To

To write. To blog. To write for dissemination on the blog. The element of performance is not lost on me. The expectation of expectations confounds the direction and production of material. Still I yearn for things to write about. What a thing: to yearn for things to write about. Why? Don’t know. Perhaps it’s the detachedness that stems from being in writing. A retrospective revival, minus grit where I don’t see the contribution of grit for aesthetic fulfillment. Extra grit on some occasions, lest the world turn flat.


Still I yearn for things to write about. Right now, my school work doesn’t cut it for motivation. I would rather write other. Other. In the moments in which the target of the blog has been identified and made clear to me, it helps me be there too. With the target that is. The target becomes, so to speak, dissectable in a new light. I ask myself what would be necessary to translate the experience into words. What phrase could possibly evoke the feeling that is me being in a situation which I have marked off as “worthy” of sharing. Lest I bore you more, I assure you that most of the time it is much less romantic. A cow shits on me and I think others would find this funny. A blog post is borne.

Humor as the easiest target, but not the easiest channel, nor the easiest material for transcription.

Yesterday I stretched my left arm so as to support myself on the wall as I brushed my dentition. Fire met me half way burning the fatty part of my palm. Instantly and quite uncoincidentally, a small scorpion spontaneously generated on the bathroom floor. Driven by a misplaced sense of justice, I smashed the little fire devil. Ugly little schmuck reduced to a sloppy wiry mess, swept outside to join its place in the cosmic graveyard.

Given the chance to turn back the clock to about 14 hours prior and I would not change anything related to my dental hygiene. That is, I would meet the fire again, but this time with anticipation. This, is true, would make it worse to begin with, but I trust the tingle that followed the burn would be equally nice. Fire burns itself to the point of extinguishing its charm, and so with the poison circling in my hand. The burn set the stage for nice tingling, numbness. But what is more (and no longer sore) is the equally misplaced sense of triumph that follows enjoying a scorpion sting.


Later that night, that is last night, in a different sapiens way of acting, I crushed another big one. This one had it coming just by coming into our eye sight. One more for the grave, swept outside. Fire for some, breakfast for others. Words identified as dignitaries; they are my emissaries representing some aspect of myself to you. You too are dignitaries. We are all invited to royal diplomatic dinners to discuss matters beneath, above, between and within us. A proclamation for the blog, odd but genuinely in tune with the yearning expressed at the beginning of this writing. This writing, has been, and as fire, is no longer (writing that is).