Hello, good morning, and welcome to another Thursday edition of my weekly blog post. I didn’t sleep well last night—even by my standards—so if I say something even more bizarre or incoherent than usual, I can only apologize and beg you to bear with me.
It’s been a moderately interesting week. I can honestly say I think I’m finally starting to see some effects of my new depression treatment regimen (not “regime”). This can’t mean as much to all of you as it does to me, but nonetheless it’s probably a welcome thought for those committed to following this blog. At least it means—if I’m correct in my assessment—that I’ll be less likely to write quite such dreary things as sometimes drip from my computer when I’m wallowing in the dumps.
I posted an audio smidgen—only about seven minutes long, if memory serves—on Iterations of Zero yesterday, though it was recorded a week ago. People don’t seem to be responding much to those, so I may relegate them to history’s anonymous junk heap and go back to trying to find time to write about such topics instead of simply moaning and groaning aloud about them. That’s fine, though. Written language is more efficient. It’s also the lifeblood of civilization, besides being the love of my life.
I did, though, on a whim whose source I can’t really credit, decide yesterday to start doing audio for my second latest short story Penal Colony. I had no specific plans for how much to do, but before I’d finished for the day, I’d recorded about forty-seven minutes of unedited audio, getting more than thirty percent through the story (based on Kindle’s reckoning). I’d forgotten how much I enjoy reading my stories aloud. I may go back to it in something like earnest (but not like Frank, I don’t like that guy), doing audio for Free Range Meat, and then resuming the audio for The Chasm and the Collision, for which I think I stopped after chapter nine. Then, who knows, maybe my other books and stories will follow.
It’s gonna be some time before I get to doing audio for Unanimity, though. Just thinking about it is daunting.
As further evidence of my gradual but hopeful improvement of chronic mood disorder, I sent out copies of the latest version of Unanimity and my partially complete novella with the working title Safety Valve to my sister and to a dear friend from my youth (both of whom share my love of reading), just in case, as I think I put it, something happens to me. This may seem morbid and not at all non-depressed at first glance, but it’s a departure. When I’m deeply in the throes of depression, I become almost completely nihilistic at numerous levels, such that I think that if I die, I really don’t care what happens to my writing, no matter how much work has gone into it…and there has been a LOT of work. Needless to say, if I were to die, I would not then care what happened to my writing, but the me now can care—or not—about things that the nonexistent future me will be unable to choose to care about or not…if that makes any sense.
Anyway, the fact that I did it shows at least some improvement. It’s still possible that I might do something successfully self-destructive*, but at least I’m acting to prophylax against such occurrences.
As for other things…I’m studiously avoiding following the process of the presidential trial in the Senate. I already feel a thoroughgoing contempt for pretty much everyone involved in the government—and by extension many of the people who keep electing them—and in my currently improving but still-fragile mood, I just don’t need the exposure to all the stupidity, vanity, ignorance with wings, hubris, manipulation (successful and otherwise), and petty monkey-poop throwing by a collection of supposed public servants who actually serve no one but themselves, and don’t even do that very well. It’s spectacles such as these that lead me to the calm, resigned feeling that, hey, it’s not such a big loss if humanity, and even the whole planet Earth, just withers and dies. It’s gonna happen someday anyway; it might as well be sooner rather than later.
I can do without reinforcing that feeling. It’s already hard enough to argue against it logically; I’d like to curb the emotion. Otherwise, I might start working on a doomsday machine of my own to see if I can hasten the end.
Don’t worry, don’t worry. At least as of now, I’m not doing any such thing.
Humanity doesn’t really need my help, do they?
*Of course, there are always external dangers to life and limb for us all, and sooner or later they do catch up to us, but I tend to be by far the greatest threat to my own continued existence.