December is always strange for me. So far, I’ve had a promising business opportunity, gotten lost driving home (I really need new glasses), and got stuck in a traffic jam.
The morning I wrote this, my wife Emily tested positive for Covid, so I took a test. It was negative. Now the two of us are cozy in our casa, both wearing masks. Her symptoms are mild, and we’ve both had all the shots and boosters, and my immune system had kept from as much as a cold for about fifteen years now, but then that means that some time something will come along that will kick your butt.
That which does not kill you, mutates and tries again. Viruses are nature's way of weeding out us old folks. And I’m getting old.
I got through 2020 without submitting anything. I was busy with Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin. Still made over $340.77 (book royalties and the reprint of “Pancho Villa’s Flying Circus” in Black Cat Weekly #24 from writing, glad I have the day job.
Hey, writers, working as a library page (the folks—usually a lot younger than me—who check in, sort, and shelve things) is a great way to get money. I wish somebody had told me about a few decades earlier . . .
Zyx is finally finished. Em is going over it. Going to try for a big time publisher, because making a wad of cash that allow us to retire to something other than a life of poverty would be nice. I’m nervous about it, like a bullfighter preparing to go into the ring. I may experience the psychological equivalent of being gored. And I’ll write about my adventures here and in Chicanonautica at La Bloga.
Ever year I resolve to draw more. Weird. Like giving yourself permission to masterbate more. I’ve never been able to make much money from art, but what making it does to my brain . . . Better than any drug, really. As Em works on the house, she keeps uncovering more of my old stuff. And Xochiquetzal replaced my broken scanner/printer, which makes doing art biz easier in our era. Come to think of it, I still haven’t scanned a lot of those old collages that resurfaced last year . . .
Lately, I’ve been going into the new year with no idea what’s going to happen. This year I’m daring to hope good things happen. Maybe I’m crazy. Then I also can’t shake that we’re in for more, well, like the last few years.
No matter what, I’m looking forward to running wild at 67 . . .
Update: Covid finally got me. Thanks to all vaccinations, it's mild. I'm quartantining, and watching a lot of wacko movies. Getting ready for whateverthehell . . .