hello from reboot number whatever
(it feels like a direct continuation, though)
I am writing again and typing this directly into the CMS like a real sicko. In January I decided to get back on some sort of medication, and in the absence of readily available stimulants, I got myself on an SNRI (selective serotinin reuptake inhibitor(i don’t know the exact details of how they work, i just know that they make your brain work differently and in a more amenable way than it was before)) called Atomoxetine, formerly the brand name drug Strattera.
I like it. I like the way I feel on it.
(have you ever read the way John Le Carré (don’t know how to do accents on Windows lol(fixed it once i was in macOS lol) writes a paragraph? i am thinking about rereading Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. to see if i wanted to, i read the first paragraph of the novel, and i marvel at its mannered but casual tone, how it stacks details up in asides and slight digressions, the way it begins to set up a winsome but somber mood (i rereread The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and i’m ready to have my heart broken even harder (Jim Prideaux: BIcon)))(i decided to read Seth J. Dickinson’s new novel Exordia)
Unlike the mule kick of instant focus of a stimulant, this one had to work its way into my body, start to change things in slower but no less profound way. The way I feel is a more gradual sharpening of the world in my mind, rather than the pupil-dilating rush of Ritalin. I’m more able to settle into tasks now, and can flow in and out of things with a bit more ease than before. I can actually write and think again. Never believe anyone who says medications can’t change things.
(people talk a lot about compassion being one of the themes of the Malazan Book of the Fallen, and while i’d probably say that’s true, i think the real emotion at the heart of this is an older, less complex, elemental thing: grace. grace is what restored the Imass to their bodies by Itkovian, who had no obligation to take their sins upon him; Toc the Younger offered his friendship freely to Tool. offering an open hand without expectation is a powerful thing. love and connection forge the most visible themes, but running under it is a current of fierce grace, of open hands reaching out and hoping for unconditional mercy)
Work has been work. I like what I do, when I am able to do it. It’s nice having a job that is relatively undemanding and well-paying. I dream of being able to pay some sort of bills with art of some kind, but one thing at a time.
(Usagi Yojimbo reads a bit strange if you don’t know what you’re looking for. a lot of it can feel a bit rote: Usagi finds himself in numerous jams that—surprise!—require the deployment of astounding violence to resolve. the act of reading it can start to feel repetitive after awhile
(but (whoa line break in the middle of an aside(i’ll do it like quotes and leave the close parenthesis off the end and use another open parenthesis), when taken in its totality, a distinct note of tragedy begins to ring through with a devastating clarity. Usagi, rather than an invincible badass that always gets out of a scrape by being a killing machine, becomes a lonely wandering warrior without a true cause or anchoring force, unintentionally condemned to linger in a world that he probably should have been removed from. taken in this light, reacting with violence and applying it repeatedly starts to make more sense. there’s nothing he can truly hold on to—people either leave or die, there’s not much space for nuance there. Usagi’s life is defined by tragedy, loss, and violence, but Stan Sakai is a brilliant and gifted storyteller, so he’s able to tell that story without it becoming maudlin or sentimental. this is simply a state of being, and he will wander until he is unable to do it any longer. this isn’t the only reading: Usagi himself is caring, courageous, and honest, sweet and funny, and that’s tempered by his quick temper and over-willingness to act. it’s a delicate balance Sakai strikes, telling a story without being too cynical or naively earnest)
Writing itself has come back to me. I purchased two A4 size Moleskine notebooks for my birthday (as well as a bunch of other, more expensive but ironically less flashy gifts(listen to me describing a fucking notebook as flashy lol)) and have been writing a lot by hand. I’ve also started writing for the once again rebooted Singles Jukebox! Part of my resolution this year was to try and take in more art, music included. I discovered some pretty good stuff, and got to start articulating the WHY of my reactions to music.
(Jack Kirby’s New Gods. i think there’s something there about endless cycles of violence (“THERE CAME A TIME WHEN THE OLD GODS DIED!” is a raw-as-fuck line and also an incredibly obvious WWI metaphor), and that sometimes others have to shoulder the burden to fight for a world that they may never see. i have another post that was meandering and maudlin, trying and failing to connect stories of violence to something about 9/11 (i came up with an evocative title and tried to work backwards), but i think i was onto something there. i said something about violence imposing order on the world until it doesn’t, and while i was able to develop the thesis to the degree i wanted, i was able to at least key in on that one insight. an enormous act of violence reorders the world, until it doesn’t, which again requires the application of it. Orion reads as a single-minded, violent weirdo, but there’s a bit more to him than Kirby’s all-exlclamation mark dialog would suggest. there is someone who is, again, lonely and adrift, stuck between worlds that won’t have him, a product of a pact that was forged in blood and death. all he knows how to do is fight, but if he’s going to do it, he may as well advance the cause of justice while he’s at it)
Putting pen to paper has been therapeutic. Lately I’ve been poring over some of my old notebooks, and marveling over how little of substance there was in them. The words are planning, things written in the moment, thinking out loud about everything but substantive stories and the like. All of that resided in my head, and now I fear it is lost completely. I’m more focused on actually getting things worth remembering on paper, which was a good idea.
(a big portion of my comic reading is superhero comics about superheroes, conceptually. Black Hammer, Earth X, B.P.R.D.’s final volume, Immortal Hulk, New Gods. good stuff, mostly. some of them are more successful than others: Black Hammer sorta peters out (maybe it was miscalibrated expectations there—i went in expecting something more action oriented, but instead got a more thoughtful book that had some genuinely beautiful and earned emotional beats along with the entire thing being superbly illustrated), Earth X had a somber and melancholy tone enhanced by incredible J.P. Leon art, B.P.R.D. dipped a bit before the big finale but ended in a way that i was not fucking expecting at all, and Immoral Hulk is Immortal Hulk. that book is absolutely amazing. they’re all riffing on the necessity of superhero comics and superheroes more broadly as a storytelling device, all ending up in different places. but there is a definitive sense of letting go, of loving enough to move on, and being unafraid of what might be beyond the veil)
My mind is currently a jumble, a symptom of not being able to properly process and produce things for months. Getting things out isn’t a luxury at this current moment, it’s a necessity. Words need to be written, thoughts must be expressed, and my mind must be put on display for others to see.
(BVMW and I rewatched the first two episodes of Andor a couple of days ago. Cassian, for all of his later heroism and selfless sacrifice, is in these first two episodes, just a guy. a desperate, down on his luck, dangerous guy, but still a mostly anonymous stiff that running too many cons and spinning too many plates. it was a neat contrast to the other piece of Star Wars media i finished recently, Jedi: Survivor. in Cal and Bode, you get interesting inversions of Cassian: in the rootless and wandering Cal, a desperation driven by purpose, a desire for justice, and nothing to lose; Bode, on the other hand, is a damaged family man with insanely high stakes, at the end of his rope, trying to find something—ANYTHING—to get him somewhere beyond the Empire’s grasp. he’s willing to give up anything resembling integrity to get his, and fuck everyone else.
(desperation seems to be the watch word. there’s something about being up against the wall that brings out the best in Star Wars)
That seems to be the extent of it. I don’t know if I have anything to write in this particular text editor at the moment. I’m hoping that I can make this a regular thing again. I love writing, I love sharing my thoughts, and I desperately want to share fiction again.
(i’m not expecting anyone to read this far
(but
(Love You, Take Care, Stay Safe)