Found on Desktop

I was cleaning off my desktop. My computer's as disorganized as I am, these days. I had 17 different word documents open. This was found among them, and I just liked the rhythm, even though it's from a couple weeks ago now, I guess.

More self-involved shit. Life's too chaotic for me to talk about the rest of the world these days. :P Here you go.

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I’ve had a stop-the-world-and-let-me-off kind of a day.

The horizon out my window is filled with a murky indistinct grey, the stretched-batting blandness that precedes a nighttime snowfall. They’re lazy clouds. Not like those stormy black clouds that look like they’re holding back a fury. These clouds are the equivalent of that dude at the party that hangs back quietly until a conversational opening happens and he knows his moment has unfolded. These clouds are that dude. They’re waiting just a little longer and I suspect they’ll break before the hour is through.

But I really don’t care.

I was folding and hanging my clothes a moment ago, trying to bring peace back into the chaos of my little universe, when a thought occured to me: I generally allow my bedroom to dictate how I do or do not think. When I can’t make heads nor tails of the world around me, can’t impact a page, my bedroom looks like I’m a fucking junkie in a crackhouse or something. My bedroom’s where I write, you see. Normally, things are somewhat under control. Okay, perhaps that’s a lie. Normally, I’m somewhat able to cope, no matter what the state.

Lately, though, I’ve found life sort of overwhelming. Just up and whomp.I’ve been standing back, waiting for the clouds to part, just for some fucking moment of “yeah, I see where it’s all going” or something. Just something.

If you gave me enough rope to hang myself with, asked me for enough adjectives to describe myself with, and sooner or later, I’d have to throw “full of shit” into the mix. I find it hard, sometimes, to accept that I’m this pretty logical, pragmatic, intelligent chick and yet I’m so taken by symbolism and serendipity that I seem to be some paradox of some kind.

Right now, for instance, I’m tripping about the coincidences of late. I’m not really that hung up on coincidences, but the fact is, this life’s a big, long fucking ride of confusion and intrigue, and if it makes me think it’s all just a little more digestible in order to think the “coincidences” are telling me something, then what the fuck. It’s entertaining. I don’t put much stock in these things, but I love the food for thought that comes by way of the “what if” factor.

Recently I chatted with this fellow who I’ve got to get in touch with (but sadly I’m ignoring everyone in my life) who happened to take a liking to my writing. Then I developed writer’s block in addition to all the shit that transpired with my big brother. Throw into that mix the one-year anniversary of this blog, which was originally begun so as to get me out of my six-year bout with blockage, and then the strange coincidence of my brother’s head injury/accident, which also preceded my return to the land of writing/living last fall.

Add it all together and it’s a strange brew. I really hate this frustration of feeling I’ve got nothing to say. The overwhelming chaos of the mess around me serves as some kind of literary inertial dampener or something. I’m listening to a little Tom Waits and enjoying the fact that I finally see the wood grain on my desk once again, but fantasizing a little about taking it a step further sometime this week and oiling this bad boy back to its maple-y splendour. Salivating also at the thought of a dinner I need to go on a hunt for some ingredients to create -- souvlaki with a little lemon risotto. And I need beer.

The fact is, I just don’t feel like writing right now. And this can’t stay the case. It fucks me up. What was it that dead guy said -- a life unexamined is a life left unlived? I feel like such a part-time player when I’ve done no examining. It’s like I’m coasting through the playground of life on neutral, maybe being led around like a show horse or something. It’s pretty fucking unspectacular.

I’m a legend in my own mind. If it’s not down on paper, then it’s a passing thought, a whisper at best. I need posterity. Don’t we all? We’re all players in a drama that’s so much larger than who we thought we were. We’re afterthoughts, at best. There are those who’d say writing is a writer’s quest for immortality, a reckoning that there’s no other way we’ll be entitled to it. So, we write.

And this, I’ve no illusion what a waste of my time it is to write it, nor the waste of your time it is to read it, but there it is. A desperate cry for attention, like all blogging really is.