Mad Journal.  March 5, 2013.  Tuesday.  We had a couple of days of a bit of the sun, but now that’s all over and we’re rolling in the gray.  Or is it grey?  Despondency intermixed with depression with the usual salt and pepper of bitterness and anger re my writing  “career”.  Oh wait, I’ve already talked about puke-inducing material.  This life is an effing bastard and yes, it makes me angry.  It’s male anger, apes.  Scratch your chin and yawn.

Seems this gammy leg and bit of rash turned out to be “Shingles”.  Got to the doc yesterday and it was funny.  The interview was forty-five minutes after the time it was supposed to start, but one thing I had done while waiting is pick up and look at a brochure on shingles put out by makers of a vaccine for it.  And there was an image of what looked very much like what was on my body.  I mentioned to the doctor (not my regular, as he’s on holidays) that I’d just looked at this brochure.  He took one look at the conflagration around my left knee and said, “Yes, it does look like shingles.”  Caused by a virus.  The virus has hung around your body for decades, since you were a child with chickenpox, in fact, and now that you are older your immune system isn’t what it used to be and this virus manages to break out of where it’s holed up in some of your nerve cells.  It’s too diabolical.  Remember how when you were younger you were convinced of your invincibility?  It’s a bloody miracle you made it this far, apes, considering the threat level.  You are a minor, possibly insignificant entity in a vast and highly toxic conspiracy.  In its essence it is the war between death and life.  And you’re losing it.

I’m not sure what to do next, so, standard procedure, do nothing.  This always leads to something but you can’t say you really have a plan.  Plans were given up on long ago.  Plans are just that—plans.  They have no relation to reality as it inevitably unfolds.  Years ago you never made plans then, for a change, you made a plan.  You followed it like a good ape.  It was text book follow-through and after a lot of hard work you were left with nothing.  A big fat zero, my apes.  So you moved away from planning again, which is where you are today.

There goes a silver balloon, northward, at about five hundred feet.  There’s a pissed off child somewhere around here.  I can feel it.  Then the rains came.

Turns out those were the Olympic Mountains.  You know, due south of Saturna Island down there in the Olympic Peninsula and all that.  Due south of the San Juans.  Fine looking, snow-cappers in the sun.  Distant prospect of.  Do you guys know where I can get a novel published?

%d bloggers like this: