How would I say it, close enough to the point, and garbled in an unfriendly idiom? I’m straining to regain access to states of inspiration, when words had meaning. But those are old paradigm things. I just don’t have the energy. What is this? Inability to adjust to dayshift? Chemicals? It’s lame, but it’s better than mania. I’m self absorbed and moody. But not feeling guilt or fear. I just feel empty, blank, dead.
I don’t have the skills or will to change things for me. Made coffee, and now I’m just staring at it. All my projects seem so full of shit. Just this ridiculous person I am, of no consequence, why should I continue any of his activities? I’d rather just be someone else, anyone else. But how I would do that, I don’t know.
Could write about my life in larger context, but I’m too lazy to change focus from this microscopic slide. That last line was almost poetic, for a second it perked me up, actually got me interested in something, felt like a writer again, had some purpose. But it was a blip. I’m writing this in microsoft word, with the assumption that I will copy this into blogger, and post, for others to read. Without that connection to a potential audience of 3 or 4 people, I can rarely motivate myself to write anything.
I can’t analyze the economy, or the empire game, or the question of how necessary is corruption, and is there a better way… so I analyze my moods, and my writing. Just what the world needs. A self-absorbed moody writer, writing about his self-absorbed moods. Yes, the grand purpose. Hey, this sarcasm actually tastes good to me, feels purposeful, in a narrow, first-person way. Even as I’m aware how pointless it is beyond the microscope slide (wow, actual continuation of the metaphorical thread) and how lacking in taste and decency this is, and how it rambles, and how the word “ramble” is the height of amateur self-deprecation, and how this is not good enough to justify editing, and how… okay, this device is dumb.
Dinosaur Dumb. Sino-Persian crumbs on the rum-sticky floor, vapours pouring from under the crackhouse door. Ramen noodle hallucinations, randomly placed in a Nielson Family’s living room. Scored for Banjo and three warbled french horns, time for my bug-powder snuff. I guess I had faith all along that this session of tired writing would yield something of worth. Not that I can DO anything with it. It’s a troll under a bridge.
2 comments:
I like to imagine your rants being spoken, or yelled, with random video footage of people in fat gortex jackets and red knitted beanies waddling around a park--like some abstracted form of the oompa loompas. "this is the world we live in" sung to the tune of "oh mandy". I imagine that when you start to write your door is closed, but that once you realize you're writing you open it on purpose.
Everything matters.
Post a Comment