C. A. Winter Blog

Another stream of conciousness while I'm stuck at home. Not stuck in a literal sense; I have a car and there's gas in it. I'm stuck in a mental way. I've been working on the final final final edit of Unworried all weekend. Thursday night I started it and today it's done and now I'm in this between state where I need to pick my fiance up in four or five hours from Altona which is thirty minutes away and I'm just kinda sitting here unable to make a real decision. It feels like I'm devoid of dopamine, which in turns means I'm devoid of decision making, which in turn means I'm sitting on the couch with my laptop and my phone switching between Reddit and Instagram like it's nobody's business. Scroll, I should stop, scroll on bigger screen, I should stop, email checking, scrolling I should stop. STOP!  So i coded(claude coded but I pay for the subscription so its MINE) I coded a spin the wheel program and had it spin between gaming, writing, re...

Goin’ Out, Bein A Creep by C. A. Winter Tired I was of my black apartment. Pitch floors, raven ceilings, blue mirror from the reflection off the floor into the bathroom. Light switch on the wall invisible with the hour and no reason to reach for it. Too late for the lights on, too odd. Two in the morning all I hear is the damn air conditioner unit. Blind men hear better, taste better, feel better. Can’t see very well though, my god-given right to this world, the visible world, taken away by something every night and why should I let it? This sun, this setting and this rising. Why do I conform to the dark and the heat and the cold its cycles bring? And what about the moon. I digress. If the sun won’t wait for me, I won’t wait for it. Big stupid ball in the sky goes to ruin a perfectly good day. Fingers on the blinds moving sideways show a street lamp fifty yards up. Same place every day but I don’t see it none because I don’t look yonder often. Defiant on the sidewalk, beaming on the we...

  You the creator, whispering to the mind When they look in to your soul  Do they stare at the black of your pupils Or the shadows in your memory The places where you lay to rest the demons of the past In your spirit  Is it kindness or merely  A kind of listless vacancy that glows red against the pitch horizon Rows of rooms unentered Each needing a new key Reception turned their back and now Sticky are your fingers as you walk along the halls Picking things from the floor, capturing them in the cups of your hands Little lightning bugs in a glass jar Guide the way oh captive, my captive An untimely suffocation for the journey ahead Soon the light will slip And soon you will falter Do not go gentle Into that Good night \\'

 Consciousness  Did I spell that right?  In the mornings I like to do a bit of writing. Some kind of vomit from the night before that doesn't get out of my system until the fingers hit the keyboard. Type R in the search and hit enter. Reddit. Scroll that, then pop open my MS Word. Read the shite I wrote last night and start again. I didn't do that this morning but I should've. Often I begin with a breakdown of the dreams from the night before. Last night was cat-central. Dreams and dreams and dreams of cats. Why cats? In my dream I had three cats. A glowing white one, a fluffy light grey one, and a tabby grey cat. At some point, the tabby grey broke its leg by jumping funny. I didn't notice the cat was in pain until someone pointed it out.  "Look, he's limping. Watch him jump." Sure enough, he was walking with a broken leg. The cat was given to me for free in my dream, and I didn't really want the cat to begin with, but I took it in anyways. When I rea...

 I find myself locked into a correspondence for hours, crafting eloquent sentences and well-timed jokes. I find myself writing 1,500 words in an email. I find myself blogging. I find myself unwilling to write a novel. I find myself playing videogames. I've found myself in the bathroom on Instagram. My fiance has found me there as well. I'm finding myself to be a bit of a lazy son of a bitch. I'm finding out that whatever this is is something that needs to be addressed. I will find out soon enough that this is a serious problem. I've been finding more and more of myself in my blog. Finding out I am who I write about is terrifying. I am the subject of the hate. I must find a solution before the problem finds me. I must search for meaning. it must be found. 

There’s a man over. He’s got blonde hair and a dark jacket. Some kind of hat. Sports, maybe. It’s blue. I imagine it to be a Cubs hat but that’s my bias. If it were black, it would be Sox. Red for Blackhawks. I suppose if it’s dark blue it could be the Bears. I squint. Don’t see any orange.  He put his keys on the dresser and is taking his jacket off. Thin ankles for arms. Disappointing. Baggy tee underneath. Unlabelled, unwashed. She comes into view. Hand on his chest. They’re kissing, she’s groping his butt. Her shirt comes off first, then his. Double D’s, surely. Skin colour bra, leggings, birthmark brown and jarring on her collarbone. I forgot it was there. If I had a body like hers I would have it removed.  They disappear and a white sock flies across the room. Lands next to his keys. Very TV of them. I turn the faucet off and wipe my hands on the towel. There’s a sliver of raw onion on the floor next to the stove. Feel it on my foot, bending, pick it up. Looking out the ...