This is the post excerpt.
If I have ever lashed out at you in anger, feeling entitled to hurt you using my words, I apologize.
I’m a damaged man, very damaged.
I have wounds, wounds that run long and deep. Unchecked, they cracked and split running straight down to my bones. These wounds have been oozing toxic puss unchecked, turning septic; seeping in, poisoning my emotions and judgment.
I did not see these wounds. I thought I was fine. I mean, I’ve been medicated for my mental illness for years now.
Until it was brought to my attention.
And then I noticed that I had been engaged in a long-running series of repetitive behaviors that always involved me texting certain women.
Oftentimes the communications started off innocently enough. It was fun. But eventually I ended up being too annoying or pushy, then when it was brought to my attention, I took offense, felt rejected and attacked, and then, feeling entitled, I would lash out via text or message.
Ever since, I have spent the abundant amount of time that I have in isolation meditating and reflecting over my words, my actions, reactions. Trying to analyze my triggers. And trying to figure out what the hell I wanted out of these relationships in the first place.
When it was brought to my attention, I felt horrible – for days.
I don’t want to hurt anyone emotionally.
I want to have positive interactions with everyone.
I informed my psychiatrist.
He recommended a therapist. I talk to my friends and family.
I’m forty-five years old, and I am too old and I am too tired to be creating any type of emotional drama for myself or others.
I am done with meeting women.
I need to work on myself.
I need to work on making the most of the friendships I already have, my relationships with my family.
Just please know two things:
1. I am not using my mental illness as an excuse or a shield. It may have blurred my vision, but it was my choice to take the car out and drive it – if you get my meaning.
I own my actions and I acknowledge the harm I have caused.
2. I am, and always will be, deeply sorry for anyone I have hurt.
Title quote taken from:
All Apologies lyrics © BMG Rights Management, Royalty Network.
I found myself staring out the living room window. The sun was setting on the top left corner of it’s outline.
Bright. A glint cometed across the middle third.
A truck passed, an older kept up Chevy truck. Custom. Bowling ball white and gray iridescent paint job. Recently washed.
It occurs to me. I wish that was me. Oh just to go on a drive. To go out and beyond past my small borders.
Another profound realization.
One I felt.
Not as acutely as the other time, thank God.
To quote many of the The Uncanny X-Men characters during Chris Claremont’s epic run:
Question now is, do I leave my curtains open or closed?
Biosphere Station Moore out.
This is my first Dispatch From Biosphere Station Moore.
Tuesday, June 9th, 2020.
Earlier this year, on March 17th, my car died.
On March 18th the Covid-19 quarantine was put into effect.
As a result, a good news/bad news situation developed:
The Good News.
Having no working vehicle the day the quarantine began, effectively sealed our house hermetically, denying entry to Covid-19.
With no means of transportation, I could not now accidentally bring the virus inside were I to go out.
Automatically, my mom, who is now eighty, and a prime candidate for contracting the virus, was saved. For that, I am happy and thankful.
The Bad News.
I have not stepped out of our house since.
Even if I could, I’d still risk contracting Covid-19, and then so would my mom.
And I can’t have that happen.
Because of that, my mom and I have been in 100% self-quarantine ever since.
So, with an embarrassment of free time on my hands, I’m going to be blogging regularly – maybe more so than before.
There’s quite a bit to cover:
The joys of distance-learning.
The time-intensive, yet unclear texting relationship with a younger woman I’d never physically met.
My mental breakdown when I realized I was suffering from severe isolation.
My mom finally becoming a mother.
The quick trip in the bed of a friend’s truck to sign my teacher’s contract – my first, and so far, only expedition out into the World.
Then George Floyd gasped out, “I can’t breathe” on video – and things got darker …
I hope you continue reading so we can all continue to learn and grow.
Please take care of yourselves.
I finally finished my first short story!
So I’ve been gone a while, but I’ve still been writing. I realized that my default genre is weird fiction. I completed my first short story. It’s gone through my peer review. It’s been read by my alpha readers, and finally most of my beta readers.
I believe that writing, like anything else created in the arts is never a perfect thing. It’s not a complete thing. It’s a living thing, and like all living things, goes through evolution.
Creating a story, for me, is like raising a child. If you’re invested in it, and you care for it, you do your best to prepare it for the Big Bad World as best you can, then you send it out there, and hope you’ve done your best.
This is how I feel about my first child. I feel that it’s ready for submission, so that’s what I’m going to do.
Below is an excerpt from that story.
I hope you like it.
I hope it intrigues you.
And I hope you’ll want to read more. I’m already working on my second child, and I’m still laboring over my first full-blown manuscript.
Here we go:
by m. a. moore.
I’m laying on the floor in my bedroom. My smart phone’s beside me. My entire body tingles and aches from being in the same position for so long. I ignore it.
I’ll shift over in awhile. Just have to keep an eye on the notifications light on my phone. Its sleek smooth screen gleams in the dim blue light of the room. I’ve kept the shades drawn and the curtains closed for some time now.
Everything … blends …
I dream of my phone. Gently stroking its edges with my finger. Gently. Tenderly. A lover’s caress. I cradle the phone in my hands, staring at it, staring into that deep black glass. And waiting.
I’m waiting for the Shimmer.
I saw it.
I know I did.
I know it wasn’t my mind playing tricks on me. My mind doesn’t do that. Besides, I was still taking my medication back then, I was still clearheaded – I can still remember that …
My girlfriend got me into it.
That’s what she called it – my girlfriend, Allie. My … ex … girlfriend – now.
Remember that app? Came out years ago.
It was just a swish of color, flowing across the screen of your smart phone, from top to bottom, as if down swiped by the finger of your lover.
Like all social media apps, it was a simple idea. A simple, effective idea that unassumingly consumed your whole life before you knew it.
END OF EXCERPT.
Constructive criticism and comments are welcome. Negative ones for the sake of being negative, not so much.
I’ll see you soon.
I need to check my phone. I think I saw a notification …
What do I do with these words that swirl around my head, night and day, and night and day?
Whirling dervishes spiraling in ecclesiastical ecstasies of euphoria, subjects and predicates, subordinate clauses creating expansions of thoughts, blossoming into petals of prose, linking daisy chains of randomness together to form some fractal fractured pattern using common commas along with their elitist Oxford cousins combining phrases that trail off on tangents winding their way like Thorin’s company of thirteen through the Misty Mountains, the wrinkles of my cerebrum and cerebellum, that sometimes somehow find their way there and back again threading the needle to make my point – even if you find me a prick.
But a pragmatic prick who suffers from grammatical gigantism stuffed into my overfed overfat cranium. This over large head blooms sentence stems so big within that they beggar imagination.
What I want is what you wish.
So full I really wish my head would explode,
you’d care to be kind, and with your delicate hands you could hold this head gently. You could cradle it carefully. And maybe that might make the words slow down, your cooling hands on my fevered head to slow this mad merry-go-round. To silence this lunatic syllabic laughter.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful?
If that were to work?
You say my words are too much for you.
They are too much for me too.
Every night, almost invariably, my mom will leave me a note on my bathroom counter.
Little things – like thoughts, factoids, ads, that she shares with me.
She’s going to be eighty years old, and she’s becoming forgetful, but she always remembers to write me a little note, a small reminder, for me.
She keeps me updated.
It’s a such a sweet simple act – at times silly, surreal – but it always makes me smile.
Tonight, though, the realization hit me –
these little notes are my mom’s own version of Facebook.
I’m seeing it being created in real life, and in real time.
And, when she is gone, I will have this big collection of little thoughts, and I will be able to hold these paper posts in my hand, and know, that once, her hands touched them, and I will still have that physical connection to her.
Time taken, thought given, to write a note by hand, meant solely for one person.
Who does that these days?
Who still gets notes written by hand, from a loved one?
Why do I feel, somehow, that this is better?
Listen to the most recent episode of my podcast: E7: Comedy is Misery Part 1. https://anchor.fm/mark-moore06/episodes/E7-Comedy-is-Misery-Part-1-e7tl9q
Listen to the most recent episode of my podcast: Uziel’s Adventures in Detention Land.