Then, There Are Dark Days

Dark Days

Dark Days. Least fun of all the days there are, but they need to be spoken of regardless of our desire. These are not the anniversaries, those you can prepare for over time. These are not the birthdays, those you can steel yourself for those. Now, these are the days that were special for such hyper-specific reasons that no one but you both knew them.

What today is, for the point of this, doesn’t matter. Plus, even I like to keep certain things behind doors that only I and perhaps a very small few get to go into and discreetly look around before reverentially closing the door again.

I tend to be very snappish on dark days, a shorter fuse than even I have. I couldn’t tell you why. I suppose it has to do with trying to hold all of the other things back against, trying to not flood the mind with the negative bound up in the wonderful.

The problem with the dark is that no matter how hard you try, the light seeps into it. Usually, I am fully in support of this. Still, some things need to stay the same in our memory and not be purged away like a forgotten phone number replaced with some very Disney version of the facts.

It is better for the soul. I think that we remember it the way it was and not how we would have had it been. Sometimes there were fights when you want there you want to be kissed. You want there to be laughter, and all there was in actuality was tears. Disguising the dark with a rainbow is a disservice to the memory of the things that genuinely occurred. A false way of making yourself feel more like a real little boy instead of the puppet we all must infrequently be.

On dark days like this, I tend to hermit even more than I usually do and write or read a great deal. As much as I would love to tell you I am going to write copious amounts, I am most likely going to read comic books on my computer and try not to yell at my children. They have no idea why I am upset and why explaining it would only upset me more.

The weather is definitely not helping, although the clouds will most likely aid the temperature and not allow my brain to get to unparalleled pain levels. I don’t think we need to go anywhere today, so it will be a quiet day if nothing else. Even if I do have to go out, it is most likely for a quick little errand that will most likely do me some good to look at the sky instead of walls and ceiling.

I know I am the height of Bear Emo by saying things like dark days, but the words are in there, and all I am is the court stenographer. You don’t think I actually come up with all of this by myself, do you? No, the little gnome people in my head are awfully busy, and I have to say I don’t particularly mind.

So I will drink my first, and then my subsequent cups of coffee, look at my kind shoot other people on Xbox for a bit, snuggle the little guy, and then see if Stephen King’s kid is as good at comic books as I have heard that he is.

Take a second today, and just take a deep breath and realize that every second you think you can shrug off is retained in some way. You genuinely need to make sure that you enjoy every second of the good.

I Write, Super Secret Psychic Boost

I Am A Writer, I Write

Every time I write something, I get this very delightful endorphin rush. It is nothing like sex, getting the shit kicked out of me, or even chocolate. It is always there, though, a noticeable and delightful little buzz that lasts for a bit, usually just long enough to get to the next thing I need to do for the day.

So, by writing two, three, or even four of the blog posts that I do every day, I get to maintain a nice little mood buzz throughout the day, and, as a bonus, it even helps with my migraines sometimes.

I love to write, so it isn’t as if the entire thing is a chore by any stretch. It is easier some days than others, but I usually have enough juju to get me through a few of them. On the bad days, you will get the one. On the horrible days, you don’t even get that much. I am always thinking of the things I want to write, so I guess there is a little continuity there, if nothing else.

Today, for example, I am full of metaphorical piss and vinegar. I will be posting as much as I can to get the most out of my brain, which has been a deceitful cunt the last few weeks, and by doing this I may entertain you, I get my rush, the world gets more of my rambling and, best of all, I get the purpose of this, the super-secret mental boost.

So, since you have all digitally pinkie-swore never to reveal to a soul what I am going to tell you here, I feel free to spread the right and sincere message.

The Fucks.

True, it has been thought for decades to be merely a myth, however fraudulent this may sound my Family of Readers Gentle, I can tell you with all of the truth in my heart that it is a fact. When I write the short notes, the long narratives, or even the stupidest of laughable entertainment, I am rewarded by the Great Goddesses of the universe with Fucks.

Yes, for a short period, I am given the ability to implement a Fuck about something. I know it sounds impossible, but nay, it is so. I can care about things like television, music, and even Facebook memes in their deliciousness.

It is a short-lived thing, but it is sometimes worth it to get back to something that sounds normal in this bizarre world we find ourselves drifting in. It is this ability alone that has allowed me to spend nigh on one-hundred days with my children and insufferable YouTube.

When it leaves, it is not with a pang of sadness as all of us are so used to not having any Fucks . When the Fucks have left, or flown as they prefer to call it in their gibberish language, we are abandoned in the apathy of their absence.

So yes, as I transition to fancy word man back to the Bear in his living room, when I write, I get to care about the things I customarily don’t have the effort in me to care about these days. When I write, I say hello to more people, I love fiercer than I usually do and, most importantly, I get an opportunity to look down at myself and see the things I need to change to get back to a good baseline.

Take this with the obligatory grains of salt, of course, what helps me may or may not be due to deeply imbedded childhood trauma and escapism, so your mileage definitely will vary.


What Precisely Is The Story, Morning Glory?

The Light Of My Morning

Ever since the pandemic started, the set morning routine has been thrown away entirely and replaced with the slipshod one we have now. A fun (said sarcastically) little thing has been happening every single morning that had not ever occurred in the nigh on twenty years I have been a parent.

Sometimes it is a little before dawn, other times it is just after midnight, but without fail, for the last three or four weeks, my little guy will make his way upstairs and sleep in bed with me for the final few hours I am upstairs. Now, all things being equal, I don’t care that he does this, though, there is a downside I had not thought of until this morning.

See, when my brain decides I am awake for the day, I cannot lie in bed anymore. My back starts to hurt, and my mind finds things I need to go and do. Writing is a big one, of course, calls of nature, the ever-popular search for the magic bean water, you know, morning things.

This morning, this is before six, my wired brain had made its pronouncements. I was getting ready to rise from my opulent and frozen bed-throne and descend to mingle with the wee folk downstairs when a hand reached out like that scene at the end of the original Carrie and yanked my beard with such ferocity I thought that the end was nigh for a moment.

No, no, the end was not nigh.

What was occurring was that my sweet and wonderful Babeh Duck, the apple of my eye, was looking at me with determination one sees in professional athletes. Willing me, willing me, I say, to lay my fat ass back down so he could get a few more minutes of shut-eye before we went down and fought the battles of the day.

Yes, my enfant terrible made me lie back down and forced me to stare at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes while he finished the fight he was obviously in the middle of as he lay there. Unless he always kicks and punches like that when he is dead to the world that is. When he finally did crack open his eyes, his brilliant baby blues flashing up at me with that innocence and wonder he seems to have. He smiled for a few seconds and then proceeded to bounce, literally and 90’s slang word, out of my bed and make his way downstairs, knowing I would follow like the good little lap-dad that I am.

So while I was going to sit and talk about the positive psychological stimulations writing multiple times a day gets me. I decided that I needed to write what I believe in high school was called a Current Events piece for your perusal and see if you are laughing as much by the end of it as I am sitting here with my coffee in my left hand, my fingers absently stabbing at the keys with my right hand.

Today I will indeed write about psychological benefits and maybe go back to The Alley. I am in a mood, so I really can’t promise what won’t come out of my had, I can only hope you will be mildly informed and decently amused by it should it fall within your comfort zone.

I love all of you, even if we have never met or have met just a few times. I love you because you deserve to be loved, and you deserve to be held high and admired for your wonder, splendor, and the joy you have to bring to the world.

Reruns, Groundhogs, Mondays and My Very Own Immortality

Every Day Is Sream Of Consciousness

There is an eerieness to a Monday morning that might as well be any other day of the week for the amount of importance it has in the current health crisis. Sure, the garbage gets taken out, the recycling needs to go to the curb as well, but there is not any of that sustained energy that Mondays have.

No one likes Monday’s sure, but everyone knows that if you get by it, the week has at least started, and you can do what you need to do from there to survive the rest of the week.

Now, though, there is no school. There is no gym in a few hours. There is nothing except a day where you get to do the nothing that you did for the days and weeks before in Groundhog Day-like fashion.

It is why I have begun to do several writings a day. It at least breaks up the monotony and makes me feel like I am doing something different to the norm. Plus, there is a delightful psychological benefit to the writing of multiple posts per day I will get into, you guessed it, later in the day when I do another piece for your perusal.

I suppose the one benefit to having the similarity in days that we are having is that I can accurately measure to see if I am doing better or worse in a specific area. Be it mental health or even water consumption. It is a small thing, but at this point, I am going to go ahead and look for any little achievement that I can that helps me improve myself while I sit here and stay safe for the betterment of all, including my Ducks mind you.

On a different note entirely, I know I have been saying I am going to start writing fiction things again. I will admit I have been slacking on that, but I think I am going to resolve to do at least once piece of short fiction a day, at leas. If I get inspired and can find time for other things, well, I will throw them in for the fun of it as well.

I have a lot of ideas about which to write. There are always ideas up there. I need to get past the idea that the approval of the masses is necessary for the piece to be a thing. I may put them all on the Internet for you to read, but I write them nearly entirely for me, out of a selfish desire to know that my words are not in my head and are out in the ether forever, not just driving me slowly and inexorably mad.

What ideas, I can hear no one but me clamor?

I love writing about serial killers and Cthulhu. I love poetry that makes you feel like I am in love with you and essays that make you want to go out and change the world, instead of sitting back and hoping others will do it for you. I need to write stories of Fae and Goblins, Vampires, and Werewolves. It honors my Dove in ways I can never explain and do not feel the need to try to.

I want to make you believe, if only for a moment, that you are in a better place than where we are now. Not better because of mass murderers and monsters, but better because you have the time to read and reflect on innocent stories from a random loon on the Internet.

Immortality isn’t such a bad thing to long for when you are sending out your thoughts, is it?

Triple Digit Heat and I Do Not Enjoy Each Other’s Company


I lived in the desert you know. I know heat. Three hours or so away from Death Valley, you know, one of the hottest places in the world. I used to take nice long walks in it as a little Bear Cub. My brother, sister, and I would spend twelve hours a day in it in the summer and while we would be this awkward shade of crimson when we came into the house and have to be coated with various ointments, we went right back out the next day because that is simply what you did.

One other thing before we leave the temperatures of the Antelope Valley. An important thing actually. There is no humidity in the desert, it’s kind of why they’re called deserts. So while I routinely was out in 100° temperatures, there was nary a droplet of water in the sky. It was a beautiful cerulean blue that made every other shade of blue jealous at all the, wait for it, blue balls. rimshot? All joking aside, it was beyond wonderful there, beautiful to the point of bringing your tears to the eyes.

I moved back here and I learned what it was like to have water try to run away from your body, only to be stymied by the Universe itself and just sit on you and cry. Yes, sweat crying, go with the metaphor and play along with me here, my self-respect is at stake for Goddess’s sake. I suppose living next to one of the largest fresh-water lakes on the planet doesn’t help at all, but I was not precisely ever told I was the sharpest of the tools available in the drawer.

If it is 75 here, I know I am fucked. he pressure in my head builds to where I sometimes feel like I am having a stroke, my migraines flair uncontrollably and I am completely useless. Today it is supposed to be, without the heat index, and as aside that is a stupid name for a hotness death scale, in the mid-nineties. If I do try and push through the pain, I most often find myself mysteriously waking up from a nap I did not intend to take in a room I may or may not remember having been in at the time.

I went to bed at half-past two yesterday. In the afternoon. On a Saturday. (Ignore the during quarantine part for the sake of dramatic effect). All I could do is strip down to the skin (control yourselves people, I’m not a piece of meat) and lay in the air conditioner and breathe as slowly as I could without really moving at all. I didn’t hand lunch, I didn’t have dinner, I didn’t hydrate the way I should have. I simply needed to not for a while. Just be there and no be expected to do anything other than maintain the baseline living conditions I needed to take care of. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t see, I ejected material from my stomach like a bullet train, nosebleeds and, ironically, insomnia because of the intensity of the owwie involved.

Now I have taken care to medicate, hydrate, eat and do all the things I can to mitigate this from happening again today, however, I am not as naive as I used to be and I fully expect today to suck.

So yeah, you needed to know all of that because, well, I needed to write more and that is the first thing that came to mind. Sorry that I am not in the least bit sorry?

Hydrate. Seek shade when you can. Loose-fitting clothes. Y’all know the drill.