#517

Christmas is my favorite time of the year in many ways, but it is not without its pain and suffering. This 24th I woke up with the leaden feeling, proximal to premonition, that this may well be, if not my personal Final Christmas, the last one my family will have together. It faded by the afternoon, but it was not a good morning. 

I do not want to comment on the state of the world in this space anymore. It is not good for my sanity, nor indeed any part of my well-being. But this feeling was related to the state of the world.

Because it fucking sucks. Because hell is empty, and devils prance and cavort in all their hideous strength before our eyes, seemingly with perfect impunity (killing one or any of them, such as with a bullet through the throat [for an example appropos of nothing at all] accomplishes nothing except aggravating the situation). Describing the process and railing against it also changes nothing, however, except perhaps my blood pressure and overall resilience for the worse.

What do we need? There is no remedy. If I understand history, all that can ever happen is the process taking its murderous, hateful toll, a process which inevitably sows even more demonic seeds, or dragon's teeth, if you prefer. The wheel is greased with blood and pain, the motor fueled by avarice and fear.

So it goes. I've said it before. So it fucking goes. Ting-a-motherfucking-ling.

Better to pretend there is no outside world. 

Better to think about nothing. Or trivial shit. 

*

Also ever since my last 'vid vaxx, my ticker's been feeling bad. Like, who the fuck knows how many more flexes it has left to give, is the feeling, but not as many as I might like to enjoy. That or the valves or aorta or something. But apparently not going to the doctor carries a terrible momentum; doubt that I will experience medical care again without first enjoying the pleasures of the kind emergency room visit that races against the doom clock.

Guess I'd rather experience a catastrophe before dealing with needless, infuriating bullshit rather than dealing with that bullshit up front. Guess that's the kind of person I've become. Screamingly illogical, concussed, foolish, childish, bullheaded, yes, yes; but apparently fixed.

This bad feeling has been more or less persistent since June.

Well, who gives a fuck what I cough up or how my breathing is. Who gives a shit about my liver or intestines. Let that gross nonsense be between God and myself, and no others.

Death is inevitable, but debt can be refused. 

*

Come the new year I will amuse myself with telling you a lot of saved-up ideas in the form of many Factual Projects for 2026. Factually Musical, yes, plenty of that, as well as other sequels and entries on previously-explored avenues, but also many more unbroached topics and fresh approaches. No  more booklists, for example; time for Factually Literate to bring its piquant notions to bear. Factually Cinematic? Why not! All these prospects excite me. It will be good to type some notions again.

Strap in. For what, in actual realization, I am not certain.

--JL