Ordinary every day emergencies

I hear sirens. It comes with the territory; there's a hospital right around the corner.

I realise how serene this environment really is, compared to what it could be, to what it might become in my lifetime. Nothing really ever happens. Big deals are made of small ones. It's just a little bit of food for thought.

To Morrow, To Work

Craft. Create. Feel emptiness. Yes. Feel it.

Lyric

On soundcloud





I believe there has come to be
an elementary figment in the family tree
a solid figure boasts, painting waves,
"I threw the child out with the mediterranean sea."

Bring me water, bring me luck,
I've tamed the lion, serenely stuck
without a common ancestor, they cease to agree
Forgive the mess, derive the duck.


Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.

Fifteen years, ever after, and decisive contact resolves the matter.

        

Scheduled meetings begin the week,
Tempests toss the bird-shaped leek.
I've had it up to approximately here,
such befits the earl of tongue-in-cheek.

Merging livid similar faces,
alive today, yet cloaked in graces,
redraw the world in disarray,
swimming water, dancing grasses.


Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.
Fifteen years, ever after, and decisive contact resolves the matter.

Beings crushed beneath the film,
Esther bought a brand new kiln
I'm certain that this sadness jokes and stresses
the certainty of standing still NO

No one wants to hear why I do
the things that I do, the way that I do,
But that's one reason why I'm forced to
forget that I'm doing anything at all.


Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.

Fifteen years, never after, and derisive conflict dissolves the matter.

Titleous Maximus

It's a good thing I don't have more readers. Oh wait, scratch that, it's actually a terrible thing. It's not NOT a good thing, though, so I guess unscratch that. It's a good and terrible thing that I don't have more readers.

Fucking bloody hell, and bloody Mary. Who first wrote bloody? It aught to be bluddy. Bloody looks like what it looks like. Bloody. Blood. From the root word "bloo", which is clearly a misspelling of the word "blue".

The point of getting on here today was to get myself into a relaxing state. Therapeutic saying things. I love yet don't love at all how, practically, I'm unintelligible. Note. Note. Two-note chord. Three-note chord. Is that music? Is it music yet? I can't tell, but I'm leaning toward it isn't music. Put down the guitar. Pick up the guitar. Consider what I've just done, decide that putting it back down could be the next logical step, and then I could pick it up again. Then, to show my understanding of and lack of appreciation for what's happening, I could swing the guitar full-force against the wall or the bedpost. Those who smoke marijuana do not have this trouble. They do not notice that they are not playing music; they continue to play two- and three-note chords, happily. But then, in their happiness, by their happiness, is sound made music. Of course marijuana isn't the solution.

Open a jar. No, open a can. Open a can of green beans. Take out one green bean. Open one green bean. Take out one seed. Show the seed to the camera. Put the seed back into the green bean, put the green bean back into the can, lower the lid. You are now wondering what is to come of this can of green beans. It is opened, you cannot reseal it. Perhaps you will throw it away, or rubber band some cling-wrap on it. Either one is fine, but you must consider why it was necessary to open the can to begin with.

Mountainous, gliding over the scenery. Nothing matters that matters now. Perhaps into infancy, or into the period when you didn't have so many things to worry about. Before you cared what people thought of you. You once professed flagrant disregard for others' opinion of you. You once picked your nose truly, effortlessly. You wore a lunchbag on your head, marched about singing "We are the soldiers of the world!" You were still criticised for caring too much, though. You didn't struggle with anything. Everything was easy. You were once free. You followed your desires, and although you didn't always get what you wanted, you never had cause for suicide. Now you follow desires, you follow them once again. You chase them. You set your motive, you give it a name. There is no greater achievement than to win the one you want. But there are other great achievements: science, philosophy, learning. Yet again, more than these, to win the one you want. But what are the means to this end? You must pursue lesser goals, and find them found. A shift, though. Contemplation of what you've seen. The greatest aid to a dream fulfilled is the isolation of its driving force. Smith a sword, then make the sword work for you.

Organised Thoughts

• That which causes war is the same that creates internal stability.
• I refuse to choose sides, thus forfeiting a chance at stability.
• I am regularly trying to identify myself as a good man, but have considerable trouble doing so.
• I have no difficulty conceiving innovative ideas, but have no skill whatsoever in applying them to my fingers or tongue, to express and utilise my individuality for the common good.
• I may need to switch modes, to a simpler form of writing, in order to pursue lengthy and beneficially productive goals; but I'm not sure how to go about this.

If

Do I have a responsibility to make some kind of sense?
Or, if I am to expect to be treated as a person, am I required to think like a person?
I am in left-field. Unequivocally. I am an equivocator.

Persons start with a thesis; persons make points. Persons wade in and out of water, for pleasure; persons don't arbitrarily come up with the idea to wade in and out of water, where there is clearly no water to wade in and out of. Persons don't smoke cigarettes, as cigarettes are deathly. Persons say deadly when they mean deadly, and deathly when they mean deathly. Persons do not wish to die, persons do not think of death; persons may think of death, but will certainly never allow an inconsistency of thought to play out in the public eye, as I have done here.

As for the definition of equivocate, google says that it is to "use ambiguous language so as to conceal the truth or avoid committing oneself." Well, I'd say I'm more of the second type of equivocator. Not that I'm essentially non-committal, though, really; rather, although I'm sure I'm very committed to at least one thing, that thing is ambiguous. At least, it is ambiguous to most schools of thought. But then, what if you, too, are a like-minded equivocator? It may be that only the lazy know what the drive behind their laziness is. It may be that this is all nonsense; I'm a very unrecognised author, so I could see how it might be true that this is all nonsense. I'm not an author at all, so now I'm almost certain that this is nonsense; but, for the sake of self-preservation, I'm going to assume that there is some truth to the nonsense.

ATTN: Accidental Trespassers, or Webcrawlers

Welcome! I say welcome, because it appears I've been getting a little bit of traffic here lately. What for? I have no idea. Probably only webcrawling thingies. But still, averaging 2 or 3 hits per day? This calls for a toast!

If you DO happen to be a real reader, and have accidentally stumbled upon (no pun intended*) this, my blog, then I do certainly hope to catch your attention with this catchy little fig-bit:

Some kids who played games about Narnia
got gradually balmier and balmier.

Well, okay, I certainly didn't write that. I intended to, but never quite got a round tuit. Please don't ask me what a tuit is, I'll only tell you what I've heard, and that's apparently hearsay (or so I've heard), and that is that a tuit is round and rather wooden, kind of like a coin. A bit of a wooden coin, then, isn't it?

Enough about anything. Let's talk about something else. The only other thing to talk about is, sadly, nothing.


*Well the pun was intended, but I didn't pun, that was somebody else's pun. I just meant to say that I wasn't intending to reference the pun, which wasn't really much of a pun to begin with, but, eh. Well.

I am unsatisfied with my previous post.

Yeeeaahhh!!

So, 2:43 in the morning, again, I guess, and yeah! I'm writing stuff. Because, well, why not? I need to wake up early (before 1pm) tomorrow to do laundry, but, hey, I can afford to stay up, right? Yeah!

Peanuts and Pinocchio, because, why not?

It's just one of those nights, man. I want to be all over the place, but, of course, I'm in one place, and I don't have a whole lotta extra funds, so, well, look, man, I can't exactly go anyplace.

I'm going through all The Shins' discography, trying to decide if any of it is better than "Baby Boomerang". I'm pretty sure there isn't anything better. Meh. I should look for something different to listen to; but what?

Enough of what there is to listen to. Enough of what there isn't to listen to, as well. There seems to be so little. Or, too much. None of these sorts of things are worth writing about, are they.

I should like to eat a fudge.

Three days, and then

I suppose it silly to suppose that I could outdo my last writing on the subject, which was merely two or three days ago, now, as though perhaps in these few moments anything can be said to have changed. However, these things do take time to pass, as they do, as I know, very well.

One could attempt a mockery of my "I suppose it silly", fooling himself into believing that I had intended to write "I suppose it's silly"; but then, I generally always say exactly what I intend. There is an "understood" "to be" in there, such that the meaning is "I suppose it [to be] silly." But then, who questions my use of words? Somebody could, and I'd just like to point out that they would be mistaken, and will have to try harder in the future to argue that I am an imbecile.

Nearing the time that I must retire though it is, continue I do. And here we are; or, I am, rather; or we.

But what has my previous object lacked, the previous writing that I created? What has it lacked? again I ask, because the first sentence was not strong enough. I'm not sure what it lacked. I suppose it was lacking in that it did not create in my mind a stubborn resolve, a resolution, as it were, that I would go about doing anything in particular to woo my enchantress. Perhaps the summation of the situation is that I have merely done my best to sum up for her, in text, how that I am interested in hearing from her more, and that she has decidedly not made that happen. I have not gone to great lengths to avail myself to her, nor have I made lengthy petitions for apt response. I have merely let bygones be bygones, because, in simpleness, it is the best of the options that I have derived from the possibilities I see. If I were to say, "Hear, hear; you are to speak to me further," the response I would achieve would not be at all the dreamt-of response that motivated me to SAY, "Hear, hear;" and if I were to drive to her place uninvited, and if she responded with a hesitant, vague sort of jubilation, then I would be forced to always be going out of my way to get her attention, and I honestly don't know how well I could cope with that-- it would be a large change for me; and then, later, it might even prove a fleeting solution; she might eventually respond just as she'd respond to "Hear, hear; you are to speak to me further."

No, none of those would do. And so, as I guess I must do in these situations, I have absolved myself of further responsibility. Now, what can I do, in addition to this resignation? I can dream; but in contrast to these dreams, what terrors may come, if, while my mind is set upon one dream, the things I see are distinctly of a different sort?




I suppose, eventually, somebody will be somebody different; and though I prefer the enchantress now, in the future, another will come. It is a sad compromise, but somebody has to do it.

I could write [countless] volumes on the subject, but I only have one night to sleep before working, and I must do all that I can to turn off the "cogs" and other mechanical devices that [it has been suggested to me] make my brain go.

It is not, again, all so very well

There are times in a man's life when he cannot properly control his needs.
The thing that I want is too expensive to pay for.
Is it a thing of beauty? To continue on with this wording. This, this sadness.
It is best, I believe, to pick an audience and stick with it, and forget the others.
So, who is my preferred audience today?
What is preference? What is it based upon?
I think I'd prefer it to be a lovely lady. But then, is that really the best thing to do?
Shall I, rather, have an audience with the world?
I can tell all, and hope to seal it up in words and forget;
or, I could direct my sad and perplexed emotions toward the lovely lady;
but, in that case, it would make much more sense to just send it directly to her, via text or something.

I think what really needs to happen is:
I need to change my opinion on the matter. To reveal my worst fears, and to accept them as fact.
She does not love me; it is not the true love that I was dreaming of that night.
She kissed me, and it was unexpected, and it was intriguing, but she didn't mean it, so then perhaps I can view it as only intriguing, and no longer feel it as the enchantment it has been.
She was entirely intoxicated; therefore, though she was free with me and allowed me into her bed, it in no way reflects the real level of trust she has for me; but, who says drunkenness is not realer than sobriety? What I really need to distinguish is the several sides of her view of me. Mildly under the influence, she is at rest, and is friendly to me. Heavily inebriated, she is not thinking straight, and will not remember, so it does not matter I suppose; I would do well to remember this next time. Sober, she is sometimes curt, sometimes a doll.

This writing is such a mess, I know this very well. My mind is as well.

I suppose my worst fears perhaps are not fact; I cannot prove them as such. They are at least a good indicator (at least); they are probabilities. Structured, strengthened by time and experience in the field. If she's not into me, she's not, and that's all there really is to it.

I tend to think that, if there were to be love between us, the image I have of it would need to be wiped clean and redrawn, again, as it ever is; and, in fact, this sort of thing could go on unendingly, until we were very old. It is that I was so very over her; I have been pretty much clear of feelings for her, for over a year; and now, this has occurred:

the forgotten kiss

Is it just that I wanted something so badly that,
 even though my thoughts were almost entirely platonic,
  I let this forgotten kiss wrap me in a cloth of enchantment?
I had forgotten the feeling;
 I had written such things off
  as impossibilities.
A brief daydream, then
 less than a week goes by,
  and she is in my arms,
   so to speak.
Who wouldn't jump to conclusions?
And yet, as things return to their natural rest,
 my living heart remembers--
  an unlikelihood, brought into reality.

Dumb that it couldn't be real. Or then...
But, probabilities.
I should restate that. Here:
   Dumb if it's not real,
   Not so dumb if it's real.
   Likely not real, though,
   So most likely dumb.

How I came to be as I am

There once was a time when I had every freedom to do and think whatever I wanted. Childhood.

There came a point when I realised I was a force of annoyance in social situations. I did not care, though. And then, there was the point when I realised that I had an opportunity to deepen my understanding of things, at which point I felt it would behoove me to become more aware and understanding of my fellow human beings. I did so.

There was something of the idea of God in all of this. I was raised entirely in church. It began with an occasional feeling that I shouldn't do and be quite exactly what and who I was doing and being. It eventually progressed enough to convince me that I really needed to do what I could do to satisfy the inner demand. Some rather bold people would call this the work of the Holy Spirit, and would refuse to consider alternative possibilities. Some people might think it the work of said spirit at first, and then stop a moment to listen to my experience, out of curiosity. I suppose it doesn't much matter in any case.

I'm probably a deist. I think Jesus was probably who he said he was. I probably think he has the right to decide what is good for mankind; I think that nobody on earth has that right. I have chosen the sidelines, in a sense, because of the stupid things that are going on in the game. All sides of all issues act stupid in some sense or another. I often identify with the dwarves of the last battle; the dwarves are for the dwarves. It suits me.

Poorly written writing. It suits me, as well.

If you build it, they will come?

Certain happenings have brought about certain thoughts. Firstly, I've been playing sudoku. Secondly, I've been encouraged to write a blog post about my friend's recent musical endeavours. As I sit and think about how to write said blog, I've found myself seeing sudoku numbers. It seems that I'm really very bad at organisation. In sudoku, you are given a certain number of definites. The rest are infinites; well, they seem that way anyhow-- in truth, they are also definites, but you don't know what they are yet. It's just this sort of thing that baffles me to no end, every day, as I live my life. Had I never begun to play sudoku, I might never have been able to see the problem so clearly. It also affects my songwriting, viz. it actually freezes my brain and I lose focus entirely and cannot ever seem to get anything done.

I sit here, now, and the members of my mind reconvene on the matter of my consciousness and on that of possible futures. Thoughts-- inspired thoughts-- no, feelings, in truth-- feelings are definites. I'm not sure of the extent to which my natural progression of thought is productive. Should I, indeed, stop and consider each definite [feeling], giving each one full focus, to see if the definite will produce another definite, as in sudoku? Or shall I continue with my sometime-organised, sometime-disorganised flow? Even that question could be considered an infinite, by me, by me, with such a lack of knowledge, by myself, an uninitiate... life's game is played on such a large board.

Getting together

When I say "Getting together", I mean that I am attempting to get some thoughts together, for to publish them on my other blog. So, this here's my attempt.

Firstly, it must be noted that it's almost like dry-heaving at this point. I nearly posted directly into my other blog, but then realised that it would end up being bull-hockey, MOST likely. And by bull-hockey, I mean... THIS... this stuff, wherein there is little if any purpose for any reader to invest any time in reading. I quite nearly ended that last sentence with an ellipsis. THAT's how bad this is.

Secondly, it must be reasserted that even in dryness of thought there is the possibility of revelation. If this were not the case, this blog would not exist. In fact, what would the purpose be in any blogging whatsoever?

Nonetheless, as a tertiary thought, I return to another spot in my brain, and will now tell of the feeling I have toward the generation of a polished and lovely product for the eyes and minds of readers worldwide. Were it not for this sort of feeling, there would be no collegiate level courses on the art of language. I now abruptly end this paragraph.

I will now also abruptly end this blog post, and go to play (perhaps) a guitar.

Beagle Pant

I look at my most recent post on my other blog, and I find myself inspired to write. However, I decided that that blog would be only occasionally updated, at most once a week.

I wondered for a moment, then decided against devising a system of laws for this new land. Instead, I think I will form some sort of musicality to add to the reading process, for those of you who read.

Several Million

I supposed I should begin by listing lots of things which heretofore were never mentioned. But then, I thought, I could begin with anything I wanted to. This is my free land. This is my America. Elbow-room, Johnny Appleseed, the whole shebang. I suppose she even banged the hole. It would be difficult to describe.

Throw them words into some parentheses, ol' Jacques Cousteau. The meaning behind this invaluable digression is designed to be designated a free land to explore. Leave out the parentheses, and you'll not be hindered. Explore. Digress. Throw a smile on your face. Forget that you were ever disturbed. This is the place you were intended to be.