Don’t mind the date. Been churring up the thoughts for this since at least Monday (yesterday) evening. Ipso facto, not false advertising.

The attempted reduction of stimuli. Dancing the line with intellectual impotence and just enough numbing to get by. The eternally insatiable habits that grant only dependency, where once was felt relief. The cowardice in the face of ideas, both grand and many.

The desire to accomplish, crushed down to malignant regret. A paralytic inability to move onward, despite what bonus or boundaries exist circumstantially.

But I am no advocate of my more reductive states.

I don’t aim to push down these varied impulses to explore and create, despite any circumstantial prerequisites.

And the balancing act has produced some strength, as long as used correctly. Metaphysical resistance training, as it were.

And still, here I face the page yet to be filled, and with its entrance, all the insecurities I’ve done so well to fight off from the main stage of perception. Yet, here they are, all the same.

I have both retreated and gone outward since I originally thought the conception of this week’s ramble, and when it might be conceived. I know the individuals to blame. And they’d damn better know themselves as responsible as well. Two days belated because of you bastards, but no more. Bull moose, etc.

I stuttered and staggered through the most recently preceding days. Not that a flurry of thoughts were not occasionally scratched out before we convened here. I’m just in the process of reciting and rectifying them, as best as such a flawed being as I might be able to manage. And if failure is the fate, I hope at least to grant you the enthusiasm of my efforts. Genuine, for sure. No matter how misguided they end up being.

Since we were here last, I managed to tuck two gigs (loosely defined) under my belt. And as far as the shit I’m willing to give at the time o9f writing… I must confess, I think I did alright. If not better that. They might have even been good sets, if you ask anyone but me.

Sitting here now, I know my main inspiration. It is the inexplicable. I itch to say and sing more than has already been said and sang, which is an audacious attempt at eternity. So much documented grandeur before me and still I feel inclined to yelp out to those around me, in whatever moment I find myself in. And the unadulterated nature of that gives me bounds of the ever onward sort of hope. A room of unaffected people still reigns as a favorite venue, far more so than those who have heard any of these bit beforehand.

But my great incitation of hope is far beyond that. And has very little to do with me. It only regards the already greatest product of an action I have ever go on with.

Saw the kiddo, play her part, with her heart- and if inspiration is needed beyond that, what a sorry soul that would be. Kid loves the theater, and the theater seems to have no ill will towards her. And with that, I garner the best advice such a nincompoop can manage.

It’s the gift and curse of young parental existence. Before you’ve dealt with the ideologies of your own- here comes this doomed to be superior being, better wrapping her noodle around the crises that you know for a fact were damn near crippling for you. And within all that, you scratch through your own existence in the perhaps benign effort to shave away your own troubles to make a path of more intrinsic ease than that easy one that was shown you. I don’t have many peers as failures, but I can sure see the predecessors fault played out in vivid technicolor.  

And still, within in all this antithesis existence- I cut the lawn mowing short and sat about a bar with friends, anxiously awaiting the turn of this thirty year plus bum to shout out about the melodies contrived upon considering my most recent conspired events. And for all the faults that I regularly grant myself- this much can be said as true. I remembered all the words. A struggle I am not unfamiliar with, but somehow the tunes continue to speak in a profound present tense to me.

But my own extinct glory is hardly a note worthy conversation, save a few endearing masochists. And a few better thoughts were scratched out in other hours between then and now. Watched the spawn consume three kid portioned biographies in less than an hours’ time. A feat my peer parentals might find extraordinary, and one I call par for the course. Always destined to be better, my daughter- I still find pride in her ability to consume information, particularly when in the fashion of stories.

And what a three lives she selected? (From the dozen or so mini-biographies I had gotten for her).

First up, she picked up the one about Dolly Parton. Go ahead, make a complaint. I await a more unified front on my side than any of the national sized politicians of the last half century. If you don’t love Dolly, then I don’t know what the fuck to do for you.

The second, I must confess, was at least a bit of my persuasion. Although it is open and available for all to tap into, my close associates as of late have been feeding off that vibe far from insufficiently. We eat hotdogs and listen to records with such energy, so it is certainly present in the home. In all the best and none of the worst kind of ways.

But there is not a human with a soul intact who could not pull some sort of inspiration from good ol’ T.R. And as my daughter made clear again for me by reading his tale the first time- that his tragic humanity is the key for his unrelenting vigor. It is the hurt we suffer that better drives greatness, the true more universal greatness, with a more capital sort of G- than any vain attempt at ego reconciliation. Let your true faults and failures drive you- and your vanity never gets the chance to make a claim at lame persuasion.

The third she picked was ol’ Sammy Clemens, which may prove, in time, to be the most potent of all. His house is in this state, in which we live, so I said we’d go this summer. Haven’t been since I was there last with her mother. A decade, or a lifetime ago.

But Mark Twain was born and died by the same comet, as a matter of astrological fact. And here I am, wondering before I cut my yardwork short- what time of day it might be when I finally fade.

Hope it’s sunset, I thought to myself. Or near abouts. Lots of colors and conflicts and such.  Or just before then. A moon would be nice. Either real big, or barely one at all. Some barely silver sliver, cutting through an expiring bright sky.

I sure as shit hope its not morning. I’d hate to waste a perfectly good day dying. There are much better things to do.