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Originally published at parlando. Please leave any comments there. [I’m going to post — in fact, I’ve done it! — just once for my new blog, Doukipudonktan. If you follow me, I’ll see you there.]
→ Hey.
It’s been a little more than a year ago since I posted in my blogs. I did occasionally comment in Field Gulls (a very good Seahawks blog), and really occasionally in other places, but mostly I didn’t write. Second, writing is really hard now (since my stroke, in 2008; if you don’t know about it, if you stick around* it’s my largest subject). First, my beloved Velma died of cancer; that would be my supreme subject, but I still mostly can’t write about it. { . . . }
Well. In the last month or so, I’m discovering that, even though writing is hard, I want to write about my everyday stuff now. I don’t think it’s going to be interesting to many people, but Since My Stroke™ I’m forgetting things constantly, and I want to write stuff down for me, even though this is not good writerly stuff anymore.
So. There are many many things to write about in my head; this is an introduction, I guess, from me to me. My last blog, Parlando, I decided was not right for this new tiny thoughts. (I’m probably going to resume posting to Parlando, too, for mostly music thoughts.) This is a new WordPress blog, Doukipudonktan, for everyday things (and also slowly learning again WordPress stuff).
Whew. I’m a little bit tired (again, writing is hard now). This introduction is going to pull several directions if I don’t stop. Soooooo….
Post.
* if you don’t, it’s okay.**
** three “if you”s! wait, four!
Tags: recovery, stuff
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Originally published at parlando. Please leave any comments there. I’m howling. Literally, I just spent fifteen minutes just howling. This is normal now; I just don’t talk about it, except maybe I should.
I’m damaged, but Velma stuck with me. She understood me. Now she’s gone. I’m alone. Every day, I’m silently in misery; I’m howling, but there’s no one to hear, and even if there was, they’d leave (not that I’m mad about leaving; I’m grateful for every minute my friends and family spends with me).
I’m damaged. I’m alone. But mostly, Velma’s gone. She’s gone. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together, blissfully. We talked about what would happen if one of us died. It was an uncomfortable subject. I said, especially after the stroke, that I wasn’t sure I could make it without her. That distressed her, and she always made me promise that I would at least try.
What reason should I live for? I know that eventually the hurt will ebb. But what should I live for?
I’m trying, Velma. Tags: badness, boring posts, life, stuff
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Originally published at parlando. Please leave any comments there. We read to each other, at first constantly, then sputteringly, and then, with my stroke, it ended. I’m trying to assemble which fictions that I read to her. (For some reason, it’s much easier to remember the ones I read to her than the ones Velma read to me.)
So, at random, probably added to later:
Joanna Russ, Picnic on Paradise
→ “Nobody’s Home”
→ “My Boat”
→ Souls
→ “Bodies”
Barry Hughart, Bridge of Birds
Flann O’Brien, The Third Policeman
J.G. Ballard, “Billenium”
→ “End-Game”
Algis Budrys, Be Merry
Gene Wolfe, The Eyeflash Miracles
→ The Death of Doctor Island
→ Forlesen
→ “Melting”
R.A. Lafferty, “Continued On Next Rock”
→ “Nine Hundred Grandmothers”
→ “Slow Tuesday Night”
→ “Thus We Frustrate Charlemagne”
Avram Davidson, “Take Wooden Indians”
→ “Sacheverell”
→ “The House the Blakeneys Built”
Neal Barrett, Jr, Skinny Annie Blues
→ “Perpetuity Blues”
→ ” ‘A Day at the Fair’ ”
Jonathan Carroll, The Land of Laughs
Alasdair Gray, Five Letters from an Eastern Empire
→ “The Great Bear Cult”
→ “Homeward Bound”
Michael Bishop, “The Quickening”
Pamela Dean, The Dubious Hills
M. John Harrison, “Egnaro”
Francesca Lia Block, Weetzie Bat
Greg Egan, “Learning To Be Me”
Kate Wilhelm, “Baby, You Were Great”
Damon Knight, “Semper Fi”
→ “The Handler”
G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday
→ The Napoleon of Notting Hill
Howard Waldrop, “God’s Hooks!”
→ “Horror, We Got”
Leigh Kennedy, “Her Furry Face”
C.M. Kornbluth, “The Last Man Left in the Bar”
→ “The Advent on Channel Twelve”
Jim Thompson, Pop. 1280 Tags: books, memory, short stories, words
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Originally published at parlando. Please leave any comments there. I read various music blogs, some of them on Blogger. Today I was looking up another person’s bio, and I realized that I probably had a Blogger bio, because I had a picture - but I hadn’t looked at it in ages. Probably before my stroke.
So I looked. And I did have a bio (the same one that I have here); but I also had a aborted blog: Another Thick Square Blog, which is a great name for a blog, and I shouldn’t have punted it. And there was one post, dated 10 April 2008:
Always scribble, scribble, scribble, eh, Mr Gibbon? Scribble scribble scribble Mr Gibbon Gibbon Gibbon. Scribblin’ gibbon. Can you say that, Mr Gibbon? Eh? Scribblin’ scribblin’ scribblin’ gibblon. It’s a bit of a tongue workout, eh, Mr Gibbon? Mr Gibblon gabblin’ gobblin’ Gibbon. Eh? Eh? You’re a good sport Mr Gibbon, I always say. Thanks for the book.
I don’t think I took a Blogger blog seriously….
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wait, what?