Life update (01/13/2025)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
In the realm of good news regarding my person, turns out that my subconscious was indeed working something out; I figured as much, given how it made me dream of Alicia Western (from Cormac McCarthy’s final books) and sparked an obsession that has yet to pass. My girl in the basement has turned her attention to a failed novel I worked on ten years ago, in Spanish. It was a way of coming to terms with my stints as a recluse during my twenties, particularly a period in which I was hopelessly haunted by, autistically obsessed with, a certain musician who plays the harp, to the extent of writing a long novel that was little else than thinly-veiled fanfiction. Back then I didn’t even have an online audience; I was literally just doing it because my subconscious demanded it. Nobody else read it.
These past few days I’ve been going over the revised scenes of that failed novel to extract whatever is usable. I will have to change most of the point of that story, as well as remove one of the major characters, but they were a large part of why I never finished the story. This narrative will allow me to delve deep into my autistic drive toward reclusion, obsession, and other nasty shit that I never processed properly. My twenties were a nightmare for the most part, during which I yearned to die on a regular basis.
Speaking of yearning to die, this morning at work, as I reread the impressions I posted about McCarthy’s haunting final novels, I reflected on how Bobby Western unburdened himself from everything and everyone to repent for an unforgivable crime. That made me think of how since my early twenties I’ve cut ties with everyone, as well as refused to form new connections even when they insisted, because of an intrinsic need to “be ready.” As in be ready to disappear at any moment. During weddings and other nasty gatherings like those, whenever some ghost from my past approached me expecting me to look him or her in the eye, and said something to the effect of, “Hey, Jon, I haven’t seen you in ages!” (did we ever get along?), I usually averted my gaze, shrugged, and said something like, “Yeah, I’m still around…” Some time later I found out in online articles that such phrases are a sign of suicidal ideation. Well.
I’ve talked about this before, but I never thought I would live past 18 after my horrid teenage years, and then I came real close, the closest I ever came regarding my physical intention to do it at that moment, after I refused to get on the bus to work one morning. It was my first job, in which I was treated like utter shit, and I felt completely incapable of handling it. I knew that my life from then on would consist on nothing else than enduring nightmarish, humiliating work schedules that would drain all my energies (I usually felt sleepy the moment I returned home). No love on the horizon, of course. So I just wanted to throw myself off a cliff and get it over with. Instead of that, I pussed out, and went to the library. The alternate version of this ended up becoming (at least in inspiration) my first novel in English, titled My Own Desert Places, in which the protagonist, who was a woman for reasons, actually did throw herself off a cliff, fucking died, and was a ghost for twenty years until she became obsessed with a suicidal living person, so she possessed some guy to seduce her. Quite the wild ride of a story that was, although I’m afraid to reread it in case I find it too cringey.
These last fifteen years or so, I’ve been suicidal in a pussy, passive variety. For example, one night, as I was lying in bed in the dark, I told my organs that they had permission to cease functioning during my sleep, so I wouldn’t need to wake up again. I must have been in a bad place, perhaps due to extreme stress, because the following day I actually ended up in the ER with my first episode of arrhythmia. Realizing that my heart is faulty and may screw me over at any point has changed my mentality quite a bit: I no longer go out of my way to stress myself with things I don’t want to do, mainly those that involve dealing with human beings. Right now, as a programmer at work, I mostly spend the whole morning working on my stuff (which isn’t necessarily a programming task), only speaking to my boss whenever he requests a meeting. I feel better this way.
That said, the fact that in my daydreams I talk at length with Alicia Western, McCarthy’s thinly-veiled version of the love of his life, Augusta Britt, made me have to admit to myself that I wish I could talk to someone I could respect, and whose words I would actually care to listen to. The issue with every person I’ve met in the flesh is that the moment I allow myself to engage in conversation with them, I quickly get reminded of how stupid I was for letting my guard down; sometimes just because I have nothing in common with them, others because they’re hostile to my peace of mind. I recall vividly how I let myself be invited by two coworkers to drink coffee and chat in the parking lot, only for one of them to say, the moment we stopped, “Have you seen that whole thing about George Floyd, the guy the police killed for being black? I swear, the whites that become policemen in the US are all racists.” A vivid reminder that I’m surrounded by fucking imbeciles. I didn’t give them a second chance. In any case, realizing that other people’s brains work so differently to yours (and pretty much everyone else’s does) is disheartening.
Anyway, it’s been a couple of years of me admitting things to myself, or realizing them at least. First the whole deal about Izar Lizarraga, motocross legend and love of my life, which forced me to process the strange grief I’ve been carrying all my life (good times. Still miss you, champ.) Then this strange deal with Augusta Britt / Alicia Western. I would like my subconscious to explain concisely why looking at the following picture of Augusta Britt from the 1970s squeezes my heart and moistens my eyes:
I experienced a somewhat similar moment (the same moment repeated over years, actually) back when my maternal grandparents were alive. They had a framed photo from the 1970s that showed a large family at some open space. I assume they were related to my grandparents somehow. Every time I visited that home, I stared at that photo because one of the teenagers in it, who at the time was older than me, was hauntingly beautiful, particularly her eyes and thoughtful expression. She seemed deep, someone I would have loved to know. I never found out who she was, not that anything would have changed if I had. I haven’t seen that photo in about twenty years. Like McCarthy himself, I believe in the supremacy of the subconscious, so whenever I happen to care for or react to something, I yearn to interact with my basement girl to figure out what’s bothering her. Sometimes she opens up. Most of the time, though, she remains opaque. Damn bitch speaks in symbols instead of language (hence the Kekulé problem), so she can be hard to understand. But she’s far older and wiser than the whole of humanity combined.
Well! This was a whole load of nothing, wasn’t it? Anyway, it’s half past eight in the evening of yet another Monday. This afternoon I’ve wanked to an AI-driven giantess dominating me. That’s information that you needed to know.
In the realm of good news regarding my person, turns out that my subconscious was indeed working something out; I figured as much, given how it made me dream of Alicia Western (from Cormac McCarthy’s final books) and sparked an obsession that has yet to pass. My girl in the basement has turned her attention to a failed novel I worked on ten years ago, in Spanish. It was a way of coming to terms with my stints as a recluse during my twenties, particularly a period in which I was hopelessly haunted by, autistically obsessed with, a certain musician who plays the harp, to the extent of writing a long novel that was little else than thinly-veiled fanfiction. Back then I didn’t even have an online audience; I was literally just doing it because my subconscious demanded it. Nobody else read it.
These past few days I’ve been going over the revised scenes of that failed novel to extract whatever is usable. I will have to change most of the point of that story, as well as remove one of the major characters, but they were a large part of why I never finished the story. This narrative will allow me to delve deep into my autistic drive toward reclusion, obsession, and other nasty shit that I never processed properly. My twenties were a nightmare for the most part, during which I yearned to die on a regular basis.
Speaking of yearning to die, this morning at work, as I reread the impressions I posted about McCarthy’s haunting final novels, I reflected on how Bobby Western unburdened himself from everything and everyone to repent for an unforgivable crime. That made me think of how since my early twenties I’ve cut ties with everyone, as well as refused to form new connections even when they insisted, because of an intrinsic need to “be ready.” As in be ready to disappear at any moment. During weddings and other nasty gatherings like those, whenever some ghost from my past approached me expecting me to look him or her in the eye, and said something to the effect of, “Hey, Jon, I haven’t seen you in ages!” (did we ever get along?), I usually averted my gaze, shrugged, and said something like, “Yeah, I’m still around…” Some time later I found out in online articles that such phrases are a sign of suicidal ideation. Well.
I’ve talked about this before, but I never thought I would live past 18 after my horrid teenage years, and then I came real close, the closest I ever came regarding my physical intention to do it at that moment, after I refused to get on the bus to work one morning. It was my first job, in which I was treated like utter shit, and I felt completely incapable of handling it. I knew that my life from then on would consist on nothing else than enduring nightmarish, humiliating work schedules that would drain all my energies (I usually felt sleepy the moment I returned home). No love on the horizon, of course. So I just wanted to throw myself off a cliff and get it over with. Instead of that, I pussed out, and went to the library. The alternate version of this ended up becoming (at least in inspiration) my first novel in English, titled My Own Desert Places, in which the protagonist, who was a woman for reasons, actually did throw herself off a cliff, fucking died, and was a ghost for twenty years until she became obsessed with a suicidal living person, so she possessed some guy to seduce her. Quite the wild ride of a story that was, although I’m afraid to reread it in case I find it too cringey.
These last fifteen years or so, I’ve been suicidal in a pussy, passive variety. For example, one night, as I was lying in bed in the dark, I told my organs that they had permission to cease functioning during my sleep, so I wouldn’t need to wake up again. I must have been in a bad place, perhaps due to extreme stress, because the following day I actually ended up in the ER with my first episode of arrhythmia. Realizing that my heart is faulty and may screw me over at any point has changed my mentality quite a bit: I no longer go out of my way to stress myself with things I don’t want to do, mainly those that involve dealing with human beings. Right now, as a programmer at work, I mostly spend the whole morning working on my stuff (which isn’t necessarily a programming task), only speaking to my boss whenever he requests a meeting. I feel better this way.
That said, the fact that in my daydreams I talk at length with Alicia Western, McCarthy’s thinly-veiled version of the love of his life, Augusta Britt, made me have to admit to myself that I wish I could talk to someone I could respect, and whose words I would actually care to listen to. The issue with every person I’ve met in the flesh is that the moment I allow myself to engage in conversation with them, I quickly get reminded of how stupid I was for letting my guard down; sometimes just because I have nothing in common with them, others because they’re hostile to my peace of mind. I recall vividly how I let myself be invited by two coworkers to drink coffee and chat in the parking lot, only for one of them to say, the moment we stopped, “Have you seen that whole thing about George Floyd, the guy the police killed for being black? I swear, the whites that become policemen in the US are all racists.” A vivid reminder that I’m surrounded by fucking imbeciles. I didn’t give them a second chance. In any case, realizing that other people’s brains work so differently to yours (and pretty much everyone else’s does) is disheartening.
Anyway, it’s been a couple of years of me admitting things to myself, or realizing them at least. First the whole deal about Izar Lizarraga, motocross legend and love of my life, which forced me to process the strange grief I’ve been carrying all my life (good times. Still miss you, champ.) Then this strange deal with Augusta Britt / Alicia Western. I would like my subconscious to explain concisely why looking at the following picture of Augusta Britt from the 1970s squeezes my heart and moistens my eyes:
I experienced a somewhat similar moment (the same moment repeated over years, actually) back when my maternal grandparents were alive. They had a framed photo from the 1970s that showed a large family at some open space. I assume they were related to my grandparents somehow. Every time I visited that home, I stared at that photo because one of the teenagers in it, who at the time was older than me, was hauntingly beautiful, particularly her eyes and thoughtful expression. She seemed deep, someone I would have loved to know. I never found out who she was, not that anything would have changed if I had. I haven’t seen that photo in about twenty years. Like McCarthy himself, I believe in the supremacy of the subconscious, so whenever I happen to care for or react to something, I yearn to interact with my basement girl to figure out what’s bothering her. Sometimes she opens up. Most of the time, though, she remains opaque. Damn bitch speaks in symbols instead of language (hence the Kekulé problem), so she can be hard to understand. But she’s far older and wiser than the whole of humanity combined.
Well! This was a whole load of nothing, wasn’t it? Anyway, it’s half past eight in the evening of yet another Monday. This afternoon I’ve wanked to an AI-driven giantess dominating me. That’s information that you needed to know.
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