Every day starts with relatively infinite possibilities, then gets narrowed down as the minutes march on. Such a sentiment is more widely-held by the younger set, those fortunate ones who haven’t whittled and winnowed away their enthusiasm just yet. Fledgling adults seem to have an inherent audacity for tirelessly pursuing various pies in various skies, relentless endeavors repeated remorselessly (whose results range in reliability).
I recall a time in my life when my brand of audacity was to compose thoughtful and robust sentences. The verisimilitude and substance of said sentences was inconsequential, as long as I was doing something in the literary arts. This brazen approach yielded numerous charming products, some of which may contain the universe’s secrets when stretched out to a nanometer’s width (who knows?).
Nowadays, that zest has all but extinguished itself. The audacious spirit is suspended in amber, a fossilized vestige of my past humanity. But at least I have records of this triumphant hubris, because I WROTE IT DOWN. Just the way I’m writing down this little thought experiment right at this very moment. Period.
Ooh, how audacious. Might have to just keep writing these things in order to spite myself. If I’m defiantly demonstrating my worth as a wordsmith on a semi-frequent basis, perhaps I’ll once again perceive myself as such (instead of lollygagging around with some namby pamby excuse as to why I’m supposed to be a writer but the world around me is too fucked up for me, blah blah blah).
I suppose I’ll issue myself a challenge. Keep writing like this, ya moron. Don’t you remember how good it felt once you’d finished polishing up these turds and putting all the tags and categories on them? Yeah you do, especially when those turds had metamorphosed into some sort of precious mineral (or at least clean-burning fuel source).
Okay, good pep talk. Unsure if this is helpful for anyone out there in the big ol’ world, but if you’re feeling burnt out on “life”, maybe this naïvely cynical take will make you chuckle for a second.
Category: Idiomatic
A Good Find is Hard to Man
A good man is hard to find, but we mustn’t forget
that oftentimes a good find is hard to man.
——
Petey: Hey Joey, take a look at this while I go to the ice cream store.
Joey: A look at what? That thing?
Petey: The find, yes. Good Joey.
Be right back.
Joey: Why do they always gotta have a man on this find? I guess if it’s a good find like they said, but even so. Who’s gonna swoop in here and try to take this find? Just yoink it and dash off? Yeah right, no way.
*8 attempted robberies later*
Joey: Wow, I guess a good find IS hard to man!
——
And there you have it folks. Simple manpower and relative awareness were once again all it took to prevent the theft of a peachy find, a real keen one. Nyeah, see.
MY JAM
When you’ve been
and done
and seen,
what else is there to glean?
Everyday frustrations?
I’m not saying
a person should give up
once they’ve figured out
everyone more or less
looks like everyone else, but
it would surely help if some of us did.
That way you give the newbies a chance
to waste their time and monies
on fanciful ways to manipulate air
that stimulate economies
and float boats–
don’t act all surprised
like you didn’t know
late stage capitalism is MY JAM.
Cookie Clicks
In a previous life (which is a maudlin way for me to admit that my life has been segmented into unequal emotional epochs, and this particular slice of life stings with the pith of some sort of intense citrus) I called myself an English Writing major.
I used to periodically patrol around looking for a different kind of “writing app” within the iOS and OSX environs—of course, there were numerous ones that got my attention, and I probably tried a half a dozen. At the end of the day, they are all attempting to do the same thing: help this dumb human try to wrangle its thoughts together in appealing ways (according to syntax and taste). I can’t knock that intent, and people gotta eat, so I’m willing to overlook how discombobulating this scenario has been for me.
Ya see, when faced with a multiplicity of writing applications that each have their own unique worthwhile feature, a rudimentary ape such as myself cannot overcome the amount of choices to be made in order to approach square one of the creative process. I’m distracted enough times over the course of my average day to where I don’t need even more contrivance spewed upon me (from my own computer, for chrissakes). Combine that with my neurodivergent brain and we’ve got a serious blockade forming on the horizon.
And what has this rambling accomplished? Probably nothing more than a yawp into the void we once used to think would be the apparatus to bring us all together. That was a larf. Were we just so naïve to believe that interconnectivity would improve our social mobility, allowing us to be tricked by the next generation of swindlers and snake oil salesmen into gleefully giving away all our liberties for little dopamine cookie clicks? Probly.
I swear I had a point when I started this thing.
Now that we have reached the point of full-societal multitudinous laptop writing program ubiquity, there is simply no way for me to choose a robust application. I must revert back to a rich text and sticky note mentality! It turns out I’ve learned just enough in this life in order to type words at a fairly chipper rate when I set out to do so, but that skillset fills about 85% of my computer capabilities. The remaining 15% is a Pandora’s Box of chaos that’s best left alone.
Feels Derivative
Ah, that dreaded dog-eared page
on this, the day of my footballs game.
Beefheart would have put it best,
but I certainly can’t hold it against him,
poor chap.
Maybe now I can come back from
under his shadow. I think he’d like that
very much.
I never got the chance to thank him
or say bye (good or otherwise), but
as I reconnect to the planet at large
he somehow knows.
Maybe he’s commanding his love infantry,
and all I need is to follow the leader.
It feels derivative, but screw it.
So Busy
Crap dang it, now I can’t think of anything all of a sudden. Oh well, guess it can’t be helped in my current predicament. It’s not so much of a predicament as a predicate-a-mint type of situation, where the essence of mint is completely ubiquitous around the entire cosmos for everyone to enjoy, whether they like it or not. Crap dang it.
So what am I supposed to do now? Who the hell knows? I sure don’t. That’s why I’m asking myself. Maybe if I ask myself and put some kind of deadline on the thing, I can stall the inevitable existential pain associated with extreme boredom.
But you know what? I’m sick and tired of being asked so many questions all the time. It seems like every day I’m getting badgered and/or peppered with at least several dozen inquiries, and my god does it take a toll. I’ve been meaning to have a serious talk with myself, really get the whole thing straightened out once and for all, but I’ve just been so busy.
Son’s Metal ‘Phant
Son’s metal ‘phant–
the oldest and wisest of all
the terrestrial mammals
that we’ve uncovered to date–
has an uncanny ability to get under one’s skin
in a matter of minutes, though
you’d think that such a gigantic specimen
would have trouble assimilating themselves
into such a tight space.
Fortunately for us (and, indeed, the world at large),
proportionality has no place here.
WHARVED 