Dec. 19th, 2008

Today I am going to write up a storm!   (My rule around cliché use, is that I must use them consciously, and RELISH the ridiculous frivolity they invoke in me…) “Write up a storm”!!  It IS a rainy day today… Although that devilish sun is trying to bust its way thru the clouds and cause a raucous sparkle about the pavement.  I wouldn’t consider it silver, as it can some times be… today it is more of a soft white-gold.  The morning glows with equal parts warmth and cold.  I think it’s a sign that its almost the solstice… oh, no, that’s the EQUINOX, when everything is equal…  tomorrow is the darkest day of the year, so if the pavement were a map, a mirror, a barometer of that, it would shine with an eerie midnight silver, like a particularly enchanted raven’s wings.

God, I LOVE writing so much!  It is entirely socially acceptable masturbation.  Except when I write about something that causes too much squirm in the masses… like masturbation? Too bad I don’t do that…  Anyway, is it okay to feel this fulfilled about life?  Yes, I know “about” was a queer word choice, but I stand in it fully and if you want to challenge me, step up, biotch!  Because there’s no way around it~ I feel entirely fulfilled ABOUT life when I am writing.  Writing and drinking caffeinated fantasticness.  Warm liquids that flood my mouth with a fantastic panoply of flavors and textures.  Foam thick as rabbit fur and dangerously well hung marshmallows.  But will I ever GET anywhere with my writing?  Will I ever be graced with enough coherency to drive at something substantial?  Maybe… but that is definitely not my impulse these days, so I shant go there.  And who am I to question how this river of Godness insists on pouring thru me?  Maybe all you linear fools NEED me to throw my monkey-wrenched-chaos-strewn word pies at you.  I am a vessel for language to make its inevitable and colossal leap from the severely chapped land of the linear, to the more mystically inclined realm of the unabashed SQUIGGLE.

I have been wearing the same outfit for three days.  Well, this is the third day, and it’s only nine thirty seven am, and I do plan to change as soon as I get home at ten thirty… but I want to exaggerate because it brings me pleasure.  It makes my existence seem more epic and substantial.  Plus, I feel embarrassed to admit that I would do something like this.  Although I don’t feel embarrassed to gush out my front door and into the river of Lila (divine play) and be witnessed in my greasy, grungy, all too comfortable and very soul satisfying expression of fashion (or lack thereof).  Nobody even notices, do they?  It’s embarrassing to admit that I fling off all my clothes, just before I flick off the light and dive into the sea of covers and dreams, and then at the crack of dawn, I slither right back into them, so that I can clamber sleepily out into the dark kitchen and rustle up my cup of coffee… And it is CERTAINLY none of your business, I repeat, NONE, that I sometimes even put on the same pair of panties.  FUCK, I am really on an embarrassment binge.  I bet one life lesson that maturation will provide is that there are some secrets that are meant to be kept… That’s why you’d better read my writings NOW, before I wise up.  Take advantage of my innocence and fragile, cracked ache to taste the experience of Truth and Freedom.  But I swear, I’m wearing fresh panties NOW… honest.  Ask ANYbody… And I really AM gonna change my clothes when I get home.

Fifteen more minutes.  What can I possibly write in fifteen more minutes?  Can it be brilliant?  Can I set myself free?  Can I absolutely let go into the flow of words, into the moment, and be revealed, naked, torn apart by the perfectly natural and descimationally inclined, alphabetistically poetic trade winds of inspiration?  YES!  I believe.  I offer myself to His Royal Highness, Creative Oblivion…

I finally gave notice at my job taking care of Nathan and Max.  I feel the angels throwing a very high-end and risqué party on account of this.  (I want to have karaoke at the Capricorn party… and lap dances… and Champaign and absinth…)  Can’t you hear those entirely etheric Champaign corks popping?  WHAT?  Something just clicked into place in an entirely outrageous fashion~ this WHOLE time, it’s been the Champaign corks of angels that have been stirring widespread, miscellaneous ruckus down here on earth!  Pay attention, you’ll see, and then you’ll feel as giddy and drunk as I do… But back to leaving my job.  It feels so essential to my integrity.  To my path.  And yet I haven’t fully rested into this undeniable rightness.  I have mostly been living in fear and guilt.  It’s way more fun to cling and worry, than swim in Grace’s overt intelligence!  When I told Kelly, I was expecting her to freak out and be [passive-aggressively] angry with me.  To my dismay (just kidding), she was a RIP TIDE of support and willingness!  And it was her reflection that had me recognize the purity and the potency of my inner compass.  I am following due north, after pretending that north was south-east for longer than I care to admit.  So unless my compass is totally busted, and perhaps the earth’s poles shifted covertly in the night, I am undeniably being moved by The Invisible Hand.  (The one that I am always begging spankings of…)  It’s a double edged sword to be moved by that hand, because it is mostly not in cahoots with our crippling, stiff friend, Linearity… But also, it is a wildly exhilarating experience to say YES to benevolent and inspired Impulse with a capital I.  (Not to be mistaken with impulse with a small i, by ANY means)…

Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes our fifteen minutes of raw, unbridled potency.  It is time to cast your votes~  Was it worth it?  Did I live up to my sky scraping standards of expression, divinity and freedom?  YOU BE THE JUDGE.

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