I feel the need to underscore this point, particularly now, because Vortices of Doom begin at airports, I believe, and Cyclones of Cataclysm end with them.

Writing a blog SUCKS when you’ve been doing it for years just to keep a fucking algorithm “alive” on the goddamned internet and your “name” popping-up regularly on the buggery goat-sodomized Google.

It’s a waste of brain cells. A waste of talent that could well be vomited elsewhere (or not.)

By blogging, a seethingly gifted, genius-level but marginal author like myself is basically paying to upkeep his own thankless advertising … even (and ESPECIALLY) when I have no current book or project to flog or to hype or to launch.

Airports. They channel you through concrete until you get into screaming tubes of metal that rocket above the clouds until you land to visit the dead.

Well, that’s my only reason for traveling, these days, Europe having gone completely to shit.

And back you fly through frozen, indifferent air until you’re dumped, quite unceremoniously, where you came from … or, more likely, at a layover spot filled with people who look eager to handle rattlesnakes at next Sunday’s church service or people who look like

potential

serial killers.

And who doesn’t look like one of those in this Age of Late Phases, what with the Huns and the Goths circling ‘round the profligate walled-city of shrieking, whining, drinking, prancing, rotting-from-the-inside, deliciously distracted twits?

One of the extraordinary and nauseating truths is that all of this, all of this putrefaction behind shiny veneers has only been possible in the past 123 years.

I could go back further because the American Civil War certainly counts for a lot of hideous death and butchery over ultimately thankless smokescreens, but the 20th Century will do.

The 20th Century brought more human death, murder, and destruction by collective and cooperative (or apathetic) will than all known centuries of human history combined, and, believe a historian—human life has been a boil atop a pox amidst a rash at the head of a hellacious Losing Battle since … oh, long before Lucy Fucking Hominid, whom (I am convinced) survived as some sort of supernatural Emblem of Imminent Darkness before retiring six or seven hears ago as the popular and winsome women’s tennis journeywoman, Francesca Schiavone.

But I digress.

My distant past—what sad, ramshackle, diaphanous fragments remained of it—is as empty and dead as the corridors and low-humming, speedy walkways, and strangely buzzing empty bars and bookstores and bistros of an airport at night.

I tried to keep my blog and social media irons firmly in the fire while dealing with matters of Finality because it seemed good for the synapses in need of distraction, good for the fingers in need of attendant occupation, etc. But in reality, the effort has been an absolute CUNT, as the English would say, in their original, proper utilization of that word, which for them means, “Annoyance!” (More proof that Americans can ruin everything, even healthy, fulfilling cuss-words.)

To what end have I kept this up?

None. Because an airport only takes you through … not “to,” exactly. Not truly.

To.

To completing and selling my five key projects before a certain age, finally launching and expanding my business, and securing the Only Remaining Things That Truly Matter … which I’m never going to share on a friggin blog.

Airports.

When I was 20–35, you couldn’t keep me out of them. Go figure.

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