Seven and Hell

Almost 7 weeks since my first official day of quarantine.

This is difficult.

No family, no lovers, no roommates, no pets. Just the occasional telemediated conversation. If not for the Internet, I would’ve lost my shit weeks ago, or would’ve broken quarantine.

I guess I can thank my years of being alone, working alone, sitting alone, taking the overnight shifts, sitting in front of screens in chat rooms, doing the thankless things nobody else will do, just so I can carve out my own space in this stupid, hateful world, for helping me to survive This Current Time.

I’m trying to do the right thing. But unlike the thousands of others out there doing the wrong thing and flaunting it, I’m suffering in my own isolation. I don’t want to get sick, and I don’t want to be a carrier, and I don’t want to injure others. But if I isolate and become a terrible, hate-filled, angry man, then what good is it?

I’d like to say my time away from the world was spent on doing something creative, making myself better, writing stories, creating songs, drawing things, learning painting, reading all the books on my list, putting myself into a better place, but that would be a lie. I’ve done nonesuch. I haven’t even written a single paper journal entry since lockdown started; I don’t want to open that floodgate.

I still work, still have a day job; working from home means I don’t lose so many hours of the day in the pursuit of cleaning up, feeding myself, prepping my mid-day meal, commuting, and hanging out for many wasted hours at the cafe after work — but I still somehow find a way to lose that time. It’s just gone. It’s not a reflection of my situation; it’s a reflection of my priorities. And my priorities are as fucked as my life.

I gotta find a way through this, but right now, I can’t even find a hand to hold. Not without breaking quarantine, not without finding that ultimate trust, a trust that would take 14 days to prove if it was well-placed or if it was a life-altering mistake.

Our lives are cars; our only job as drivers is to never, ever touch any other car with our own for as long as we own them. This is our new reality. Whatever the hell that’s worth.

Blood Machines OST

Holy fucking Hell, this Carpenter Brut “Blood Machines” soundtrack is blowing me away. It’s so god-damned big. Now I can’t wait to see the “Blood Machines” film it’s attached to.

Seriously, he’s picked up where PERTURBATOR left off after “New Model” (this album is heavy metal to me). It’s hard, it’s big, it’s loud, it’s ratcheting, and has all the space and pomp you would expect of a spacepunk soundtrack.

I’m happy where Carpenter Brut is going these days. He’s perfecting his synthwave sound. Part Giallo, part John Carpenter, part Moroder, part Vangelis. It’s all that I wanted to create my entire time of writing Glass Door songs, but never had the grit or honesty to achieve.

Twenty Years

Ah yeah, forgot to post this.

$ whois phaysis.com
Domain Name: PHAYSIS.COM
Creation Date: 2000-04-14T14:49:59Z
Updated Date: 2020-03-06T01:19:03Z

Phaysis-the-domain is 20 years old this week. Twenty. Phaysis-the-site exists for about 21 years, since I switched from my The Farm subdomain hosted at my dialup ISP to my first CGI-enabled subdomain at a proper webhost oh so long ago.

So long ago.

And now, like then, Phaysis still defines me; a state of change that is not changing, a state of stasis that is not stayed. Life moves like a glacier the closer you get to the curve, and you only see the drastic change when you step back and look across the expanse of time. And my, how I’ve changed.

Call and Response

So much to say
Nothing to say
Scream to the void like old friend
Scream to the robots
Scream to the pipes
Whispers on the other end
Holler speak say hope pray
Not echo, but response
Not me to me
But you. From you.
Please be you.
Answer back.

Munificence

I’ve been in sequestration for long enough, my paranoia is finding new forms. My faith in the munificence of others is diminished, and my distrust and unease is growing.

For those of us observing shelter-in-place, we’ve been unplugging from the world and losing touch with how things are going out there. We usually rely on being out in it, among it, surrounded by it, sticking our sniffers in the air and telling how the wind is blowing, putting our ear to the ground to locate the herd, calling out to find our tribe. All of that social glue is gone.

And we’re getting paranoid and afraid — at least those of us who live alone. Me? I’m feelin’ it bad. I don’t feel whole.

At least astronauts on the ISS have each other and an entire support org on the ground. At least inmates in solitary confinement have guards bringing food trays and checking on them. At least mountain hermits have chores, hunting, and can go into town for supplies.

This? I have telemediated relationships now. Everything through text, webcam, and voice.

I can’t wait to hug somebody.