blabbity blab blab blab

Sometimes i just feel like writing. Usually if I wait long enough the feeling will pass, but occasionally it lingers just long enough for the right time. Also, usually the inspiration drives from a need to say something. That's when it's easy. Mostly once i start it finds form quickly and just jumps right from my brain through my fingies and into bits and fragments that sometimes make sense. Other times, and very rarely I might add, I simply want to write and I've got nothing pressing to say. That's a time like this.

So whilst you might be waiting for some point, or revelation or the more likely drivel that I constantly produce, today no such luck. So while it's possible that I will find direction and follow that footprint by pressing mine into it to see if there is another, it's not likely to happen. So really you're just wasting your time. Although the very fact that you're here and reading this proves that quite possibly you're a bit masochistic in this way. good for you.

And just so you're all aware I've just decided that everyone but me is stoopit. I apologize if you're a part of the group everyone. I know you can't help it. And I'm getting a little peeved about it, if you wanted to know because it's making me look a tad bit foolish. I mean who wants to be the only one that's not like everyone else. I can see the fingers pointing. So I'm a freak. Big deal. We're all freaks. It's just that I'm a freak because I'm better than everyone else.

There's something liberating about writing a blog that no one reads. You can pretty much say anything. Who'd know, who'd care. I don't even really care, if truth be known.

An interesting observation, been thinking about old people and their bad driving. Because I'm approaching oldness and wondered about when that transition starts. I think I've figured it out. I think it starts in direct proportion to the degree to which you just don't give a fuck what other people think. I think old people drive just fine, they drive like crap because, well, they just don't care what you think and could care less if they get fucked up in an accident. They'll probably die anyway and it's a hell of a lot better way to go than dying of pneumonia while you're recovering from a hip replacement in some sterile hospital. So it's really just a great big middle finger with just not as much physical effort. Just what I think.

Oh, and getting old, my frikken eyesight!! WTF My arms aren't long enough. I'm developing monkey toes just so I can hold things far enough away to read them. and I'm short, I'm going to run out of limbage soon. I just made up that word. I'm going to make up a whole sentence with made up words.

hmmm, nuked my bean squishuid and hotulgated the brewteroma to a scintillation upwartude of satisfixiation, now I gotsta aquire.

Hey, when did the 'Me generation' become the 'and give me yours too generation'? Do you think the existential movement of the sixties and seventies anticipated the extreme shallowness of people? hands across America, the Pepsi generation. what a disaster that turned out to be. Everyone thinking for themselves. I think existentialism really requires someone with depth of thought, someone who can think things through and see the bigger picture. It wouldn't be so bad if people acted for themselves if maybe they understood basic ideals like give and you shall receive. But mostly they just want and so they take. And really I don't mind serving another if what they're all about is something bigger than themselves. Even a community business has something to offer, but if all I'm really doing is diverting money so one guy or a handful can live like gluttonous pigs, I just can't do it. I'm cool if they have a little more than others, but when we start talking billions and shit like that, I can't do it. i want to be a part of something bigger, something that creates more than it consumes. Is that too much to ask?

I went to the bookstore a couple of days ago, killing a little time. I thought I'd look for a self help book, couldn't find them, finally I asked for help. Thank you I'll be here all week.

Anyway, I really was, so I was trying to find some books on the authentic you. You know uncovering your true nature and building a life around who you actually are. And you know I'll be damned if every book was about how to change and be somebody else. no wonder we're all fucked up. What kind of a message is that. we're all so unhappy with our lives we think it's because we're fucked up and need to change. No, man we're OK. it's the lives we've put ourselves in that is fucked up. I blame it on the self help books. somehow if we say the right things, and treat people a certain way they'll give us what we want. How frikken manipulative. and now no one trusts anyone elses motives and nobody gets what they want or need. a bunch of bullshit.

I think movies like paying it forward, try to reverse it, but really the fuckupedness has gone way beyond. Now if you serve, and help it doesn't spread like some idealistic movie. All you are is just one person that isn't trying to screw another, it doesn't spread, it takes the pressure off another for a brief second as they breathe a sigh of relief and prepare themselves for the next assault on the last vestiges of their sanity. you almost have to hermit yourself if you want to not participate in the craziness. People are so protective of themselves and their psyche's they can't engage. Like if you engage their inner minds you're going to rip out that last little piece of self that hasn't been compromised. We're all shut ins because we've all been shut out. crazy times.

Angst abounds. Extreme absurdity. We dance to say we're dancing and now no one wants to dance because they feel they have to, and no one dares stop. And so we dance mechanically, and we robotize our lives and can't shut off that little part of our minds that creates the music worth dancing to, but we can't listen to that music else we throw off the robot dance, misstep and face the ridicule.

I think that needs to be a poem. While at the book store I stopped by the poetry aisle. It's not really a whole aisle, maybe two cabinets of shelves. And I've got to say that poetry sucks, just a little. much is unreadable. yucko stuff. Most is more prose. Not really even poetry if you ask me, just maybe placed in stanzas, tricked up a bit with stupidly placed punctuation and line breaks. maybe a capital in a weird place. Here I'll try it with that last paragraph and see what happens.

we Dance to say
we're dancing
And now,
no one wants to

Dance.
because they have to.
no one dares to stop.

And so we Dance,
mechanically,
we robotize our lives
and

can't shut off.

That little part of our brains
that we
Make the Music
worth dancing to.

we can't.

Listen to the Music.

else,
we throw off the robot Dance

misstep.

face the ridicule.

Sadly that may turn out to be the best poem I've done. I didn't know it was that easy. Well on that note, I'll call it a night.