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.
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.
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