438. Anno Cinco


 

WordPress sent me news that I have been at this blogging business for five years now. Wow! I thought. That’s not possible. And yet, there it is. Over these five years I have found a rhythm sometimes and a destination occasionally. Rarely both in the same post. Eventually I settled on the thousand word limit for some reason. I know that’s a lot to read, but I don’t write dense poetry. I tend to wander and freely associate my thoughts. , which you should know by now. Or not.

Sometimes I look back and wonder what I was smoking. A couple of readers have had the audacity to ask me if I write under the influence. Well, yes, but not that kind of influence. A mood or an idea will arise in me and then my mind polishes it or deconstructs it. I noodle around with the concept until a thread appears. A bumper sticker in front of me on the way to work; a partial dream; a real experience; a memory; and songs; all seem to conspire with my addled brain to ferment into blog posts. You can make alcohol out of any organic thing, right? Most of the choices are horrendous, like red beet and asparagus wine. Yet, through trial and error and more error, good grapes, corn, and fine barley have been fermented and distilled into lovely wines, liquors, and beer. Along the way many guinea pigs died, but that is the cost of progress. My posts?  Maybe rise to the level of an off brand mouthwash. Still, I continue mixing up the raw materials in hopes of a potable draft.

Sometimes an insightful person will observe, “It must be really wild inside your brain.” I guess it is. And to some degree this blog is a tour of my inner world’s thoughts and values and emotions… and quirks. I am quirky, which I think should be added to the LGBT-Q-RSTUV-WXYZ community’s tag for unconventional folks. I am not queer in sexuality, I think, but I am certainly quirky in my view of life.

My office is painted with a mural of the desert mountains around Tucson plus my phantasmagorical touches… Big Ben in the desert wash; hot air balloons on the horizon; eagles’ nests on the ledges of rock columns; a clock face on the immense white sun.  In a visual manner it feels like a scene from inside my brain. It is a location I deeply love and deeply crave. Since I could not relocate there, I relocated an image of it here. And again, I believe that tells you something about my mind, spirit and will.  If I can’t got to see Van Gogh’s paintings at the museum, I can hang prints on my walls. So I do. If I can’t hang out with Bob Dylan, I can listen to him on Pandora.

I can’t be bothered with what visitors think of my artwork, any more than I worry about their opinion of my socks or shirts or haircut. (I would like feedback if my zipper is down.) It’s like worrying about money you had left on a Metro pass from 1988.  Too petty… Tom Petty… Free Falling. Not worth firing a neuron over. “You are Fired!” and after the firing, “You’re fried!” That’s how I roll along. I am not superior to others; I just do not feel accountable to their judgments…but why step in sewage if you don’t have to? Hold your nose and walk across the bridge.

So, from Happy Anniversary to poop sludge. What a journey!  What have I learned?, you have not asked.  Well, privacy is a dynamic thing. I’ve shared a lot of stuff on these posts. It’s not always about me. I realize that in writer mode I value the story over most everything else. I feel compelled to tell stories. Unfortunately I have overshared a few times and been chided for it. The goal has always been to work for the story not to ingratiate myself with folks. That’s harsh at times, which means I am harsh at times. Blunt also, like a blunt instrument, a club for instance. I don’t write surgically or prettily. No, I tend to gush out globs and granules of my inner reality onto the blank white space before me. Just go, and then try to figure out where.

Which leads back to rhythm and destination. If destination is the grand point of it all, the message or theme, the big finale, then I often miss any destination. It’s just a train ride to nowhere, and I try to keep the atmosphere on the train engrossing or expansive or  entertaining. So strangely enough the rhythm is the destination. Like a snake eating its own tail…

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