RUN RABBIT RUN, Survival In The Year Of The Woodcat
This column was originally published as Part 32 of OATMILK&COLD INSTANT on Patreon
I hate him passionately.
—Tucker Carlson on Donald Trump, revealed in Dominion Voting Systems' court filing against Fox News on Tuesday
Look at God!
—India Arie, on returning to Spotify last month
I've started corresponding with my patrons, and have initiated the daunting task of culling almost 5,000 of my Facebook followers to a devoted readership and base. My archive of letters, missives, poems and songs is floating somewhere between an almost full drive on Google, and daily posts on the socials from the last 14 years. My first post on Facebook was "Survivor Blues" by Cory Branan, but there have been reams of blog posts and personal journalism since then. I’m torn between unconscionably contributing to social media and trying to keep the lights on as an artist.
Back in 2009 "Survivor Blues" was my theme song, heralding my exile from Hostile City and escape from the clutches of an irresistible and devastating love. There aren’t any theme songs anymore, unless you want to stay plugged into the machine. Close the window on more bad news than you can handle and log on to music streaming-services that are in bed with the corporately-curated new media of the curation age. Branan’s still out there, making it, even if he had to move back to Memphis after suffering a divorce, and I hit the road. I got the fuck out of town and did 600 miles between now and when I started this post. I’m home now and back in the slog, strategizing for the days when I’ll have my own network, in control of my content and beholden to none.
The idea is to be off the socials by ‘24, and reach you from a command center of this desk, with enough storage to support the 15-year archive of writing I’ve amassed since I decided to be the writer I always wanted to be. I've been working on a column called HOW TO SAVE A LIFE. It’s a self-help piece in content and form. Like the title suggests, I’m using it to save my own life while documenting my alcoholism, suicidal ideation and poor health. I subscribed to the New York Times and Yoga Journal to prime the pump with daily readings of news closer to the source than on some billionaire’s platform. If I can do 40 hours a week at the coffee shop, and teach staggered Yoga serieses with a 2-week break, I should be able to develop the column into something I can pitch. The fact that I am still writing this column weeks after I started could be more bad news on the dying artist in the final century, or else a good sign.
For boon or bane, HOW TO SAVE A LIFE is being written in fits and starts. I honestly don’t have much hope for the piece. Ironic, considering its subject, but on par with not having much hope for anything these days. OATMILK&COLD INSTANT, my bi-weekly on Patreon, is log jammed—as I straddle day work and launch a new Yoga series. I was set to post a rough draft of HTSAL on OM&CI’s last posting date, but got shook from losing a caregiving client, and my gig playing bass, to the tune of $1,600 a month. It’s not lost on me that writing about writing is still writing but I’m at a loss on how to come up with more than what the Reverend calls a long, well thought-out tweet while trying to survive The America. I got it in all those years and got it down. But my writing style got me sick and my friends are dying. The news smacks of Third Reich-era Germany and we’re all a train-derailment or medical bill from devastation or insolvency. I’m keeping my head down, working more hours on the daygig and counting down the days til I won’t have to patronize the insipid and corporately-curated new media of the curation age.
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