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.
Read the current manifesto. (And the followup.)
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Three days before I see the Red Sox for just the second time in twenty-five years (the first being last March), Craig Breslow has traded away generational talent Rafael Devers in return for what doesn’t seem like all that very much in comparison.
I’ve been trying for days now to understand why I’m as shaken as I am by the death of local trans girl Charlotte Fosgate, who chose to die by suicide from somewhere along the span of the St. Johns Bridge, above the Willamette River.
I’ve been reading A City on Mars by Kelly and Zach Weinersmith, and in part one’s section on “spacefarer psychology” there appears a story which regular readers immediately will know why I’m mentioning it here.
As something of a followup to the other day’s post about my toilet (I almost wrote “on”, which could be taken the wrong way), fatigue, exertion, executive dysfunction, and ticket theory, it’s maybe a good time to relate a few things I said on social media media about the current context of all of this.
While today my bathroom got cleaned(ish), it had gone even longer than usual between cleanings, and at this point between my fatigue and my autistic executive dysfunction, it’s clear that this simply is not a chore I can do on a regular, or even semi-regular, or even not-so-regular basis.
There is a chance that Myth of Man, the first narrative film from Jamin Winans in a decade, is a wrenchingly beautiful film about a truly dangerous idea. It can be read as such, but it absolutely also can be read very differently. The difficulty in trying to talk about it is that it really could be the case that Winans believes a truly dangerous thing, yet managed to make a wrenchingly beautiful film about it. Is this true?
Everyone over the past several days has been lauding this McSweeney’s piece by Anaïs Godard, an open letter to Wormwood in defense of the author’s five-year-old autistic daughter. McSweeney’s primarily is a humor publication, which perhaps in part is why the piece has gotten so much traction. Its flaw is that Godard tries to have it both ways.
The following letter from customers of the Albertson’s family of grocers was exclusively “obtained” by Bix dot Blog and is reproduced here in full.
Today I realized, or else this was been simmering unconsciously for awhile and chose today to burst into conscious thought, that there is a tension in me wherein because I myself blog, it’s somehow implicitly incumbent upon me to read lots of other bloggers, yet I just can’t seem to fit that into my attentional load. This tension manifests as feeling bad for myself when I try, because hitting this attentional resource limit is cognitively claustrophobic, but then also as feeling bad about myself when I fail, because not meeting that sense of implicit incumbency is ridden with guilt.
I’m not really using Mastodon for anything these days, having settled into Bluesky because it’s where all the people I used to want to be around on Twitter have ended up, but I do (for some reason) still follow the #Blogging hashtag there, and that’s where I saw a former wellness coach posit that you are not your story.