That being said- this can never be rushed. It cannot be forced. For if (and the few times of past whens) it is pushed beyond its desire… let’s just say to sound unmotivating would be lucky. Under frantic pressure, or at least the wrong type of frantic, this all is likely to more sound like manic confession of a mind with fluctuating obsession.
Not that I deny being that, of course.
But this requires presence. Not quite in line with what one would call an actual reality, but it needs to be very moment based. Almost self-aware, as it all occurs. As is the intention. Not to totally reflect upon what has happened since the last one, but to pick a particular time to slice out the heftiest piece of my own mind. To whatever extent is possible.
‘Tis most of my life that happens between Sunday mornings. And all the pondered conundrums and circumstantial settings happen somewhere in the week(s) that precede and follow.
So, I suppose, most of me is out there. Not in here.
But, only if measured in time. And thanks to metaphysics and the gang, time isn’t the biggest deal in existence. In theory.
I spend more hours on other things. It’s true. Has been for most of writers. Particularly the drunk ones. Some of the best ones. You’ll have nothing worth writing about if you’ve done no such worthy living.
And though writers are but one breed, and perhaps shrinking, all those crazy creative types must spend time elsewhere. At least at some point. And then there are the rest of you. The oh, so, many of you who live as much of a normal life as possible. Almost, as if by intention.
Some even see it unnecessary to record their living beyond what their mind collects as memory. And I do admire them, though I don’t imagine I could ever be one. I don’t take a lot of pictures of myself, sure. But under the thin veil of pseudonym, I do pour momentary glimpses of rather exact thoughts vaguely into the public forum.
It’s a management thing. Not my strongest trait. Day dreaming is, more likely. Though I have gotten better at both.
But this and most of the creative ventures I take up are management tactics. Stress, anxiety, doubt, and those in the voids between. These are fuel. They turn the rotors. And from which, all the rest shall come.
Think of it like a hydroelectric dam. Only instead of water, this operates by letting fear, failure and inner demons through. Just a little bit at a time. To keep the lights on the rest of my mind. And to keep the pressure from flooding the valley below.
So.
Existence, huh? How about that? I tell ya.
Allegedly, another season is winding down. End of the summer, they say on the TV. Heat wave next week. And I’m still waiting on spring.
I do miss it all. The solitude of the countryside. The urban life grows old. ‘Twas fun, and not something I am completely done with, but I need my own retreat. And will have one. Soon, hopefully.
The next phase is approaching. As I felt towards the last one, I feel now. Uncertainty. Not just of what will happen, but if anything will happen at all. How much change can a man hold capacity for in one lifetime? And how much has any change truly occurred?
It is hard to tell. It only seems a swarm of relentless minor changes to an unyielding core. That even though I have more words available for use, they all say the same thing. Still the kid watching Spider-Man cartoons and thinking about a girl I find to be pretty. They have given me more stuff to do, but at a rate I’ve kept up with. And so, I return to those foundations, whenever the chance gets made.
Perhaps that will change. Maybe this is the time that it does. But I think not. My daughter digs Spider-man. A lot. So, by default, Spider-Man and the gang are in my life for a bit longer. Maybe forever.
Another week. More deeds to do. Today. Tomorrow. And onward. Daydreams to be had and preparations for whatever storm might come from whatever way.
And so, I go. Trying to fill the space between Byron and Lord Bukowski.
The Veracious Facade 