2004-07-13 - 4:36 p.m.
Call it a lack of stories, or the current headache Iím suffering, or the odd desire some have voiced to see what itís like in my head, Iíve decided to offer up a quick smattering of thoughts that have been swirling around. This is unreadable. I mean that in, itís boring. Please ignore it.
Iíve decided to get a dartboard. Make an attempt to affect my surroundings. Learn a new skill with easily applied applications: a.k.a. throwing peanuts at friends in bars, properly tossing refuse into trashcans and the what not. Having an effect, causing something, moving something in an appreciable way. Moving with the hands. Canít always be moving , especially not always without the hands. Manually fixated seems to be an odd state for someone so decidedly against actual action. Singing songs and making rhymes, thinking someone might repeat the verses or actually remember the bridge. When the lyrics are so lacking, just plot, whoíd care, and why would they if they had more anyway, and what business is it of theirs, and whatís with all the jokes? Laughter and tears, all that sets us apart. Hate and love spread like Spam over the species, but we appreciate Woody Allen in his early films, because we see what isnít there. Laugh at the pink elephant, cry and the years and years and years of things you havenít felt, but probably wonít go well. All that we are, that which we see without seeing. Haul in Heidegger, and Sartre, and suddenly, all that is just everything. We are the imagined definition of something that is everything and, canít really go into specifics right now, but if youíll wait for the press release, it will just become a lie you tell yourself so you can reach down and know your name. Definition. Itís why we write isnít it? To be finished with something, to know it is set, etched in stone by lightning, but of course then it has to be thrown down on the insolents dancing around their calf, and you have to go back and re-write, check the grammar, and then the editors, oh the editors. They wonít stop until every other line has a carrot, an aside or some other schlock. Whatís the point if we arenít what weíve been, because no one can decide, and we canít be what we imagine, when weíd have to be everything, and canít be what we are because itís already over. Insanity is defined by repeating the same actions over and over again, and expecting a different response. Depression is defined as repeating the same actions over and over again, knowing the response and hoping it will change. Iím getting a dartboard.
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