It smelled of spring today. Yesterday, too. Will again tomorrow, I heard tell. Must mean she’s almost here, though, appearances can be deceiving.

For a moment, and not much longer, I felt myself unstuck in time, just shy of two decades in age, dreaming of all that is still to be. Then the perception left, as fleeting ideas so often do.

Not much went the way was imagined, at least not quite. Characters and settings once so important find themselves in little more than dream sequences in the stage adaptation of this life. If even granted presence at all, anymore.

For the better, for the most part, me thinks. How dull it would have been, right? Had everything gone all the ways some late teenager wanted.

But early spring always feels as though it were some sort of promise. A whisper, doomed to be broken, yet indulged in all the same. But I am addicted to thinking of the future, no matter how futile. Ever dependent on the coalescence of mind and heart that there is always more yet to arrive.

 Shoveled off the stage, today. In snow boots and a t-shirt, an otherwise maddening attire, fit absolutely perfect for this particular afternoon. And yes, I am the type of fellow who would build a stage in his backyard. So, I did, and there she is, out there now, in the dark, all scraped clean of snow and ice. The Folk Amphitheater, set to dry in sun and warming air. Might go sit out there tomorrow, breath in some environment with hints of life. There’s been little aside the vacuum of winter’s cold outside, and the tiresome inside atmosphere, seeming all depressingly redundant, these last few weeks.

Been creative, again, as of late. If for nothing else, at least out of desperation. To be. Both what I am, and what I never will amount to. An aggressive and near silent cry, wiring and working the optimism that if left unchecked, would certainly wane and migrate away from the metaphysical (and physical, as well, I’d suppose) space that I otherwise occupy. And in such absences, the negative flourishes.

But from the vault of faults and failures, I aim to make better, onward, etc., as has always been done (with irregular regularity) from the far flung past up to and upon this very moment. And the next, as well.

After all, a mistake is a terrible thing to waste.

But all tired of harboring upon the past, I seek instead to cultivate some brighter future, possibly neglecting some desires of my own in the process. You feel it, right? So potent and omni-present. All beings made of thinkings these days can feel it, even if their interpretations are belligerent and incorrect. This collective consciousness of ours has been heavily malnourished, with little relief, at least appearing, to be in sight.

The doomsayers of all varieties on the readily available instantly gratifying pocket media all fear an ever-impending cataclysm, either or both terrified or anticipating some beastly or benevolent end times. All mixed within an economic and militaristic might never before seen by this species on the face of the rock we call home. Or, at least as far as we can tell, from the last few millennia of record keeping. Dire diatribes of conflicting cultures, unable to see that even the opposition is still part of the same, within the context of the greater whole. Even all these others that we see are brothers, sisters, etc.

Was sent an image of a printed page, earlier today. The portion drawn out to potent appearance to your narrator is as follows:

‘A place that is nothing but a constant fight to merely stay afloat, where nobody becomes anything but a decaying character in a perpetual, sludging, post-punk medieval drama.’

The words of one, Fernando A. Flores, sent by a fellow who knows my literary preferences well. A peer of wordsmithing sending along the writings of a personal mentor of his. I’ll be ordering the book later, as I do not take such recommendations lightly. The current writer he cast in my direction is serving me well, so I’d have to assume that this one will be of a similar inspirational ilk.

Fighting to stay afloat.

A decaying character.

These ideas seem so omnipresent, these days and before and beyond. Efforts made producing far less than hoped, while time slips away and away, and away. Rapid grains of some small philosophical substance, inexplicable and intangible, as through the digits of my mind, they fall away. In a world where the vicious and the idiots, or worse, the vicious idiots, seem to be the only ones able to advance while us more genuine and empathetic type beings are stuck sewing the seams back together as they constantly pull themselves apart.  

A reminder.

History has not stopped. It hasn’t even paused as much as we might have thought, particularly among us in the western developed world. And within these greater tides, all our personal tragedies play their way through the stage of our lives, whether visibly intertwined in the grander schemes, or forever blind to that blend. But in the ebbs and flows of these large swaths of humanity marching through time, the personal impact upon the individual certainly holds the capability for making waves. Be they small laps against the shore, or something more akin to tsunami, set to devastate as far as its energies can reach. It is all there, on display, as we watch our ‘leaders’ work out vendettas tied to personality upon the large theaters of the species, impacting along the way. Could be good, could be disastrous, depending on the figure. Could be something else, altogether, once time separates us from where we now reside.

I don’t write these in the hopes that they be read. At least not all the time, and certainly not in this moment. And in correlation with that, no more than a few dozen souls ever cast their gaze and mental capacities on the consumption of these here thought experiments. You can check the stats, a perhaps detrimental and devious ability of interweb writings. This is an effort in expanding discipline, while simultaneously working to break down, or maintain the thinness between mind and page, be it digital or analog. And it works. The words flow with more ease, even when the weight of subject would otherwise be crippling.

These are for me, and if you get anything out of it, good for you.

That being said, I have schemes and designs for wider reach via some theatrical, literary or otherwise artistic expressions. Sonic layerings to finish producing, to be cast out to the wider world. While also in midst of construction of new music, thus far, bop after bop. A reaffirmation in an earlier idea. The young man dreaming of a quick and easy hit, never realizing at the time that the better ones are due to come with time. With experience. With hurt and work, perseverance and knowledge.

And another project. A scheme. Existing now as a few pages, and index cards and sticky notes on a bulletin board. One that, perhaps foolishly, I have a sense of hope for not instant, but wide outreach. And by design, an impact that I may never become aware of. But it is the lack of mainstream digital means that makes that project seem to have the life and legs that will make a stance better than all that instant crap.

But we can talk about that more, later, when completed and becomes available. That is, if you make the list. It is rather exclusive, at least in the first wave. After that, it is beyond my control. As are so many things, if not everything, though I’d hate to admit the latter while there is still breath and fight within me.