The unsupported use case of Bix Frankonis’ disordered, surplus, mediocre midlife in St. Johns, Oregon.
No fear, no hate, no thoughtless bullshit, and no nazis.
I’m trying to nap on a living room couch, but I can hear the neighbor’s kids trying to teach their dog to growl at people. I get up to explore this new apartment, where the entryway has a floor-to-ceiling pole with hooks for hanging coats.
I’m not sure why I was re-reading my writeup of the most recent Jamin Winans film earlier today, but I was, and as autistically happens sometimes I was idly imagining a conversation about it, in the course of which I realized I had a few things more to say.
My therapist and I think sometime last year was the only other time I experienced what we’ve taken to calling food exhaustion, this latest bout having cropped up sometime during the month of July. It threw my entire daily meal plan into disarray, except for breakfast which had settled into a bowl of Grape Nuts, a single-serving container of Tillamook vanilla bean yogurt, and a box of Sun-maid raisins.
I’d been back on the omg.lol Discord for a little while of late, flailing around about getting some sort of search solution working here on the blog, only to open it up yesterday and find that it had been put on “pause” for undisclosed reasons clearly of a trust and safety nature. Which is fair; in trust and safety matters you don’t necessarily just broadcast someone’s concerns while you’re hoping to address them.
In the dream there was a large, muscled and naked mechanic in a garage working on some sort of machine. He was accompanied by a talking cat named River, although if she spoke I don’t remember what she said, and a sentient Big Fucking Gun, although it didn’t do anything to suggest sentience, I just knew it was.
It’s worth a moment to take note here of the things I managed to do yesterday amid all the drama that either were self-regulatory in nature or at least helped to cut off prospects of further dysregulation.
The long and the short of it: the blog finally has search functionality again, something it lost with the move to Eleventy back in March. This is not something I was sure would ever happen.
There is a well-worn phrase in disability circles, primarily in political and research contexts: nothing about us without us. In essence, decisions about our lives should not be made in our name, because we are autonomous agents acting in the world on our own behalf and with intrinsic value and worth as human beings.
Well, I was born in a small town And I live in a small town Probably die in a small town Oh, those small communities
Last week I read two books about the supply chain: Annalee Newitz’s Automatic Noodle (high-five if you were among the “late-night friends on Mastodon” mentioned in the acknowledgements) and Alexis Madrigal’s The Pacific Circuit. What I want to talk about here, though, is Kurt Vonnegut.