My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

Look on the bright side, suicide… – Nirvana

Talk about resilience!

So, according to The Salty Droid, apparently I’m “one resilient mother fucker.” I don’t know if “resilient” is necessarily how I see myself. تعليم البوكر للمبتدئين I can’t think of any one word that describes me, I’m too many contradictions.

I see myself as a dark, good spirited, depressed, melancholy, optimistic, charismatic, persistent, rarely content fellow. شرح لعبة روليت  I’m all of that at once, but I wouldn’t say I’m resilient. كيف تربح في الكازينو Resilience implies a lack of change, but after every success or disaster, I’m always a slightly different version of me.

Still, I love the press coverage and droid affection.

Despite my efforts, I’ve only been able to consistently maintain one assistant who can take me out on the town with the absolute guarantee that I won’t die because she did something stupid. She actually once made sure I didn’t die after one of my breathing machines quit working for no apparent reason. So, she’s very good. She’s also very out of town. 

Now, the last time she went out of town and I didn’t have a backup, I went and had myself committed. I was really depressed and not sleeping, I had way too much time for thoughts that were nothing but bad. Still, being committed was a completely awful experience. So, this time, I think I’ll just go become a nun.

I have to admit, I’m rather excited about the NeuroSwitch and what it could do. I feel like I could be my old self again, I feel a little of my old arrogance, my confidence. It’s good to be a bit arrogant sometimes, it takes a little arrogance to do things that seem impossible. The last few months have been slowly and quietly breaking me down, as it’s gotten harder and harder to write.

Words are so powerful, they can create reality just as surely as any physical act. Words properly arranged into sentences can inspire fear, sorrow, love, so many emotions. Writing is really the only thing I do well, it’s how I’ve accomplished things that mean everything to me. It’s how I meet people, it’s how I go places, the written word is entirely important to me. Without writing I’m a living corpse, I’m nothing. If I couldn’t write, every dream I have would be ash. I’d never find another lover, or an end to loneliness, I’d have no future that I want. These ideas have terrified me since December, but not today. Not right now.

So, in about three weeks, a fellow is flying in from Australia to hook me up with a NeuroSwitch. The NeuroSwitch is pretty much the Jason Bourne, the Lestat of switches. It’s a switch that does not fuck around. Kitty Jesus willing, I’ll be back to my old self soon enough.

Like I said, there’s absolutely no questioning that Queen of the Damned is awful, I totally admit that, but certain scenes…

I’m completely addicted to the concert scene, I can’t help it. I love the goth imagery, the atmosphere. I love Lestat, his arrogance, his confidence. He knows what he is, he lives unflinchingly on his terms. I sometimes see myself like Lestat, but not often enough.

So, today I tried a few infrared switches to use with my eyebrow. As I kind of feared, infrared switches don’t respond quickly enough, or accurately enough for someone as fast as me. Supposedly, very few are close to being as fast as me with a switch and my switch software.

So, I still need to find a responsive switch that doesn’t require my thumb, or the zombies could just come. Either way.

So, lately, I’m not writing much. My blog posts are rather short, I’m not really e-mailing people. I’m really not “talking” much to anyone. This is because my thumb, the thumb I use for tapping the little switch I use for typing, has decided to quit working. It’s been a really slow decline up until the last two weeks, during which my ability to move it has steadily tanked. On Monday I received a certified letter from my thumb telling me to, quote, “fuck off.” I found this gesture to be a little uncalled for, considering the years we’ve spent together.

Nevertheless, my thumb is quitting, definitely. It’s kind of disturbing, definitely isolating, but not surprising. After the last three years, absolutely nothing surprises me. Zombies could show up tomorrow and I’d think to myself, “yes, this seems right.” I am Jack’s total lack of surprise.

There are, however, lots of other switches. I’m looking into eyebrow switches, I’m going to get something as soon as possible, I just don’t have that something right now. So, if I’m quiet for a bit, this is why. I’m not being lazy or ignoring anyone. I’m not particularly happy about it, but these things happen.

I’m not sleeping much these days, a few hours here and there. Palahniuk’s right about insomnia, everything starts to feel far away. I feel like I’m a copy of a copy of a copy, world without end, Amen. I’ve quit sleeping before, this isn’t anything new, or unexpected. Ill-contented worriers don’t nod off well, we’re missing something important. 

I vividly remember the last time I fell asleep content and happy, and it was so long ago, so far from here.

Lately, I can feel the weight of time, it’s like a lead blanket on my chest. I’m Quentin Compson and I can feel time, it’s a rock tied to my body, pulling me toward the bottom of the Charles River. Time doesn’t feel abstract, or arbitrary. Time is palpable, unflinching. Time is a zombie that you can’t shoot in the head, or burn. The cross didn’t kill Christ, time did. The clock is killing me one minute at a time, just like you.

If I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t feel content on my way out. Right now, I feel like Jack’s wasted life. I haven’t found the love of my life, I haven’t written my book. If I really think about what’s important to me, all I really want is to fall asleep at night holding a woman I love, and to write consistently well. Of course, time doesn’t particularly care about such things, time gives no guarantees to anyone. For me, time isn’t an excuse for failure, it’s a maddening force that drives me, frustrates me, and often terrifies me.

What do you want before time crushes you?