Thursday, December 12, 2013


At some point you have to admit it.  Not to me, of course. I don't care whether you admit it or not, except for your sake. Nor to anyone else, but it would be better if you had, because that would mean you've actually admitted it to yourself and can now give it up. But there you go, I've already written my next sentence.  You should admit it to yourself, whatever it is.  In a funny way I think one can smell someone else's internal in-admittance. It's like a stench that lingers, ghostly about the backs of the ear, wafting unevenly as the person moves through the room, more pungent when they sat still. Perhaps there is visual manifestation as well. In this one the consigned slump of the shoulders, in that one the artificial lift. But admit you should and admit you will, whether you know it or not, which kinda defeats the purpose of the paragraph.

What gets me is this World Wide Web Social Blogosphere Black Hole of Vapid Returns is all set in stone, the stuff of the static image, the captured moment, the neat edit. I have a bit of an addiction to rooting around the tumblers and image archives and blogs and finding pretty images that convey some sense of domesticated adventure, of which there is a bottomless pit out there, collected and revomitted just the way I do, probably at roughly the same bits of the day, unless it happens to be a key component to employment, or the other way around perhaps. Oh yes that's lovely. I've certainly felt that way before. Oh wouldn't that be great. Jeez if we could only do that.  And I tend to hide these perversions, wrap them really, in shivering agues of creative perusal, accrual, denial.  In some way someone else's there becomes my there in my mind here and I hope to God I can bring their there here and how great would that be for my peace of mind when it happens but for now I'll let it sustain me through this humdrum air conditioned nightmare experience I am sure I've convinced myself I'm having when I'm failing but must surely be overcoming when I succeed. Let me tell ya what you're gonna wanna do.

On Sunday I get on a plane, hopefully to touch down again somewhere else, a place I convince myself to despise in order to despise it. The holidays beckon even if I haven't bothered with a  tree.  My knees are good enough for some 40 Year Old Sunday Morning Soccer, but will they be kind enough to surf?

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