Hey, how you doin'? in Normal entries

I’m trying to get back into the discipline of writing more often, if not daily. An entry or two back I mentioned the letters O and D. I liked the notes and the people who wrote the; my intent, however, was not to wax nostalgic. OD organized my clutter and my only point in that entry was the atopical (hmmm, word doesn’t like that word, perhaps it doesn’t exist, I mean not topical) nature of the words and time stamps.

Most of the comparisons left in notes, however, I do agree with. Prosebox is more homogenous, there is less conflict here. I straddle the fence on that; no, not that, but the inevitable implication of whether that’s positive or negative. I am a pacifist but of the granola munching variety. Meaning my last option, after exhausting everything else, is to resort open aggressive conflict. Hmmm, clumsy sentence that, but I’m keeping it in social media context. Whether a sword is mightier than a pen or vice versa is debatable, truth is you need to be in proximity and/or have the proper venue. Leaving a note saying you’re going decapitate a motherfucker and skull fuck an empty eye socket is a pretty empty threat whether your keyboard is a pen or a sword.

My real intent was to suggest how very rusty I am, how lost a traveler, a wayfarin’ stranger that I feel. Another clumsy sentence but to the point and the underlying agenda; calling out it’s name is the only way I know of framing a solution. For instance, if I typed I have lost my muse, the solution would be to find. Muse is construct, I mean there’s no such thing whether you call it a muse, mojo, diffused inspiration; it’s not empirical, it is ephemeral intangible. Oh, yeah, and I don’t really believe in it. However, I watch movies and TV, which means I’ve cultivated the ability to suspend disbelief at will, and so like certain atheists I can argue against the muse within the boundaries of the construct.

I don’t think that’s a very clever solution and it’s certainly not useful to me. Feeling lost is. The discipline of writing every day is to disabuse oneself of the idea that inspiration has anything to do creation, though I will allow the quote about 99 percent perspiration and 1 percent inspiration has some merit, so does sweating out that one percent.

Most of my shit is flawed, very little of it gets a second draft. It is, however (jesus how many however is that now, 10,100,1000?), integral to my sense of self, my identity. Those of you who think that’s silly (and are most likely correct) have other things that build your identity; employment, a relationship either romantic or parental, some sort of solid anchor; I AM mother/father, I AM janitor/CEO, and so on and so forth. I AM mother/father and I sure as hell am so on and so forth, but I also consider myself a writer and, in moments of esteem when the sun hits just right, an artist not an artisan. I’m not claiming to be good, just that I have integrated into my sense of self artistic vision; I can think parables and metaphors, instead of lost I can say I saw the moons reflection in still water, I lobbed a pebble and the reflection broke into a hundred shards but the moon remained in the sky. It’s not great, but I didn’t dream it up, sometimes it’s harder for me to be direct than go all moon cow.

Yeah, like the OD thing I’m not suggesting a point along the positive/negative scale, just saying my identity is whittled down to very few anchors and whether it’s any good or not written expression is the most constant and stalwart of remaining anchors. I wrote a lot of entries like this on OD, it’s a good thing that those are no longer visible to anyone. I wrote daily and though much of it was as useless as this entry, the discipline kept me ready to write more meaningful things.

And I’m spent