new brand of feeling shitty over here. from the worst stomach flu I've hand since I was 11 years old to feeling better enough to work the "holiday" to feeling shitty again with a sore throat and ouchy ear.
who wants to know all this? none of you if you are smart.
suffice it to say, or don't suffice it to say, but blogging just isn't helping me feel any more better than shitty. It's a responsibility that I don't feel responsible for anymore. I saw that gary had closed up shop (for a while?) this eve and went, well shit. Gary. Our Gary. An identity crisis of sorts, he says.
Anyone who knows how he feels, say heeeey. throw your hands in the air wave em round like you just don't give a crap.
Of course you do. Unless you're stitting out here just stroking it for your own get-off, you have to know what Gary means.
He's one of my bros, you know. Turner and Golby for starters, and Paynter and MOCC and more. We who started back in the era of the RB dare, whether it makes senes or not, whether it sounds sappy and weird, we're brothers and sisters and we can no sooner separate our geneology than identical twins can. We ebb and flow pretty much at the same time. some of us. we do. whether we're vibing off of one another's writing, or whether it's a natural cycle that doesn't much care how we feel about it, we ebb and flow together.
gary ebbed. i'm ebbing.
so here I come back to say I'm hoping to be around when I feel better, but folks we gotta do better out here. we gotta get it back. what's "it"? JOY. The joy of it. Harder and harder to find. There's no joy left here. not for me, not now.
Shelley wrote about it too. death and famon and flood and war and punditry. all the things we were running away from.
No, this isn't supposed to be one of those "Ah, we were so cool back then" posts, or one of those "I'm quitting" posts, but fuck if we weren't and fuck if I wouldn't like to.
and my damn ear hurts too.
