Unearthed

The inspiration data stream.

Percolation

One thing triggers something else. Over breakfast a stray word is the firing neuron that collides with a synapse sending a chemical charge into the recesses of my brain. Down there the chemical mixes with something nebulous, something frightening if we truly understood it, and that stray word - the sound of it, the meaning of it - is changed. The brain itself is CHANGED and the idea drips through the coffee grounds, the filter, and gathers in a pool at the top.

It sloshes forward and seeps into the other regions of the brain where it mixes with the sediment into something new.

Where it pours out into new arrangements for the world to consume.

Outsider

They’ll say he never belonged anyway. They’ll say it covering their mouths with their hands. They’ll say it in hushed tones. They’ll say it and those hearing it will nod knowingly. Everyone will agree.

He didn’t fit in. He tried but it just didn’t work. He did some little things well and it would be fair to say that he was growing into the position though perhaps not as fast as would be preferred. He worked hard, showed in sweat, but there were lots of things that continued to be missed. The investment in him wasn’t paying dividends quickly enough.

They’ll spread the doubts unintentionally. They’ll do it by telling stories over meals and drinks. They’ll embellish by saying they heard something from someone who worked with him. Everyone will hear it as if it were absolutely true. 

He will continue. He’ll do what is wanted, what is expected and in his new position he’ll thrive. He will set examples and they will be jealous of him. He will be the object of further embellishments of the stories. He will be the subject of new stories and they will be worse because they won’t be able to stop themselves. The investment, in the end, will pay off in the long run.

He will always be an outsider.

Is There Any Plausible Reason Why Aliens Would Evolve To Look Like Us?

new-aesthetic:

Dad gets OfficeMax mail addressed ‘Daughter Killed in Car Crash’ - Los Angeles Times

An off-and-on customer of OfficeMax, Mike Seay has gotten the office supply company’s junk mail for years. But the mail that the grieving Lindenhurst, Ill., father said he got from OfficeMax last week was different. It was addressed to “Mike Seay, Daughter Killed in Car Crash.” Strange as that sounds, the mail reached the right guy. Seay’s daughter Ashley, 17, was killed in a car crash with her boyfriend last year. OfficeMax somehow knew. And in a world where bits of personal data are mined from customers and silently sold off and shuffled among corporations, Seay appears to be the victim of some marketing gone horribly wrong.


Jesus, this is awful…

new-aesthetic:

Dad gets OfficeMax mail addressed ‘Daughter Killed in Car Crash’ - Los Angeles Times

An off-and-on customer of OfficeMax, Mike Seay has gotten the office supply company’s junk mail for years. But the mail that the grieving Lindenhurst, Ill., father said he got from OfficeMax last week was different. It was addressed to “Mike Seay, Daughter Killed in Car Crash.” Strange as that sounds, the mail reached the right guy. Seay’s daughter Ashley, 17, was killed in a car crash with her boyfriend last year. OfficeMax somehow knew. And in a world where bits of personal data are mined from customers and silently sold off and shuffled among corporations, Seay appears to be the victim of some marketing gone horribly wrong.

Jesus, this is awful…

On Remembering

For a long time I haven’t remembered my dreams. I don’t know why. Maybe they were too heavy, maybe they weren’t substantial enough. Either way they just didn’t come back to me with any regularity. I suppose there was a certain relief in that. Not remembering what my subconscious was trying to work out from the day.

But the down side was that ten years ago I would get story ideas from my dreams when I recalled them. That’s given me some skill in pulling ideas together even though they may not have been as big as I want them to be. All I can say is that the dreams were part of my writing. For a long time they haven’t been.

Lately the dreams have been coming back to me. Sometimes they’re violent, like last night, and I know exactly where it came from. Other dreams from the last couple of weeks haven’t been quite so terrifying but I’m writing them down, remembering them on paper and not trusting my memory. It is, after all, fallible as I age. Like an overfull hard disk that needs to be defragged. Or wiped clean.

If I could go all Johnny Mnemonic, maybe that would be a blessing. File access would be a helluva lot easier.

The Office

Dreamt of a return to a former workplace but in a lesser position. Significant changes had been made not just to staffing and operations but also physically. The space I now occupied was larger with a new glass wall to the outside (impossible). Also my former office was crowded to the ceiling with a veritable Fibber McGee variety of things (improbable). After a distraction of dogs and cats running rampant through the new glass wall and out into the public area (also improbable) the old office was super clean and held a massive rack of stereo equipment including two double tape decks.

I have no idea what this means. None of it. It makes me wonder just what my subconscious is working out. My interactions with people in the dream (some of whom are real) were completely normal. The imagery there was not wishful thinking.

I don’t always remember my dreams but when I do they often baffle me.

The Sportsball

I’m a baseball fan. I like the NFL and I’m almost rabid about my hometown college basketball team. Oh, and futbol. World Cup and Sporting KC. I like some sportsball.

Lots of people don’t. I’m okay with that. I won’t push my fanaticism on you and I hope that you won’t resent me making an occasional reference to my team’s doing well. Just tune me out for a short time. I won’t go on and on. I promise. Three or four tweets during the game. The exception is World Cup but that’s only once every four years. Indulge me.

It’s just that when my team is doing well, it’s a joy. When they’re not doing well, I don’t go on and on about how they should be doing better. There’s likely more cussing in disgust but that’s the way sportsball goes.

Doomed

Me. Not necessarily in a bad way, at least not fatally bad. Just bad in that now that I have a little more experience and affirmation that I know what I’m doing, I’ll keep doing it.

I’m fascinated with Nick Adams right now. Hemingway’s character. There’s something there to be exploited, I just don’t know what. Do I mash him up with someone like Rust Cohle or develop him a little more into something else?

The answer is none of that. The correct answer, anyway. What I have to do with the character I’m thinking of is relate Nick Adams to him. Have my guy be an echo of that but in a really interesting Big Idea kind of way.

And that will be my doom. I will become obsessed. Hell, I already am. I can feel the stories worming in the folds of my brain, boring deep into the meat to ensure that I don’t forget them. I can see three separate opening scenes and I want to write them all RIGHT NOW.

But that’s impossible. There’s too much to do. THAT’S my doom. The weight of the Things. The number of plates I’ve got spinning on rods over my head.

I’m not a juggler. That’s my doom. Maybe.

Or maybe it’s all in my head and if I can get it out I can stop the clock ticking. Maybe the totem won’t stop spinning. Maybe those plates will continue to turn on their rods, wobbling but never quite falling.

I’m doomed. That’s all there is to it. The only thing I can do is run those things as long as I can then pick up the pieces when it crashes.