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And So Begins...

"Ever have one of those moods where you just want to fuck the shit out of somebody...use and be used...no words...no strings...just fuck the pain away until you're both exhausted?

And so begins the great American novel by A.T. Skaggs, "Two Balls for a Quarter"..."

No. Not really. I know that language like that is a slap in the face to some. And others see it as the current vernacular of our very self-centered society.  The language is meant for one thing. The only thing language is really ever meant for--to convey. It was a thought that popped in to my head as I was cleaning. I thought...how funny would it be to open up Rolling Stone magazine and see a book review that started that way?

I do that sometimes. I carried around an Oscar acceptance speech for a time. When I wrote it, it was an acceptance speech for Best New Screenplay. I gave myself until 45 for that one. So...I have some time left. Although, I'll have to tweak some of the people on the 'thank you' list.

you ever go through something and come up with a pretty decent paragraph and then through some edits, your pretty good paragraph is all alone and completely out of place? The paragraph below is one such paragraph.

In this instance, as I was going through my purging process today. I came up with 3 bags of clothes that I won't be wearing any time soon. And 10 bags of trash and other items that no longer have any bearing in my now current lifetime.

And now we're back in the flow...sorry about that...

The sentiment is simple. Sometimes we...and by we, I mean me, because as you've not doubt noticed, this blog is pretty much all about the shit rattling around in my head...sometimes I have this weird funk that falls on me like that weird early morning fog/mist combo that happens sometimes in the late fall and just takes your breath away.

I don't know where it comes from. But the Dog approach takes over. If you can't eat it or screw it, piss on it and walk away.

Told you it was kind of a funk.

Ten bags of trash, right? I mean, to be clear, it wasn't like those big ass janitor bags, more like the white kitchen trash bags. So, it's probably like 4 regular lawn and leaf bags.

Some of it was old mail...circulars and the like. But some of it was just stuff I don't need. I've been here almost 2 years now (I know, right?!?) and I figure if I haven't used it by now, I probably won't.  It all goes back to that other post about being physically and mentally cluttered.

I don't know if it's the holidays...or the fact that I was over in the old neighborhood this week. I really haven't put my finger on it. At least not in a way that I can manifest.

I honestly think it goes back to feeling alone in a crowd. I have felt like that many times in my life. Felt that if I were to actually say what I thought....verbalize the shit that is rattling around in my brain...people would go from being mildly amused...to passively indifferent..to downright annoyed. It's much easier...it's always been easier to work that in to a story.

If the opening line in today's post comes from me, it's vulgar.  And it would quite likely cause furrows of worry on the brows of those that care about me.  But, if those words...those thoughts come from some character in a story. Some narcissistic junior level manager on her way to the top of a big Madison Avenue ad agency, then those words somehow fit.

What's going to mess with your head, dear reader, as you peruse my fictional side of writing....is just what is completely made up for the sake of the story and what are the true demons that I needed to exorcise.

I don't know very many other writers personally enough to answer this or have discussed it with them, so I don't know if it's like this for them or not. But for me...the answer is simple. ALL of it is stuff that has to be bled out on to the page. When I get in that zone, the writing just happens. When I go back and read it later, I can see bits and pieces of things that might have been on the surface...other things that were buried that I know had to come out.

Ok. This isn't quite working.
I just noticed I typed the word 'meh'...that's the written equivalent of 'um'....a place holder. Something to keep your attention while my brain tries to come up with something more clever to really keep you hooked.

At this point I'm not sure if it's working or not.

Perhaps that's what the funk really is.

I knew that the marriage wasn't working. Eh, the second one, that is. The first one I thought I was actually on the road to fixing when I got blindsided with the 4 page letter. No...the second one had hit a place where I looked at my future and I looked at the person I would be spending it with, and a stranger was looking back at me. I didn't know who she was anymore. And more importantly, I didn't feel like I could share with her who I was becoming....what my hopes and dreams were. When you find yourself saying 'It is what it is...' more than you say 'what the hell IS this?' That complacency rather than the spirit of exploring a lifetime with that person, it's time to re-evaluate what the fuck is going on.

So...yeah. There's that.

Did I mention that most of the clothes I had bagged up today to donate were clothes that were much too small for me....but had once fit me? Yeah. Talk about a mindfuck. Speaking of mindfuck. I have lost count of how many times in a day I find myself looking at something and my head will tilt as I'm looking at it in that way that dogs have of making you think they are actually evaluating what you are saying. And in that moment, I hear the voice of the fictional Morpheus... Do you think that my strength and speed are a result of my muscles...in this place?...You think that's air you're breathing? Hmm.

And in those moments, I am reminded that this is all a thinly veiled illusion. And it makes me sad to think how tightly I have recently been clinging to the rules and paradigms of this world that is but one glimmering facet in the sunlight of a fantastic gem being held by a collective consciousness.

No. I'm not high. Or drunk.

Oddly enough when I am drunk, my flow is less scattershot than the scribbles you've just endured. Provided of course that I'm not so tipsy that the very act of typing induces less than pleasant feelings in my tum tum.

Well done you, by the way. If you've made it this far then it would seem something I've written (either today or at one point) has struck a chord.

That or you're really just wanting to see how far off the rails I've gone today.

Either works for me.

I smell of sweat and faded memories. Excuse me while I head off to the shower.  There may yet be enough time to head to a local brew pub and have a few pints.

Have a wonderful rest of your evening my friends.

Bob often wondered if he was the only one that had these thoughts. She...oh, right, Roberta. But she had gone by Bob since she first learned of the unnerving affect it had on men in this city when they assumed gender.  Gender. The polite way of saying sex. Surely she wasn't the only wounded soul in this city to turn to carnal anesthesia.  She pegged Frank in accounting for a fellow pain-fucker. Perhaps the holiday party would afford her the opportunity to find out. 

"This is some good shit," she thought as she stared at the illuminating numbers transitioning on the elevator panel.

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