A Witness of Vultures.
It has been a very strange few months.
There are times it feels like I'm living on the edge of a Doppler effect. The nucleus kernel is moving at phenomenal rates, and time is cascading by at warp speed, but I'm only getting the latent echo and until the resulting sound passes, I'm standing still listening to an oncoming storm.
I'll be frank, if still vague: My health hasn't been good. My father's health has been even worse. The results are that I'm doing this bizarre system of working all the time without seeing payment. The job has fractured into a series of comical events where the theme seems to be that 'the farcical idiot who does the work doesn't receive compensation for it'. I nearly put a nail through the last drive a client gave me after they stated my spending several hours trying to figure out why it didn't boot, only to find out that it was idiot.. Er.. User error, didn't warrant pay.
Thus I said that was fine. They could get their drive when they had the money, and I hung up on them. Funny how suddenly payment is okay when there is a fear their precious information might end up at the bottom of my toilet for a solid week. I've been fucked with a little to often recently to even care about the consequences anymore.
I'm doing my damnedest to help out my father as well. He's of a generation that I swear have built in anti-gravitational capacity. He damn near hovers if there isn't something he can be working on.
I realize now where I get that trait from.
I worry that he'll push himself too much though, so I panic and try to 'handle everything for him'. At least in this way I can pay him back for all of his support on my failed, asinine attempts at doing something with art.
Which brings me to that slowly saddening subject.
I've all but stopped drawing with the exception of doing some doodle-work for commissions. I highly suspect that the end of those commissions will be the closing door on a wildly bad few decades scribbling things. I just don't feel a kinship with art anymore. I practically don't post to any galleries, and haven't had an original creative thought since about 2001. The resulting decade was a slowly degrading orbit into a creative void that I'm circling the epicenter of.
I also, without realizing it, have stopped communicating with almost everyone. Which can easily be witnessed by the fact that months go by before I post anything here. I've all but become a shut-in.. Except that I go outdoors all of the time. So perhaps I'm an outdoors shut-in. A shut-out.
I have a veritable plethora of accounts and blogs and places that I *can* communicate from, but as I've told people many times, I don't have a hell of a lot to talk about anymore. Its part of the reason I'm easy to get 'bored of' very quickly.
Communication is something I should be working on, perhaps. I lurk almost exclusively. I am there as a spectral presence, eyes drifting over all of those digital morsels. It probably doesn't help that I don't reach out anymore for any reason. It surprised one of my friends to learn that my health has turned to such shit lately. Maybe if I hadn't been out of touch for nearly a year information like that wouldn't.. y'know.. happen.
I have to wonder if I'm just posting here so it will be a weird echo that someone comes across after the last synapse fires.
In any case, I'm trying to at least keep active. Attempting to look like strings are being jarringly yanked by flailing my limbs around and making the same noises as humankind does at the appropriate places.
Despite it all I'm not really down. Just quiet. Which is probably the best place for me.
If you hear a whistle from that wallpaper pattern, Don't worry.
Its just me.
-T.J.
There are times it feels like I'm living on the edge of a Doppler effect. The nucleus kernel is moving at phenomenal rates, and time is cascading by at warp speed, but I'm only getting the latent echo and until the resulting sound passes, I'm standing still listening to an oncoming storm.
I'll be frank, if still vague: My health hasn't been good. My father's health has been even worse. The results are that I'm doing this bizarre system of working all the time without seeing payment. The job has fractured into a series of comical events where the theme seems to be that 'the farcical idiot who does the work doesn't receive compensation for it'. I nearly put a nail through the last drive a client gave me after they stated my spending several hours trying to figure out why it didn't boot, only to find out that it was idiot.. Er.. User error, didn't warrant pay.
Thus I said that was fine. They could get their drive when they had the money, and I hung up on them. Funny how suddenly payment is okay when there is a fear their precious information might end up at the bottom of my toilet for a solid week. I've been fucked with a little to often recently to even care about the consequences anymore.
I'm doing my damnedest to help out my father as well. He's of a generation that I swear have built in anti-gravitational capacity. He damn near hovers if there isn't something he can be working on.
I realize now where I get that trait from.
I worry that he'll push himself too much though, so I panic and try to 'handle everything for him'. At least in this way I can pay him back for all of his support on my failed, asinine attempts at doing something with art.
Which brings me to that slowly saddening subject.
I've all but stopped drawing with the exception of doing some doodle-work for commissions. I highly suspect that the end of those commissions will be the closing door on a wildly bad few decades scribbling things. I just don't feel a kinship with art anymore. I practically don't post to any galleries, and haven't had an original creative thought since about 2001. The resulting decade was a slowly degrading orbit into a creative void that I'm circling the epicenter of.
I also, without realizing it, have stopped communicating with almost everyone. Which can easily be witnessed by the fact that months go by before I post anything here. I've all but become a shut-in.. Except that I go outdoors all of the time. So perhaps I'm an outdoors shut-in. A shut-out.
I have a veritable plethora of accounts and blogs and places that I *can* communicate from, but as I've told people many times, I don't have a hell of a lot to talk about anymore. Its part of the reason I'm easy to get 'bored of' very quickly.
Communication is something I should be working on, perhaps. I lurk almost exclusively. I am there as a spectral presence, eyes drifting over all of those digital morsels. It probably doesn't help that I don't reach out anymore for any reason. It surprised one of my friends to learn that my health has turned to such shit lately. Maybe if I hadn't been out of touch for nearly a year information like that wouldn't.. y'know.. happen.
I have to wonder if I'm just posting here so it will be a weird echo that someone comes across after the last synapse fires.
In any case, I'm trying to at least keep active. Attempting to look like strings are being jarringly yanked by flailing my limbs around and making the same noises as humankind does at the appropriate places.
Despite it all I'm not really down. Just quiet. Which is probably the best place for me.
If you hear a whistle from that wallpaper pattern, Don't worry.
Its just me.
-T.J.