I’ve been measuring my life in coffee beans, motivating self to accomplish feats via caffeine. Daily do i roast myself for toasting to light and several sugars, rarely experiencing more than daily mundanity.
Every time i listen to a new artist, an old song, view a blank canvas, i look for the driving force, a catalyst of a whisper to start maneuvering past the current stage of my life—onto the next precipice, hopefully more than a plateau, more like a spring board to freedom, to the liberty of death, hoping life is the next train, never express, but locally taking its time to sight see.
We’re all just skin and bones at the end and the beginning of each day, of each week, of each second, of each year, of each painstaking detail of our lives: sooner or later we realize we must scrutinize and dream up our own biographies, our own Dr. Parnassus-esque phantasmagoria: or else, we’ll be bored; and there’s nothing worse than boredom, for how else will our souls remain limber, if they do not run the gamut, rocking and throwing down gauntlets?
Betting is saved for a sane man—one, and i’ll be hard-fought with this stance, who is ready to gamble with already scarce resources and commodities. And, when i say man, of course i am shortening it for mankind, for all humans, man and woman, all other genders throughout our vast homosapien spectrum—more and more shades are identified and accepted through the time continuum.
The musicality of the great artists is not what makes such great: but the speaking of their words, their sounds, their gestures and gyrations when experienced live, that articulate to a person’s essence, to their souls, if one is wont to believe in such. It is more than aural, more of a combination—a Last Supper with the various (and we have more than five) senses—from the carnal touch, to the indelible smells of chalk dust wafting from scholarly lyrics.
I’m attempting to write five times as long as i suggested in a previous post—it should have been published yesterday—one regarding stream of consciousness: the relief, the dropping, the loosening of the guards of guilt, of conscience thoughts, allowing the pleasure-seeking thoughts to consume; the evil dreams, the heavenly nightmares, to overtake and to frolic, to run free, to play baseball with the pope, striking out, lashing out, real good times—all of life, essentially.
This is the vanguard post of ones i believe i will try to write often, but more importantly, i will post them as is, with only tweaks to pitiful grammar or the ocassional pesky misspelling. Constantly attempting to show the face of my style of writing, the inner sanctums of my “disaster” of a mind beautiful, this will fit in-line with my about page, with its cousin posts. I believe i set out with the goal in WriteOrDie: 800 words in 20 minutes, normal mode, slightly leaning to the left side of “hard” regulations. I am not yet ready for Kamikaze mode. One day.
We all gotta work our way up (or down) to different gradations of comfort. Comfort levels are the trappings of life—they can make or break us, keep us ushering forward or pushing down a sliding mountain covered with buttery goodness; it’ll be an exhausting, fun time either way.
Forever is never, but never is forever if never attempted. Nothing can ever “feel this good again,” warns Grohl, and i agree. Once experienced, even if vaguely remembered mentally, our bodies and other senses have elephant-like memories. Some essence of us will forever know that this is not new, only different. Isn’t that mentioned in the Bible?: there’s nothing new under the sun? I believe it reads so in Ecclesiastes—the only book i like in that tome. Lots of goodness there, especially my favorite subject: vanity. “Vanity of vanities; all is vanity” so teaches the Teacher. Hell, i’m still wondering where i will be able to put a vanitas on my body—i’m running out of real estate.
Speaking of real estate: the real estate of the mind is not ephemeral, cannot run out of land to plant seeds, to grow trees and harvest fruits nor vegetables: that’s a fallacy, one that’s forever perpetuated by our failing educational system. It’s unwritten but continuously pushed with overt zeal to keep most people down, in line, in-sync with the rest of the clan. It’s a real-life Matrix: we are all batteries to be put in the backs of the machine, of the societal monsters hiding in plain sight.
The cure, the way to unstrap self from the package of perennial Energizer is to pick up, open and peruse, absorb and regurgitate books upon books upon books. Do so until your eyes are forever altered, forever diminished, made to become dependent—and this is the only time i will condone such a practice—on glasses. Try it.