Yes yes the inimitable gray haze of winter in Cleveland. A bitter-cruel jab of spite right from the sky. I know there must be a god else what else would there be for me to lavish my hate upon. It is an exquisite hate, ground fresh daily between my teeth, artisinaly layered with alternating mutters of 'fuckyou' and random intense screaming with a signature quivering shoulders rage. It is a hate, tastefully conceived and richly deserved by whatever magic sapience governs time & space. There must be a god, if there isn't then what is this thing I hate so furiously. St. Kingtycoon's ontological argument, enjoy.
The second winter is a bit of spite, a bit of spittle from the sky on my face. After the timid beast barely made a sound, after it failed to follow up the remorseless cruelty of it's elders, falling far short of wicked 2014/15 and being merely a shadow of the storied & terrible 2013/14 models - this shitty little winter, the economy model for weaklings, it seemed that it wouldn't make much of an impression at all, and then, and then it does what the winter does in the Waste-Land, in the Lake of the Cat People.
Just a vicious bite from the severed head of the beast, a lunge for your throat by the dying wind the snapping vicious cold of snow & teeth & wet.
So a weekend spoiled, understand, good options honed to single purposes - delivery food and video games, for once, not my idea.
On wednesday I came back to work - but didn't work too hard. I worked hard enough. Immediately though, back to not sleeping enough. My neighbors upstairs & their fucking dog.
I lay in bed wishing. These are my 3 magic wishes if I could capture a lamp genii
1) That every dog in the world would violently explode leaving their owners with disfiguring scars so that I would know to scorn them still, after their dogs have violently exploded.
2) That I could be the leader of an army of millions of gorillas.
3) Also a navy of millions of gorillas.
So you get it - surly from sleeplessness.
That night though I stay up late- riding out to the west side to see my old DnD pals - it's been 15 years now, with this crowd - I like those guys. JV has it at his house as we've all gotten skeeved by the Warzone's dirtyness (though rumors fly that it's nice & clean now maybe?) He and his household work it up and make all the crudite and also there is wine with gothic labels since we play in the new Ravenloft campaign that's out. It was a modestly eventful 1st act type session - lots of intros, lots of set up, not one fight- Me and MZ grumble about it a little as he takes me home, the prince that he is, and we speculate about proper pacing for a session, I say 1 encounter always and season with more when it's time to draw them back in. And always throw the realest fight after the loot's been given - scare 'em about something to lose.
In the night.
I cannot sleep? Not a lot, stompy tiny women & their idiot dog. Explode, Explode, Explode - I can't make it happen, dismay.
Thursday is a big night - after work I fetch up my cub right away and we hire a car to downtown so that we can have Noodle-Cat and then to Playhouse square for the Welcome to Night Vale live show. It was pretty good, all in all, for me, by my expectations it was good - for her, probably in the top 10 of stage performances, maybe top 5. We really need to get out more, to better stage performances. Probably.
An effort- a cursory one, to face the line & buy the merch. I live on the internet, it is my neighborhood, the stores don't have lines. A cursory effort to meet the entertainers. We're tasked with it, by A's mother - who wants us to. She's got that fetish - that... Thing... that I find so distasteful, so uninteresting - to know a performer, to befriend someone. Patrician sensibilities - first, but not foremost - they're entertainers dear and count the silver after they've gone, and before as well. But creative sensibilities as well. Sometimes, sometimes I'll make a thing, a true thing - and if I want to discuss it - it is on these terms: Is it great? It is. Is it wonderful? It is. Applaud me? Applaud me. I haven't any insights to how things are made nor the origins of ideas, I made a thing out of a wish to make it and By No Means a wish to be known by others.
That sickness of the self that craves for recognition, approval of the self - that's the damage done, right there, to me. The work is not the self is not the work - the work lives & dies by it's merits, seeing the person within and behind as inheriting that value, possessing some component of the work? No. No, not at all. There's a notion that they are supermen, that they open their coat & let free tigers, that they spring at the hint of interest - into character, into presence, into the stage. Now, maybe some can do that? And what do you say to them?
I don't care about knowing people who's work interests me, I assume their work has in it everything they care to tell me, that's it.
And then... She tells the driver - on our way home - in homage to Cecil "We've been Waiting For You...David!" After the app says it's david coming to get us, and after david comes to get us, after a long-ish wait in the burgeoning cold. She says it like you'd think gollum sounds if you'd only read those books. She says it and doubles over doing that laugh of embarrassed daring that you see sometimes if you're acquainted with the best teenaged girls.
So home, in the dark, as the cold circles in, and try to bed, and try to sleep and try to live, only to return to winter.