It wasn't bad pizza what made me start writing tonight, nor was it a virus, or too much alcohol (or any alcohol, for that matter). This probably isn't my Jerry Maguire moment, supposing I ever have one of those. No, really, this is the result, I think, maybe...
...see, I can't even pull the trigger on that thought. 'Cause apparently I have commitment issues. Or something like that. And I write a lot like I often talk. In short, choppy disjointed sentences. With odd punctuation.
So the problem is maybe the way I think. My thoughts are like ball bearings rolling down a billion narrow tracks placed side by side on a shaker table, which itself is randomly whacked causing the bearings to jump their tracks and start all over again.
Gahhh. Scrap that. I don't like the machine analogy. I am not a machine, although I sometimes feel like one. A tired, stressed out machine about to be replaced by the next generation of shiny, noisy things. They may not be better, but they look better, and therein lies the rub. I may have the content, not sure I have the form. My surface, maybe it ain't so shiny.
So there I go again, off on another tangent which barely makes sense to me. If it doesn't make sense to me, I can't expect it to make sense to you, dear readers (to whom I'm very grateful that you've stuck it out this far). Analogy, analogy, I'm looking for an analogy. Or is it a metaphor? A simile? Gahhh, again. See? Distracted by my own self, or the shiny things that are my thoughts.
Crows. My thoughts are like crows. Bright, clever but so easily distracted.
This rambling edifice is the result of being tired and run-down. "Shagged out from a long squawk" to borrow from Monty Python. The stresses and strains of the week have taken the starch out of me, and tonight for the first time in a long time I laid down on the couch after eating alone (again) at my neighborhood tavern, and channel surfed the television. Watching things about which I either cared too little or cared too much. I melted into the couch cushions. My eyes absorbed food porn and real-world obscenity, and suddenly I was off my feed. Two sides of a very disturbing coin.
I gave up, eventually. Watching stories about people stuffing their faces and about humans killing each other for the sake of flag and religion, well, it was too much. I laid back on the couch and fidgeted with my camera, thinking I would take a picture of myself and use it as source material for a Really Intense Post about the life of a would-be Artist...and I did take some pictures of myself and the view from the couch. But I don't know if I'll share any of those. The notion took on some absurdity as I scrolled through the pictures I still haven't downloaded from the past week or so. A strange melange of my daughter, an aunt of mine, and scenes from the church of my boyhood.
The images of my blood and kin, of the cross, of the stained glass panels aglow with afternoon sun...an intensity of emotions I am at a loss to describe. I sat and stared at these images, scrolling back and forth, zooming in and out, while the radiators creaked and popped in little echoes resounding through the barren temple of my house. Friday night, and a payday, and what am I doing? Laying on the couch, wondering just how I got here, and analyzing the best angle to create a weird photo of the ceiling fan in my living/dining room.
I am attempting to surround myself with artifacts that mean something to me on a deep personal level. I have a start with three big framed prints of mine, but it isn't enough. The three prints only serve to highlight just how much room there is left to fill. The echoes of the radiator gain amplitude in the remaining emptiness, a feeling only intensified when I look at the images on my camera, tiny pictures of a big lonely head.
It's cold here tonight, with the possibility of snow flurries. Perhaps it is time to turn in, gather the blankets around and keep in the heat. Yes, it is time. I'd better get to it, because if I'm still awake when the next train horn blows, I may just jump in my car and drive to Tierra del Fuego.