The Divine Mr. M

...fuck me, it's fucking twenty nineteen!!!...that's a revelation I have from time to time...had it quite a few times in the past several years, that we're in the second decade of the twenty first century...the context in that A: I was born in nineteen fifty two and B: I have been reading science fiction since I was about six years old [Tom Swift Jr] and writing that shit for close to two decades now...jus' sayin', ya know....

...Catastrophic Climate Change...yeah babe, let's rock that shit!...oceans rise and the land burns...whooooo, mother fucker...but gotta keep making that money...'middle ground' and all that 'money is more important than life' dogshit...

...my fucking tooth [The Last Molar on The Right] fucked me up all week...ain't got shit done...sleep and take drugs...feeling like a waste of space....

...on the Her Prophet front...our High Priestess is now in LA full time...and she has access to a fuckton of money...but she also has health issues [Karmic shit] to deal with, so slow going for now...my pendant broke so I have to go to a jeweler to get it fixed...seems like Goddess is forcing me out of the house, so I might as well take the Liber disk in to get a hard copy printed...

...got other shit to bitch about, but I'm tired now...and so it fuckin' is...

~For me the most difficult aspect of writing is not coming up with ideas, etc. I've lived nearly all of my life since childhood in one type of fantasy world or another, so can pull concepts, plots and characters out of my hat all day. [I said 'hat' to be polite]

No, for me the most difficult aspect of writing is my mood swings when I'm truly In Process. That is how I can tell if I'm just fooling around or really doing the do. If I'm chill, it's the former. But when I start to have Manic Highs and Depressive Lows, I'm actually At Work. *sigh*

I just got a good dose of the latter a little while ago. I was buzzing this morning, having some quite useful revelations about how to most effectively work my Process, which I'll get to shortly.

But barely a half an hour after getting up form an admittedly poor nap, reading items on my FB Wall, I just...'crashed', hopelessness washing over me. And yes, I do take my Happy Pills, but they only work so far.

This isn't being Bi-Polar. It's just good old fashion Manic-Depressive ideation. It only becomes an issue when I don't catch it and recognize it for what it is; my Writer's Blues. *deep breath*

Okay, what I realized this morning came to me as the result of posting the rest of the text and notes of the unfinished chapters of my Fan-Fic novel. The revelation was that what had made writing those chapters so much fun was that, as I say in the intro, someone else had done all the heavy lifting of world building and backstory all I had to do was play there, and that therefore what I should do with my own new novel is simply play with 'all the heavy lifting of world building and backstory' until it was fleshed out enough to get down to the Serious Writing, you know, chapters and dialog and all that good shit.

Obviously, this is not even close to being an original discovery. Hell, even I knew this already...but this morning it hit me on a visceral level, which is where such things truly count. Now, my task is to remember that while I surf my mood swings.

There was a bunch more I had to say, but now I feel better, so I'll let it lay. [a cup of coffee etc helped too]


..I know it's trouble when I start to unconsciously rhyme..

~As I said on Twitter last night, one of my crazy fans bought us a AAA account, so we just need to call them and somebody will come out here and put the 'donut' on. That'll hold us for local runs until after the first, when I'll head down to Lancaster and get some retreads for the backend of the trucklette.

Meanwhile, I'm a bit hungover from yesterday. This shit gets me so fucking wound up. Le-Le tells me to chill because 'you cannot do anything about it until tomorrow', but I'm simply not wired that way. I am a Deep Seated Obsessive and I do not expect that to change anytime soon. The only thing that I have found to ever cure that is Money, because Money allows one to make plans and take action in a clear fashion.

...and there you have it.

~The heat wave has receded. [it's only 93° at half past one] The house is slowly coming together. And I've been getting plenty of sleep. Therefore it is time to start obsessing about finances. *sigh*

Such as we're gonna be spending roughly half of our monthly income on the house [rent, electricity, water, etc] and the storage space. I really won't know full on until the end of August when we've got some kind of overview.

I'm worried that we'll get back to that 'starving the last week of the month' paradigm we had three years ago when we finally had it with The Note Holder. But, again, I really won't have a decent idea of such until we've had a few months to determine things.

The swamp cooler uses a lot less juice than the AC and we're dealing directly with SoCal Ed here. I'm quite certain the old park padded the electric bill. So there's that probable off-set.

Anyway, I'm driving myself a bit nuts with that and I'd really like to just fucking chill. It's gonna be what it's gonna be and besides, this is a short term issue, as in just a year or so, because once the VA finally gives in on Le-Le 100% Disability, we'll be fine.

Oh yeah, I'm also bugging myself quietly about not springing to The Page even though we've not even been in here a month yet and have like nine months of serious fucking double-barreled aggro still barely fading in the rear view mirror.

And that's the name of that mother fucking tune...

~I'm at that place where if I still took the notion seriously I'd be suicidal. But I know that is not something I'm going to do unless I was terminally ill. Right now, I'm just fucked up in the head, which, for better or worse, is largely survivable.

/break

I just related the above to Le-Le out on the porch and noted it would be 'bad form' to kill myself on her birthday. She agreed.

I'm very clear on what my fucking problem is: I can't fucking write and, Goddess help me, I have become a fucking writer. [be careful what you wish for]

I can't write because I have no space to be peaceful. The last thing I did was Addendum D: [Calendar for A New Matriarchy]. That was finished, more or less, last September 15th [25th Novembria]. At that point I needed about two or three weeks to decompress, reboot and Face The Page again.

But just as that process was completing, the fucking Oathbreaker came in – making all the right noises about Sisterhood and Recovery – and sucked all the air out of the room for the next three months. And then right after we got rid of her sorry ass fucking Bette Goldenring started her fucking 'you owe me' bullshit. *string of Imprecations*

The issue here is that I think about tomorrow. That's just who I am and it is in fact what I write about. When I'm under this kind of survival pressure, that peace I need to write, to not have any immediate worries about food or a place to sleep and so on, goes right out the fucking window.

I said to Le-Le that I watch Crime Drama to 'clean the slate'. But without anything on said slate, it just becomes filler, a time killer, and that makes me even more...'discontent'.

I get out of bed and part of me starts looking for what it is I'm going to be working on that day [or night] and there has been nothing 'there' for over eight months now. That is an intolerable psycho-emotional void...and I just get to fucking 'deal with it'.

I type out lil rants like this, but this is not real writing to me. It's just...well, 'ranting'.

And now I'm typed out....

~I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep. Keep writing 'legal letters' in my head when I lay down.

Saw our lawyer today, a Good News/Bad News session. Bad News is That Woman will likely win her case against us. Good News is the operative word here is eventually. We paid him a retainer fee and now a war of attrition begins. *sigh*

We're still working on a loan to get into a new place. Both aspects are going to last for months. It'd be nice if That Woman would let up, but I suspect she's delusional. She's coming after this joint like it was the fucking Taj Mahal.

Truth is, she's gonna die in the red no matter what she does. She gave $74,000 to The Note Holder, is already about $6000 into The Ambulance Chaser, this place is neither salable nor rentable at this point and if/when it ever is, it'll not fetch more than $20/25K.

Whatever....

~Okay, this is a particularly unpleasant manifestation. Had deeply weird dreams about going to some low rent movie theater and then trying to sleep in one of its 'side rooms'. There was an endless parade of weird shit going in there and I 'couldn't sleep'. [that's about fear of being homeless] I'd wake up here for real in my room, but now it's starting to not 'feel' like My Room anymore. That sense of Yes, This Is My Room has calmed me many times, but now it seems it's fading as we push forward to move. That I've seen the room that will likely become 'my new room' has probably cranked that feeling up.

This is a disconcerting development. Thing is, I really love this room. *chokes up*

~So, worst case scenario, we've got two to four months left under this roof. The outcome depends upon the confabulations between our lawyer and theirs. We expect something less drastic will be worked out as the issue is about money and pushing us out the door will cost the other side maybe ten grand right out of the gate; court costs, back taxes, rehabbing the house, then selling or renting it plus paying the monthly lot rent while doing so.

We've always been willing to make some kind of payment, but only to someone who has a legal standing at the very least. Part of what will now be revealed is whether or not this woman has any, which is the very question I asked her a year and a half ago, getting no substantive answer. One will now be forthcoming as it's Lawyer vs Lawyer and billable hours are involved.

If she does not in fact have an enforceable claim, then we're back to Square One vis-a-vis The Note Holder. Our lawyer suspects she has 'something actionable' or her lawyer, whom he knows, would likely not have taken her case. I'm rather more cynical. But we should know more soon, possible by the end of this week, certainly by the beginning of next.

At least the fear of Sheriffs [or whomever] At The Door is abated. But the overall issue of where we are going to be living is still up in the air. For those of us in The PTSD Club, that is a highly uncomfortable place to be.

~It seems my stress starts at the top and works its way down. First my neck and shoulders tighten up. Then when the stressor itself has passed, and they loosen up, my guts go all to hell. Finally it shoots out my ass in a hot stream of liquid shit.

I'm in the middle phase right now...

~Slept for another four plus hours and the was awake. Guess I'm in an Up/Down sleeping cycle again. Full Moon's probably part of that.

Frustrated that I haven't been able to write. Squeezed out bits and pieces, but that feels pretty much like it sounds; the excretory metaphor is quite apt.

Been thinking about what I call 'proto-Mandroids'. Those would be True Males converted in the 'early days', violent offenders who, instead of being locked away or executed, would be put to good use as simple laborers, most likely in agriculture. They'd be castrated, lobotomized and Brain Boxed [see Dr. Jose Delgado] and then sent to the fields. This would be an interim measure until actual Mandriods could be properly bred, though it could be used as a 'judicial solution' until True Men are extinct.

Ah, it felt good to write that. *evil laughter*