Warren Baylor

Doing this and that.

Turning off the thoughts.

My Mother And Thanksgiving

She was in the best mood this morning. I go to the gym, go get coffee, go buy food to make stuff for thanksgiving. And then I get back and she is still in a great mood: “come try this thing I made,” etc. And she’s all talking about how excited for thanksgiving she is. Anyways, I’m supposed to make us breakfast and when I do, the smoke alarm goes off because I’m using a cast iron and the old shit on it causes it to smoke. Instantly, she’s in a terrible mood. Then I ask her where the wire whisk is to whisk the eggs for her fucking pancakes, and she is even more angry now because I couldn’t find it. Now she’s completely silent in the other room and when I’m done, she eats like two bites and spends half of the time eating trying to clean the maple syrup container at the sink. Comes back, finishes it, and goes and washes dishes and shit. Meanwhile, she’s saying nothing other than one sentence fragment responses to every question I ask… which I know is an indication that she is really mad. So I don’t know what the fuck I did, but I was in such a great mood this morning, and I literally do nothing—n o t h i n g—wrong and her reaction to everything I’ve been doing makes me want to cut her neck open with a carving knife. I fucking hate it. I hate people who are passive aggressive. I hate her because she is fucking unstable and probably bipolar. It’s also why I hate my sister. People say men subconsciously look for women like their mothers to marry. I’d rather die alone.

Her mother thinks I’m a schizoid personality. Apparently she’s spoken to her psychoanalyst about me, and he agrees with her.

— Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters

Read This In Ten Years

The hardest thing to do is start something. Your day, a relationship, a film. The problem is me. I need to get past the fact that whatever I write will most-likely be shit. Take this paragraph for example. I will look back on this and think “What utter crap! What horrible grammar!” The trick is to get past all that shit and realize that 90% of everything I create will be horrible… Including this. The trick, it seems, is to keep going. Just keep going. Recognize the gold from the shit and extract accordingly. Something will inevitably catch on and, when it does, run with it. I’ve told myself I would never keep a journal. I’ve told myself that my art will be how I express myself. I think it’s because I can hide behind the art. It’s me, but I could always deny it wasn’t later. With a journal, it’s too close to home. Too naked. Nothing to interpret there. So think of this as a verbal dump. A jump start. Don’t worry about all of the mistakes. Embrace them. THIS IS YOU! And nobody will see this unless you want them to. I hope to look back on this in 10 years and laugh at myself. It’s healthy when one does not take themselves too seriously. Here’s my problem… I’ve bought countless blank notebooks for countless different subject matters. The blank page often looks so much better than what I’d taint it with. So I write nothing with the hope that someday I will finally get my shit together. I’m old enough to know that this is more or less how together my shit will be. You have forgotten that you are unique… and with that uniqueness comes the flaws. Deal with those flaws in the best way you know how and you may surprise yourself. Even still, I feel like a fraud. Not worth the words written. This is supposed to be about fiction. About make believe. I suppose it still is, what with how dramatic I’m becoming. I read once that if you aren’t writing about what you want, then you should write about how you’re not writing about what you want. Eventually you will get sick of yourself and move on. I’m sick of myself, alright, but I can’t move on. What is “the process”? I guess THIS is it. A whole lot of nothing written in a hurry. Some of my best work has been done in this manner, I suppose. I had no choice. No thought needed. I was powerless. This was a bad idea. You’re embarrassing yourself. You try to wrap this up, but you just keep going.

You have the right to work, but for the work’s sake only. You have no right to the fruits of the work.

— Bhagavad Gita

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