Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

A word is born

In my head;

It trails after your being

Breathlessly following crashing falling endlessly

Your scent & descent

Condense with the imprints of your silence.

Of the drinks we swallowed and the problems that we drank,

Of cocktails and hallucinogens that disappear

With passing neurons, that free and imprison us listlessly

but as true as night is dark and as devious are fawning remarks — my word will remain conceived sheltered cosseted and cradled

forever unspoken

But Always There.

Of commentaries, it must be said that I always imagined a peppery and prim British gentleman holed up somewhere in the dank recesses of my brain, with a black umbrella over his head (who knows why) and being insufferably prone to having fascinations with the most sterile of things and events.

“… and when that street car rolls to a stop, its brief momentum slightly undulating it forward in spite of the halt, and the passengers spill out listlessly from the doors, only subconsciously looking to their right for any overzealous bike couriers or depth-perception impaired drivers …”

And so on. I could probably attribute this rather idiosyncratic trait of mine (hooey – off the rails with the perceived quirks, this one) to having grown up being mesmerized by nature shows that showed slow motion films of cheetahs closing in on gazelles as a matter-of-fact British accent cavorted in easy symphony with the musical score. Having studied in a small, retrospectively adorable, prim and private English school helps too, although I should admit that not too many of my peers shared in my enthusiasm for sounding properly foreign and insufferably elitist. 

Which is to say that I must have been a conceited yet amusing-in-a-sad-sort-of-way kid from way back then, which probably explains why I didn’t have a lot of friends. not that I’m getting any better at that presently.

So what is the point of this entry? Further: what was the point of my blog all along? If it was conceived under a very generous assumption of keeping people abreast of my undoings, well then, firstly, you should check out the visitor stats on my site; one word comes to mind: ouch!

And secondly, the whole point of going through the trouble of regaling some perceived audience of stories is that you have a story in the first place. Or opinions. Anything that can make someone go “oh yeah…” or “hmm … that certainly wasn’t two minutes I wasted on some thoroughly self-indulgent tripe.”

And if the reason I maintain this blog is to hone my writing skills, well then, like that irascible John McCain says so endearingly so often ‘my friends’, I have totally derailed that objective of mine too. OK, maybe not “totally”. But damn near close.

An old, senile degenerate could have churned out more words than I’ve managed to recently — no disrespect, John.

So what is it then? What is this apparently morose and mindless conception of mine still hanging on the interweb like some sad, abandoned miner settlement on googlemap?

I’ve probably touched on this subject before, like a pathetic scab that constantly needs reaffirmation of its wretchedness by being picked at. And then I do pick at it and nothing comes out of it, which doesn’t help the “situation” and nor does it quell the incessant caterwauling.

Abject laziness could be one factor. It most certainly is the belching, drunk elephant in the cocktail party of my consciousness. And my, what a party it is. 

This one time -

It — my apathetic tendency towards this blog and life on the creative side in general — also, I should point out, eviscerates that erratic and coke-addled chipmunk in me that is my aptitude for distraction.

If life were a series of power ranger episodes, then mine would’ve ended at the beginning with all those epilepsy inducing strobe light intros.

A side-note: I totally dived into that last analogy with no idea whatsoever where it was headed, but I think I made a reasonably proper game out of it.

Anyway, for proof of this trait of mine, I only have to offer my present state of writing, on this very entry, at this very moment, randomly switching among different tabs of irrelevant websites. It is actually quite confounding and distressing to be aware of this and yet unable to rein it in. Its almost like I’m trying to play sudoku while riding a rodeo bull and also trying to reason with the animal.

And you know what I just did? I just went to youtube and typed in “rodeo bull sudoku puzzles”.

This fucking this is going to take way longer than necessary to complete.

- outside – I take a few minutes to stretch my legs and breathe in some wayfaring breeze. It carries it with a low hum of change, of seasons that must move on and leaves that must transform. This has been an unseasonably mild summer by all accounts, and the onset of fall has been deliberate but relatively less abrasive. It seems to almost be seeping in, like a reasonable suggestion — all cardigans and argyle socks.

Night shrouds the city, the cloudless sky faintly illuminated by the lazy orange haze of city lights. The breeze seems to be picking its intensity up every now and then. Leaves and branches sway; litter dances on the street, our urban tumbleweeds. I wish I could say I exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke and watched it trail after the wisps of dust and trickles of rain. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I don’t smoke. 

Tomorrows are bright yet far from lucid. Semper semper semper fidelis is my mind to its recollections. How it paints and changes the tunes to best cosset its frail being. 

It really is fucking hard to stay on a point sometimes.

“… and as he latches on to yet another non sequitur, in a pathetic attempt to dissuade people of his lack of originality or creativity, our tired writer slowly reaches for the finality of the ‘x’. He leans back on his chair, scrutinizes his brief ‘work’ for the evening, and clicking his tongue a few times, as if trying to pull himself out of his lull in the most effortless of ways, he picks himself up. The absurd attempt of writing about himself outside of himself in spite of himself isn’t fully lost on him, and as he yet again digs deep into the formidable tar pit that is his hubris, he parts with a fleeting admonition for his lack of inspiration and drive…”

And so on and so forth.