Serifs and Rice

Sunday 17 April 2016

Sunday was a Sunday, except instead of going to church to save my soul, I proposed to sell it to a series of exploitative “clients” online. I just needed work. Purpose to write. A network. Really, I needed a lot of things, and this was a start.

So after copy-pasting proposals to small-time employers new to the squeezing-life-out-of-writers game, I packed up all my tax info and drove to my mom’s.

One plus was that it was a gorgeous day. That perfect between-season comfort.

Taxes. What a hell of numbness and numbers. I brought my papers in the hopes of learning how to take care of it all myself in the future. Future being the operative word. When I have a full-time job and have paid off loans, and the tax process is straightforward. For now, it’s a show made of shit.

And the roast Clair made was too tough and Mom overcooked the Yorkshire pudding just a bit, but it all had gravy and it was all very good and there was rice pudding for me at the end. This is why we endure taxes. Rice pudding.

Back home to my books and my keyboard. I read the rest of Hollywood, and then the rest of Walden. Very different books, but I feel the same disillusionment with humanity present in the serifed bones of both texts. And in my own serifed bones. A lifetime alone with my books and my keys. The perfect madness.

And as I’m settled and waiting for Devon to go to bed so I can go downstairs and drink beer and punch more keys, he tap-taps on my door and the heaven is far away again and I’m here on earth, oh Christ.

“So, uh, I ran into a couple a hackers in Division,” says he.

“Oh really?” inquires the writer.

And he tells me about the hackers sliding around at top-speed and killing players instantly, and I have little to add to this, even at the end with his questioning eyes, asking, “Do you understand?” and I think, “Yeah, buddy. There’s always someone out there to wreck things for us honest men,” except what comes out is, “Night.” He echoes me.

Back to my heaven. Beer and keyboard. Loneliness and jazz. A nighttime madness, which drifts away. And in the morning, the people are back again.

Until then, the beer and the keyboard.

 


 

 

Day 274’s three random writing prompt categories were, “An old journal,” “Written in the style of Charles Bukowski,” and, “Is it Heaven? Or Hell?”

Dug up an old journal entry and Bukowskified it. What do you think? Should I follow in the footsteps of that old bum?

– H.

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