The day ends at dawn again, but that’s okay.

I’ve spent it looking for a personal reason to stay alive and continue working — beyond paying the rent, I mean — and I may have found one. It has to do with analyzing and understanding the fan appetites that make the crossovers work commercially, and then finding a way to apply that knowledge toward making such a project work artistically, as well.

Grant Morrison’s carrying off a nice variation of it his multiple *Seven Soldiers* miniseries, so it *can* be done.

I’ll talk tomorrow about my number one criterion for judging comic book stories — *all* stories, really — and we’ll proceed from there.

But see, here’s the thing…

I can quote all the cocky lyrics I want, and I can understand the necessity of engaging in Roshomonics at an intellectual level, and I can make myself appear by turns witty and bitter and sympathetic to you, the reading public…

But there’s nothing quite as frightening as knowing that there’s no one to turn to, that you’re completely alone, when you’re feeling pathetic about yourself and your work and bewildered by your industry, and dawn is coming up, and you can’t catch your breath.

I loved this person more than should be allowed by law. I realize, of course, that that doesn’t matter. Human beings are guided by their individual instincts and imperatives. They do what they must and go where they must, and, in the end, without resorting to a gun or a baseball bat, there’s nothing any other human can do to stop them. Hell, that’s why I never even tried to prevent her from getting in the car at parking slot 68. Maybe I should have. Yes, she would easily have beaten me senseless and left me bloody in the street — she was very butch — but at least I’d have demonstrated the depth of my feeling…

It’s too late for musings like that, though, too. It’s too late to do anything but pick up the fucking pieces and try to reassemble them into something that looks like an existence rather than a parody of one.

(I have to stop and smile for a moment, picturing Mary — my writing partner on *Hard Time* — reading this, appalled. She’s such a private person that when she gets back to town she’ll probably castigate me for having just revealed that she’s such a private person. I’m sure she’s completely aghast that anyone would parade their emotions around in public like this. Well, yeah, I am too — but what the fuck?)

Having said all that, my thinking somehow seems a little clearer today. Maybe the antibiotics are working after all. Maybe all the purgation lyrics are having an effect, as well. And maybe, as a result of the meds and the music, I’m coming to the realization that I’ll never be able to love someone that way ever again, because there really is no one who could ever replace her…and, frankly, because I’m getting too old for this shit.

The purgation lyric of the day is the entirety of “For No One” by The Beatles, 1966. It’s the last purgation lyric I’m going to cite, because no one else has even come close to saying it as succinctly, or as heartbreakingly, or as well. Funny thing is, it was one of her favorite songs.

Mine, too — but not my favorite on that album (*Revolver*).

That would be “Tomorrow Never Knows”.

#####Purgation Lyric of the Day:

The story’s in the past,

With nothing to recall.

I’ve got my life to live,

And I don’t need you at all.

The roller coaster ride we took

Is nearly at an end.

I bought my ticket with my tears,

That’s all I’m gonna spend.

And I think it’s gonna be all right.

Yeah, the worst is over now,

The morning sun is shining like a Red Rubber Ball.

     — The Cyrkle, “Red Rubber Ball” (Paul Simon, composer),

        1966

I learned today that DC has decided not to collect *Hard Time* #7-12 as a trade paperback — at least, not yet. I was hoping we would have this second collection out before the first issue of *Season 2* hit the stores. Now, that’s not going to happen.

It makes me wonder how all those interlocking, triple-knotted company-wide crossovers which themselves cross over into other crossovers are selling this year. Is that really what people want to read? Guess so…

It’s what people do when they break up. They revise. They edit. They excise. They embellish. They reconstruct their personal perception of history to validate their choices.

Naturally, it’s what I *haven’t* done this time around. For me, the whole thing still starts with a slow dance and ends with an acrimonious goodbye at parking slot 68. I’ve allowed everything that happened in between to remain either cherished or forgiven.

I need to do the rewrite. Clearly, there are some memories I should treasure less and others I should resent more.

Sorry about all the melodrama.

The antibiotic seems to be helping. I could actually take deep breaths today.

#####Purgation lyric of the day:

I hope you got fat.

     — Violent Femmes, “Fat”, 1988

I can’t tell yet whether the antibiotics are doing any good against the pneumonia. At times, I feel a *little* stronger, but then I get caught short of breath again after some minor exertion — like, oh, lifting a piece of paper?

I hate this. You know how some people are mean drunks? I’m a mean invalid.

I did make a little progress along the Road to Indifference today, though. The ex came up in a conversation, and I listened to what was said, flinching only once. It’s a step. Ordinarily, I would exit or terminate a conversation at the mention of her name.

I want to write more, but the energy’s just not there.

#####Purgation lyric of the day:

There’s no easy way to lose your sight
On the street, on the stairs
Who’s on your flight.
Old couple walks by, as ugly as sin
But he’s got her and she’s got him.

I might like you better if we slept together…

     — Romeo Void, “Never Say Never”, 1981

This is going to make some of you very mad.

I quit smoking three and a half years ago. I don’t advocate smoking. I think anyone who does smoke would be wise to quit. Are we clear on all that?

Good. Because now I’m going to tell you to get the hell off your favorite smoker’s back. Your nagging won’t make him quit. Peter Jennings dying won’t make him quit.

People quit smoking either because they’re *ready* to quit or because they *have* to, not for any other reason. All the moralizing in the world won’t make a difference. It’ll make *you* feel all smug and superior and self-righteous, and if you need that, fine — but it won’t help your friend the smoker.

Nor will turning him into a pariah. If he’s got any spine at all, ostracism will only breed defiance.

I quit because I got *bored* with smoking, and for no other reason. Not because of a health scare. Not to accommodate changing social mores. Not because Sammy Davis, Jr. died. When I was *ready* to quit, I did — and I quit only once. Had I tried and failed repeatedly before I was ready, I might have become discouraged and never quit at all.

I don’t think I’m atypical.

The rampant emotionality and fluid buildup of the past few days leave me weary. I don’t really have a damn thing to say today. I’m just taking my antibiotics and trying to regain my strength, so I can get some work done. That would be nice.

Purgation lyric of the day:

Cloudy waters cast no reflection;
Images of beauty lie there stagnant.
Vibrations bounce in no direction,
And lie there shattered into fragments.

     — The Mamas & the Papas, “Twelve-Thirty”, 1968

I really should write something about comic books again, shouldn’t I? It’s been awhile. Maybe tomorrow.

All of my friends at school grew up and settled down,
And they mortgaged up their lives.
One thing’s not said too much, but I think it’s true.
They just get married cause there’s nothing else to do…

     — The Rolling Stones, “Sitting on a Fence”, 1967

I’ve always loved that.

Well, well. Turns out the cold sweats and shallow breathing weren’t entirely the product of anxiety.

According to the doctor, I’ve got a touch of pneumonia.

Yippee.