If I could live anywhere in the world, I’d choose a place that doesn’t demand explanations or performances. I’ve lived in cities, deserts, the deep woods — turns out I can settle in just about any landscape as long as it leaves me room to disappear a little.
These days, I picture a small town within driving distance of my hideaway. A place where the market clerk nods without prying, and the librarian teases me about my tattered books but respects the depth of them. Guppy wouldn’t trust her at first, naturally. But a few well-timed treats would work faster than diplomacy ever could. Age catches up with all of us, but if anyone’s going on a diet, it’s her.
Most mornings would start the same: a meditation-heavy book cracked open, a good pen waiting, coffee steaming, my thoughts wandering until Guppy yanks me back to earth with a judgmental meow. Just enough contact with the world to keep me grounded — not enough to get invited to supper. (People get touchy when you say no.)
What I’m really chasing is a chance to breathe. A place where the air isn’t sharpened by worry, where everything isn’t a potential threat even when it isn’t one. Somewhere I can write without the static of the world pressing in, where anonymity isn’t loneliness — it’s relief.
And at the end of each day, I’d know I chose right: Guppy stretching and settling into her next perch, the porch light catching dust in the evening air, the quiet presence of night creatures moving around me. They don’t disturb me. I don’t disturb them. Just a mutual agreement to exist without fear.
On the surface, it sounds simple. Life without a computer? Quiet. Peaceful. No antivirus sales pop-ups, no Cialis spam at cost, no desperate emails from Classmates.com trying to drag me back to people I don’t remember—or worse, the ones I do. Strip all that away and sure, it’s tempting to picture myself sitting in an easy chair, no screen glow, no endless buzz. But simple answers are just window dressing. Let’s peel back the glass and see what’s really inside.
I can remember the feel of it—life before all this. Index cards. Library catalogs. Encyclopedias stacked like walls around a curious kid. I’d curl up in the corner of a room and lose myself in some unknown world waiting to be discovered. A flashlight, a Conan paperback, an aunt who kept my trunk stocked. My mother would walk the hall, check to see if I was asleep. I’d roll to the side, play-acting. She never called me on it. Years later, I returned the favor when my daughters pulled the same trick with Goosebumps and The Babysitters Club. Memory does this thing—it polishes the edges. We remember the warmth, not the splinters. Maybe that’s why fragments from the past glow brighter: because we need them to.
But nostalgia only tells half the story. You want the other half? Without computers, the scaffolding of modern life buckles. The power grid falters, the fridge sweats, the meds spoil, the pumps stall. Life unravels fast. You don’t have to be a doomsday prepper to see it—the dependency is baked in.
And then there’s the smaller erosion, the social kind. I asked two young men for directions not long ago. One was polite, helpful. The other? Rude enough to make me want to crush him into wine. Back in the day, you blamed the parents and moved on. Now everyone blames “the cell phone generation”—usually while scrolling their own feeds or taking selfies. Computers didn’t invent rudeness. They just gave it more stages.
So no, this isn’t an indictment. Computers didn’t ruin us. The cracks were already there long before the first home PC blinked awake. What computers did was speed it all up. Made connection instant, exposure constant. They’ve fed my family, carried my work, given me conversations with people in corners of the world I never would’ve reached otherwise. And they’ve pissed me off. As I type this, I’m smiling through the irony—I’m literally writing about life without computers while debugging a Linux distro on my desktop. It’s a love-hate relationship, and it always will be.
Music is my counterweight. Computers speed me up, music slows me down. The screen demands reaction; the record demands attention. Drop Zeppelin or Miles Davis and suddenly the world exhales. The horns breathe, the guitars stretch, and I remember that time doesn’t have to move at the pace of a notification.
So excuse me, as I sit down with my coffee, open a notebook, and let Miles play. I’ll scribble lines of prose that might become something later. And when I’m ready, I’ll boot the machine back up—fresh OS humming—ready to write, to read, to connect with friends across the world.
Life without a computer? Maybe I’ve been living both lives all along.
Losing track of time isn’t a bug — it’s a feature. A built-in occupational hazard. Time slips, evaporates, gets swallowed whole. You want to know what makes me lose track of time? Existing. Creating. Trying to survive my own thoughts with a pen in my hand and a playlist I’ve overanalyzed into oblivion.
Writing. Not just any writing. The kind that starts as a whisper, then sets your spine on fire. The kind that makes your coffee go cold and your leg fall asleep. The kind where you look up and three meals have gone missing. The next thing you know, you’re ranting on a blog (Memoirs of Madness) about the phantom who comes up with these writing prompts like they’re paying attention to your ass.
“Which activities make you lose track of time?” Go to sleep.
Because I sure haven’t.
You ever try to sleep when your brain is busy unraveling fictional timelines, reorganizing half-finished character arcs, or rewording a sentence you wrote in 2014? That’s not insomnia. That’s creative maintenance.
Then there’s music — but again, not casual listening. I’m talking full immersion. Deep dives into B-sides and dusty vinyl grooves. Emotional spelunking. What starts as one track becomes a therapy session. A confession. A reconstruction of every heartbreak I thought I forgot. That’s not a playlist — that’s a time machine. And I keep punching the return ticket.
Next thing you know, there’s a whole damn website just about music (House of Tunage), because you clearly have nothing better to do with your time than build emotional mixtapes for ghosts. Oh yeah, go to sleep.
Thinking is another trap. Or maybe the original sin. I sit down for “a minute,” and suddenly I’m in a three-act dialogue with a dead mentor, an imaginary enemy, and the version of myself that had more optimism and less back pain. Thought spirals aren’t a time suck. They’re the prelude to every good story I’ve ever written — and the footnote to everyone I’ve abandoned.
Next thing you know, your table’s covered in monographs and marginalia. Then you have the nerve to post them like they’re literary gold on yet another website (The Howlin’ Inkwell), because apparently the only thing more dangerous than thinking is believing any of it might matter. Wow. …maybe I shou— go to sleep.
And let’s not forget the premium act of staring into space. That’s not wasted time. That’s creative buffering. System reboot. Soul loading.
So no, I don’t just “lose track of time.” I command it. I twist, bend, and shape it to the will of the gods of story and sound. And most days, they don’t even say thank you.
But that’s fine. Because this isn’t for them. Not really.
My job is to guide you through the splinters that only exist outside of time. You know the place: cold, light, dark, and joyful land. Where memory hums, story bites, and music bleeds.
Let me guide you. Come and take my hand. You’re looking at me like you’re confused. Let me help you clear things up. You look as if you need to get something off your chest.
Seriously, sit down, please. Talk to Mangus.
But if you still think this was all just about losing track of time, I’ll allow the indulgence — just this once. Because I whined once. In the ’70s. Don’t look at me in that tone of voice. Whining was allowed briefly after the bicentennial. There was a memo.
Missed the first meeting of Prompt Addicts Anonymous? That’s okay. We don’t judge. But you might want to catch up before the next spiral. 👉 Session One: “Hi, My Name is Mangus…”
Author’s Note
Yes, the websites mentioned in this piece — House of Tunage, The Howlin’ Inkwell, and even Memoirs of Madness itself — are all very real. And yes, they’re all still works in progress. Like most things I love, they’re messy, unfinished, and somehow always expanding when I should probably be sleeping instead.
So if you click something and it’s half-built, half-broken, or wildly under construction… welcome to the Mangus Khan Universe. We’re getting there. Slowly. Beautifully. Eventually.
The MKU is under construction. But the lights are already on.
“Having it all” sounds like the title of a self-help book ghostwritten by someone who drinks green juice for dinner and cries in their Tesla. It’s vague enough to seem profound, and just specific enough to make you feel like you’re failing.
What does it even mean? A six-figure job with no after-hours emails? A partner who remembers anniversaries and does the dishes? Inner peace, abs, well-adjusted children, and a well-stocked fridge — all at once? That’s not a life. That’s a fever dream.
Ask the right person and they’ll tell you exactly what “having it all” means. They’ll say it with that glazed, TED Talk confidence that screams, “I rehearse my affirmations in the mirror.” Usually, some nonsense about balance, intention, or monetizing your passion. And sure, we let it slide — because we’ve got more urgent problems like whether there’s enough coffee to survive the morning, and if Steve from accounting is going to hog the microwave again.
The truth is, “having it all” is a capitalist carrot. It’s designed to keep you chasing, spending, comparing — never arriving. You can climb every rung, hit every milestone, and still feel like you’re missing something. That’s the point. It’s a treadmill, not a destination.
Is it attainable? In theory, maybe. In this reality? With this rent? With this 47-tab browser brain and a body held together by caffeine and vague dread? Not likely.
For me, “having it all” means waking up without a panic spiral, drinking a full cup of hot coffee in peace, and ending the day without wanting to fake my own death. That’s it. That’s my utopia. If I’ve got that, I’m doing alright.
Maybe it’s not about chasing some polished version of success that looks good on LinkedIn. Maybe it’s about carving out just enough quiet, food, love, and laughs to keep going.
My life goals include coffee. The rest is flexible.
Listening to podcasts, really isn’t my thang. I suppose I missed the movement. However, I have spent a considerable amount of time on internet radio. I was even a host for a number of years. I unsure if internet radio has been rebranded to podcasts, if so, cool, if not okay. I have listened to a few but are mainly podcasts done by people I interact with either in person or here on WordPress. When I have listened to podcasts they deal with following subjects.
Writing
Music
Film
I have noticed that are a few podcasts dealing with AI and other technology subjects that look interesting. I realize that a bit old fashioned on how I absorb information, but its worked for several decades. I’m not above making changes, it just takes a bit to warm up to the idea. I get my history, philosophy, and psychology fixes from books and articles. In the last decade or so, I’ve developed a liking for audiobooks. They provide the ability to move around while my brain is still being stimulated.
Memoirs of Madness 