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.
The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle
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.
I’m a Coward
Vignettes upon other vignettes seems like a decent strategy for an extended, focused work, but after you get one or two of them stacked up, any kind of theme you may have cooked up is pretty much null and void.
Now, how to avoid this quandary? Well, for one, just start with a single vignette and give it some decent bones instead of flitting to the next visionary tree branch.
So what, then? A single vignette doesn’t seem like anything that would merit further exploration. Really? Well, to me, at least. But if there’s anything I’ve learned about my artistic self over the past decade and a half, it’s that I need to keep pushing for an idea or composition even if it seems like I’m beating a dead horse (or any quadruped of equal or lesser value in a retail setting).
Turns out, I’m a little different than the average bear. If one were to judge my relationship with normalcy based only upon my previous two sentences (yes, they’re MINE, you can’t have them), this passive observer would immediately note my usage of animal imagery to illustrate my points. Is that odd?
I very rarely find myself making analogies that involve human subjects. Is it because I find humans inherently boring? Well, yes. But why is that? Could it be the ambient enslavement to a dying world model that props up megalomaniacs as they continue to rape and pillage the world without a single twinge of regret? Yes, that. People are small. Animals have no need for any of that contrived bullshit, and never have. Granted, their typical experience is nasty, brutish and short compared to that of the average human, but there is certainly a large gray area that both man and beast inhabit wherein the nasty, brutish shortness of life is quite similar.
So we have a system that rewards greed and callousness while forcing our better angels to atrophy and wilt right off of our shoulders. An appropriate question would be the classic “why?” Numerous thinkers have dealt with this inevitability, and there are likely myriad valid hypotheses. It would seem as though beating their heads against their respective cognitive brick walls must yield a certain quantity of usable results when it comes to acquiring an undergirding of purpose in their lives as they navigate through uncertain absurdity. Or, at the very least, they develop effective coping mechanisms for somehow circumventing the latent treachery and “becoming their best selves” in spite of it all.
It seems to me that writing periodic diatribes bemoaning the state of things is probably not the way to go, based on the sporadic evidence I’ve collected throughout my life that all points to an inherent pointlessness.
And maybe it truly is all pointless, and the vast majority of human creatures never confront that particular dataset in their short, fruitless/feckless lives. The “ignorance is bliss” model sure leaves a lot to be desired. If we only have a brief flicker of life within each of us, I would wager that it’s irresponsible for anyone to remain unenlightened as a default state of being.
Perhaps the average person’s capacity for all this gobbledygook is just quite limited, and they’re better off simply participating in their direct surroundings, shaping their communities and whatnots. However, I have yet to be convinced of that. Sure, community-building is a non-negative endeavor (unless it purposefully excludes/ostracizes others), and we are the kind of animal that seems to default to a pack mentality in order to “survive.” But hey, survival of the species is a given until we blow ourselves up or become self-loathing to the point of exterminating “the other” as a form of “racial duty.” I don’t think we’re QUITE there yet, though all the earmarks are certainly present.
I would argue that the average person is capable of reaching the point where they’re acknowledging the violence inherent in the “pack animal mentality,” and a certain voice or inclination allows them to stall or abort their mental/social development in favor of a cowardly lifestyle that involves selling out for an occasional treat. But, of course, that occasional treat becomes mundane and unrewarding after a bit, necessitating different, more frequent treats if they’re to avoid disillusionment.
Enter big tech, who’s developed an effective method for addicting humans to intrinsically-valueless trinkets and dopamine hits, all at pennies on the dollar and with a more-effective delivery system than at any previous time in human history. This model allows humans to still exhibit their same level of natural, comfortable cowardice while deluding themselves into genuinely believing that this is a “real way of life.”
On a certain level, most people must understand that they’re complicit in the destruction of everything we painstakingly built over millennia, so what gives? Back to the greed and callousness.
This is why I find it difficult to believe that rehashing the same old argument has any sort of merit. This creates a clear division between toiling in inherent pointlessness and striving to find a purpose (any purpose at all) that has actual, tangible value. Does that mean that people need to construct their own frameworks for genuine purpose, rather than consuming idiotic pablum until their eyes bleed? I would say yes.
So why am I still going on with this circular diatribe? I’m a coward, just like the rest of ‘em!
Spectral Phenolysis

This is a pretty special piece for me to declare finished, because my automatic tendency is to turn it into mud and quickly give up. But no more! Now that I have reliable methods for imparting yellow and white (and various other hues that once scared me), I can really just let loose. This one is actually the first of its kind to have this particular combination of utensils: uniball jetstream 1.0mm baby blue ballpoint, numerous kuretake brush pens (zig real color bristle), white sharpie acrylic paint pen.
Thanks for your patronage, it means a lot to me. Soon I may begin the machinations of selling these babies, which definitely excites me (because let’s face it, money is nice to have sometimes).
Whoever’s out there reading this, just know that you’re a spectral being without conceivable limit.
Cheers,
Aidan
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.
Sam and George: I
One afternoon above a boulder in Central Park, George Carlin and Samuel Beckett engage in their Scrabble ritual. Both men have developed a fondness for this pastime over the years, as neither one has ever encountered the same game sequence twice (which never fails to amuse them even after having played over a hundred thousand matches).
They’ve contemplated relenting and playing Super Scrabble exclusively, with its 200 tile megafauna approach, but the games are just too long and the tile distribution too ridiculous for anyone with a penchant for brevity. George brought up the idea, always the mold-breaker, but Sam adamantly declined to participate in such tomfoolery.
Their overall record is something pretty close to 62,496-62,487, with a boring number of tie games for good measure. Neither of them necessarily plays to win, though it’s always fun to get the most points possible. This aspect of the game is never lost on Sam and George, and it frequently pops up in conversation, like so:
G: Dammit, Sam, why do we always obsess over having the most?
S: More is better?
G: You know that’s a goddamn lie.
S: Moderation, then.
G: That’s your answer for everything.
The logic has been somewhat pressed out of it over the course of time, since Sam is not one to bandy words about, leading to a finite set of circumstances that could possibly amount from any given conversation between the two of them. Yet, they acquiesce. They’ve agreed for a long time now that Scrabble and chatting is the ultimate leisurely activity for two cats of their ilk.
Sam uses the board to bring him to new heights with absurdism. If nothing amounts to nothing, at least the expected and still somehow always unpredictable nature of Scrabble will prevail with non sequiturs aplenty.
Today is Monday, about 1pm at the ol’ boulder of choice. Sam is tickled by his STOATS/COATS crossover play, even though the point total is somewhat paltry compared to the “optimal move”. Not many people hanging around the boulder yet today, probably a mean case of the Mondays.
George has been having a rough go of it today as far as tile luck is concerned. He’s been burning through letters and really getting no luck from the tile bag at all. So she goes, so she goes. This game saw him jump out to a marginal lead after five turns, but then the luck dropped out of the bottom of whichever vessel generally contains luck particles, more than likely draining through a crack, akin to a dilapidated old barrel.
G: Do you think luck is stored in barrels?
S: I suppose a barrel is as good as anything else. Why?
G: I’m just trying to come up with the most accurate picture of how my luck could be so damn shitty right now. There’s got to be a leak in my luck barrel right now, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to patch it up.
S: Well, better a barrel than a clay pot.
G: That’s your opinion, Jack.
Just then, a forlorn-looking man in his early 30s meanders over to our favorite boulder and climbs atop it after just a moment’s hesitation. He perches and then shortly thereafter lies down on his back, baseball cap shielding his eyes.
G: Interesting action here, Sammy. I’ll bet this kid’s name is Jack.
S: I wonder what he thinks of our barrel/pot hypothesis. Wanna zap him and get some data points? I love points.
G: Not really, I’m feeling lazy today. I can probably figure out why he’s being a whiny baby now–cryptos are going through the roof and he’s been left in the dust again (I can tell it’s not the first time, from the state of his wardrobe).
S: Cryptos again? You always think everything is cryptos.
G: It is, Sam my man. You’ll see.
S: Sure George, whatever you say.
It’s at this precise moment that Samuel plays a 100-point bingo.
S: MINCIER — adj. demonstrating the quality of mincing on a different level or magnitude. That should just about wrap this one up, eh Georgie?
G: Dammit, Sammit! I knew I wasn’t in the running for a comeback, but jeez.
S: I just play the tiles I’m dealt, George.