Archive for June, 2011

It’s (never) enough

I am a riddle, an unsharp guess.

I find a strange sort of solace in that.

Precious, precocious. A cee and an oh away from each other in spelling, yet with vastly differing meanings.

I like words, writing them down, the actual physical action of writing is fun, typing is less satisfying.

I also enjoy shaping meaning, carefully selecting the phrasing so that something means exactly what you want it to.

But it’s easiest to just let my mind wander while my fingers dance and pick through the rubble afterward.

It’s where I find the most gems.

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Exhale

Writing. I rather enjoy the craft.

It moves forward, sometimes at breakneck speed, sometimes pacing a snail; ever forward it moves, much like time, the tale cannot be halted.

I find that I do it instinctively, I don’t stop and think, oh here I need a semi-colon or oh dear a gerund cannot start a sentence.

I just write. And as I write the story of a man that never was, I write a bit of my own. I take risks, I reveal truths, I find myself a little more with each word.

I cannot believe I ever considered doing anything else with my life.

I write. I write words. I write words that become something greater than themselves alone on a page. They become something from nothing. It’s my gift back to the original creator; my humble attempts to be like unto he that created me.

In the beginning there was nothing.

Inhale

I see darkness, almost thick enough to taste. I could walk on it.

Then it shatters, becomes images, pictures and sound, rolling around; swirls like a kaleidoscope.

Fractures and rough edges crash and break like waves, only each wave is really pain and every break rubs raw like sand pelting windburned skin. The waves creep higher with every crash and they swirl with images of past and present hurts; sea foam bubbling with the possibilities of future betrayal.

There are things to be found here, in this allegory; lessons to be learned if one can pick through all of the messy memories.

I find that it’s easiest to imagine it as I’ve described. It makes sense to swim through them, diving down deep to the sea floor of the subconscious to find the real bottom of things.

It is odd to swim through one’s own memories, perhaps I am simply a creature of the visual; so much so that I equate everything with imagery. Perhaps it is my memory, I wish I could forget things, but anything charged with the least bit of emotion or sentimentality becomes locked away forever within me.

And although I’d like to forget how sometimes; I can never stop being me.

At the edge of the future, my dreams all fade away, I always wonder what it is I will come to remember as today.

Funsies

“You were right, you just weren’t right about me.”

– 500 Days of Summer

Great movie.

In other news I had a great weekend, far too short of course, but no less great for it’s less-than-desirable duration.

I spent most of Sunday teaching my youngest brother to use a scoped rifle.

Pure fun.

I also got to hang with my dad and my eldest bro, he still grills the best steaks anywhere, ever. Dude can cook. And can shoot: he’s got one of the slickest .22 mag sniper rifles I’ve ever lain eyes on.

I have nothing much more to report: except perhaps the rather small conceptual shift I’ve experienced. I have accepted that there are some things that cannot be changed, and there are some things that can, and I’m finally learning the difference and how to spot it.

Life rolls on and I have finally fallen into the rhythm, so much so that I can barrel-race across it with balance enough to accomplish some specifics before I fall.

Dreams

The dream is back.

It’s a not-quite nightmare. It’s so realistic, so sensory. I have a nagging feeling, a sneaking suspicion even, that it is real.

I wish I could explain how this dream affects me, how much it stays with me, how I hate my eidetic memory at times like these. The starkness of the sheer terror it imparts, I see continually, with crystal clarity, long after the actual imagery leaves me.

It makes me feel like a small boy again, when the dark is so frightening and monsters lurk in every shadow.

There is no one to run to, no one that can make the fear disappear with whispered words and smiles.

Ominous.

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(The) Social Construct(s)

I tend to begin all if my posts the same way. I’ve noticed that I seem to need to place myself squarely inside a timeframe or position myself firmly in a place.

I wonder if that’s learned behavior or if that is something that comes from within. Most likely it’s an amalgamate of nature and nurture. I will say this though; thoughts like this make me miss my anthropology classes like crazy. Discussing the idea of the social construct and it’s effects on the collective psyche of human beings, of deconstructing the mystery that is abstract thought. The ability to think symbolically is thought to be uniquely human…

I want to believe that it is universally possible, given the right circumstance.

Ah well, back to numbing my mind at work.

Creep-o-mat

Life is.

Yep, that’s the whole thought; hence the whole sentence.

I am currently drying my work gear at the creepomat. There is a woman about ten feet from me drinking a bud heavy out of the can, with a coozie that says “wishin’ I wuz fishin’.”

Legit. I know.

In other news I got a solid hour or so of unrestful sleep, I’m tired but not angry tired, more of an accepting, ‘today can suck it for all I care” kinda tired.

This post was built around the idea that I wanted to report the legit lady avec la biere. The rest is basically fluff.