The lost year.

So, I sort of disappeared there for a while.

You may be wondering what the hell happened, because I may have posted rarely on WordPress -- but I did post. Don't worry, I wasn't in prison -- or rather, not in a traditional prison of bricks and bars. I was ill last year -- for months, to the point that I've started to refer to the period as "My Lengthy Victorian Convalescence." I never understood what people meant in the old novels by "lengthy illness," the sort where a slow walk around the garden was progress indeed. But I learned that. I even learned that sitting up on the sofa to watch TV could be a struggle.

I was actively sick for about five months -- and not with anything normally fatal, just sick. I missed (cumulatively, not consecutively) about seven weeks of work from December 2008 through April 2009. I did manage to keep my day job, barely -- and mostly just because I'm a hassle to replace during tax season.

I'm used to losing long periods of time to the haze of depression, but not physical illness. It was such a strange sensation to watch the days march by from my sick bed. The whole thing started with something like a bad flu, but progressed into an endless bronchitis. I just couldn't seem to get well, and the antibiotics they originally gave me caused me to lose over 20 pounds in three weeks. I couldn't eat, and I was too weak to sit up a lot of the time. It was a combination of things, as far as I can tell -- severe asthma that had gone undiagnosed (possibly for years), along with hypersensitivity to a couple of medications, all worsened by stress -- but it was amazing how a fever and a cough snowballed into this Other that became my entire life for a time.

I guess I had the impression that people are supposed to develop great wisdom when faced with severe illness. Isn't that what we're supposed to believe? The narratives found in popular ladies' magazines seem to imply this -- everyone from cheerful, bald cancer survivors to those that have heart attack scares all see "the light." We're supposed to slow down, appreciate what we have, and be thankful -- always thankful -- for the little things.

Well, I wasn't thankful. I just got frustrated, and bored, and kind of bitter. Even when I reached a point where I realized that I might not get well, that this horrible Other may not be temporary, I didn't have a single deep thought. I just stopped making plans for the future.

I watched the shadows track along my bedroom wall as the sun moved across the winter sky, waiting.

I never figured out what I was waiting for, exactly. Recovery? Death? For my partner to come home from work? Life became a giant waiting room in an office building where nothing was as expected, and the chairs weren't very comfortable. Everything stopped: My writing, my hobbies. I even stopped making lists, which would have been unthinkable in the "before time."

The concept of limbo became very real to me.

After the worst of it, when I was able to go to work almost every day, there was nothing left over in the evening. I couldn't cook dinner, or go to a movie. I could only rest, and be restless.

Even now, many months later, the truth is that I never got well -- not completely. Maybe I never will. I had to hire a cleaner, and I have to be very careful how I expend my energy. I make fewer plans for "fun" these days, because I can never gauge whether or not I'll be well enough to leave the house. My Victorian Convalescence continues in a fashion. I have trouble breathing. I must be very gentle when I exercise. I feel old, and worn, and very, very tired.

But I can sit up now, even after a full day. And that means I can write again.

Maybe that's all the cure I'll need in the end.

"An undersea, unexplained mass sponge migration."

The migration from our previous home on the web is now complete -- or as complete as it's going to get, since I did leave some housekeeping detriment over there.

Suffice to say, I only brought the good stuff over the new threshold. Sure, that means the essays came over, along with some bread, salt, and honey because I'm superstitious. Anything dated before 08/2009 is from the previous location.

Welcome to Postmodern Occult (again).

"Real Simple," Real Sad.

I have subscribed to “Real Simple” magazine twice, and both times I let the subscription lapse rather than renewing it. The first time I wasn’t really sure why I let it lapse — it just seemed the thing to do. I figured out why the second time. And I won’t be subscribing again.

“Real Simple” makes me sad.

“Real Simple” is a journal of depravity presented as a reasonable, helpful aid to daily living. If you don’t examine it closely it seems to consist of innocuous, even “inspiring” material: Stories of women who have overcome great odds (or, more frequently, given up “stressful” careers to be stay at home mothers), organizing tips, and simple recipes. Sure, it sounds good (in a way), and it damn sure looks fabulous (in an understated, muted sort of way). But it’s horrible, and empty, and most of all, sad.

The last issue I read had an article called “Organize Me.” It outlined the clutter in one woman’s minivan, and then the solutions used to corral it. It seemed normal enough, but it made me cry — and organizing articles rarely provoke such emotional response. The woman in the article wrote “permission slips and thank-you notes while in the car pool lane.” Her whole purpose in the organizational process was to “get more done while [she was] in the car.”

This woman practically lived in her car. She spent so much time shuttling from place to place all day long that the objects needed at each place could not leave the vehicle, since there was no down time between trips. Her kids did homework in the car. She charged her laptop, phone, and PDA in the car — and one could assume that she used them all in the car, too. And sure, they did a great job of putting all of the clutter into a more manageable system, and a system that seemed easy enough to maintain.

But did anyone ever stop the woman and ask her if all of these activities were necessary?

How far away from work or her children’s activities does this woman live that makes her car a second home? How many activities do her children participate in? Was this really a good time to go back to school for a master’s degree while still working and shuttling everyone around all the time? Couldn’t her husband take over some of the child-schlepping if his wife’s education was really a priority?

As I read through the article, I was overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness. This woman’s life is considered completely normal. Her children’s hamster-wheel existence is normal. Her husband’s absence is normal. All of these things are expected and normal. Many people reading that article took away helpful tips for their own two hour commutes, I’m sure.

I took away a sense of despair so palpable I wept.

Another article in the same issue, called “The Happiest 15 Minutes of My Day,” had single page profiles of five “real” women who explained what daily activity they enjoyed most. They ranged in age from 26 to 42, but all save one (whose favorite time was picking up her children from school) stated that her happiest time was the only brief part of the day that she spent alone: Pre-dawn dog walking, a solo morning jog around Manhattan, drinking tea after both husband and children were asleep, commuting home. Actually, the commuter apparently spent most of her time alone, as in her profile she said, “When I get home, I’ll pass by my husband on his way out to work the graveyard shift…but the dog and cat will keep me company.”

It just made me sad.

There were articles on “[pulling] yourself out of a bad mood,” getting a workout in 15 minutes, and an article that showed how to arrange bland furniture in bland rooms — articles for frenzied beige people, pretending to simplify their lives by buying more, doing more, feeling less, and pretending that everything is perfectly okay.

I don’t want any part of that.

I actually live a simple life. I take the bus to work, so I don’t have a minivan to organize. The happiest part of my day is when my partner and I cook dinner together, then sit at the table to eat together. I have time — for myself and others, plus time to develop new skills and polish old ones. My life is not usually hectic. And despite struggling with depression most of my life, I’m mostly happy these days.

I’ve made different choices than most people — deliberately — and I understand that. I don’t have children (and I don’t want to have them), and I have no desire to live in the suburbs. I don’t have a high-powered career, and I’m not likely to be “successful” by mainstream standards. But I have something the people in “Real Simple” magazine don’t have: Ease.

I don’t have to struggle every day to do a million things expected of me by others.

And I don’t have to read “Real Simple” magazine to simplify my life. Their version of simplicity is far too sad to be authentic.

Who the hell is Apocrypha Jones?

Born into obscurity in the southernmost (and the most hick) part of the Midwestern United States, Apocrypha Jones aspired to be the new pin-up girl of poetry. Once it was established that she had no talent for verse or titillation, she turned her considerable, almost Scrabble-worthy vocabulary to the important task of elucidating just how fucked the world was, and in what ways.

After feverish study of anti-civ writings, conspiracy theory, bizarre metaphysics, and oddly enough, opera, she arrived at her own perspective — and a need to share this perspective with others.

Apocrypha lives in Houston, which is possibly the worst city in the world for a person who thinks deeply or is even semi-aware of his or her surroundings. She shares a modest (though well-appointed) flat with her man Woodward, who has no discernible online presence to Google, and a wild cat-beast named Winona, who was absolutely not named after the pill-popping/shop-lifting actress.

Also, just for the record, her name ain’t “baby.” It’s Apocrypha — Miss Jones if you’re nasty.

What the hell does “postmodern occult” mean?

To define "postmodern occult" I need to paraphrase Terence McKenna: What I'm trying to do here is to look at the “wiring under the board.” This journal is my attempt to explore the seamy underbelly of our culture, as expressed in popular entertainment, the paranormal, and various other things.

Also, it’s fun to hang out somewhere pretending to be a hipster talking about PoMoOcCu. Right?

Procrastination and you. (You meaning me.)

I have been procrastinating. I meant to launch this new journal on Friday the 13th, but certain forces (the terrible inertia of working, eating, and sleeping) conspired to push the date back.

However, it is Halloween today — and the New Year’s Eve of the Olde World Calendar — and I think it would be remiss to wait any longer.

So, hello. I’m Apocrypha. You may remember me from such films as “The Deepest Darkest Recesses of Your Imagination” and “That Strange Girl You Saw on the Bus.” I’m here to point out things that you may have missed along the way — mostly weird things, dark things, hidden things. We’ll chat about astrology, conspiracies, the paranormal, and maybe, just maybe…naked pictures of Bea Arthur.

But that’s only if you behave.

Welcome to Postmodern Occult.