The White of Nothing…

 The White of Nothing… (2009 essay goes here) The siren call of recorded thoughts will now consume us all. ­­ Feb 26, 2009 When I grow up I want to be a novelist. ­­Mar 03, 2009 I just realized that The Crow might be a comedy. ­­ Mar 06, 2009 I have had the type of rough day that , in a film, Would be set to a montage of Sarah Mclachlan songs. ­­ Mar 09, 2009 If there's a better song to hear on shuffle then Billy Talent's "Try Honesty"; I don't want to hear it. ­­ Mar 18, 2009 I'm the Neil Gaiman of "eating bagels". ­­ Mar 26, 2009 @cjkrueger inspiration IS crisis. ­­ Mar 28, 2009 @TalkingWithHand I think you should rewrite Orwell's classic with actual slang from 1984. ......."1984. Totally awesome edition." ­­ Mar 31, 2009 I wonder if I'm bothering anyone, air drumming to Murder by Death in the Library? ­­ Apr 02, 2009 Someone's probably watching me from the corner of the room, "...my God, he's good." ­­ Apr 02, 2009 I want a wikipedia article about me that begins: "World famous to some people." ­­ Apr 07, 2009 I want to start a Zombie Hall & Oats tribute band, and we'll only cover "Maneater" ­­ Apr 11, 2009 Merhaps: "underwater perhaps." ­­ Apr 13, 2009 "maybe, tonight" ...fictional Eve 6 B­side, or worst prom theme ever? ­­ Apr 17, 2009 The pollen is falling like rain. Like Ridley Scott is outside with a cinematographer. ­­ Apr 23, 2009 @Stobert I'm trying, but eventually my typos will rise up and swallow me whole.You'll see me,waving goodbye,over the white crest of grammar. ­­ Apr 29, 2009 I just opened Don Quiote at the bookstore. I feel like I just found the book I've always looked for. I bought it. ­­ May 15, 2009 Who just write down six fucking adjectives for "fire"? I just did. My abilites are SEARING. ­­ Jun 02, 2009 @joeyciccoline I miss you so much that I check empty rooms whenever I pass by. ...just in case you’re waiting inside. ­­ Jun 25, 2009 My body is fighting off sleep worse than Narnia fought the white witch's rise to power. "...Oh God, snow! Fall back! FALL BACK!" ­­ Jun 25, 2009 I think I'm rather tired, now. Goodbye world I created. ...See? I merely twittered it. God said it with a flood. ­­ Jul 08, 2009 "It takes a big man to apologize, and I've gained a lot of weight." ­­ Jul 18, 2009 I am about to murder hundreds of Semi­colon's; you will hear their siren wail, as it cuts across the moor. – ­ Jul 20, 2009 "I should be done by eight o' clock, fingers crossed and enemies killed..." ­­ Jul 26, 2009 I have written. The story...seems like its going to work. I learned a lot about my writing with the novel and so this is pretty exciting. ­­ Aug 08, 2009 I just finished another round of writing on the Serialized Story, its actually...not...fucking...bad. Maybe. ­­ Aug 09, 2009 @Plainhuman I wasn't allowed to play with Voltoron...or Transformers...anythign that could potentially change or grow. #homeschooler ­­ Aug 11, 2009 Wrote important note­a­ma­jigs for Serialized Story will listening to Another Space Song: http://twitpic.com/diew7 ­­ Aug 11, 2009 Oh, Nobuo Uematsu, you're score to Final Fantasy VII is the materia to my Buster Sword. ­­ Aug 17, 2009 It's rough, but part one of the Serialized Story is now finished. Its like, 5000 words. At least. What the fuck am I doing? ­­Aug 17, 2009 How is Death Note so fucking good? ­­Aug 28, 2009 Update from The Front Lines It is Eleven at night, the caffeine is surging through my bloodstream, and The Album Leaf is blaring from the tin can speakers of my MacBook. I’ve been working on Part Two of the Serialized Story, I’m about seven or so pages in, and I know where it’s going. Some of it is good, some of it needs work, but I spent a happy few moments today planning out the next chapter, and I am so excited to reach it now that any problems with part two seem small and trivial. I would make an F­Zero metaphor, but I can’t think of one. ­mE! Part II of the Serialized Story is finished. Brain is fried. ­­ Aug 30, 2009 Plans. http://twitpic.com/gdq5h ­­ Sep 03, 2009 @Plainhuman Oh, nevermind. I was thinking of Space Jam; and the song "Space Jam".... ­­ Sep 07, 2009 Almost every decision in my life is based on the lyrics of Powerline, from a Goofy Movie. ­­ Sep 08, 2009 Cracks & Premonitions Thunder. And I am not, dear friends, quoting AC/DC, nor the lyrics of Fleetwood Mac; and above all else, I am certainly not referring to a fictional mashup of the two. "Thundah!/Only happens when it’s raining/nananananana") No. This morning, I awoke to thunder. Like a beast of the earth had jumped the Atlantic and landed outside my window. The house shuddered, and my eyes shot open, wondering why I had left the backyard, and the people, and everything else of the dreams. *** Yesterday I took all the notes related to the Serialized Story and gathered them together like the bones of an animal. My fervent belief is that if I cast them across a table with a pen in hand, I (yes!) will be able to transcribe the plot holes and mysterious bits down into one clairvoyant document. ­mE! I just wrote­­read: solved­­the scene that took me a week of constant wondering. God that feels good. Fuck. ­­ Sep 13, 2009 Upon a White Horse Small scraps and pieces of writing were accomplished. Half formed sculptures of sentences, bereft of grammar and structure now stand frozen along blank pages of manila snow. They are landmarks, twisted screaming statues pointing me in the right direction. The sickness had spread from my limbs to my head, where it nestled in like a wyrm in a treasure horde. Bathing itself on a heap of golden thoughts. While the sickness held me captive—pouring my greatest collection of jewels into its mouth and spitting them back out like bathwater—I laid upon the couch, wondering what life was like for the healthy. I rode a horse of white flakes, and heard tell his name was Pox. Together we callivanted (his term, not my own, I assure you) throughout the house. From room to room. Breathing out the spores which attacked us, before sucking them back in with a decaying hiss. I remember—vaguely—lying upon the bed, stroking the hair as it fell out of his neck in great clumps. "we must depart" he whispered. His eyes rheumy with pink scabs. "Why?" "Into the living room. Quick!" he hissed, "The sickness is spreading!" Together we walked along the fields of my home. Passing unfamiliar walls and decor. A slow clip and clop from beneath me as the horse wheezed and whinnied. The stillness of the once familiar abode was broken only by the horse. "These are the lands of Plague.." he would say aloud, as if talking to himself. *** I feel better, today. Slightly. I have moments of life­like tenacity. A new idea was born today, a new story—well, stories. I created something with thoughts, and pen, and paper that I had never thought of before; and it astounded me. I think it will require a lot of research, for instance: I don’t know a damn thing about the Industrial revolution. And how if effected Russia. That’s it. My mind is spent, I shall see you in better days, in better health. ­mE. Offline Gummi Sharks I’m at the library, listening to Offline PK on repeat for the last hour and a half. I’ve just finished the probably hardest part of this second chapter of the Serialized Story. I really like how its turning out. I spent a few days away from it, and was surprised to find how much I liked it upon returning. Being a story told in several parts, things keep shifting and solidifying, like a bowl of blue Jell­O filled with gummi fish. Did you ever make one of those? I have several hand­scribbled pages of notes for chapters three and four. I took pictures of each, but dare not post them on this mortal plane. For handwriting this bad is spell craft, and once uttered, invites a curving, looping, unreadable Ragnarok. ­mE. I just finished a Slightly­less­rough­then­I­thought part Three of The Serialized novel. I think its running above 75 pages so far. Wow. ­­Sep 20, 2009 Am I Dying? It is apparent—apparent!—That my body is suffering through its own epic influenza. A disease we probably have no Latin name for. Is three weeks to long to be the flu? I would check Wikipedia, but my symptoms prevent me from the extraneous and damning exercise of clicking open another tab. Though, I think its fair to judge “being too tired to check Wikipedia for symptoms” is symptom of the flu itself. My body is wracked with phantom pains and aches, and memories of other places I have never been. I wrote down a fictional memoir last night, well into the throws of my debilitated passion. Realizing I was nothing but a medium for the sickness, I wrote about a page of foreign language before realizing I had no pen, no paper, and that my desk was nothing but a bed sheet and a finger. I have felt like shit for the last few weeks, and my casual but firm grip on the English language has been thrown off course into the horse­bucked storm of “I don’t feel good.” Still… I write. When possible, if not altogether plausible, I string words and thoughts together like strands of pearls. Some of them glisten, others are tangled. My pearl stringing workshop is, certainly, in disarray, but I still sit here and tinker. Smiling at moments no one else will ever know. I’ve made progress actually. It is very exciting when it works. Like water bumping over rocks in a stream. This is how this scene happens. These are the words that tell you the picture. I will never tell you of which scene it was, or what pieces had changed. I will show you the blueprints—gladly!—but translating the Russian notes in the margin would only teach you the components, and I don’t want you to know how the rocket works. I want you to watch it pass the moon in silent wonder. Unless it explodes. In that case, I am sorry. I will write another story. ­mE. I think I just had a momentous decision about the story I'm writing. Was this unforeseen? or have I been misreading myself all along?... ­­Sep 27, 2009 Bob's your Uncle: the BBC3 television programme where Bob Hoskins comes to live with your family. ­­­Sep 28, 2009 On A Train October 1, 2009 Oh God. Where were we? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. It’s been days, and in future­internet­skip time that’s literal ages.Do you remember our previous correspondence? Our adventures together? They are much the same. All that’s changed is everything. Perhaps a new setting for this, my latest letter to you? A train, I think. Yes. Let’s be traveling on a train. There is a window behind us, and I think something must be wrong with the train, or the world, or the rate that we’re travelling across it. Sometimes it seems like Spring, and yet other times I fear the snow will bury us all. We’ve only been on the train a few minutes, yet the seasons have changed so quickly. I must have spent years looking out this window. A bottle of something, perhaps? A waiter in a dark mood arrives. His mustache is nothing less then vile, his smile as thin as it is sinister. He holds a chain, and along this chain are various bottles. "I’ll have the typo champagne" I tell him. "That’s champsne, Sir." "Yes—of course.—and my friend here will have the…" (at this point, I motion toward you, and you say: "I’ll have the umm, er—uh ________" "excellent choice," he says without meaning it. I shoot you a glance and you smile. The waiter pours out my champsne, (a glass of bubbling water and various misspelled letters) before producing a dusty glass fro somewhere behind him. He sets this in front of you. "And for you, of course…" he murmurs, pouring out a full glass of ________ , and not bothering to wipe the dust out of the glass, as is the custom on this train with such a beverage. As the waiter leaves, we smile and nod, pretending to clink our glasses in a cheer. I stare at the words floating in my champagne, and give your glass a quick look of envy. As I sip, the bubbles tingle, the words catch and scratch in my throat. You laugh and tell me typos are never god on the palate. I smile. Many seasons have passed our window by now. I sigh and put down my glass. "I have news." I tell you. "I have decided not to serialize my serialized novel.” You nod your head, wondering if this is going to be boring. "I’m going to finish it and get it published…its just grown so much, and I really like it—and I just think I should try and get it published." You nod again, and say something nice. "…I’m on part four right now," I add, as if somehow this is important to my decision. "…it gets crazy." You smile and say “cool.” I take one last sip as I stare out the window. The sharp edge of typos hit my lips as Spring scenery blossoms in green grass and rainbow everything. By the time I finish swallowing, the first snows are erasing everything. ­mE. Oh thank God. Final Draft is back on my computer. ­­ Oct 03, 2009 If all else fails, figure out where you fucked up: http://twitpic.com/kjzce ­­ Oct 06, 2009 My manuscript is back on track. Two days of nothing and then bang. ­­ Oct 09, 2009 Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees! Finally! http://tinyurl.com/yzxjbs3 ­­ Oct 09, 2009 9:23:5 Update From the Front Lines October 13, 2014 The White Plague of Illness has spread across my land like waves of sea foam. It seems now, that I must have been sick for almost two months. The fever rising and falling, like the tide of some damnable ocean. Let’s see, I have been meaning to write for some time. I’m still in the middle of the same chapter I was a month ago. A miserable place bereft of kindness or sunlight. Words look different to me now. It happened: I spent three weeks waiting for a sentence so I could finish the chapter, and it happened. ­­ Oct 17, 2009 Cold Water October 18, 2014 I have The mono. I have spent the majority of the majority of this past week upon a couch of illness, half asleep in a gondola on the most boring river of Hades. I cannot write. I have tried. In evidence I present to you that last paragraph, or, alternately, this blog entry which was started—no joke,—nine hours ago. I do have ideas though, little fireworks which fly up into the sky, brilliant and bright…only to flare behind clouds of rumbling and impenetrable darkness. But I have a notebook with me, and I wrote some of them down with a maniacal and wavering Sanskrit. Jotting them down like rare and confusing words of prophecy. I also drew pictures. ­mE! I spent the night with two of my brothers, hiding from giants in a childhood home. ­­ Oct 20, 2009 It is a black science, which ignites these fingers. (Writing.) ­­ Oct 24, 2009 Talk October 28, 2009 Has it been so long? Ten days gone between lovers is the end of a tryst, so thank God we’re merely friends—Writer and reader; tongue and ears, the oldest relation in history, or so this teller would have you hear. I am here to comfort your lonely mind, sit and palaver. I don’t know how many words I have left today, or much of them you’d like to hear, but maybe we’ll surprise each other. I’m so tired. You should know this, before we continue. Lest my weary words be judged by the lonely likes of you. I can’t believe it’s almost November. Why do we restart on January? Did the world start on January? I’m sorry—I don’t want this to become a rhetorical question fest. Though I suppose the T­shirts would look good. Rhetorical Question fest! October 28th 2009 …Where You There? (Don’t answer) I’ve been sick for like three months now. "You must think we're playing Zelda, ..because you've left me with nothing but half of a heart" ­­ Oct 29, 2009 I thought maybe I was a sculptor, but all I could make were snakes and rocks. ­­ Oct 29, 2009 "This Black Holiday will make gods of us all!" he yelled, through mouthfuls of candy corn. ­­ Oct 31, 2009 I don't want to get canonical...but I'm more dehydrated than Han Solo, that time he revisited Tattooine, 8 years after the battle of Yavin. ­­ Nov 02, 2009 I also just finished a chapter,after over a month, by cutting it in half, & moving the 2nd part into a new chapter. This is almost cheating. ­­ Nov 03, 2009 Well Met November 04, 2009 Well met. I’ll tell you what. I have now started this blog with three separate sentences, and it is only now—right now—that I ..am ..not…resisting every urge to delete everything and start over again. I’m almost sure that if I stop typing, I will. …There. Sometimes you just have to let things stick. I’m tired, sick and etc. But (and I’m already deleting and rewriting again) things have happened which I wish to chronicle, and chronicable things don’t chronicalize themselves, or so we said back in Confusing Academy (our school motto was: “wait, no—look! Behind you! just…There. The time? Blue!) Mozilla is helpfully trying to remind me that chronicable and chronicalize are not actual human words. God. See. I just wrote a bunch and then deleted again. I”M SO TIRED! I can’t even get the words right. It’s like a bad dream. I’m tired. Last night was the first in nearly forever that I felt good enough to stay up writing. So I did. And it worked. I finished a chapter, something which I haven’t done in a long time. It turns out all I had to do was cut what I was working on in half, and all of a sudden it worked, and I had a chapter and half just about finished. ­mE! @Plainhuman I think we should record an a capella version of "Kiss from a Rose" without trying to remember the lyrics. ­­ Nov 05, 2009 Remember, remember, the 5th of Nov! (But in my Country, here we do not.) ­­ Nov 05, 2009 @Plainhuman I'm just saying, it's better then the Jurassic Park 4 I filmed in my backyard. (J4: MO' Money Mo' Problems) ­­ Nov 06, 2009 I stayed up past my bedtime and typed for three and a half hours. I now have a finished comic book (script). ­­ Nov 11, 2009 I don't know if anyone else has clicked on the #donttrytoholla hashtag out of curiosity, but don't bother. The Grammar Knights have fallen. ­­ Nov 12, 2009 Hello World November 13, 2009 The novel is still being written, though I haven’t touched a word of it since last weekend. (And well, you know, these things take time.) I think getting sick for so long was both a curse and a boon. It forced me to slow down—which knocked me off balance—but also forced me to take time away. When I returned to those shallow banks, I found them much deeper than I remembered. I crept in at a loss, but found I had become a much better swimmer. Still, there’s that terrible current… and a sea monster. And I’m not sure but it seems as though there’s no small amount of pale hands reaching toward my feet. What else? Oh. I spent last Saturday night thinking of a story, and when I woke up the next day I began to type it. Hours and hours later it was apparent I had the rough swiss­holed­draft of a comic book. It is something I am really All Smiles about. It’s a comic book, yes, but it’s not one I’ve read before. As of tonight, I know my novel is Working, & that it will Work, & that I can Write It.This is a celebrational loss of gravity sort of thing. ­­ Nov 19, 2009 "The song, a 17 minute ballad called 'Christmas Fog', would prove to be the band's undoing..." ­­ Nov 20, 2009 This is the type of novel,where I realize I'm writing about Christmas day, during WWII,and I have a Viking, riding some sort of wolf lizard. ­­ Nov 22, 2009 Because, you know, that is the sort of book which I would like to read… ­­ Nov 22, 2009 Comics like Dark Avengers # 11 make me want to drop the book from my hands and applaud. (@brianmbendis) ­­ Nov 23, 2009 Celebration November 23, 2009 1 A post, for you, and for me, in rancorous celebration of my good health. It seems that I have finally shrugged off the dark cloak of mononucleosis. If you have a drink in hand, you may clink it against your screen, and say a toast, or favorite line of lyric. But make sure it’s appropriate, I can’t tell you how many Proper Functions I’ve ruined with a line from In A Big Country. 2 For those without a drink, but eating a hasty breakfast, it’s alright to just whisper a “cheers’, or clink that cinnamon toast against the screen in good spirit. 3 The novel has reached a Good Place, and as such, I feel like talking about it. Perhaps, if we are careful, it will not hear about this, …Will not rear its ugly face and kill us all. 4 I spent nearly all day yesterday holed up in a library, and then my living room, finishing the SHIT out of a chapter. It took me weeks. And of course—it’s still shit. 5 There’s a Marvel comic where Mr. Fantastic (he’s the guy who can stretch his shape, remember?) Stretches his god damned MIND, in order to use psychic powers. I feel like that’s a good description of me, trying to finish these last two chapters while stuck in the throes of a passionate Kissing Disease. 6 So, there’s another chapter done. And it’s better than it was, and different than I planned, and I am happy. ­mE. Fossils December 2009 I am so bone tired. There is nothing but a restless wonder, buzzing though my head. We could say that I’m in a desert, and maybe you’re here too. I can’t tell. I’m tired. You could be a shadow, or a well formed dune for all I care. There is an old wooden sign, and at first I think it’s drawing closer to us, until I remember that we’re walking. That we’ve always been walking. The sand below is blue, and dark. It reminds me of shaved crayons, in the bottom of a crayola box. You ask if it’s nighttime here, or if we’re maybe dreaming. "No" I tell you. "This is dusk." We keep walking. The sign draws closer. Something’s written on it, but it’s hard to look at. It looks magical, and I could never read this sort of thing. You tell me that it’s beautiful, but I look away. This is followed by a great deal of remorse, as if I’m missing out on something and I don’t have a choice. We walk past the sign. Strange shadows swoop and twirl along the landscape, as if great winged creatures are dancing above us. "What are those?" I ask, glancing up at the sky. "I don’t really know," you reply without looking. "…It’s the last day of November." "Oh." I say. And it’s around this time I notice the bones, sticking up out of the blue sand. Maybe this is the end of the desert, I wonder. "Where are we?" I hear you ask from behind me. "Dusk," I reply. "We should keep walking." ­mE! I just thought of a parrot, beat boxing, and I laughed so hard I had to leave the room. ­­ Dec 01, 2009 My iPhone is a pokedex of all the ideas I catch. http://twitpic.com/rubsp ­­ Dec 02, 2009 Interesting: The Chinese Xia traditions are similar to those of the Japanese Samurai's Bushido, the chivalry of the European Knights­­­­ ­­ Dec 02, 2009 ­­­and the gunslingers of America's Westerns. (Wikipedia) ...No wonder something about kung­fu appeals to me. ­­ Dec 02, 2009 THIS is onLINE?!: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFBgHxNOkPI Fucking fantastic. ­­ Dec 04, 2009 Lord coffee, Give me the power to touch these keys and fill this electric page with miracles. ­­ Dec 08, 2009 An epic internet search for the leak of next month's AP cover story: (My Chem!) has led to me spending the rest of the day with their music. ­­ Dec 09, 2009 If I had to pick a favorite song on Black Parade it would be "Famous Last Words". I can't believe I just listened to that whole album ­­ Dec 09, 2009 Every few months I stumble upon Martin Newell on my iPod, and get to relive Greatest Living Englishman. ­­ Dec 11, 2009 An, just so, every few months, I get to find Martin Newell's blog, and relive a poet's life in Wivenhoe… ­­Friday, Dec 11, 2009 Like a Lover's voice, misquoting the mountainside, stay in line 12­21­2009 Listen, this is my Holiday, and my blog. And I will name my entries as I well please—As I WELL PLEASE! It is Christmas Break for those of us who count it. I wish this could be a long, well written and magical endeavor for the both of us, but I can barely string together a sentence. I am but a jeweler, with a handful of pearls and crippled fingers. (Do not worry, I am not without my tricks and whispers, I will guide you through these halls of broken thought) Still, I write to you with purpose and splendor, though my words flash like backfired fireworks and half sunken sparklers. I can still rock it, as they say at the grammar hall of Rock n Roll. Look at that last sentence, even. It’s like a fucking lightning bug parade. See? I’m also sayin’ shit like that. Shit like smart shit. *** My novel sits in it’s resting place, awaiting my jibs and jabs and curses. I have left it alone for the Holidays…FOR IMPORTANT SHIT IS AFOOT. I will tell you more later when I’m ready. WHEN I CAN TYPE A COMPLETE THOUGHT WITHOUT CAPS OR ASTERISKS. Just know that I am excited. Important things are being done. Things with index cards and newborn mechanics. Things of ink and magic. A tabletop game to rival the unknown God of such things is being built and broken into a life of slavery before my fingers. I have toiled over it’s scribbles and white fields of index card blankness every day, and every night. It is a shambling, rasping, motherfucker who stares up from beneath my hands. I am a surgeon of index cards, and he is a newborn King. *** These words are a time capsule, and you’re eyes are the shovel. ­mE! He had a face made for a poster saying: Wanted, for murder. ­­ Dec 28, 2009 Hallaforth and Trobogan 12­31­2009 It is the last day of the year. Possibly the decade, if you believe in that sort of thing. Could we agree, dear reader, that if this were really the end, we might start afresh with a new beginning? I’m talking about changing the months! Change the names. Time travel is lovely, but I’ve had enough Januaries; I’ve had enough Janvieres, Januars and eneros! I want to celebrate New Year’s day in the month of Hallaforth! I want to kiss my lover in Trobogan. I want the last month of the year to be named Muenster…(Just for a year!) *** In a palatial fortress at the edge of Space and Time, in a room where people believe in nothing, some sort of elderly man is clicking stones together along the floor in a game of rainbow colored marbles. * in march of 2009 I realized with startling clarity that I wanted to be a novelist. Years of worry and self doubt were erased. Like the fat baggage of a cracking glacier, everything I wasn’t sloughed off into nothing. I quit comedy. I quit screenwriting. I stopped worrying about comics (even if I still wanted to write them someday)and I just decided to do what made me happy. I wrote a novel.Got burned and destroyed and let down more than any other moment of my life. And I fucking loved it. Running through a bramble when it’s on the way home just doesn’t seem as bad as when you’re lost. I put the novel away, I started another one. It died on the page. My baby. And I fucking loved it. Now I’m working on my true, second novel, and It’s over a hundred pages of fucked up typos, shitty writing, and poor choices of character. And I love it. *** So the old man clicks his rocks in a chalk circle in a place of nowhere, smiling at my good fortunes. The Fine makers of calendar Incorporated miss out on lucrative opportunities and print another Page of Januarys. I am sitting at a keyboard, smiling. ­mE! END OF PREVIEW