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The Hook

John Popper says that the hook brings you back. So what, dear reader, brings you back?

Is it that you---wait.

Did I just fucking do that? Did I start with a quote by a 'famous' person? Oh Mrs. Maser, I'm sorry. I know how you admonished against such contrived devices in support of an otherwise sound thesis (although, how sound could it have been if I needed to quote someone other than me?).

Sorry. Where was I? Oh. Yeah. You. What brings you back? Is it that you read this and feel as though we are having a conversation? To let you in on a secret, we are. I know a few people who have flat out told me that they read my blog whenever they can. I am always somewhat surprised and humbled by that. But those handful are the ones I imagine I am conversing with. Which is to say..you. I hear your responses in my head.

Are you fucking kidding me with this? How can you possibly know what we'd say back to you? Well...I don't. But I don't know that it actually matters. I'm always having these conversations in my head. Sometimes they just happen to coincide with when I am near a keyboard. Or a journal. Or close enough to some other device with which to exorcise them from my brain bucket.

Speaking of...how fucking cool would that be? Something that tooled around in my brain...a nanobot maybe. That would flow along my synapses and as I was making up these posts in my head (the most common time is when I'm driving to work), it would send the details via 4G to some cloud account and I could go back later and read it. The hardest part about writing for me is not actually coming up with things to write, it's the discipline of actually getting that shit out of my head it to some format I can share it with others.

I'd offer to let you take a tour around my head, but I'm not going to lie--it's a rather dark place on most days. I don't mean evil dark. I mean dark in the sense that I'm just barely playing along with the facade around this world and most days I feel like I need to just pack up the essentials...sell off everything else and just hit the road and go where it takes me.

The essentials. What are the essentials? Laptop(s)? Journals? Pen and paper? Instant camera? Those would be high on my list of essential creative outlet tools. Otherwise, clothes. Money. Toothbrush. Towel. And maybe CPAP machine.

It's funny that if I had to jet, that's what my 'essentials' list would comprise. Kinda makes me wonder why all the other shit is in my apartment. Creature comforts. Stuff.

I know, I know. I shouldn't read Fight Club before I start blogging about material self-validation. But it's true. I think the movie (and now the book) resonate with me precisely because I wonder if I really need all the bullshit that I have surrounding me. I already know the answer. But I also know that if I were to take it to the next level and clean all the bullshit out, this place might feel bigger. And lonelier.

The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club.

And if it's your first time here, you have to fight.

But what are people fighting for these days? A vanishing middle class? Who the fuck knows. All I know is I have 2 Blu-Ray players (one is still sitting in a box--used for 5 hours one night). I have probably close to 100 movies on Blu-Ray and I can't recall the last time I popped one of them in to watch something that I couldn't stream.

Stuff. The essentials. Clearly we as a society have convinced ourselves that what was once a 'nice to have' is now a 'need/must have.' And it's simply not true.

The second rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club.

And with that, this little ramble is coming to an end. I need sleep.

Well, I don't necessarily need sleep, but this body does. This corporeal shell that I've chosen for this ride through space needs sleep.

So, I'll respect it. This time.

See you in the morning!!

-AT

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