I keep figuring I’ll get some time, soon, to get progress on blog entries.

And now, I’m starting to think that’s not true and i’ll never have anything to say ever again.

I’ve got these entries started on movies, teevee shows (and why 24 went from best to worst between seasons two and three). On books and the new rings I just got from the brilliant Julian Lamb that I need to review. On tattoos (wanted, gotten), on guitars and my desire to start taking lessons again (so that I will have an excuse to buy a new guitar).

Seems like I ain’t gonna get that time i keep thinking I’ll have, not in the near future. Today i managed to grab an hour sitting in a bar reading a greg rucka novel and and sipping a guiness, and it felt, for a little while there, like i was on vacation, just having time utterly to myself. All too soon though my phone rang and it was time to go pick up my daughter.

On the other hand, I’m making serious progress on a blog template i’m co-designing with another blogger, so it’s not like it’s all work and no play (because i’m geek enough to find that entertaining). So it’s not like my entire output of energy is being sucked down a black hole. Not every ounce of it, anyway.

Pleasure in the small things, I keep thinking, and eventually this gets better. I’m hoping.

Right?

Let’s pretend it’s my birthday.

And let’s pretend you’re all going to get together and buy me these.

That store was right across from my hotel in hollywood last weekend, but somehow I never got over there while they were open. And maybe that’s a good thing, for my wallet’s sake.

I posted something last night that was a puddle-deep wallow in self-pity. The kinda shit that makes me want to bitch-slap myself.

It makes me angry, you know, when I feel like that. I get angry with my own inability to express myself verbally, by inability to just spit out what bothers me.

So I go mute – and the muteness makes me angrier. I’m angry and want to be left alone, when what i need is contact; I isolate myself from the treatment I need.

It becomes a cycle, a spiral, and the only things I can think to get me the fuck out of it require that I reach out.

Even now I’m thinking, fuck this, I want to delete it, I’m just fucking whining.

I’m in that teeth-griding state of low-grade irritation; I’m looking for someone to hit, metaphorically. I need to take the slow-boil of rage I’ve had sitting behind my eyes, in my neck and shoulders, and point it at something.

How many times have a written this same fucking entry? This is why I think I should give up blogging.

Read more “puddle-deep wallow in self-pity”

I’m back at that point where people are asking me if I’m mad at them, wondering why I don’t write.

I don’t fucking know. Like I said recently, sometimes the shark gets you.

I can’t seen to communicate at all – I’m sittin’ here alone this eve – family gone again for a short trip – and feeling like unplugging phones and shutting down my internet connection and just drinking myself stupid, wishing I had some sorta goofballs that’d knock me into dreamland for a good day and a half.

Maybe not blogging is the new blogging.

It’s been hotter than hell the last few days here in northern CA. The kind of days where I don’t feel like being anywhere near a computer.

Not just hot for here – hot for anywhere, anywhere that’s not AZ or NM or some death-dry desert.

It’s the kind of hot we almost never her here – when it doesn’t cool at night, when the house is as hot in the morning as it was the night before.

The kind of hot that blows out transformers and causes rolling blackouts. Today, we’re not allowed to turn on our office lights at work, and if it gets worse, they’ll start shutting down less-essential systems in order to keep vital network and data systems on line.

It’s the kind of heat where i think about putting the top back on my Jeep; the gearshift knob (an 8 ball) was literally so hot it hurt my hand to shift gears, the steering wheel was uncomfortable to touch.

Even a swimming pool doesn’t help – when the pool is 95 degrees and one can over-heat in the water.

I like the heat, usually. I like to sweat, to feel the hot air on my skin, the sun on my shoulders. But not like this. I need more tropical in my tropical heat; island breeze, tropical rain.

I’m not a desert creature. No bone-dry air and smog. I need wind and sea with my heat.

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Starting tomorrow, I’m alone for the week, family off to southern CA. I have the house to myself, and as usual, I look forward to my few days of silent, empty house.

I always hope I’ll write; though more often, I wind up simply working, and then enjoying the peace and silence of a house with no kids, watching movies I’ve been saving. Having the house empty winds up almost a vacation. I usually make plans for things I’ll do; dinners, or strip clubs, or movies I’ll go see by myself, or things I’ll cook or projects I’ll finish. And almost always, it winds up not happening. The pleasure of solitude wins out, and I spend by night or two or three simply decompressing. Doing nothing at all.

This time? We’ll see.