Aug the Tenth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (18/224)

Aug the Tenth

Journal, I think it’s safe to say I had a lot of energy last night.

Where to begin… well, I read that long entry I made yesterday. Not just the story, either, but the whole entry. I do like the story, not go’n’a lie. I know the writing isn’t the greatest because I did it when I was high, but I like it all the same. A line after the story caught my eye, too, it made me start to think. “Imagine… If all of life was just a novel in some other universe.” What an intrinsically human thought that is, Journal. How so perfectly human.

I mean, it’s got all the required ingredients. Laughter in the face of death – so long as someone opens the novel again, life will go on; narcissism – all of life’s a story and I am the main character, bitch; creativity – bound between these leather slabs is the recording of events which transpired in an alternate plane of reality, one as similar to ours as it is different; I mean seriously, a novel is about as human as human art gets. Nothing else on Earth writes – other species can paint if given the paint, make noise in a repetitive pattern that might be recognized as music, they’d probably be capable of piling rocks into something vaguely statuesque, but nothing else is quite mad enough to sit still for hours on end and draw row upon row upon row of these tiny little symbols that mean whatever we say they mean. Humans are the only thing out there that writes, barring extraterrestrials of course, if they exist (I don’t know, not really my thing) and what else do we do with our writing but play pretend over long periods of time? Some humans even feel the need to do it; like, I’m sure some writers just do it for fun, they don’t feel Cthulhu’s call so to speak, but some of us feel like we have to. Could you imagine that, Journal? Feeling the compulsion to sit and scrawl all day?

You can’t. You couldn’t even if you were a human, unless you were a writer. Writers are weird, ‘man. We’re special. We’re special in a “special” way…

What I’m getting at is we’re all legitimately insane far beyond the reach of hope, ‘tis what ‘tis, movin’ on.

…                                     …                                    …

Truth be told there’s not all that much to say from me tonight. I didn’t want to drive with weed because of my police-induced heart attack yesterday so I rolled a bunch of joints and stuffed ‘em in a few makeshift doobtubes and walked up Sawblade Lane to the trailhead, and Journal, the fucking grade of that road is the work of the devil himself. “Strenuous” pales in comparison. “Exhausting” is pillow talk. Ugh, I’m so tired. It’s hardly even nine o’clock and I’m already falling asleep here. So, so so tired, Journal. So, so so tired.

But yeah, I went back to the spot where The True Commons shall be incarnated into this plane of reality and sat down and smoked to some lofi, and then it was suddenly getting dark out and I got no work done and I wanted to get home, so I went home. I walked all the way down Sawblade, which wasn’t nearly as bad as walking up it. Obviously. Now here I am, and The True Commons is nowhere closer to being realized.

Uhh… I don’t know, Journal. I’ll get on it tomorrow, I guess? All I need to do is find rocks for the border. And dig out a firepit; digging it out wouldn’t be a bad idea at all, especially with all the flammable woods around. I’m probably not supposed to be having fires back there in the first place, but having one in a pit must be better than having one on flat ground.

As for the spot, well… I don’t know when I’m going to finish it. Like I said, all I need to do is find rocks, so it shouldn’t take me more than a day. Probably. We’ll see. Collecting rocks isn’t the hardest thing to do, I’m’a lift with my legs like a bawss.

…                                     …                                    …

Here’s a wild question: if novels contain universes, then what’s a journal for? Are journals like caskets, do they retain souls who’ve passed on from the mortal coil? Maybe. Or maybe they’re just meant to be a prop in the novels… it is odd, though. Like, I’m putting all of this work into all of these symbols I’ve drawn on all of these pages, but nobody’s going to read this. I’d be mortified if anybody ever read my journal, this is my journal for Christ’s sake.

So… do I do it for me, then? Like, yeah, I feel the inherent desire to write, but I’m a poet at heart, I could just do poetry to quell my oddball desire to scribble… but no, I journal. I journal like a madman, in fact; these things take up so many pages, use so much ink. They just fill so fast, I don’t know what else to say.

Well, anyway. I’m pretty sleepy. Tomorrow I’m going to actually start “building” the campsite, and I’m’a need lots of energy for that. I’m thankful I can tuck in early tonight, I don’t do this very often.

Thank you, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and good dreams~

Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~

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