The Crucible Fabric Of The Memoirs – Mad Chaos: January 29, 2001

Red Flags Towards Recession

We pray for small miracles but this month, they seldom come.  Could you believe that there have only been twelve entries for these last twenty-nine days, and would you believe we were on the verge of victory, now facing the brink of disaster?  I cannot believe it.  

We were so close but yet again, so far, the writer disillusioned to whom these last few nights would do well to paint, a beaten, frustrated, and resigned man to the rabble rousing of his willing distract.

Things are looking grim for the writer, this, by far, being his longest stretch of days gone unwritten.  He would have had he not sooner fallen into a rut of storytelling, which now, these devoted stories, his device, with more sprouting than the writer can handle, are the crucible fabric of his memoirs.  

Duty challenges me, and so does this need to evolve.  But when so many red flags are hoisted skyward, you would think some curtailing reason was in order, something to slow me down so that the writer won’t burn out as often as he does.

An Inevitable Burnout Leading To Recession

What should be done then?  

What course of action needs to be put in place of entries that dictate my life?  

What discipline does he need, and is he even strong enough to slap an embargo on his demise?  

I would like to believe yes but the reality is that these methods have been broken for a long time now, methods that the writer is in no hurry to fix.  After all, he is one to chance walking through a mountain rather than around it.

Bringing his history into account, there would seem no ways of budging him.  The mere talk of an embargo is as preposterous as the thought that he could wholly wrap up chronology; as when we near, we lock, and then in this impasse, we budge, move, and wriggle free for another terminal effort.  These last few nights were his latest endured struggle, the lone writer against the laden irony of this world.

The trauma was just the beginning in these problematic last few nights but as usual, the true strength of the writer prevailed and pulled down these crippling walls.  

One Final Push On Backlog

These last few messy nights may have gotten out of control but I always knew that the writer would pull himself together.  So now he has, and now he begins as the storyteller on these dramatic last few nights, not for their magnificence, but for what from loss, was gained.

All my days this month have been written save for two crucial bones central to the storyline, and then these last five nights.  There are so many nights to write about.  But far from saying, “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” the writer always has a game plan tucked under his belt.  For now, this month and finishing it with all chronology intact is his priority, and could be done if he settles down in these last three nights.  Sure there are still four days of backlog to finish up on December, but those seem insignificant as to what is happening around me now.

First things are first though and the most important thing at this very moment seems to be these last five nights that haven’t even been touched on yet.  They may not be as deserving with their bland uneventful happenings, but to the writer of late, starting with something simple and working your way up seems the more productive tool to these memoirs.  He loved to get his hands dirty but the brave do often fall first.  So it seemed that way when he attempted his infeasible tasks whose strains were more often than not, more than he could handle.  

The Writer Not So Impregnable

He doesn’t like to throw himself into the deep end like he used to do some months back, when he would attempt writing, analyzing data from his memoirs, downloading files from the web, strategizing for the true millennium and collecting all the resources and marketing skills that he needed to lift his ideas off the ground.  

They were some hard days.  Frankly, it surprises me that the writer survived through it all.  However, the only reason he survived was because he backed off and learned from his mistakes.  I hope to apply the same principles here.  Although it isn’t as bad as it was then, it should be a struggle, of seizing control and settling the uncompromised writer, one step at a time.

An Ebb In Biorhythms

The writer has been going so well so far today.  It may have taken him almost eleven hours to get this far, catching up on one day of backlog for January 18, 2001, but it was worth it.  Prepping up my paragraphs seem to be working the best, severing the small sections of notation to my day and fleshing out some key phrases for the paragraph.  At times some parts seemed daunting to begin on.  Some parts stopped me for an hour or two, but eventually, my strong-minded will got me home tonight, well, at least this far anyway.

I am waiting for a call from Azalea any minute now, so that’s going to set me back another fifteen minutes to an hour, but it shouldn’t affect the momentum my memoirs have built up, momentum that is only now starting to come out of a disastrous biorhythm rut.  

I never noticed until earlier this afternoon but these last five nights, which have coincidentally gone unwritten, were plagued with impossible negative cycles, thought dead until now revived.

As the graph below shows, and as the writer with his absence would dictate, these last six nights up until Sunday were a well-chartered lull for my memoirs, which seemed to have adverse effects on my emotional cycle as a result.  The mood is starting to pick up now, but you don’t need a chart to tell me that.  The benefits are on the rise again, but although the new month may start on a positive high, it was hardly here the progressive pinch theory.

Hah, an actual digression away from the storyline can only be healthy practice.  It shows that the writer is still alive and that his mind hasn’t gone stale like the rest of his cobwebbed work.  There is some life in him yet, and promise for when the new month trucks along.  But for now, let’s get back to the backlog.

Making Progress On Diary Backlog

In these past few hours since that last paragraph I was able to catch up on one more day of backlog for January 17, 2001.  Come now, all that buildup for some measly-short paragraphs.  As the old saying goes though, to the writer, the simplest things are always the most intense.  

Wednesday, January 17, 2001 was really nothing more than a straightforward table of events but here we have a committed number of pages in fifteen straight hours, give or take my shorts breaks and conversations with Azalea tonight, both on the internet and then on the phone.  

I have to get to sleep now.  for the first time this month, or at least it seems, it is a promise that hasn’t been lost or overrun in days of deceit.  This entry was all finished in one legitimate day, from 10am in the morning until now, an hour and a half past midnight.  It might be best to get some sleep now though.  Azalea is coming over later this morning, so eight hours and the continuance of my early nights would be a good idea.  

There’s something newly brought back from the slums of my memoirs, some optimistic talk about an event that will shortly take place.  The writer is usually so inundated with storytelling that he tends to miss out on the finer things at hand.  Oh well.

Although Azalea’s visit tomorrow may for some hours shelve my growing enthusiasm, it won’t change anything.  Things will go to plan.  The writer will continue to stave off stale bread, and all before the true millennium could ever commence.  

Mark me now, February will be my last haul, an’t be said, so true it be.