to say on my end because nothing much is happening on my end.  And now it’s the 20th of August.

Time could blur in 2012, but still there was life.  Notable things happened in 2012.  Success may have been a pipe dream, but there was life.  Now I can’t help but think everything is dying. …Technically, I’d be right in a way— none of us are immortal.  We are born; we grow, peak, surrender and die.  But the culture… not looking good.

I miss sleep… proper sleep.  I’m forgetting things like never before— missing count of the passes in my walks, distracted by the “talks” in my head… ruminating, probably suppressing serious thought and memory for a bit of emotional comfort. …Of course, I can’t help but feel things that bring a smile to my face or heart when I think about one person in particular— whose appearance entering the year made 2016 unique. …And now she’s even farther away, geographically… going silent again, where I begin to think about what might have happened… trying not to worry.  She’s her own person, but… it can be hard to let go of someone you love.

Another slow day in a slow year, and I find myself rereading… backlogged emails on missed social media and old messages from a deleted account… emojis, broken pictures and the truncated text of email notifications.  And despite supposed good times, my broken contributions remind me of how empty and damaged I am as a person.  That isn’t at all to say the other is ‘perfect.’  Everyone lies— even your friends, at least to be nice. …Feeling used doesn’t feel nice.  (Hypothetically speaking.)

Blackberries… or blackened wild raspberries? (Aug 20 6:13 p.m.)

…It’s been four years, and I still don’t quite have a voice.  So I kind of blew up, the first Saturday of AugustNo use pretending things are alright.

Some connections are all but gone, replaced with holes dug in not speaking up.  Trying not to harm or offend, or sound self-absorbed, the word count can go up significantly… cut down to virtual grunts… “Distractions” deleted, questions left unasked, and conversations are left in an awkward position.  Things just left there.  It’s awful.  It can even feel as if devaluing the other person, when the purpose was to protect or respect them.  Of course, part of editing is getting rid of inaccurate statements… which makes me sound like a liar that I even typed the words in the first place.

Add the perception of absence when someone is unable to speak (properly)… One or both people assume that they aren’t there or are uninterested… it can feel like a communication death spiral— where the connection is perpetually lost.

“Fools,” said I, “You do not know.”
Silence, like a cancer, grows.
The Sound of Silence

Silence really can be like a cancer.  I never had anyone to talk to— not really— in-depth and uncensored… which makes my ‘experience’ easily overwhelming.  That’s why I’m damaged, ultimately.  An example of someone who wasn’t lucky enough to have people in his life, friendly or not.  Forget loneliness— the absence of others can make you feel worthless.

…It works both ways, of course.  I’m not special.  I’ve come across people that have found themselves “unworthy” or “dying inside.”  I can empathize, first hand.  You know you can talk to me, I would think.  But I say nothing, unable to articulate “the right words.”  Would it benefit him if I spoke up?  She turned down talking to me before; why would she talk now? …I’m too toxic.  I’m too immature.  I keep to myself, partly out of “respect.”

Yellowing of the season. (Aug 20 6:11 p.m.)

…Anyway.  It’s been four years on WordPress.  I don’t even want to begin to think about another four… so much backlog of words.  I’m surprised I’ve survived this far. 😉

…And to anyone reading this who feels horribly alone: you can talk to me.

Closing In

Friday, I had a somewhat frightening dream.

I was in a fictional building, amongst, I don’t know, soldiers. Maybe the setting was affected by the latest wrestling-themed episode of Supernatural.

Anyway, there was this boundary moving in, consuming everything in its path— like a wall closing in, but not a physical wall.  We could get out of its way, but we had to move fast, and climb (I grabbed on to someone’s legs; the chains attached to the ceiling were out of reach). A leader of some sort opened a passageway by hand. And then I woke up.

There was more leading up, but the memory of what happened before that interactive scene is too vague to recall… lost in its seemingly mechanical routine. But the latter part sort of reflects the feeling that my world is closing in on me, consuming me, silently.

There are so many ways at which my world is going dark, and it is kind of scary if you think about it. In spite of my actions, the lights go out around me. And literally— the two light fixtures in the kitchen no longer work; both of them. We’re using a plug-in lamp, currently burning an LED 60w replacement bulb because the halogen bulbs don’t last very long.

Some of what I get in life could go to the whole argument of expectations versus integrity as Togetherness the TV series conveys, that if you’re not all there and ready, you shouldn’t expect much. But this darkness I face is just absurd.

Nevertheless, I have to work on my health, mental and physical.
Continue reading Closing In


You think you know someone.
But in fact, you know nobody.
Everybody’s a thick shell.
Everybody’s ‘busy.’
And so you’re excused
away into nothingness.

And so I say,
I am sick of being casual with it.
I am human, after all;
doesn’t that mean something?
Not here, not anymore,
drowned, one way or…

But it’s not as if I tried,
never paid
for my mistakes or beginning.
It was free, all of it,
subject to fade,
fragile as ever.

And life goes on.
No one tried or cared
enough to understand,
including me.
I was never quite there,
though eager one time.

It reminds me of someone
who continues to this day
to be so cold,
reminding me, I am alone,
worth only what she desires,
that if I disagree

I am worthless.
Most everyone arrives,
but not me. Never.
On a critical level,
who has options, till hell
unbearable or unaffordable?

The chosen so-called progress
would go on forever.
For what?
As if the life is defined
by political maneuvering,
and lies, lies, lies.

Who always has more
reasons to be depressed,
more than hopeful.
Who else could walk away
with shrugs in his wake
besides the worthless?

Oh, yes, I’m unique,
jumping at the trivial chance,
much the same as before,
still a prisoner within myself,
wanting out, yet
denied the basic courtesy.

I can’t live,
not for real,
if there’s one thing
that never happens before I die.
And never—why?
I’ve never had a real conversation.


[uninspiration point]
It’s do or die time. …And I can’t quite do anymore.  So I’m dying.

I did, however, use my image editing skills to fill a hole that appeared on the bottom-right for the image above, a hole produced in rotating it… That took too long.  Much the same went with the No One Can Save You image, though all four corners were filled with that one.  This time I performed some color correction so the image would check out in HSV mode.

Yeah, so I’m a fraud.  I don’t experience things, I preoccupy myself.  I procrastinate.  I embellish nonsense.  I flatter with imitation, and I play video games…and cheat in said video games.

And now my body is falling apart faster than ever.  Without respite, my brain doesn’t work.  My imagination isn’t there, and my dreams are easily forgotten.  Factor in that non-life experience, and how the @$%# can I write?

Writers have words that need to come out.  The words desperate to come out of me now are: “get me the hell out of here.”

Impossibly black coffee
Impossibly black coffee

There’s little left of me to call myself anything anymore.

…So if we were having coffee, I would be a completely different person, because I don’t drink coffee.  The same goes with being a writer; that’s really not me.  If that’s even possible.

Now, if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, and I bet you haven’t, I tore myself away from blogging to complete Doom 64 again, start to finish.

Okay, it’s 2 p.m. Sunday here.  Pray that I don’t die in my sleep.  Nah, I’ll live.  More miserable and blind than ever.  Good night.


So I’m having doubts.  There comes a time when you question what you’re doing.

First, for several days the few ideas that’ve come have not materialized, have not hit the page.  I couldn’t write.  Then I tried to write a comment on Free Speech, and that became a piece—so long… and then it just sat.  I get the point of what I’m doing, but I don’t what I’m doing.

So much is corrected so often in the process that my views are altered.  That’s a part of writing, right?  Discovery?  Self-discovery?

Later, I was able to obtain an old game I had completed long, long ago.  Playing it again today brought back memories of the life I had way back.  The game was cruder than I remember, but at least it wasn’t the irreparable mess that’s here.  This blog just doesn’t make sense to me.

It’s been two years of basically trying to fill gaps, and answer questions, and…self-censorship.  You don’t want to know I’m thinking so much of the time.  I try to be nice, and put best interests at heart, and have fun without hurting anyone.

And then, recently, I added an About page I can’t live up to—not without ideas or without imagination, etc.

Come last fall, I changed my voice in admiration of someone that doesn’t exist, and then someone that did.  This year, I wrote poetry to express a bit of admiration for two real people.  In the moment, it’s great.  But I burned out a little more.  It kills you a little if you let it, knowing an opportunity was lost, or never was.

To the older me, this blog is an incredible waste of time.  It happened because I found ‘something I could do.’  I am an incredible fool.

But what about those instances of serendipity, that I kept stumbling on to good things?  Unfortunately, now that all comes into question as well.

In order to bring your dreams to life, you have to be solid.  You have to work hard.

Not much hard work went into this blog.  Research: weak; talent: weak; connections: weak.  And as I said, my voice hasn’t been whole, so it’s incomplete beyond measure.  Trying to be something, but it can’t keep.

I know this all happened.  The physical pains I refuse to talk about make it all clear that this is all real.  And so my failing blog is real…

A year of bad health, and no sign of improvement, I’m tired all the time, trying to catch up now, overnights into 7 a.m.  So besides learning things to advance my perspective on the world, I’m pretty much floating.  Much like my real life situation—no medical intervention, just dying slowly.

The old me can’t believe where I went, and the new me is tired.

…Let’s see if I can write some flash-fiction today.  I don’t particularly want to, but…you can’t move forward, doing nothing, right?  (Haha, I’m doing nothing with my life with all the preoccupation!)


The difference between public access and anytime access

Before August of 2012, there was no blog.  Before October of that year there were no meaningful connections.  Even nearly two years in, you couldn’t call me a writer.  Not really.  Then, entering November, everything changed when aunt J. bought me the smartphone.  Needless to say, I am pretty grateful.

Continue reading The difference between public access and anytime access

Falling to the darkness

I spend time away;
it breaks me free from the monotony,
but it breaks me, still.
Delayed drops of silence
and warning bells times three,
out of the loop for years, until…

I find myself loopy,
wild beyond reason,
within closed doors,
for each passing season
neglecting the life.
For what, more?

I reached out my hand, sprained.
I gave another welcome, drained.
I failed to make friends and amends,
exhausted myself toward belated ends.
Here, no matter the public,
the contact fades; it always does.

I’m not looking for fame; I want things to work;
yet the old nonsense and noise
overshadow everything; I regret,
holding myself to the flame,
short of entertaining or entering
the eternal furnace…yet.

I long for respite,
should decline become my middle name.
I don’t want to turn back, now, though
too often looking back with shame.
I can and plan hope for the better
years, anew in bad health.

The new world I feel, it feels like it’s falling apart.
The older fool of thirty years
becomes blind in more ways than just one;
ahead of the curve, he was, and still is
in too many ways wrong to count.
It’s so hard to climb in life, and yet so easy to fall.

And so, I bite my tongue, again;
I chew my lip, and take a sip,
and dip;
I shoot from the hip
in my way, slowly
falling to the darkness that resides before me.