Been thinking about creation. Not the big cosmic type, though that does cross my mind, from eon to eon. But the smallness imposed upon my mathematically feeble mind tends to shelve those thoughts rather promptly, in what must be some form of psychological self-defense.

The pondering that holds the role of protagonist at current is more strongly regarding that more lowercase type of creation. The personal sort, that most folks who make attempts at its conjuring would call art. Or at least, I do. And so do some other folks that I know, or have at least heard of.

Sonic or visual, poetically contextual and that sort- the kind made from usually either the itch to better understand the whys, or the outlandish exclamation of frustration of knowing all attempts at such expression always fall short. A statement of status within all the futility that is a linear biological existence, i.e., one that is doomed to eventually cease. At least as far as can be proved, though the devotees of religious and spiritual ideologies can generally make claims to otherwise.

Not saying that I am not one of those types. And certainly not saying that I am. But the claims of such findings are generally either from writings whose original scripting has faded to the dust of oblivion we too must face, or the anecdotal sort which would fail the tests of most courts of approval. Not the sort of thing I would claim as proof.

But when I think upon it, on this near solstice day in two thousandth and twenty fourth year since the alleged birth of the man made god claimed by my forebears and a prominent point in my upbringing, you know, the one named Josh or whatever- when I think of art in this day and age it is easy to be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the stuff claiming that title. Certainly, I disagree with no shortage of things parade such a category of existence, but I am freedom loving enough to know that not everything that excites, intrigues, entertains or appeases my own person is the same as what others claim in the same standing.

Some folks like their art more sterile. Or else, how would a band like Steely Dan ever be able to exist? And since at least a few thousand disagree with me, there must be something there. Damned though, if I’ll ever see it. Or, hear, I suppose, in that case.

I tend to prefer expressions that are a bit more unwashed. Things that stink of earth, or flesh, or bar mats at two in the morning as the struggle cease the spinning hold reign. The art that tastes of tears, or your own blood in your mouth. That feels like cracking in the sun, or rotting in the cold. That refreshes like the sunshine outside of a funeral home, or the fog of a city street a million years ago, as someone assigned to a position most paramount walks away for the rest of your existence forcing an unconsented rebirth of outlook while knowing you’re still living in the skin of your old hopes and aspirations, be they romantic, professional or some other type of big deal category.

Perhaps it is because I am a delusional hack. Which is an accusation I never stray away from. And perhaps if I had any sort of real talent or training in the methods of our non-clinical expressions, I might claim all that as layman nonsense and underappreciation for the more refined attempts at the human urge to shake a fist or two at the impending tide of nowhere and nothingness.

But still, I argued with a friend about a guitar solo in what could statistically be called one of the most popular tunes of the last half of the last century. I didn’t argue that it was bad, but that it was dull in its precision. And I stand by my argument, To quote my favorite bathrobe wearing fictional character, ‘come on man, I had a rough night and I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man.’

I had a talk with another soul about a few things, not excluding the doom of our times (vaguely) and my own former outward optimism of a decade or so ago. She’d certainly know about it, being a victim of its appetite. She being a being who I had been as close as one can generally try and get, ages ago. Last time I saw her was in a foreign country, coincidentally enough. Interesting encounter that was.

And after all these several score words later, I think of my own attempts at creation. Past, present, and those still yet to be. If I keep on getting to have some yet to be’s. You never know, as it were. I ponder the ambitions I still hold and struggle to find enough time and energy to explore. The overbearing list of necessary, albeit mundane and bureaucratic requirements I must meet and how the simple and yet surrounding desires I have elsewhere always find a way to be persuasive or perverse.

But I must keep hollering out at oblivion. Be it in singing voice, written word or whatever else I might cling to my cause. I cannot see much of a life without such endeavors, if there would even be any life at all. And I certainly see no other way to immortality, which even with my very mild and modest wisdom calling a cause of folly- I still strive for at all times, within some part or another of my decaying being.

The honesty and poetry of hopelessness, and all the faith that it inspires.

And yet, all this metaphysical meandering, and I still have to write a note to myself saying to take the garbage to the street.

I had missed it last week, so it stinks. And there’s a bear about, so I don’t need that mess. Not on top of all the other ones that I seem barely able to manage. Control the controllables, a former love had told me. I agreed with her, so I guess I should work towards living such words.