Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

The Problem of the Puer Aeternus

April 27, 2016

My mind is killing me. On the one hand, with Sertraline in my system, my mood’s improved significantly. While scientists haven’t found a cure (to my knowledge) for innate cynicism, I’m not as angry after work as before. Also my dips are spread apart (two since I started taking the pill in March), so that’s something to cheer for. But I’m still scatter-brained, if not more so. An idea popped into my brain (around the same time I started taking the pill) and, nearly two months later, I’ve not written one word on the subject. I have, however, taken A LOT of notes on the matter. I’ve used my journal more times in the last three or four weeks than I have in the three years since I started it. While I’ve ultimately decided that left pages are solely for note taking, I have filled quite a bit of the daily thoughts right page. And both sides are related to the idea that I had while reading (you guessed it!) the side effects to Zoloft.

Because at the tail-end of 2015 I decided to dedicate 2016 to exclusively reading science fiction, horror, fantasy, and speculative fiction, I’ve been reading A LOT of Lovecraft mythos and any related texts. A story here. A story there. And the more I left myself drift into the world, the more the idea was fed. And while I don’t have one single clue where I want this idea to lead, I do know that a story (or several) can come of it. Revision, I’m told, is the greatest thing a writer can do to his stories, and a lot of my old tales and back burner ideas are coming to fruition with a twist.

And while journaling gives me a sense of control of my ideas, I wish I could focus on a project at a time. That’s not, sadly, how my mind works. I’m brainstorming stories, poems, essays, and the layout of my and Shaun’s backyard garden. Trying to figure out how to finance the renovations that my home so desperately needs. Trying to figure out if getting a manufactured house is a better deal. Figuring out if I’d actually use a bench swing in the backyard, right smack in the middle of our garden, beneath the large mesquite tree. I’m looking into things that would help my kiddo learn his letters, his numbers, his shapes, and improve his speech. I’m trying to make this blog more interesting, but I don’t have a niche and I don’t think I’m ever going to have one. Is that so wrong? I’m paying to keep my journal public. Let’s face it though, none of this is edited or matters to the average reader. Most of you just come to read the old posts about Bailey Jay or Izzy Hilton (only to be disappointed by the fact that none of those posts have to do with porn).

Then there’s work. And I don’t really want to get into the cha-cha-changes happening at [redacted] because my level of apathy has reached all new heights. I haven’t heard a single word about the other library job in such a long time, I’m sure that it’s just a pipe dream. I’ll start looking for employment in other venues because I don’t know how much of the dramatic bullshit I can take (well, when it involves me).

Season Finale Pt. 2

June 14, 2013

Exhibit A: Chapin City Blues Volumes 1 & 2

Exhibit A: Chapin City Blues Volumes 1 & 2. Artwork by the very fabulous, awe inspiring Katy.

Last night, I compiled and burned two playlists that I dubbed the soundtrack to this blog. Featuring songs I embedded, mentioned, or quoted (in titles or otherwise) on this blog for the last three years (Oh My Wow, right‽). The CDs are meant for my quote/unquote “sisters,” Miranda and my butt-faced hipsis, Ashton Cutright. The two copies you see in Exhibit A were burned for my co-worker, Angela, who started with Volume 2. Tsk tsk tsk.

As hinted in the last post, I’m taking a leave of absence in the blogosphere. Usually, this is a bad move as it results in lost of readership. Considering that my readership is made up of a handful of friends and online comrades coupled with a bunch of perverts Google-searching pics of Linetrap’s penis, I don’t think I’m going to miss out on much (no offense people wanting to see Bailey Jay’s dick, you guys are my bread and butter). Besides, friends and online comrades still have me on social networks – accept those of you who follow me on Tumblr because I think I’m done with that aspect of my life (and the only post you’ll probably be seeing are Instagram related).

The reason for this is that I need to suss some things out in my life. I need to see if these feelings I have building up in the pit of my being are worth exploring. I need to see if I can focus on my creative writing again. I won’t be gone long, I promise. And when I come back, I’m returning to a new logo created by Ashton and a couple of other thing. There’s a lot of revamping for the blog, including that pesky subtitle. After three years, if I haven’t created a sense of place, I don’t think I’m meant to.

As usual, season finales always contain some sort of cliffhanger that draws the audience back. So here’s mine. The last few months, I fell into the greatest depression I’ve ever found myself in. And I lost a great amount of myself in it. But I’ve closed the swinging door. And I’m learning how to pull away from it, no longer am I hoping that it opens. Because I realized the power I gave to her diminished the moment I was able to see someone else in the same light.

So here’s to the next three years and the new adventure I’m going to embark on.

“I Don’t Care if It’s Klingon or Na’vi”

March 28, 2013

Exhibit A

Exhibit A

Every now and again, I have a spike in visitors and views. Today is one of those days. No idea why, though. “Bailey Jay nude pics penis hard on” hasn’t even made an appearance (though after this post, I can guarantee that it will). So that just leaves a sudden interest in reading what I have to say, which, if you really want to know, is very little. Hell, most of this blog is just complaints.

Yesterday marked my first week of being a thirty-year-old. I have to say, I feel no difference from the time I spent being, say, twenty-six – mentally. Physically, I’m a wreck. The parts that I want working still function. I still have my hair and my sight. However, stamina and flexibility have gone out the door (get your head out of the gutter). However, that has little to do with age. It has more to do with my lifestyle up to this point. And age.

Gay Pride Parade 2007 NYC

Exhibit B.

And with age comes looking back to my younger self. I never beat around the bush (when asked) about my sexuality. That is to say, I claim to lack one. This isn’t admittance of being asexual (I have a child, though that doesn’t mean a think, actually). All I’m saying is, I don’t see things as gay, straight, or whatever. Why limited yourself, is all I’m stating.

I find myself attracted to several facets in a person, not just what’s between their legs or what decorates their chests. Some asshole decided to give this “non-subscription of sexual labels” a label. I’m a postmodern sexual being, or a PoMo Sexual.  Of course, I’ve discussed this before. Several times, actually. On various places.

Exhibit C.

Exhibit C.

In high school, if one were to ask me, I called myself bisexual. Now that isn’t true. While I did get the opportunity to kiss a boy I crushed on hard, it wasn’t him being a boy that turned me on to him. It was his charisma. Other men (post high school) that I found myself attracted to were philosophers in their own respect.

For me, love is one part sexual/physical attraction, one part intellectual attraction, and one part emotional attachment. If I can’t learn anything from you, it’s likely that there’s no future for us. Trust is big in any relationship, though I couple it with emotional attachment. Sexual attraction, though I’ve denied other wise, is also important. Usually, though, I attribute the animal urges to my attraction to the metaphysical. Though, as I’ve said, redheads catch my eye nine times out of ten. They’re trouble and I’m just attracted to the trouble. Moving on, though.

I’ve denied myself any relationship with someone of the same sex (that shipped sailed when I held one higher above the rest). Nor have I ever been with someone of the “third sex.” But people and their genders aren’t notches on a belt. It’s just realizations. Damn, I was young once. But that fun and fancy free bullshit wasn’t for me, anyway.

I’m sure I had a purpose to this post, but the poetry reading starts in about ten minutes. In summation, though, talk nerdy to me. Yeah. I’m sure that’s the moral of this post.

Bailey Jay at AVN Awards 2011

Exhibit D

Every now and then, I feel obligated to mention the person who gets me the most hits on this blog. Linetrap herself, Bailey Jay (a.k.a. Harley Quinn). Since the post mentioning her and Izzy Hilton, perverts looking for her naked pictures have generated my traffic. And for that, I thank you. Am I the only …

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