A Mess of Ideas Defying Expectations

Hung velvet overtaken me
Dim chandelier awaken me
To a song dissolved in the dawn
The music hall a costly bow
The music all is lost for now
To a muted trumpeter swan
Columnated ruins domino
– Surf’s Up (Brian Wilson & Van Dyke Parks)I have an idea, but it begs the following questions:

  • Why is it easier to make a mess of some things than to just sort them out in the first place?
  • Why is it harder to achieve greatness than mediocrity?
  • Why is it easier to say ‘no’ than ‘yes’?
  • Why is it easier to go nowhere and do nothing than to set out on an adventure?
  • Why do so many adventures we set out on come up short?
  • Why do things implode with less intensity than they explode?

These are the types of questions equally raised by the hopeful and the hopeless; the dreamers and the depressed. They are part and parcel of the same enigmatic shaded overtones of our existence, and fail to answer what we are supposed to do with it.

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My Morning Constitutional

On more than many a morning, I wake to find the silence deafening. I sigh, acknowledging the cliche. All the while, the tension mounts just beyond my window, resonating off people, buildings, technology and wheeled transport – works in progress all. Yes, there are delights unseen awaiting, broiling us in microwaves of undulating currents, modulating the air we choke on.I’ve yet to rise, but I’m already on my way. My eye stings, my nose runs, my breath already soured from stale sleep. A short while later, the comfort of breakfast soothes and then bloats.

I am hurried to venture nothing with nothing to gain but the unholy pursuit itself that drives me to distraction. It’s a sacred ritual for some; it’s death to me. The loss of precious moments, youth, exuberance and creativity.

I think that I am, but perhaps I’m not. Eager to purge this allergen, I scratch, but the irritation persists. There is no ointment for this inflammation. No creams. Not even a poultice or a vapor rub.

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In with the old, out with the new ….


In a conversation with my mom last week, she mentioned that it was easier to talk to me about “wooly things” than “straight things”. I asked what she meant by “wooly”; she had no response. It was just one of those sort of non-sequiturs that come along in conversation from time to time. The truth is I knew what she was talking about, even though the conversation’s subject matter was anything but “wooly”. It was about life and death, the passage of time and friends … but not so much about the meaning of life. As usual, what you see is not what you get. Yes, such is life.

I hung up on her and put on a cozy wool sweater that was unravelling. Again, such is life. All that we tether to us, eventually tatters and falls away.

Maybe my life would be better spent picking up the pieces of life’s daily dander, rather than incessantly scratching the itches of whims that come and go. Maybe not, but then since it’s New Year’s Eve, it’s a good time for pensiveness. That’s why I started this blog today. This coming New Year threatens to be a pretty bleak one. Yet, onwards I plod, sparkling wine in hand, surging forward to face it, not unlike a deer caught in a pickup’s headlights.

Time for some resolutions:
– Lose weight
– Make money
– Practice guitar one hour a day
– Write a blog
– Figure out what it all means

Being fairly realistic here, don’tcha think? Then again, maybe I’m just pulling the wool over my own eyes again… as usual. At least it’s better than sticking my head in the ground. After all, ignorance is bliss, but denial is just plain stupid.

Happy New Year.

PS. Thanks for reading. Some days you get philosophy, some days you get cornbread stuffing recipes. That’s just the way it goes.

Suggested Reading:

Tropic of Cancer Living Loving and Learning Mark Twain's Helpful Hints for Good Living: A Handbook for the Damned Human Race The Cornbread Gospels

Suggested Listening:

Already Free  Eli And The Thirteenth Confession  Smile  Jugmongers: Live At The Hootenanny

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