No More Games.
No More Bombs.
No More Walking.
No More Fun.
No More Swimming.
I FEEL CERTAIN I AM GOING MAD AGAIN.
I FEEL WE CAN’T GO THROUGH ANOTHER OF THOSE TERRIBLE TIMES.
YOU SEE I CAN’T EVEN WRITE THIS PROPERLY.
I CAN’T READ.
EVERYTHING HAS GONE FROM ME
BUT THE CERTAINTY OF YOUR GOODNESS.
. . . anyway:
I received my W-2 from that god damn place I worked at in Portland, and of course I got my Oakland W-2, so now I can do my taxes. The Feds, bless their hearts, owe me a chunk of change. Oregon ain’t givin me one penny but California is coughing up at least a little bit of that sweet lettuce. And I’m gonna need every bit of it, because I made an executive decision in my bed last night to buy an iMac and a Final Cut Pro license (uh, instead of pirating it . . . like I have been . . . for a decade). In my dreams I met my other—met my Double Walker, and he said to me darkly, he said: “Hey. Get a computer and a mic and a camera or whatever and let’s start making stuff again. I don’t know what you’re doing. It’s not good. You need to make good stuff again. Make good stuff for me, baby.”
I woke up and said to the dissipating Ryan-shaped dreamsmoke: “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.”
Now all I have to do is wait 10 to 14 business days for the money to show up in my account and, hey presto, I can purchase a thing that will enable me to pollute the world with my pathetic cult of personality. Cool.
Well, I just looked and I have over a dozen little scripts written. Problem is that if you’re doing everything alone, it basically quadruples the amount of time you’re going to be making a thing. I’m probably going to be making everything alone, because god knows everyone has a day job and is tired or has a boyfriend or a girlfriend. For god’s sake, man . . . knock it off with that stuff. I sleep five hours a night and can’t remember the last time my body didn’t feel like a harmonica fed through a wood chipper, but I still make stuff. How do you not make stuff? You gotta make stuff. Otherwise you’re just a target demographic . . . or worse: a vertical-blinker.
Tonight! I’m going to figure out all the configurations, or whatever, tonight. I’m going to get me a real beast of my computer, and fill it with pornography. Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do. I’m not going to do that at all. I’m going to keep it empty of most things, just like my head, and I’m going to shut my bedroom door and work. I am not married and as far as I know I have no children. I don’t even own a car. I guess this is what you’re supposed to do when you don’t have anything and aren’t anything either. Yup!