Saturday, April 09, 2005
red headed woman and grenadine....
Imagine sitting somewhere, chaise lounge style, staring at a sun dropping random rays onto your fresh application of SPF 40. From a battered jukebox, classic rock, recognizable in the same welcome-home manner of summer winds, carrying the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. As you listen to waves crash against the shore and start thinking back to the time you were young and stupid enough to believe that time was a dear friend, healing wounds and teaching, always adjudicating fairly, and always in favor of moving on. The sun falls, replaced by silver and glowing strands of light, just empty reflections of old light. Still, you sit on the chair and stare, sometimes towards the horizon, and sometimes towards the night sky.
And here is the crux of the problem. The fucking crossroads if you will. You see, I can't communicate anymore clearly than I did in the former paragraph. I don't have the words, or if I do, the order gets jumbled up, and all I can do is stutter, and that is hard to do while writing. As much as this is obfuscation and denial, I can already hear people saying "You fucking liar. We all know what you are trying to say, and these words are the pathetic ranting of mistaken identity. We'll show you."
The funniest part is how back to the future this all is for me. In some ways, the spit-staggered development of social grace is like a bad case of blue balls. Maybe that is a bad example. There's already been enough mistakes made in that capacity, and don't it beat all hell that this subject is still the fucking Gordian knot it pretends to be. Now see, the obvious conclusion you should draw is that desire is fear. Not in the Newspeak sense, though kudos to any Orwell fans out there in the night. More in the sense that desire seems to represent an abasement of some type, the wherefore and why part of Juliet’s plea, if you will so indulge me. At any rate, as always, progress will be made, and while I do detest waiting, it may be unavoidable here. It would seem it is out of my hands at this point, though certainly, her problem is ideological, not emotional. Pity she hasn't figured that out yet. Shall we tell her? Nope. It wouldn't help, she'll get it sooner or later. I have faith.
To be more positive, downright anachronistically GORGEOUS, if I may, there are the wonderful tidings, glimmers really, that speckle the horizon, sparkling in color, beautiful portents of things to come. I am fairly confident (fairly because I have good cause, and confident because I enjoy the sensation of denial as much as the some, and more than others.) The sum total of this strange rant, discombobulated as it may seem, is to prove that there is a startling cohesion to the seemingly random mind. Each element, each carefully chosen word, each whisper of promise is guarded with barbed wire and the sentries of linear thought, but if you can get around all that, you will understand what I am writing here. This is the only clue I can offer, but I think it explains this whole blog nicely. (No notes telling me things "seem cliché." Do I look like a fucking momo? Cliché usage should be assumed to be on purpose, and I will do likewise.)
Well, there is more to say, but all this writing is sobering me up, and after watching "Sahara" tonight, I am in need of a cool cool beverage. By the by, the movie was excellent, the company fantastically radiant and demure, and the outcome heroic. Having a great time, wish you were here, sorry to keep going on..... At any rate, the cat is sleeping on my jeans; I'm going to go scare her, Stripes-style. No duct tape this time, just a good old-fashioned water gun.
cf
ps - (man, my brains must be scrambled. best news of the night? SOX WIN! kicking ass in toronto, I need that good mojo down here for a while....glad you guys are back, you've been missed! RSN is EVERYWHERE! see my car! hahahaha. ok, i'm done, time to go for some head time and then a brief dream about someone who for all I know is already asleep....with a cat. Lucky SOB.)
cf
And here is the crux of the problem. The fucking crossroads if you will. You see, I can't communicate anymore clearly than I did in the former paragraph. I don't have the words, or if I do, the order gets jumbled up, and all I can do is stutter, and that is hard to do while writing. As much as this is obfuscation and denial, I can already hear people saying "You fucking liar. We all know what you are trying to say, and these words are the pathetic ranting of mistaken identity. We'll show you."
The funniest part is how back to the future this all is for me. In some ways, the spit-staggered development of social grace is like a bad case of blue balls. Maybe that is a bad example. There's already been enough mistakes made in that capacity, and don't it beat all hell that this subject is still the fucking Gordian knot it pretends to be. Now see, the obvious conclusion you should draw is that desire is fear. Not in the Newspeak sense, though kudos to any Orwell fans out there in the night. More in the sense that desire seems to represent an abasement of some type, the wherefore and why part of Juliet’s plea, if you will so indulge me. At any rate, as always, progress will be made, and while I do detest waiting, it may be unavoidable here. It would seem it is out of my hands at this point, though certainly, her problem is ideological, not emotional. Pity she hasn't figured that out yet. Shall we tell her? Nope. It wouldn't help, she'll get it sooner or later. I have faith.
To be more positive, downright anachronistically GORGEOUS, if I may, there are the wonderful tidings, glimmers really, that speckle the horizon, sparkling in color, beautiful portents of things to come. I am fairly confident (fairly because I have good cause, and confident because I enjoy the sensation of denial as much as the some, and more than others.) The sum total of this strange rant, discombobulated as it may seem, is to prove that there is a startling cohesion to the seemingly random mind. Each element, each carefully chosen word, each whisper of promise is guarded with barbed wire and the sentries of linear thought, but if you can get around all that, you will understand what I am writing here. This is the only clue I can offer, but I think it explains this whole blog nicely. (No notes telling me things "seem cliché." Do I look like a fucking momo? Cliché usage should be assumed to be on purpose, and I will do likewise.)
Well, there is more to say, but all this writing is sobering me up, and after watching "Sahara" tonight, I am in need of a cool cool beverage. By the by, the movie was excellent, the company fantastically radiant and demure, and the outcome heroic. Having a great time, wish you were here, sorry to keep going on..... At any rate, the cat is sleeping on my jeans; I'm going to go scare her, Stripes-style. No duct tape this time, just a good old-fashioned water gun.
cf
ps - (man, my brains must be scrambled. best news of the night? SOX WIN! kicking ass in toronto, I need that good mojo down here for a while....glad you guys are back, you've been missed! RSN is EVERYWHERE! see my car! hahahaha. ok, i'm done, time to go for some head time and then a brief dream about someone who for all I know is already asleep....with a cat. Lucky SOB.)
cf
