I’ve been an insomniac for a long time. really, that’s always been ok, unless I’m trying to fight it. I spent the last few days staying up longer, relaxing a bit more… blah blah blah so I could get onto what I consider a “human schedule”.
Screw the humans.
It’s 6:30 am and I’m still up, again. That’s the deal. Either I can fight it, or use the time. I’m changing back to the idea that “this is the time to get some crap done”. Writing was always been a big part of it, and hasn’t been around so much lately. Looks like I have the time again.
There’s a shift in paradigm going on in my own little world. To describe it circuitously… Warren Ellis has crossed my radar. I don’t know quite when it happened, when I started reading his online comic FreakAngels. After a bit, I became interested in what else he was doing, and read up on him a bit. Just finished reading his first Print-On-Demand book “Shivering Sands”, which has affected me quite a bit. It’s not PC, it’s full of piss and vinegar, teeth, insanity and brilliance. He’s been writing a long time, writing for and on the web, so it’s all out there. Be advised: his sense of humor isn’t exactly about daisies and rainbows.
I went to his forum, Whitechapel (no, I’m not an internet stalker. This is the flow of information here…) to just pass the note to him that Shivering Sands was a Damn Fine Book for me. Went to register for his forum and… user name? Who am I? wtf? Everywhere else, I’ve been “Works of Man”… but what is currently seen as Works of Man is about a 10th of what I’d like to be doing. A lot of it has more teeth to it, it’s own voice, someplace to go. It’s got to do some moving and shaking. (now I’m not always certain what the work has to say, and what I have to say, are the same thing. but that’s another story, perhaps.)
So who the hell am I, if not “Works of Man”? Slight bit I do know, (which probably doesn’t matter) I have this odd affinity for rust. And to shorten this already blathering-on post, in my “5am-god-I-should-try-to-go-to-sleep-hot-shower” I remembered the old adage “rust never sleeps”. When I’m not out-putting all of the work I should be, or if it’s not enough of the right work, my stomach gets acidic enough to eat a cast iron stove. I thought of rust munching away at the foundations and frameworks of everything, turning plans/ideas/contraptions into more of itself, rust. Creative destruction. What the hell, it’s a stretch, but I’ll roll with it.
If you don’t know what I mean, don’t worry about it. I’m not sure I do yet, either. Good friend of mine always used to say “Never go into your own mind without a gun and a flashlight.” I think I might take some food, too. Dear god, I wonder what that thing eats?
It’s time to learn where this stream of probability, fate and effluence known as life is trying to take me. Damn, it could be good.
goodnight.
