Monday, June 29, 2015

As Strange As Fiction

I've been cleaning out my room. Because, you know, selling the house, moving to an apartment, starting over, etc.

Aside: Why is it that all of a sudden when I download
an image, it doesn't go to My Pictures any more? Anyone?
I've packed away a ton of memories, as is to be expected. I've also stumbled across a whole lot of things I'd forgotten about.

Kind of bittersweet, you know?

Google Image result for "bittersweet." OK, then.
Among the things I've found are lots of my old writings. Notepads, notebooks, loose sheaves of paper. Some typewritten, most handwritten. There are dozens of them, and they contain hundreds of poems, song lyrics, story fragments, and ideas for things I might write someday.

I've seen many things that bring back memories. And many that I'd completely forgotten about. About which I'd completely forgotten. Whatever.

One stands out, however, and I want to share it with you. Not the story itself, just the story of the story.

When I first started to clear out my room, I came across a large stash of things I'd written over the years. For the most part, I packed them away without poring over them much. It would have taken way (waaaaaaaaaay) too long, and probably would have served as a major trigger of long-buried emotions. Instead I simply sealed them in secure packaging and took them to storage.

Aside #2: Storage units are freaking expensive, you guys.
Once I'm settled, there's no way I'm continuing to pay
to store shit I don't even look at anymore.

But a couple of days ago, I found a stray notepad on the floor. I don't know where it came from. It should have been either in storage or in the trash, yet there it was, leaning against the door frame of my bedroom closet.

Like a goddamn omen or something.

In its pages was an incomplete story in my handwriting. I don't really remember writing it. And I really don't remember what my point was in writing it. It sort of goes on for a while, forming a vague narrative that I think I wrote maybe around or shortly after 9/11, but where I was hoping to go with it is a mystery to 2015 me. 

It's not really that good, to be honest. It's not terrible, but it screams first draft. First draft of many.

I wouldn't even be telling you about it, except for one thing. This evening I continued to clean out my room. It's taking a long time, because I own a lot more crap than I thought. Fucking America, we think we win if we own all the stuff.

If you think you need to own leaves, please think harder.
I found a spiral notebook. It contains a number of unfinished short stories, a bunch of handwritten eBay listings that I did eventually post to sell things, and...

...and an additional part of the same story that was in the notepad I'd found earlier.

Same characters. Same setting. Much better written. While reading it, I kept think of little tweaks and edits it needed to be really good. Because it could be really good.

Did I write the spiral part first, and the inferior notepad section later? Or vice versa? I HAVE NO IDEA.

I don't remember writing any of it. That's not unusual. I've written so much over the years that much of it was bound to fade into the background. Also, I've had other things on my mind for the last several years. Not by choice, but that's how life goes sometimes, amiright?

But the thing is, it's really pretty damn good. Like, I want to revisit it and revise it and finish it good. 


I've found a lot of weird stuff as I attempt to distill my life into a 963-square-foot space. But this weird, and rewarding, and pretty cool.

Would any of you be interested in reading it?

Just wondering.

Sunday, June 28, 2015

House Rules

Hi, Drunkards! I love you all and thank you for reading my little old blog!

You'll get used to my ambivalent attitude toward Internet fame eventually.
I do have some new followers here, so I thought I'd briefly explain the house rules for this blog, both for the benefit of new readers and to remind faithful fans that they're crazy for keeping up with me.

I want you all to enjoy reading my humble words as much as I enjoy writing them. Which is approximately a shit ton, give or take a bunch. And I don't want anybody to get offended, or affronted, or bent out of shape by anything you may read here. Not that I care if you do, per se, but I'd like to avoid having to kiss your hurt butt if I can.

Therefore, I present:

Chuck Baudelaire's House Rules for This Here Blog

  • I write about whatever I feel like writing about. Sometimes it's monkeys, sometimes it's my unraveling marriage, sometimes it's crazy-ass right-wing nutjobs. Oooh, sometimes it's completely random crap that tickled me at a particular moment. I hope my scribblings amuse you, but if they don't, it's best you leave.
  • I don't like to be pigeonholed. Typically, liberals think I'm too conservative, and conservatives think I'm too liberal. I don't support Hillary Clinton, I don't like guns, I believe government at every level is probably too big and convoluted, and I think any attempt to legislate a woman's reproductive choices is repulsive. 
  • Although I believe in God, I don't identify as Christian. I am friends with many devout Christians. As long as they don't talk smack about gay people or abortion, I respect them completely.
  • I like vodka. A lot. I'm pretty sure that once I'm divorced I will cut back my alcohol consumption by 90% of more. In the meantime, I'm guessing you'll be able to identify what I wrote while drunk.
  • Benedict Cumberbatch makes me happy. Because he's handsome and talented and a good person, and because his name is Benedict Cumberbatch and he owns that shit.
  • Sometimes I curse. I won't stop.
  • I'm 47 years old. If you think I'm an old lady with nothing relevant to say...fuck you.

There are probably more rules. But you get the gist. Also, I welcome your comments. Please comment on this or any other post. Really. I love engagement. Just remember it goes both ways.

I love you already.