I struggle these days to even finish a page. I am lazy, either unwilling or unable to work for the sake of my own creation and the extrication — or attempt — of these daydreams out my head, but I debate with increasing conflict the very nature of our craft, writing.
What witchcraft do we drip out of our pens as wands into the eyes of the reader, the mouth of the speaker, the ears of the listener, and in. (See, another moment necessitating a singular understanding of the so-called Oxford Comma rule [and see therein even more proof of this wicked work.])
I write things that might change opinions, though these now altered minds know naught of my intention, and they should, for it’s an intention most cruel.
Or is it?
I write to – I write to – I write to hear myself, and the feel of this interpretation of existence in my mouth, my hands, my words.
Whatever these things scratched onto this corpse mush are.
Ending a sentence on “are”!
Corpse mush! What drama for paper, if true.
Though in truth it’s just more data, light beams, and blips.
What bother that the truth ends up so often dramatic.
I care to obsession about legacy, about impact deep and wide, and how they’ll talk when I walk out of the room, I swear I can feel time’s eyes ever on me.
No wonder that I wonder what they see.
I make a mistake and my followers duly suffer, can you blame me for shredding up my past as it burns quick behind me?
Speaking of mistakes and regrets —
I want to cry because I want to try so very hard (read desperately) to carelessly treat others how they, I think thoughtlessly, treat me, so often ending up needy and mean. You know I’m just feeling judged and insecure of this standard I find so often not only changing, but entirely untenable to begin with, yet round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran.
Only a true fan can truly appreciate that reference.
I love seeing the foam rings on my beer glass as I drink it, an historical ledger created in the wake of my progress.
I love beautiful anythings.
I love beautiful people and beautiful skin, beautiful words and beautiful sounds, beautiful sentences and I love beautiful music.
I love beautiful creation and beautiful death, beautiful birth and the decomposition. I love life, the electric, I love sound.
I love and I love and my body brain says to stop and I love and I love still some more on regardless and the love starts to spill over into frustration.
And they say I’m angry, not quite good enough, falling short of the expectation of Christ.
Ding ding ding, I said the “C” word, pack up the essay – show’s done.
Had you had me try to guess at the outset, I’d have put good money down that I’d earn my “C” with another.
Yet surprises abound, especially when it comes to a Sam, and it all ends up Christ in the end.
Oh I got you, I tricked you, this you were not expecting, but yes Same the poet out of Scotland of course gets to Christ before long, who can resist that symbol that satisfies every human intention, that captures in a word all it means.
Now please don’t mistake me, I still find Christian’s insufferable, but there’s something to say for the one they call master. There usually is, to our regret.
We all attempt at master in something. Eventually.
Prepositions confuse me still I confess of confessor.
Well I suppose it is me who’s confessor – I think.
Who can ever keep up with the words of Catholics?
No wonder they’re guilty.
No wonder — are we allowed any realm for “no wonder”?
For in truth I wonder about Catholics, I really wonder quite a lot, newly renewed by the young pope, but I truly enter into wonder, that flirtation with transcendence, when I think about Catholics, and I really come to understanding, and it feels I might have come to liberations and a path.
And then, as routine, I stop and remember the game.
I come to love any player upon too close a study – when I lose track of the rest of the field. All things have their place.
Countless blights shaped modern medicine.
I would rub the back of my hand across the soft skin on your neck if waves did not continue vibrating long after the physical disconnection, just to appreciate your you. Just for creation’s earned appreciation. God loves.
But the real question is “Does God make edits, or does he instead just amend in the process?”
I feel we all know the answer without understanding the meaning. Then again I’ve always tended towards arrogant knowledge.
What goes for the words unwritten, the actions unnoticed, the life tried and lived without impact?
We say that’s impossible, but populations expand, so at what point does that negate passive impact?
Or the impact of any individual today, relatively. It only follows that Christ’s from 0AD.
The lowest of our low know good morals.
Jefferson knew our truth, Gladstone did the same, and we hear weak appeals each election.
The greatest truths are the over used.
Good-faith politics connects each of us to everyone else, and strengthens ever more the social fabric, and meaning. We seem to fundamentally believe contrition warrants forgiveness, but I think it’s only because we’re desperate for something that allows our forgiveness. Ego again. It’s always ego, isn’t it?
I suppose that brings us back to this whole writing business. Back to the beginning like the good alchemists we are.
Back, in truth, to eye contact. Back to what’s between me and you.
“What”
What a word.
Everything only leads us off and on,
ever on
to beyond,
and beyond.
(oxford comma)
Time is such a fickle mistress for this fickle space master attempting.
Monstress.