Where are the Keys?

Appear to be in another moment of shifting basal insulin requirements, having dropped more than 60 last night and more than 70 the night before: current operating theory being that, with my afternoons now able to include a second chunk of work (featuring That Comics Thing – I've found that I work best – for the time being – if I work multiple projects each day – though Thursday was spent in a rage over my inability to hotwire a lawnmower) my brain goes to sleep on empty. Also worth noting, the last two nights have been the only two nights in recent memory in which I've actually dreamt. DeepSleep+Brainwork = happy blood sugar? This is the theory for now; as Josh said on THE WEST WING, This is how it works today.

WRT That Comics Thing: no clue if it will ever happen or if I will eventually give in and turn it into a novella series but I so very, very, very much want it to happen as a comics thing (something I've been noodling long before Substack comics became a thing, a thing which I have thoughts about – less about newsletter comics (love those – that's what That Comics Thing is intended to be, sort of) and more about my general cringe whenever I hear "...on my Substack"). Writing it, That Comics Thing, in script form so, if I do throw in the collaborative head-desk towel, it shouldn't take too much reimagining to transform it to prose… in theory, anyhow.

The day's run + in-lawn with key awaits.

Frequencies: Updated

Might as well get the return stuff out of the way here (since this is, apparently, what I'm thinking about this morning): this daily return is born not out of some need to escape social media or whatever but out of a simple desire to try new things (or, I suppose, old things in a new way) and centralize all of my writing – my ongoing public thinking / expression of self – in one spot. Alternatively: if I'm going to talk to myself / think out loud in public, I'd rather it be in a form I enjoy and prefer. Turning 40 does have a way of reorienting one's communicative priorities.

(As for what will be in this space, I've no clue. Settle for "all sorts of things" as they strike my fancy in this post-breakfast, pre-run interregnum.)

Updated Frequencies:

• All sorts of things arrive here, at PARENTHETICAL RECLUSE, whenever I feel like it. (RSS)

• THE SOCIALIZED RECLUSE, my interview podcast featuring conversations with interesting people who make interesting things, arrives whenever it arrives, but usually on Wednesdays. Monthly, more or less. (RSS | Apple Podcasts)

• MACROPARENTHETICALS, my similarly monthly – more or less – email newsletter, invades subscribers' inbox the last Sunday of every month, as well as whenever new SOCIALIZED RECLUSE interviews or other nifty exclusive and/or early things arrive. You can sign up here, if so inclined.

• The best way to contact me is via email: tww(AT)parentheticalrecluse(DOT)com.

The mower keys remain missing and I am utterly baffled as to where they've vanished. Current operating theory: somewhere in this house there's a Stargate portal specifically designed to move locations as soon as I come close to finding it, just to fuck with me, because the middle finger of missing keys is always extended.

On that “Omnipresent Unease”

Yesterday was my wife's first day of school with the children and, as I wrote then, hers is one of the few districts in the county (a county with 36.5% of its population fully vaccinated) with a mask mandate, a mandate which, it would seem, caused no uncertain amount of strife on the part of anti-mask parents who profess to being "pro-choice" – the irony of which cannot be understated.

My (fully jabbed and masked) wife would die for her students – even the assholes: that she's placed, continuously, in a situation where the ability to fulfill her calling puts her at greater risk of that death – be it via plague or via gun – to appease the beliefs of sloganeering fuckwits is infuriating; that the local newspaper is brimming with references to "smiling faces" and resentment-filled headlines speaking of "like it used to be" only compounds it: in a land where the motto is "Keeping tradition a part of our future," the only tradition left is the increased likelihood of having no future at all.

A note from myself to myself on a morning when I feel like I’ve hoped to feel

Grey skies, certainly, but only outside – and, though I know that this sensation (or lack thereof) is one brought on in pill form, this is how I’ve hoped to feel: neither elated nor numb, just here, doing my thing. Able to concentrate, to focus, truly, for the first time in years.

But I also know that, thanks to insurance, this is could – and probably will – change. Perhaps irrevocably but perhaps not, perhaps for the better, perhaps otherwise.

But I’m prepared for it. No choice, really.

Writing this Informality, then, as a way to remind myself that I am capable of getting here, to this space where I don’t feel guilt for doing what I love and where, even though I have no clue where this story is going and have only an opening line ahead of a self-inflicted deadline less than two weeks away, I am, nonetheless, enjoying myself for the first time in years: I have no imagined fictions and caricatures of past and future perturbations screaming at me with every word I think, with every word I type – or, if they are there, they’re nonetheless quieted to the point that I can simply be and do. My blood sugar is normal for the first time in over a year and my nerves over the afternoon’s interview are settled: I’m ready to listen, I’m ready to learn.

Writing this to myself as a record of when I reached a point where I was ok with being myself, a record what it, this wonderful quiet, felt like. I’ve gotten to this space once now, breaking through the illusions of my mind’s perceived notions; I can do it again – I can make it the regular, default baseline rather than a joyous exception.

Totally off the subject, but I started replaying CRIMSON SKIES (thanks GamePass) last night and that game is still fun – and beautiful – as hell. A remaster/remake would be most welcome.

Listening: OCEAN SONGS (REMASTERED), by Dirty Three