The Book
One thing that David Bowies death has jarred in me is the desire to more bravely express myself, again. Brave like Obsidian brave. Embodied brave.

This raw desire that's been rubbed by the void that Bowie left is at odds with my fatigue, and my distaste for the work and the social overhead of theater.

It's also at odds with the fact that I really do need the support and the energy of an intimate relationship to put out that kind of all encompassed white-hot madness, which is of course at odds with the reality that when you utilize human connection as fuel people end up used up and burned, and I'm really just not willing to continue to do that any more. 

Since tiring of busking I’ve been in an existential artist crisis of sorts, recognizing how vulnerable and what a tremendous energetic undertaking it is to be performing alone. 

The amount of emotional labor it took in simply dealing with the lonely and/or drunk men was taxing to say the least, and that's not including the connection fatigue of just being open and present for an unpredictable, dynamic audience in an uncontrolled environment.

Busking was where I belonged, what I was supposed to be doing, and now that I'm pretty much done with it I've been doing the work of internalizing that experience since. It's been good, and rewarding, and I am tired.

Part of my learning consequence is that I’ve also been thinking about the book, a lot, and contemplating what I want to write about, what sort of structure I want it to have, what stories I’ve written that belong there, and expressing myself in writing in general.

Lately, even before Bowie died and the internet suddenly took notice of the statutory rape story I'd already been talking about, much of that writing has again revolved around rape culture, trauma, as yet another round of the social evolution machine chewing through another thin layer of denial and apologia -- I hope. Again and again, I receive signals and indication and feedback that it is that subject and the intersections around it that are what my first proper book should be about.

The working title is “Tales of Alcohol and Repair”, and it currently includes a number of short stories told from different perspectives and in different ways, most of which are stories taken directly from my life. Some will be old blog posts re-written as character-based short stories, some will remain diary entries and there is at least one 'repair' story that is fictional/sci-fi/fantasy.

I think a lot of the 'repair' stories might be fantasy, actually. Boy, ain't that telling.

Also, I like the idea of each story being so different it seems to have been written by a different writer. Which is fitting, for a book written by me.

Woohoo! I'm a mess!

A mess, that is finally, after 20 years, looking like, (after I've figured out how to take a break and recharge some) they are actually going to write this damn book.