I find that laughter is a particularly effective tool for hale health and disposition. Unfortunately I'm running out of nitrous oxide. When I do use it my mind feels numb for days. Really a win win. I'm not one to huff glue or sniff markers; having so few values makes one hold even harder to the ones you do possess. I recycle my plastic gin bottles, never read tabloids, and always eat my animal grade tuna with a fork. When I was 8 I remember sniffing cherry scented markers and laughing while my sister ate pasta with her hands. And in the middle of my manic, berry odored laughing she shoved the marker up my nose. Hmmm... perhaps my non marker sniffing sensibility is just trained behavior. Well now my sister takes Vicodin til her kids get blurry and I drink whiskey until my nightmares and daydreams smooth out into a manageable mix of wonder and terror. At least I don't eat with my hands. Slob.
A Place of Questions
I question myself on a point of my health
All my reasons are shaking and trembling
The words they make sense in my head but crumble as they’re spoken
My reasons my thoughts all seem
To get caught up in tangles
They come out disjointed
There’s a tune in my ear whispering
Yet I hear another story whimpering
My eloquence fades as it travels in rays
Only spoke it to give you sunshine
Words and phrases lets loose in blurts
Just the surface of what I’ve been saying
If you hold my hand then you’ll understand
The heat of our skin puts them together
Snap back into place held by wires, I place
My soul in a dead lost language, I shrug
And you give me new strength from afar
Got a feeling, the meaning’s been conveyed
I trust in my hands, trust in my feet
Word’s footing and purchase has stumbled and fallen
Against the rough stone of the wall I tumble
And move with a crawl to the meaning that I’ve been intending
I'm not sure why I continue driveling on about my useless, alcoholically castrated life. Maybe I used to have a reason for writing, some higher purpose above school essays and magazine deadlines. Some ubiquitous wonder that ran through me that forced my hands over a worn keyboard to release the pressure behind my eyes.
I think that's just the alcohol talking. Gin has a nice vocabulary, but its metaphor is a little heavy handed.
When I was in the second grade words fascinated me. Not books or stories but words. Somewhere in the formation of my consciousness the synapses in my oddly large head fired me towards a dictionary. I read it for hours, to the confusion of my mother and belittlement of my classmates. Well, my mother was often in a state of bloody mary induced confusion and classmates always found some reason just beyond my grasp to pick on me. Tangents lying on a circle I was left out of. I felt that words stood alone, their marvel unhindered by lack of plot characters rhyme or reason. But Webster's tome just listed all of the words, hiding gems like pontificate and salacious among spore and duct. I found that novels and articles were an excuse to be selective of words, a place where someone could mingle some select combinations. Though authors spout morals and axioms and diatribes their real purpose is to place sacred words together.
Well shit, I guess I answered my question. And luckily I did so before the tenth swig from my plastic home away from home; when the words from my thoughts and typewriter mingle and dance in some complicated ritual finished by me eventually blacking out.
A Place of Stuff and Blogs and Musings and ,,,
I am the person who writes in the blog space to the left. I guess I do all the place of stuff stuff...