Blog #1

Well. Here we go.

Ten years playing with the internet thing, many more a wannabe writer and here I sit ... fingers dance nimbly (well, nimbly enough) over the trusty keyboard and what do I have to say?

damn

I think about cutting and pasting from my "writing" folder, but I can't find it. I see that I am in my "my pictures" folder ... that explains it. Mark personal, Writing ... that's the one.

Hmmm ... what would I share out of this collection of non-sequiteurs? The proverbial "ass in the wind"

How did this get in there ...

My friends tell me that I have a tendency to point out problems without offering solutions, but they never tell me what I should do about it. - Daniel Gilbert

That's just a quote. Was it meant to inspire me to write something profound?

I miss my format painter ... I am distracted by this font change but will show my mastery over my obsessive tendencies by ignoring it and pressing on.

How about this:

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

Another inspirational quote? Iconic really, where I live.

Or this:

NOT SURE I CAN LIVE DOWN HERE ANYMORE

or maybe …

RUNNING ON EMPTY

Lying on my back, I open my eyes in the dark. I am surprised by the tears on my cheeks, wetting my neck and my pillow. I don’t feel sad. I must have been asleep, I don’t cry when I’m awake. That’s good, crying, that is. But I feel like I have been awake all night and I know that I am not going to get back to sleep.

Hours later I sit on the parapet, kicking heels on weathered brick. I have always liked rooftops, and early mornings. Enjoying the height and the freshness of the night’s lingering chill. Warmth of the sun’s first rays. There’s a quality to the early morning morning light. Kind. A promise of beginnings. Below, birdsong and the muted rumble of distant workbound traffic. Abrasive aubade in the calm, like the call of a loerie, sorry, it’s a turaco now isn’t it?

Some joggers go by, breath steaming, feet in trainers pad padding, metronoming their conversation up to me, punctuated, like boxers’, by their explosive talk on steamy breaths. There are always joggers. I remember a fellow falling man asking “where the fuck do they come from? Go to the middle of the Congo with nothing but a knapsack, a book of matches, and a package of trail mix. Sit in a lotus position and become one with nature. In ten minutes a jogger will run by. I'll wager you $100 on this.”

Most days I can pull off my impersonation as a member of the species pretty well and without too much effort. It’s been more difficult recently and I am starting to wonder whether the fault might not lie with me after all. I think that I am just getting tired; tired of the pretense of it all. It’s been so long now that I am not sure what’s real anymore. So many days and months and years of meeting expectations; of trying to meet expectations.

… I just don’t know what parts of me are me and what I’ve conjured up for somebody else’s benefit and found myself stuck with. What am I if not an amalgam of experience? How much do I chose to carry and choose to discard? How much is unconscious? And there, of course, is the key. It’s getting grounded, in touch, conscious.

A splat of metaphorical birdshit on my shoulder interrupts this reverie. I need some coffee and to post this before I chicken out and start editing it.

Namaste … thank you for visiting … keep coming back.