The Trouble With Being God

Notes to Self: Music and Destinations

Posted by Bill under book

Perhaps the song “A Bad Dream” by Keane would be worthy of being added to the book playlist.  Also, after listening to Com Lag last night, it might make more sense replace “Paperbag Writer” with “I Am a Wicked Child” or “The Amazing Sounds of Orgy” or something like that… Wicked Child really does seem to be a better choice now though.  Also, “Don’t Get Lost in Heaven” by Gorillaz.

Throw them into the folder later and then let it all sort itself out.

Also, a few ideas to remember… start to determine paths.  Steven circles, Miles goes straight and Karen may double back and redirect.

Remember things that don’t happen.  Fill in the blanks.  Write a manifesto.  Think you’re someone you are not and try to convince everyone else.

Everything Expires on Monday

Posted by Bill under book

maybe it sucks, maybe it doesn’t.  either way, there are new words in my book… and there haven’t been new words in years.

words:

Chapter Twenty-Eight

At 10:43 a.m. it had been exactly eight hours thirty minutes since Steven’s life had resembled anything even vaguely familiar.  Gazing dreamily into his bathroom mirror, he barely recognized his reflection.  The man staring back at his him was gaunt, his eyes sunken black and his left pupil slightly larger than the left.  He needed to shave, but instead dropped to his knees and vacantly blotted the remaining bleach puddle from the floor with a wad of crumpled toilet paper.

How many times do I have to find out who I am?  The answers seem to come to me and then disappear.  I can’t even feel my heart beat any more.

Where was Karen?  Why had she left last night?  Was she dead?  

How many times would I have to beat her with golf club to kill her?  After ten blows would she be dead?  Maybe just bloody and bruised.  I wonder if a wood would do more damage than an iron.  Could you split a skull with just one swing of a pitching wedge?  I bet Arnold Palmer could do it.

He rubbed his eyes and cringed.  He’d forgotten to rinse the bleach from his hands.

Well at least my eyes are clean.  Now maybe I can see.

Into the kitchen to make some breakfast.  Only one egg in the fridge.  Best if used by … what day?  Sunday?  No – Monday.  Everything expired on Monday.

Grab a skillet from sink – a quick rinse should be fine.  Heat kills everything.  Crack the egg and dump it in the hot pan.

Shit, that stinks.  Fuck breakfast anyway.