December 28, 2010


The post prior to this one has already alluded to this, but I have made a decision, and it is an executive one. While Christmas should have come as a time of joy, there are numerous things that have happened that made it into little bits of hell (and no, none of it has to do with my family or friends).

I am tired. I have said it before, and I won't say it again, so don't bother with it too much, those who sometimes read here. I am tired, and that word doesn't even begin to describe the physical and psychological state that I am in. It is not even remotely comparable to the state most of people will find themselves in, every now and then, that feeling of sleepiness and the drowsy acceptance of a state of mind that is running on empty and waiting to be refueled.

I am running on fumes. There is not a lot of me left in this body, and the years - while I still look kind of great (no, seriously) - have not been kind. I have run faster and harder than ever before. No, wait. That sounds familiar. Oh, stop it, Doctor Who.

But it's true. I have been running hard and fast, and I have been running on hope and faith and trust. The latter two I have apparently given to the wrong people over and over again, which makes me - despite public opinion to the contrary - a naive kind of asshole. (Public opinion does have that "asshole" part down right, I will give them that).

Then again, I have been called many things. A gentleman. A gentle man. A bastard. An asshole. A madman. A traitor. A liar (never did that, though, at least not in any way that counts, that much I have gotten right). And a thief.

I have never called myself a gentleman, nor have I ever believed that I was one. I believe in right and wrong, and I believe that there are things that just and things that are unjust.

And I believe that somebody has to stand up to those who are unjust.

No. Let me correct that. I believed that to have been the case.

Not anymore. I am tired. And there is not much of me left, and the little bits that are still there, that refuse to go into the night, they are so few now and hardly being held together, by that mixture of stubborness and faith, little strands that are barely holding together and are in danger of rupturing any moment now.

I have worked harder and faster than ever before in this year, I had two more dealings with Hollywood, and I am tired of them. I am tired of their lies, I am tired of their shallowness and their uneducated minds that bred that special kind of arrogance that I had to deal with my entire life.

I have worked harder and faster than ever before in this year, and there is nothing I have to show for it, all dealings in secret and the results never to grace (if it is a grace, that is still to be debated, oh, no, wait, it won't be debated, since nobody will ever see them) a television or movie screen.

I have no money to show for my work, either, and that alone devalues the weeks and months I have tortured myself, in the name of hope and faith, those most vulgar and sluttiest of those emotions that push yourself harder and farther.

And I am tired.

I look at the world and don't like what I see. I look at myself and don't like it, either.

There is not much left of me, and I have no blue box that could take me away from all of this. I wish I had. I hear there's an actual honeymoon. Well, granted, it's not really honey, and it's not really a moon, and it's alive, technically speaking, and a bit carnivorous, but I have it on good authority that there are some magnificent views there.

There is no happiness in my life, and I know what happiness should feel like. I have experienced it twice. In September 1996. And isn't that pathetic? 14 years of constant struggle in one way or another, of shouting against the world until my throat became hoarse, of trusting the wrong people, of having faith in the wrong people...

... of hoping.

I look great for my age. I look like I am thirty, and hey, isn't that a whoop with the ladies? But inside I feel so much older. I have seen too much. I have experienced too much, and my nerves are raw and frazzled, in a constant electrical feedback that shocks me with unfiltered information.

I have friends. There are not many, I can count them on one hand, and even if I were to lose a finger or two, I could still count them. I have family, and it is a damn fine family, even though our conversations resemble the things overheard at midnight in the filthiest sailor bar, right after the dirtiest of them have arrived for beer and pussy.

They have carried me this far.

And now? Now I have to go a little bit further. And none of them - as gracious and loving and appreciative as they have been - can carry me into the darkened days that are ahead.

I have not much strength left. And I grow weaker by the day.

I joke about it, in that way that tells you, "of course I am all right. Why shouldn't I be?"

But there is still enough of me left. Still one or two things I can do. If I gather it all up, if I carry it around with me and let it rise one final time. I will try to make it a good one, my final stand. I will write. And I will write well, and it may not be something the world will remember, may not even be something the world will like to hear.

But I will write.

To finish those things that were started, to show that you can do something, that I can show something to you, and I have given myself one year to do it. One year only, no excuses.

It will use up everything that is still left of me.

One year. No hope. No faith. Nothing that is carried to me through others, who have their jobs, their corner offices, who are paid every month and have me work, well, I was supposed to say "for peanuts",wasn't I?

But even those I have not been given.

Only promises and that desire to get the copyrights to my works for free.

One year. I will do it for myself. On my own.

Before I flame out. Before I am fully empty.

One year.

I have done things that were just as impossible.

Let's see if I can do them one more time. That's all I ask for. To find the strength for that. For my body to hold together for these moments, for my mind to not slip away.

There is not much left of me. And it will soon be gone. I can feel it.

But, dear god, let this be one of hell of a ride.

Give me that. And we are even.