Category: Nonfiction

Identifying the self with others (the public) as you truly exist with yourself and closest associations seems to be a farce; a production put on by your own self-interest in order to gain admiration from perfect strangers.

So why do I crave this attention (and make this blog post as an ironic twist)? Possibly because I was an only child / loner / weird kid in my more formative years, with the constant thought running through my head: “If only that big break could just happen for me, I’d look back on my tragic existence and laugh”. Of course, in order for anything remotely that fantastic / terrible to happen, a person must actually engage in their sphere and make waves. This is not my strong suit.

I worked on scrapping my ego a couple years back, only to find that most people label that as ‘depression’, and don’t understand why anyone would possibly do that. I learned a good many things from my existential struggles, and I can’t denote anything in particular at this moment (or ever, perhaps) that will adequately explain my journey within myself.

One thing I can say for certain is that my memories have lost the significance they once had. I don’t feel as tied to my past as I’ve observed with the behavior of most friends / family / random associations.

Stories, for me, are a way to describe a moment in the unbroken sequence of our lives, where we gained an understanding of something crucial to our existence at that moment. Sometimes stories are worth reliving because they can remind others of the best way to go about certain things. Sometimes they’re worth reliving because the teller wants to immediately connect with the audience and reach a common ground, testing the foundation for a grand edifice.

The ego is a delicate thing. Apparently everybody needs one, or they will starve by the side of the road. Everyone needs that “hey, look at me, I’m important” feeling within them somewhere, just so they can feel inadequate with the way they currently stand in their life.

Is this an innate thing, or have we been programmed over the generations to feel this way? I wouldn’t know where to begin researching that, because then I fall into the realm of conspiracy theory. So it goes.

This is my journal, I guess. I don’t ‘do’ journals typically.

But then again, I don’t have many pictures of myself in the past, virtually no video. I could be a clone of the old Aidan or a guy who looks a lot like him with similar mannerisms. Memories are a bitch that way, and I love to live in that ambiguity.

Ah, ranting. Is there any mood it can’t cure?

-Aidan

What good is a piece of writing if it doesn’t take you away from your life? Even if you’re reading for research, shouldn’t the text grab you and pull you into the writer’s mindframe?

Personality is often a device used by socialites of digital media, the fabricated aesthetic discovered over the evolution of their thoughts and hopes (when applied to the friendship arena (the battleground where each speaks over the another and fights for maximum exposure) and tested for kitsch factor) that somehow dictates their behavior and forces patterns of mediocrity.

Is that personality or programmed popularity? It’s obviously not organic.

Organic is an artichoke struggling to gather enough nutrients from the sandy soil without so much as a drop of rain for five straight days.

Hello, trusty readers!

I would just like to take a moment to acknowledge your greatness.

I mean it, really!

Don’t be so humble, it takes a lot of patience to put up with my sporadic posting and sometimes avantgarde, unintelligible writing.

I appreciate every single one of you, and it warms my heart to know that you’ve made a connection to my work, regardless of how or when.

If I’m going to be in the business of writing, I need to stay true to myself and trust that intelligent readers will decide for themselves what they like to read.

Thank you again, folks.
If you have friends who would appreciate this site, please don’t be afraid to suggest they check it out.

If you have to describe to them what it’s about, just say it’s a goofy guy putting words together. You’ll know from that moment whether or not they’re interested.

Cheers all, happy 70!
I guess the next landmark would be 100.

-Aidan

What is implied within a statement / a volley of statements can be richer than the content itself.

Context enlightens content as the author provides consent to their private convent.

Exposition need not occur to fill in the gaps.

Imagination is man’s most powerful tool, has been for a long time.

The overwhelming supposition stands as an indefinite struggle, though melodrama does nobody any good these days, save a few entertaining blips of stifled criticism met by indolent sarcasm and meaningless banter.

Is this the vast majority? I feel isolated by my critical thoughts; is there any use for constructive negativity anymore anyway? Seems most folks take personal offense, as though my evaluation were made to cause harm without offering a solution. Even if I weren’t to pony up a suggestion, would it be my place to exert my will and skill upon these hypothetical sad sacks? It really depends upon the level at which they operate in their daily existence.

The moral of the story is: never try.

It’s rare that I post twice about myself without a poem. I could go through this site’s archives and try to prove just how rare it is (probably lower than 1%), but you’ll just have to take my word for it.

My inspiration used to be a sound; the beginning of the first word that unfolds into the second, forming a phrase and a mood. Then the piece would mature from that seedling.

Would I say that’s still my process? I believe I create the same way, just with more inhibitions. I don’t know what to call this hesitation, other than the overbearing feeling that writing poems is unproductive and won’t possibly get me any money.

The Corporation of America is really dragging on me. The ironic thing is that if I keep writing poems and remain prolific, I’ll feel more comfortable with my own process and find more excuses to create.

For right now, I notice that my inspiration ebbs and flows; I used to only need a spark of a syllable or a sharp image, but now I need an opener. I’ve actually scribbled down a good number of unused rock band names that I believe will be the inspiration for my next batch of poems.

The great thing about using these band names–I have titles for my poems! I don’t need to go fishing once I’ve finished writing a little jewel. That settles a bit of my tension.

Okay, enough venting. You’ve had enough.

Cheers,

-Aidan