August 8th, 2022 2:45pm pdt

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Strike the Glitterati (Three)

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"0746 on Friday morning. Pause. Now 0810. I was sidetracked for a little while due to my grocery list. I am going to the market later and was trying to finalize everything. Third show, coffee, whatever. Gray skies again. Yesterday the mercury ended up high on the scale for some reason. The only temperature drop was overnight, thank goodness.

I wrapped up the limited series yesterday and then fell down over the film industry for the billionth time. The program is a production of a production, and some of the details – even in the opening sequence – are overwhelming my sense of balance, still. I finished watching yesterday afternoon and my head is still full of the glitterati. I can’t help it. When I was full-tilt into film (the Midwest and shortly thereafter), the dream never pushed me into wanting to be famous or well-known. I didn’t wish to be on magazine covers and surrounded by paparazzi, ever. I just needed to be involved in the production somehow. The glitterati did not interest me most of the time. Sitting here right now and after all these years, I still feel as if I’ve been struck upside the head just five minutes ago. Strike. Another strike, and one of the worst imaginable. If I had any fucking strength left I would strike the glitterati (distractions) from my mind and move the fuck on.

But I can’t. They are the ‘face’ of the industry and will not let me go. I see them everywhere, all the time. Such is the life of a ‘regular’ person. I’m sure you can understand this crap.


1059. The entire routine is finished and I went shopping at the market. All done. I am overjoyed to be home with my friends on the television. End of the fifth season and it is going out with a bang. Awesome. The weather is warming as quickly as yesterday, meaning I have to keep watch on the windows and ensure there is adequate airflow today. Ugh. I’m hoping the fog will overtake this end of the valley and cool everything. Nothing of note at the store or in the parking lot, thank Christ. I don’t need more fucking problems right now. The previous entry deflated me to the point of feeling completely flattened. The glitterati came right on the heels of that shit, too. Ugh... Again.

Before I took off for the store, I decided to install the new memory into this precious machine. At first, I was uneasy because I never looked inside to learn how many chips had already been installed. I could have wasted a bit of money. I mean, the memory is fairly cheap since this motherboard is so old, but still... I don’t need to toss money away as if I’m rich. Anyway, I was pleased to see that there were two 4GB boards already inside the machine. I replaced them with the two 8GB units in roughly ten minutes. Not bad. And now? The software operates at nearly twice the speed, including those heavier applications like the IDE or photo editing software. This is a very good thing. I really need this fantastic device to operate flawlessly, even after I finish building up the new desktop system. As of yet, nothing has offset this boost to my day.

Jetsetters in my head. Whiskey to my right, God bless it.

Everything I watch on television, be it broadcast programs or movies from any era, affects me in the same manner. Naturally, certain historic periods carry more weight, such as the mid-nineties when my fascination was at an all-time high, yet I must admit that every fucking show on the screen is now driving the third nail pretty damned deep. The hammer strikes will not let up no matter how far down I may be at a given time.

Saturday morning. 0751. I have all the time in the world. Yesterday turned out fine. I worked in the garage for a few hours and then returned to the kitchen for dinner preparations. The damaging dream came to mind last night, too. Again this morning. Sometimes I can’t get it out of my head no matter how busy I may be. The image of the strap will not go away sometimes. I have the usual stuff to do today, so maybe I can dive into the routine and then find something else to occupy my mind so I don’t dwell again. Damn, but sometimes that dream makes me angry. I still don’t understand why it had to take place, and the wicked strike not long after. This has become very disconcerting.

This machine is operating so much faster thanks to doubling the memory. I am very pleased. Between that upgrade and having the original keyboard again, I am no longer concerned about longevity. This should be fine for a few more years.

I don’t know what may be happening later today. I have no plans for anything other than my typical chores around the house, but I must say that three strikes are in my head at the same time this morning, not the least of which is the wonder of the nineties and my fascination soon after...

Sitting in the theatre, of all things. Something so simple, yes, but very wondrous and special some years ago. In the Midwest, I used to visit the local theatre during weekdays, and often very early. I probably went on about this some time ago, though. Part of me had been sitting in the center of the auditorium and the other part was inside the film. The sound of the projector alone was enough for me to consider the value of an entry ticket worthwhile. Further into the experience, I found myself emotionally on my knees much of the time. I had a system, honestly. Certain times, very specific items from the snack bar (always exactly the same choices), and my seat was equidistant from each of the central surround speaker locations. I would almost never visit the auditorium during evenings. Naturally, some of the films released during ninety-four and into the following year are now very special due to my having seen them when my interest in the film industry grew out of control. The glitterati were attached.

Prior to the Midwest, there was that fateful summer when I worked at the radio shop. The televisions up above the entrance – several of them in a row and each following its own satellite receiver – showed us all sorts of programming at the same time. Sitting here at this very moment, I can still see some material from the ‘E’ network (before it sold out its own roots and submarined the viewers) playing just prior to the release of the big dinosaur film. I had been watching all summer long and anticipating the release of that movie, yet for me the importance was in seeing what had been taking place behind the lenses. Months later when we finally drove across the country, the summer of the radio shop became one of the most cherished periods of my entire life. It means even more to me right now, to be honest. And since that statement is so open, I will admit that what got to me much of the time was seeing the glitterati. Unlike the present time, those people operated within a small circle. Little glimpses here and there hit me in the head, a short time later they crippled me while sitting in the humidity and watching from a place more detached than any within which I had ever lived. I was a little speck on the planet with zero prospects or plans, dreaming of being in the thick of the industry, and living in air conditioning every day. The beginning was the radio shop. All those satellite dishes showed me much more than I could have seen at home.


During the spring of ninety-five, I flew home to participate in the open road race in Nevada, meaning my dad and I visited Vegas just like two years earlier. Well, Planet Hollywood had just opened inside the Forum Shops, and mere days prior to our arrival was a large contingent of glitterati present for the event. I saw photos on the outside displaying those who attended the grand opening, causing my head to explode and a subsequent fall off the edge of the world for a while. The radio shop had shown me more of the industry than ever before, and right there in front of me at the new restaurant was evidence that some of the wonder had been right where I was standing just days earlier. Splendid. The summer of ninety-three may have been the tail end of the glow, but I will say it was one of the most precious times in memory. After being exposed to so much of the industry and glitterati, my interest both grew and shifted some, eventually leading me to fall head-over-heels for the process of turning ideas into motion pictures. And just because I am cursed at this very moment does not mean the past has lost any significance. I am simply depressed over the whole thing.

Memories of the radio shop and my wide eyes being glued to the screen are the only parts of present life with the power to alleviate all that other shit, even the damned paragraph I continue to mention. This could be the worst strike of all, and it doesn’t even have anything to do with beauty. The strike is related to nothing more than happiness. There is a statement for the ages.

0914 and I am getting a bit antsy.

Sitting here right now, more than twenty-seven years later, I can feel it... The overwhelming wonder and fascination with the industry and a strong need to be within the same. I can see the ‘E’ channel off one of the dishes and the way everything appeared absolutely magical. Outside of work, I had no access to such a channel, meaning each moment spent in the shop had me living vicariously through whatever behind-the-scenes material was being broadcast. And there was much back then, believe me. Many years later, all of the stupid ‘reality’ programming took over several channels and the feeling disappeared for the most part. Some remained, however. Upon returning from the Midwest, I often grabbed my parent’s 8mm camcorder and tried to picture myself creating a story and the way it might play out to viewers. And that is another rub to the present. Everyone has a video camera attached to a fucking phone and can create anything, anytime. The magic has become diluted to the point of being nearly impossible to find. Oh, and the actual film – a tangible medium for which much care had to be taken in order for it to survive and flourish – is nearly gone. I’ve spent enough time comparing the industry of ‘then’ to that of ‘now’. I need not bitch further. The point is right up there in the topic sentence of this paragraph.

Yesterday I built two little housings for adding 'flame' bulbs to the base of the hexagram which is displayed above the chest freezer in the garage. I need to pull it off the wall to finish the woodwork and add wiring. I might head in such a direction today, but I can't be certain at such an early hour that I'll feel like doing anything. The limited-time series I watched during this past week is weighing heavily on my head. I may not be able to move forward in any productive manner. By the third fucking episode, tears welled up in my eyes during nothing more than the opening sequence. That was tough to watch, yet compelling in the extreme. I’ll really have to focus if I wish those housings to be operational soon. The flame effect should prove very eye-catching if everything works the way I am hoping. I have to get the glitterati and industry the hell out of my brain if this day is to be positive in any way. I never expected such trivial matters to have so much bearing upon my daily life. The tiniest reminder can often leave me without ambition for days. I was productive yesterday. Hopefully I can do it again once I’m finished here.

Marc’s hair is all messy and it looks hilarious. He is in the scene with Melanie, and holy fuck is she gorgeous. Her hair is fine. Heh. Oof... Casey just shot her in the chest. God damn is this pair of episodes fantastic. Excellent writing, acting, and execution. Just fucking awesome.

1059 and I have half the routine finished, the other portion is awaiting the end of the morning quiet time. Third show, sixth season, and one of the episodes for which I’ve been patiently waiting. The story plays out, and at the last moment is one line of dialog from a fantastic character that brings me to my knees every time I see it. I returned to this series due to a few key scenes I wish to see again, yet I need them in the proper context in order to experience fully. That means beginning at the pilot (again) and watching in order until the payoff. I am strange that way. And I missed about four words just before the first half of the routine, so I just restarted the whole thing. Strange, yes. I am who I am and the importance is my own. The morning whiskey is right next to me, chilling on ice.

I fucking love Hertzler. Amazing, stirring, powerful. I need to order the Klingon dictionary soon. That language may have been created for a fictional universe, but it is real and was developed by a team of real-life linguists. It is robust, clear-cut, and wondrous. I know some of the dialog, yet I don’t always know the proper translation.

The glitterati are very different from many years ago. The Internet, social media, and the rise of smartphones have changed the entertainment landscape tremendously. Information moves at lightning speed, some of which is created by individuals who crave attention and/or wish to be famous. Decades ago, nothing moved so quickly and those on the big or small screen garnered attention through their work. All that is gone now. The average person cooped up in their home can push video and imagery around the world as they wish. Some honestly feel that with a few thousand followers, they are in the same category as those on television or in the movies. Well, to me those people have been grayed out. The future is accordingly grayed. There is a vast difference in the way media was created and perceived years ago as compared to the present. The clear line between fantasy and reality has been blurred to death. As I’ve stated on far too many occasions, nothing is surprising anymore. Everything is expected. The glitterati have followed suit, unfortunately for some people (like myself). There is no more wonder in the world, and that includes the industry which still holds my heart hostage.

I’ve gone on about the world being all stupid too many times. No one gives a shit.

1127 and I am still sitting here because nothing matters during my days. The time is always completely up to me, and I can pretty much do as I please quite often. The routine, some laundry (like later today) and the typical straightening and cleaning are all I need to accomplish. Everything else is tertiary. Fortunately, I still grow a sense of worth when the necessities are complete. As for today, I still don’t know. I might head over to the hardware store later for a piece of plywood, though. A few days ago I came up with an idea for framing the bathroom window, believe it or not. Four years and the bathroom is still not fully trimmed. Ugh. Well, as I said above, caring about most of my projects around the house is at an all-time fucking LOW.

0705 on Sunday. The usual all around me.

I did not do the laundry or anything in the garage yesterday due to sitting and re-watching the series I just completed the other day. Seeing it all again helps me to notice background details and such. Plus, I am including the glitterati here, and during the series’ time period, that word meant more than it does now. Eh... Strike that. I watched because I really connected with the era of when the big screen combined with that bright light shooting across the room created a magic unlike anywhere else. My feelings have faded due to becoming disillusioned some time ago, plus I destroyed something wonderful. Memories went into the recycle bin. I will probably roll through the series a third time in a few months or early next year just for the reminder of where I wanted to be. Once I played the first episode, the rest just cruised along. The time flew and I didn’t lift a finger to help the house. Everything was pushed to today, which is actually better. I’ll need the distractions to keep the bad things away.


The wicked strike returned for a short-short yesterday and made me uncomfortable. I can’t even get through more exposition about other aspects of life without the first one or two coming back and poking me in the brain. Not good. I also had a dream about the dream. A strap again, right there close to my eyes... Close enough to where I could not fully focus on the material. A slight movement, and everything disappeared. Fortunately, the series I’ve been discussing here has nothing along those lines. A few faces, nothing more. The second strike is going to continue to intrude upon my life, for sure. I already know that much. The damaging dream is one of the most powerful aspects of living.

I am going to need something pretty damned potent to keep the strikes from interfering with whatever I wish to do on a given day. They have thus far stopped me in my tracks on too many occasions to recall, honestly. The wicked strike took my fucking sense away and forced me to cease whatever I had been doing at the time so in order to flee the area. A day like today – one I typically enjoy due to the Sunday work along with little breaks here and there – cannot be derailed like some others because of my responsibilities. I need to enjoy my Sunday evening feeling as if my little world is in order. The glitterati are pretty tough sometimes, yet the wicked strike and the dream are the worst. I can deal with the industry dreams and memories of Her den of iniquity. Anything related to the other beauty is much more powerful. Once my morning is in the rear-view mirror, I’ll have to keep moving for a while, lest my head return to the fucking black, unlined bra containing something forbidden from the earth. Not good, and I mean to such a level previously unrealized by yours truly. Today is going to be one of those tests that I simply MUST pass.

I want to see it again, but at the same time I hope I never do. The glitterati remind me of the industry enough to drive me into a hole without any fucking beauty being involved. Seeing the damage again is desirable to the point of knowing that I will be crippled yet again, but I can't help it. The pull is too strong. On the other hand, the glitterati represent a facet of this world that can only be seen from a distance, and very rarely up close. There is no connection involved because the fucking ship sailed a very long time ago. In my haste to be comfortable in life, the ship was cast off by none other than myself. It is long gone. Unfortunately, I did not realize that nearly twenty years later I would be struck upside the head in a very harsh manner and end up sitting here day after day as empty as the vastness of space. I can’t strike the glitterati from my head, and believe me I’ve tried to shove all that shit to the side for years. I am helpless, and in need of help.

I still see the bra no matter where my eyes are actually pointed. My brain is having difficulty dealing with what I imagine during most mornings.

The sound engineer (recording engineer, perhaps) and I discussed the subject of production at length, and for most of a week. Toward the end of the week he gave me some notes regarding where to point myself for a path into the industry. I may still have those notes somewhere, but I can’t be certain. It’s probably best that I don’t see them, anyway, so I probably will not search. I discussed the subject and learned that I was supported. Ah... Fuck this. The glitterati from the summer of ninety-three are pressing on my head and causing me to repeat shit that no one wants to read. Not even me. I guess I am still pretty passionate about the whole thing. One piece of information he offered was the name of a directory for production equipment and services covering the entire northern half of the state. Well, I just ran a search and found that the whole fucking encyclopedia is on the Internet. Splendid. That was where he pointed me for the best possible connections. I don’t want to continue in this vein. At least the wicked strike is not a long list of missed opportunities. The glitterati are a constant reminder.

The damaging dream and subsequent strike enter my head every single day, but the glitterati do not. They are with me a good portion of the time, though, probably due to my penchant for having fictional media on at least one television most days.

I see the stories play out and go back in time at some point no matter what might be occupying my time. The glow comes to mind, as well, because that was when I first discovered much of what I watch on television these days. The five main shows do not represent the glitterati. Well, at least not to me. I’m certain there are a multitude of people out there in the world who see them as more than I do. The conventions began way back decades ago and still draw huge crowds to this day. They are celebrities. Striking the glitterati does not include such people, however. Others are the case, as is the time period when I first became drawn to the film industry. My favorite shows bring me to the past more than they cause difficulty related to the glitterati. I have to say that film is the catalyst for this strike.

I’m sitting here trying to outline and describe one particular strike, yet another continues to distract me from the task at hand. That is power. I keep seeing the incident play out over and over and there is not one fucking thing I can do to stop it. Back and forth, between the dream and the reality, and eventually this may consume me and completely derail the direction of the site. Again... All the power. There is nothing I can do about such an enormous problem. In the space of two hours, the glitterati have been shoved back. One dream pushed out by another. This is all so fucking stupid anymore.


I figured out a way to test the flame bulb housings without doing any construction or difficult wiring. Since my big hexagram is mounted above and behind the chest freezer, I can run an experiment by temporarily attaching a power cord to one housing and simply standing it on the freezer lid. I’ll be able to see the light pattern and even move the housing laterally to find the optimum position. If it works the way I’m hoping, I’ll continue to build the system and then bring the freezer further off the wall so nothing interferes with the operation of the lid. As much as my little empire needs to look a certain way for my satisfaction, the living space and daily operations in the house take priority. I can’t mess things up for the sake of the garage looking good at night. That is just wrong. I can do both.

I’ve also mounted a permanent receptacle on the right side of my table so I can relocate the colored lighting power from the roof truss to a place where it is more accessible. I would also like to set up some sort of secondary power should my WiFi switch fail. I have to run more MC from top to bottom before moving the switch box, too. Maybe I can do that today in order to get the fucking visions out of my brain for a while. This shit is driving me up the fucking wall right now. Garage electrical work has always helped, so perhaps while I’m alone today I can hop to the projects. I need something, for crying out loud.

I know how a good portion of this shit developed. The film industry is one thing, mostly driven by my fascination with filmed entertainment and the way it has been produced. The interest there developed throughout years of visiting theatres and watching television. The damaging dream, on the other hand, came about through nothing more than desire and desperation, plain and simple. My head manufactured that dream after decades of feeling loss and a lack of validation as to exactly who I am. That is it, cut and dry. I cannot comment about the correlation between the dream taking place first and then an incident in reality which matched it to a tee. That kind of thing is in the fucking stars. No one can explain a ‘premonition’. No one. The conclusion is that the dream and all associated aspects (beauty, the obsession, and the torment over seeing a strike in society) are the result of many years of feeling bereft of understanding. There it is, long and short of it.


The problem now is time. I do not believe anything ‘good’ or wondrous can come along before my time is up. This hurts me deeply and there seems no way out. Six-foot Carla is on the screen and a physical representation of far too much to list. I want to hug her. Anyway, I’ve been going over this shit for more than two years – since first discovering those digital images of a woman I did not know and never will – and still my words are not served in life. At some point, there must be a change. Otherwise, I will be lost forever. Not good. There is no cure for an amputated spirit; no prosthesis. It is one of those truths, like the passage of time.

1136. I have the next few hours to myself. Half the routine is finished and I have laundry running. The kitchen awaits, although it will not take long, so I decided to sit here and finish my cocktail before heading in there for dishes. Third show, yet again. I stopped off here to point out that the strikes related to beauty are cumulative. Think about that. A shoulder here, some legs there, maybe an eye or two, and now the pile is overwhelming me. I mentioned the lack of understanding two paragraphs up the page. Add that to the mountain of strikes. See? I need some fucking help, right fucking now.

I am exhausted thinking about all this shit. Every fucking day I sit here and lament all which is gone and all that can no longer come to pass short of a fucking miracle. The understanding is gone. No one is listening. There is but one outlet remaining, and that is this interface. The glitterati pay no mind, nor do the strikes. Both are killing me.

1207 and nothing has changed. I made it through the morning, though. I suppose that’s a good thing. The alcohol succeeded in suppressing all my worries and difficulties. Well, some of them, anyway. Other parts of my psyche never go away, no matter how much I might drink or otherwise distract myself. Accepting the fact that there will always be aspects of life about which I am powerless to do anything is not fucking easy. In fact, I’ve failed to reconcile so much that my ‘basket case’ status continues to expand. I live in the past, in the television, and in my little empire with colored lighting and music. I need some fucking help, yet nothing is out there.

Nothing is out there.

‘All your dreams are squashed.’ This endeavor can only end one way.

Fuck this. I'm going to do something else for a while. The laundry awaits attention, I can cut a bit more of the shrub in the backyard, and then the garbage business. Maybe I'll test the flame bulb housing, too. Something has to draw my attention away from suicide.

0741 on Monday morning. All quiet in the house, third show, coffee, cats are absent. Probably sleeping. Gray sky, garbage trucks, high humidity again.

There was a big discussion last night regarding my giving up on the dream of the film industry. Curious, the conversation stemmed from the show and some key dialogue from two characters. Many years ago I would have wholeheartedly agreed with every word, whereas now I try to steer myself away from going too deep into the subject or I’ll end up pissed off at myself. I do not like admitting that something wonderful was avoided due to fear, and I have to say that it still eats away pieces of me on a daily basis. The conversation veered into the comfort aspect of life, as well. I could not deny anything. By the time I went to sleep, my brain mostly extricated the show from me so I could relax, but now I feel it is returning, along with a flood of memories regarding the glitterati and that summer at the radio shop. I still don’t know why that time became so pivotal. It certainly wasn’t the CD changer girl. The magical feeling inside me when I saw so much behind-the-scenes material is very difficult to describe after all this time. I tried to get it across last night, partly bolstered by some dialogue on television, yet still I feel I was unable to fully express the idea.

Three relationships of mine in the last twelve years carried more risk than venturing to southern California and starting from scratch to be involved in the film process, especially considering the amount of support I had for such an idea. It was a very scary prospect, mostly due to my need for comfort. I’ve gone all over this shit before. Carla just walked through the frame and I do not believe I’ve caught that shot before. Jesus. Fuck, her name is Cathy. I hope I haven’t fucked up and included the wrong name too many times here. Anyway, I was pretty frightened of altering my cozy situation and risking much for the sake of chasing the dream, so I avoided the subject for years. I still went into a ton of single-malt diatribes regarding the industry, motion pictures being viewed in the proper context and atmosphere, and the transfer of so much entertainment from public auditoriums to individual homes and all the inherent pitfalls caused by the same, but I don’t believe many people actually listened after years of the same shit. Nothing could keep my mouth shut at times, especially when there was a vintage LaserDisc involved when combined with a certain type of audio encoding. I won’t get started on that one. I’ve already written volumes about proper respect for the creation of motion pictures as well as experiencing them.

God help anyone near me who refers to a film as a ‘flick’.

0832. I don’t know where this day will lead. I’m glad to have quiet time, though. This morning there is too much inside waiting to be typed here for me to go in any other direction. I’ll do my usual routine and whatever else may be pressing, but honestly my wish is to explore as much as I can while the information and feelings are fresh.

I’ll have to care for the house very soon. I still have one cup of coffee, though. I don’t usually do anything until the coffee is gone. Yesterday’s little experiment went ok, I guess. The flame bulbs do look very nice. I need to visit the hardware store for another lamp base, and then finish the power cord before I can run another test. Maybe tonight I can light both housings below the hexagram after dark. The garage really does not look appropriate if there is any daylight. Perhaps later in the year when the sun sets earlier the whole project will come to life. The sky is still gray.

The discussion last night weighed heavily on my mind. I don’t like going into the subject very often because it leaves me feeling heartbroken. Being afraid of change is pretty typical for many, I’m sure, yet still I don’t like to admit that what could have been an incredible path in life was avoided because I needed reliable fucking comfort. The idea seems very weak. I’ve taken more risks than I should have during certain time periods, but those were in search of a different type of comfort combined with an extremely compelling need for understanding. And right there is another statement seemingly born of weakness. This is not good. I spoke of the summer at the radio store all the way through the Midwest period and right through the turn of the century and into the subject of the documentaries of which I had been a part. Yes, there were several over a period of years, most of which opened my eyes to the possibility of taking a huge leap of faith into something both frightening and wonderful. I did nothing to upset the delicate balance of my income and living situation. And now all I do is write about my brain trying to calculate whether or not I’ve ever made a good decision on more than one front. Ugh.

I need help. No one is listening. William Sadler is fantastic.


Jetsetters, people. Glitterati. Not me. Does this mean I wanted to be famous? Not in the manner one may believe. I simply wished to high heaven of being a part of the process, possibly even someone of note later in life. I wanted to start at the bottom while attending school to learn of the ins and outs of the industry. Not necessarily full-blown film school, though. My partner during the NASA years was fully supportive if I did make the insane decision to attend school, however. Only fear of the unknown kept me from exploring further. But as far as eventually being a part of the glitterati, I think I was fearful of the shit some famous people must plow in order to live through daily life, let alone actually trying to be within public places. Sometimes I think that the simplicity of seeing my name crawling up the screen with all the other film credits would have been a huge victory. My biggest dream was to write for the screen, but right now I am tired of the subject and would rather not go into that aspect of the past. Oh, well.

1117. I have the routine finished and am on hold with the garbage company. For whatever reason, when they emptied my neighbor’s gray can, they did not empty mine. I don’t understand what happened, and typically when they bypass a pickup, it is due to some violation of the rules, for which they will leave a tag on the can. Mine has no such tag, so I have to call and learn why it was passed. Whatever. Maybe the driver was having a bad morning or something. I left it at the curb for the time being. I hope they return and empty the fucking thing, though. We have the smallest gray can and another week would be difficult. Anyway...

I may never be able to strike the glitterati because they continue to strike me. The more films and television programs I watch, the more I feel a huge loss over never having taken the fucking chance. My dream was passed over due to my overwhelming need for a certain type of comfort in life. No, not the other comfort. A daily thing, really. Throughout all my years of working full-time, the largest dream I could picture was not needing to work unless I wished it. Well, that is reserved for the type of people who chase it and work their asses off in order to structure life according to their own desires. I see it all the time. At this very moment I am in a situation which does not require me to work at all. I’m home every day and care for domestic responsibilities but do not need to earn money. The extra income would be nice, yet I am here by choice. The free time is both a blessing and a curse, honestly. It has led to many essays conveying a sense of loss in life. The glitterati exist because society made them what they are. Now, I never really wanted to be famous, just a person of note within the industry. As much as I’d like to strike them from my head, they did not cause my current mental and emotional state. I did. When I see the stories so beautifully played out on the television, I am almost continually struck upside the head with my decision to remain comfortable rather than chasing a dream.

My condition of cultural derealization is at an all-time high right now. Fried druit. Help granny make the bed. Green and guns steal the fun. Help granny make the bed. Take the glitterati and strike them from the screen. My screen. Any screen. Strike the whole motherfucker, people. There is a fly in the ointment... A ‘monkey in the wrench’. Thanks, Bruce. Thanks, Jim. Thanks, James.

‘From there to there, one more time;
Breathe the air, smell the wine;
Everything bare, everything mine.’

Yes, I am repeating my words from 553 days, 6 hours, 3 minutes and 9 seconds ago. They are important. They reveal the meaning of life, the glitterati and film industry notwithstanding. Those words came from my heart and were born of the pain of the biggest and most dramatic loss imaginable. But I digress.

1159 and the time does not matter anymore. Whatever the time or date, I will be the same, and no one is listening, least of all anyone related to – or with influence upon – the glitterati. Nice. Marvelous. Splendid. I am completely fucked. On the other hand, this keyboard was seemingly created by angels. Just a thought. Artwork on the screen, damn it.

I had a sandwich and now I don’t know what to do for the remainder of the day. The sun is starting to peek through the fog up above, meaning the temperature may rise out of control here in the back of the house. I can deal with it. The cats are asleep, as is typical for this time of day, the house is very quiet aside from my friends on the television, and there are several hours left before evening. Unfortunately, I am unmotivated. Caring is at an all-time low right now. The flame bulb project requires a trip to the hardware store, but I don’t feel like leaving the house. I also have some bathroom work hanging over my head. Nothing looks appealing, so here I am at the keyboard yet again. My head is not into work at all. And now the seventy-seventh mention of ‘I don’t know what to do’. Another entry gone awry. I am lost.

Olivia Newton John passed away. Now my problems seem stupid again.

I thought about going into what I refer to as the ‘after condition’ since I’ve been gleaning so much of the past lately, but honestly it has little to do with the title. I guess the idea seems important sometimes. Today has not been positive, so anything that has been causing difficulty inside often pushes me to gush about random subjects. And I am becoming dangerously distracted this afternoon. Forcing my way out of this mindset may be the only way to make it all the way to the evening. I hate this shit more than I can say, and there are plenty of words in my head.

When people walk by my garage during the day, they rarely look in my direction. The two most likely reasons are the long driveway – which places the open door pretty far from the street and it is partially blocked on one side by the house – and the fact that there is nothing to see here. Yes, I have artwork and all sorts of stuff displayed, but still, it is just a garage. Inside that garage, taking a break from whatever may be going on during the day, is me... Just a little person of no consequence. Others have things on their minds, places to go, or are otherwise preoccupied with their own lives. Why look toward me? During the dark hours, and if I am out there with my neighbor or anyone else, everything is lit beautifully and commands attention most of the time. Holidays, for example, are prime for spending time outside. Inside the little empire, however, is still just that same little person. Nothing of note. No glitterati here. The lighting and paintings draw lots of eyes at times. I do not. There is no reason for me to feel as if people wish to peer into my world and wonder what may be going on, ever.

Today is an ideal time for me to realize that regardless of how much I tend to scream for help on the inside, people do not know. The house is very quiet, the wind is blowing through the open garage doors, and the cats are asleep. Nothing to see on this property. The entire scene is in stark contrast to the massive cyclone of thought inside my head. No one knows, nor can they.

I am having a bad time today. Nothing is appealing. Projects don’t matter. The housework is finished, of course, yet everything else is just fucking grayed out. I feel like I am the black lines that have been struck-through in some errant, secret government report after censorship. My emotional difficulties are matched only by equal, physical troubles. I need some serious fucking help.

No one looks over here because there is no reason. The glitterati are somewhere out there, and I never took a step toward the idea of what I can 'be'. I remain unable to strike them, though. I have no power, no ambition, no nothing anymore. I did not 'miss out', either. There was a conscious choice.

Three strikes."