#223

Ah, the two hundred and twenty-third post. Fascinating. Just keep waking up alive, you know? And sometimes I write. Mostly read. Do a my job at work as best I can.

Each day is a test and a gift. That's existence, best as I can figure.

*

Today I'm going to draw some pictures and haul some furniture from place to place. Gonna put some stuff in boxes and take all the naps I want. Perform smoke rituals. Eat cheese and bread. See how things go. 

*

Bought a wooden desk, a wooden library chair with a green cushion to sit at the desk in, couple beach chairs with crimson, red, pink, and white plastic straps stretched over yellowed white metal frames to sit outside in, a comfy-ass blue leather armchair and a comfy-ass short green leather couch. Big fan of leather, me. 

Armchair don't really look like much, the design is kind of clunky, but it is one of those chairs that, when you sink into it, reminds you what a comfortable--a pleasurable--sit actually is. I'll be spending quite some time in this weird-lookin, slightly blown-out baby.

I'll describe the desk after I've sat at it for a while, while sitting at it. That's the only way.

Upcoming attractions! Bam! Pow!

*

Read Bazaar of Bad Dreams, by Stephen King. Reading Firestarter now. I'm gonna write a long-ass post about reading as much Stephen King as I have been once I'm through, and the way things are going I'll have obtained, read, and reread all of his books exempting the Dark Tower cycle before I seriously read anything else, and probably I will buy and read the Dark Tower before that too. This process might be complete by the New Year, or early 2020. 

Man! 2020. Comin right up. New decade! It is going to fuck us up. Best strap in. 

*

Been treating myself to a lot of chocolate lately. I love milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, gianduja in whatever density and style you care to name, cacao nibs, all of that. I fuckin love chocolate.

When I was twenty-five I went to Aldi's three or four times just to grab about six pounds of Utz chocolates--chocolate wafer, motherfuckers? strawberry cream? yes please, four packages--and slam that shit over the course of a week. I walked and worked a lot, just like now, and carried on with a pretty spare diet, so it didn't ever make me feel sick or anything. If you make room for it, chocolate is the best thing you can eat. That chocolate made me feel radiant with health. Just felt extra good all that week and the week after.

Don't like chocolate cake. Takes a very particular bake to produce a chocolate cake I would enjoy. Only run into a couple all my life. Good chocolate ice cream ain't as rare, but most is no good either.

Brownies are dank. 

*

Ok signing off that's the end no punchline no moral 


--JL

#192

Damn, doggies, a dude is tired from the day, and must wake early on the morrow, and would fain rest his head upon the pillow, but I bought a knife today, and that marks a day particular, so one feels bound to punch the record.

Forsooth!

*

When a dude drops two hundred of his own dollars after tax on a tool, which in his case equates to half of the average monthly rent he has paid throughout his adult life and close to seventeen hours of work before tax, it is natural and correct that he should feel it is a proper day to take stock of oneself, to see where one stands. 

What kind of man is this, that spends this kind of money on a knife? And then, of course, spends a hundred more on blade guards, a carrying case, and a paring knife to exactly match my new Wüsthof Classic Ikon 4596/23cm (nine cool inches of full-tang German engineering with that hybrid ergonomic handle for relaxed-grip comfort).

*

Well, it is a tool of my trade. I spent this money for work, which is special way of spending money on myself. It is not a hand-forged, unique carbon-steel masterpiece; it is not the dream knife that I am not even sure that I want. But it is time I had a knife for work that is mine, whose edge no one is allowed to scrape across a cutting board, which will not be stuck into an industrial dishwasher or run through a shitty hand-sharpener, a knife no disrespectful, careless, unprofessional-ass hand will ever fucking touch and therefore a knife worth caring for, care for which it will reward me with leal and untroubled service for years, and faithfully keep its edge for more than fifty fucking minutes after the knife guy brings the fucking freshly sharpened knives back to the kitchen after which each knife is a ketchup hammer to a tomato and cannot so much as leave a mark on the skin of an onion.

Also stainless steel is in now, the sharpening game has caught up to it and it is a perfect choice for the kind of kitchens I work in.

Most importantly, after trying a couple eight-inchers and pretty much resigning myself to just a basic work knife I would not really enjoy, the dude at the store (I chose a local vacuum store with a Wüsthof stock) asked if I wanted to try the niner, it being discounted in a damaged box and all. I could give a shit about the box (stainless, suckaz!) and gave it a shot. The moment I held it in my grip and felt the balance travel up my arm, I knew it was my knife, said wow out loud, and reached for my wallet.

It was like that with Stray Dog*, too. Some of the tools we encounter in life, well, we've all hurt ourselves and known in our heart of hearts that this one was not on us, this time the motherfucking tool came at us with evil intent and no one can convince us otherwise. I believe this is perfectly true; malice aforethought can  reside in the inanimate and tools, being made with purpose and thrown into the world to exist as vessels of purpose, quite naturally react as subjective individuals to the purpose of the user to varying degrees. Energy acts upon energy. Some groups of molecules come together and something lights up. This knife and I were meant to cut together, as Stray Dog and I were meant to do our thing.

People are kind of like this, too.

*

So what kind of dude is Joseph Lidd, on the day he meets his knife? A dude that got up at four in the morning after about three and a half hour's worth of sleep, walked the old five miles to work in his brother's birkenstocks, put breakfast out on a hot table, got so tired of the gee-dee work knives that he resolved out loud to go buy his own knife after work, put lunch out on a hot table, closed the hot table and pulled the leftovers and cleaned and closed his station, walked six blocks to a place to get a certain lovely lady of intimate acquaintance a welcome-home present (presents?) for when she returns from her overseas vacation to that most emerald of isles, walked a little over a mile to the vacuum store, thinking over the notion that this was it, hell or high water come crashing through the world he was going to walk into a store and drop more than one hundred and fifty dollars on a single object, which he did, and having accomplished these errands, walked the mile and bit back nearly to where he works; rather, cruised into the shoe store in front of his workplace, inquired after a pair he has under their charge for resoling, was told they would likely be ready in a few days, and walked home barefoot the five miles on the burning asphalt and cement, backpack loaded quite to the maximum healthy capacity, system perhaps not having been provided with quite the recommended calories for all of the above, mind and body full of the special clarity that comes with determining and carrying out acts demanding of such a blend of endurances undertaken for the purpose of tempering the body and mind like steel in the forge, of sharpening the self like a knife, until he got home, to the dog so glad to see him and his mother's good cooking which has made him strong, to his feet hurting like the proverbial son of a bitch and walking around extremely gingerly, to saying fuck it beautiful day let's do this thing let's not be done with this sun I still got more juice behind the hose, so he puts on socks, which hurt, and shoes, which also hurts, and he fills his backpack once more with clothes he's getting rid of as they are ruined by wear and tear and honest accident, walks them a mile and a half to those bins that are a tax scam but who can make themselves really give a fuck without enjoining upon themselves to also give a fuck about the invisible insects we cannot but crush underfoot or fret over the bacterial genocide which is the act of drawing breath**, walked a mile and a half back, pain completely forgotten, pushed aside by the natural medicine of continuing to walk and the ease of spirit that comes of listening to Blind Boy Fuller truckin' his blues away.

Hardly necessary as it is to add, nevertheless it should go on record that I periodically vaporized THC throughout all of this. I am a dude who does that stuff plus a bunch of other stuff I ain't got time or spare wherewithal to detail. I mean, like I said at the outset, I'm pretty beat.

--JL

*ideas like this are why I would make a poor Buddhist, which would nevertheless not prevent me from being an exemplary Buddhist, the great genius of this mode of spirit being that it should be impossible to tell if anyone is doing it correctly merely by observing, or even probing. For who would know the right questions, and still have to ask them?

Hoooooly fuck I gotta go to bed

Anyway I know there are better ways but like I said, can't care about everything all the time

bed