These are the days.
Windows gets itself into such a twist a reinstall is needed. No amounts of information or tricks pulled up on my Mac seem to help this beautiful accursed beast.
No work was lost, despite a panic all is fine.
I just let out a sigh that tells me I have discovered flaws in my current book that need reworking. I shall get to those.
I am reading again, nothing at all in the realm of erotica or romance, but books involving horror and the end of the world. I know, such topical reading fare for a reviewer of words meant to excite, titillate, and procreate. I had a friend tell me once the more she fears death the more she wants to reproduce, as if there isn't some biological programming inside all of us that reacts to the loss of one of us by an urge to create more. There is a connection here between life and death I find fascinating from a fictional perspective and also a psychological one.
Survival. Continuance. Why we are here in this moment. Renewal and rebirth among damaged souls seeking redemption and meaning. Perhaps I shall share with you my review of this dark and apocalyptic book, though it has nothing to do with erotica but it has everything to do with life. Which comes back to love and lust again.
Perhaps.
My current book, the one I am writing, also wanders the halls of these dark topics and reflects. Hopefully with a little shaft of light here and there to provide hope, but these are days where I see more interesting shapes lurking in the shadows than I do wandering through the thin shafts of light like the dances of the specks of dust upon the still air.
Perhaps I am in the wrong genre entirely. My book Bowlarama was a dark delve into the loss of self and memory, it revealed much but answered little, on purpose, and there are times when I would love to write a follow up to this book.
And yes, I had another dream of which this could become the basis of another such dark and twisted tale. I write it down and there it sits, stuck between notes and pages, the power of it lying beneath the surface and waiting for me to bleed all over the page once again. The memories of this experience are still as fresh as when I woke up, and again these strange subconscious thoughts haunt me as much as those shapes lurking in the shadows do.
But these days, I write mostly for myself.
I need to stop that bad habit, or perhaps I don't.
Much on social media I have begun not to care for. Those have become places of hatred and negativity, much like a certain online game I returned to with hopes of finding others and sharing a little of myself and having fun, only to discover that once a shared experience becomes toxic there is not much more to do than to walk away. The community ruined the memories of that place, and I should have just stuck with the good memories and not the current state of things. Predictably, I go to Facebook and click on news, click on a story, and it is 100% politics and an endless stream of constant hate. Either side throwing verbal bombs and ganging up with each other in an endless and predictable circle-jerk of self-conformation bias.
I don't care what side of an issue you are on, of ones I agree or silently oppose, the venom and toxic spew is the same. The war is uncivil, and the anger of the crowds rise. None of this shall end well. Unsocial media for an unsocial age.
I have mostly stopped using your services, except for the few groups I run there for the entertainment of the fans in a couple groups I moderate like a tyrant. But I tyrant I must be these days because these places are like the Wild West. But the owners of these social media places have shown they could care less about the experience and they just want warm bodies and eyes on the service, and to hell with the community. And I hate being a tyrant, but I have learned to appreciate the tyrannical ways of dictators when faced with a sea of chaos and opportunism. There is a logic there, almost an anti-logic forced upon my moderation which keeps the whole show running. Perhaps this is the lesson of our time. The more we come together the worse it gets, and the worse we have to be.
Which makes me feel all the more terrible. So I walk away, as much I can.
Social media, for what you have become and done I hope you fade away as a fad forgotten to history.
Facebook and Twitter, go sit in the closet by the VCR and disco records for all I care.
Though there is something to be said for those big round vinyl discs.
Printed to make people happy. Disco music and X-rated party records. Get drunk, smoke, eat, and dance. Just to forget the world for one night with friends and strangers. To share a time I never got to be a part of. Memories I never had but still feel.
Perhaps I am too raw and bitter from the frustration and the venom needs to come out again. A big blue QR code on an error screen I could not give a fuck about, the equivalent of a digital middle finger for my problems with an emoji frown to top it all off. Time to reinstall. Scan the hardware, no errors. Format the disks, scan for viruses, nothing. A fresh install of Windows feels like up and moving to a new apartment, everything is clean but nothing is lived in. This is not home, but a place where I currently am. For how long Windows has been around you think they would have worked out all of this pain by now. One corrupted file. Recoveries, reboots, and disk voodoo which repeatedly did not work. No hardware faults, just a software one.
One forgotten file and it is time to move again. Endless reboots and updates. The system speaking to me as if it were a self-aware friend with issues, apologizing for every agonizing delay and endless update. I am patient with it as I know money was sunk and money needs to be realized with use. Plus there are things I can do on this machine I can do no place else. So I endure. And I backup because I know this friend isn't always the most reliable one with whom I choose to associate.
Another reboot.
And then I search for answers on my Mac. I love you, but I cheat on you without shame. Perhaps I am just being honest and self-interested again. This is the world where we love ourselves more than we do others.
My new Chromebook boots every time. It is just a browser but at times that is all I want or need. It has its place. My armor in a world which revels on the misery of the weak and unprotected. A compromise of privacy versus security. What I do on that machine I am comfortable sharing, like my public work or writing. It is a place I find comfort when I am out here in the light of the world.
Next time, put an non-corrputable copy of Windows on my fucking motherboard and use that. Make me hunt for a restore DVD in this age? Seriously. I don't even have a DVD player anymore. To these people it must still be the year 2000.
Enough.
Enough.
I have things to do. I can't let these things knock me off my path. I have came back so far that things like this threaten to push me right back to where I was. Part of rehab is knowing you will never leave rehab. This is a path I must walk. Clean up the shit on the floor and move on. Open up the book tomorrow and get to work. Review. Write. Share. Be who I am to be.
And yet the shadows call.
I have things to clean up, bills to pay, and my life to get back on track as much as it fights me.
I need to publish.
I need to get this out.
With time I shall.
Windows gets itself into such a twist a reinstall is needed. No amounts of information or tricks pulled up on my Mac seem to help this beautiful accursed beast.
No work was lost, despite a panic all is fine.
I just let out a sigh that tells me I have discovered flaws in my current book that need reworking. I shall get to those.
I am reading again, nothing at all in the realm of erotica or romance, but books involving horror and the end of the world. I know, such topical reading fare for a reviewer of words meant to excite, titillate, and procreate. I had a friend tell me once the more she fears death the more she wants to reproduce, as if there isn't some biological programming inside all of us that reacts to the loss of one of us by an urge to create more. There is a connection here between life and death I find fascinating from a fictional perspective and also a psychological one.
Survival. Continuance. Why we are here in this moment. Renewal and rebirth among damaged souls seeking redemption and meaning. Perhaps I shall share with you my review of this dark and apocalyptic book, though it has nothing to do with erotica but it has everything to do with life. Which comes back to love and lust again.
Perhaps.
My current book, the one I am writing, also wanders the halls of these dark topics and reflects. Hopefully with a little shaft of light here and there to provide hope, but these are days where I see more interesting shapes lurking in the shadows than I do wandering through the thin shafts of light like the dances of the specks of dust upon the still air.
Perhaps I am in the wrong genre entirely. My book Bowlarama was a dark delve into the loss of self and memory, it revealed much but answered little, on purpose, and there are times when I would love to write a follow up to this book.
And yes, I had another dream of which this could become the basis of another such dark and twisted tale. I write it down and there it sits, stuck between notes and pages, the power of it lying beneath the surface and waiting for me to bleed all over the page once again. The memories of this experience are still as fresh as when I woke up, and again these strange subconscious thoughts haunt me as much as those shapes lurking in the shadows do.
But these days, I write mostly for myself.
I need to stop that bad habit, or perhaps I don't.
Much on social media I have begun not to care for. Those have become places of hatred and negativity, much like a certain online game I returned to with hopes of finding others and sharing a little of myself and having fun, only to discover that once a shared experience becomes toxic there is not much more to do than to walk away. The community ruined the memories of that place, and I should have just stuck with the good memories and not the current state of things. Predictably, I go to Facebook and click on news, click on a story, and it is 100% politics and an endless stream of constant hate. Either side throwing verbal bombs and ganging up with each other in an endless and predictable circle-jerk of self-conformation bias.
I don't care what side of an issue you are on, of ones I agree or silently oppose, the venom and toxic spew is the same. The war is uncivil, and the anger of the crowds rise. None of this shall end well. Unsocial media for an unsocial age.
I have mostly stopped using your services, except for the few groups I run there for the entertainment of the fans in a couple groups I moderate like a tyrant. But I tyrant I must be these days because these places are like the Wild West. But the owners of these social media places have shown they could care less about the experience and they just want warm bodies and eyes on the service, and to hell with the community. And I hate being a tyrant, but I have learned to appreciate the tyrannical ways of dictators when faced with a sea of chaos and opportunism. There is a logic there, almost an anti-logic forced upon my moderation which keeps the whole show running. Perhaps this is the lesson of our time. The more we come together the worse it gets, and the worse we have to be.
Which makes me feel all the more terrible. So I walk away, as much I can.
Social media, for what you have become and done I hope you fade away as a fad forgotten to history.
Facebook and Twitter, go sit in the closet by the VCR and disco records for all I care.
Though there is something to be said for those big round vinyl discs.
Printed to make people happy. Disco music and X-rated party records. Get drunk, smoke, eat, and dance. Just to forget the world for one night with friends and strangers. To share a time I never got to be a part of. Memories I never had but still feel.
Perhaps I am too raw and bitter from the frustration and the venom needs to come out again. A big blue QR code on an error screen I could not give a fuck about, the equivalent of a digital middle finger for my problems with an emoji frown to top it all off. Time to reinstall. Scan the hardware, no errors. Format the disks, scan for viruses, nothing. A fresh install of Windows feels like up and moving to a new apartment, everything is clean but nothing is lived in. This is not home, but a place where I currently am. For how long Windows has been around you think they would have worked out all of this pain by now. One corrupted file. Recoveries, reboots, and disk voodoo which repeatedly did not work. No hardware faults, just a software one.
One forgotten file and it is time to move again. Endless reboots and updates. The system speaking to me as if it were a self-aware friend with issues, apologizing for every agonizing delay and endless update. I am patient with it as I know money was sunk and money needs to be realized with use. Plus there are things I can do on this machine I can do no place else. So I endure. And I backup because I know this friend isn't always the most reliable one with whom I choose to associate.
Another reboot.
And then I search for answers on my Mac. I love you, but I cheat on you without shame. Perhaps I am just being honest and self-interested again. This is the world where we love ourselves more than we do others.
My new Chromebook boots every time. It is just a browser but at times that is all I want or need. It has its place. My armor in a world which revels on the misery of the weak and unprotected. A compromise of privacy versus security. What I do on that machine I am comfortable sharing, like my public work or writing. It is a place I find comfort when I am out here in the light of the world.
Next time, put an non-corrputable copy of Windows on my fucking motherboard and use that. Make me hunt for a restore DVD in this age? Seriously. I don't even have a DVD player anymore. To these people it must still be the year 2000.
Enough.
Enough.
I have things to do. I can't let these things knock me off my path. I have came back so far that things like this threaten to push me right back to where I was. Part of rehab is knowing you will never leave rehab. This is a path I must walk. Clean up the shit on the floor and move on. Open up the book tomorrow and get to work. Review. Write. Share. Be who I am to be.
And yet the shadows call.
I have things to clean up, bills to pay, and my life to get back on track as much as it fights me.
I need to publish.
I need to get this out.
With time I shall.
Comments
Post a Comment