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if there ever was an excuse to jumpstart whatever fold in the grey lump in the skullbucket controls writing (or any type of creativity, actually), then now seems like an appropriate time... with the apocalyptic artillery of thunder echoing through this powerless house, and the surrounding canyon of trees. all that's visible outside the rain stippled glazing is the black silhouette of the forest, and formless grey blobs of stormclouds. nary a light to be seen, anywhere, even though i know there are eight other houses on this little gravel stretch. never was i more happy to have a laptop... a kerosene lamp... and a battery pack with a voltage inverter. consequently, there's a lone bulb in the tacky fifties pole lamp in the living room glowing amber and the AA's in the portable radio are filtering some fitting blues from Charlottesville through the raw static electricity. it's been pioneer time for about two-and-a-half hours since the first big bastard howled through here. the second blitz, minutes ago. it just might be like this for the rest of the night. jolly. it's difficult to say what killed my once-incessant journalling. maybe, it's due to these same four walls... and still adjusting to single life. or, perhaps it's how crappy and unresponsive diaryland has become. having turned into a news junkie hasn't been conducive to the daily routine of taking a mental poop... not after plying my skills on just about every progressive news blog's comments page, daily, waving the flag of revolt against the revolting, and preaching self-determination. still, the impulse strikes. every day, actually. there's always some quirky confusion that amuses me, and i even have titles in my head, before reality (i. e. work, or crushing solitude) blows it away like ashes. what passes as blog entries wind up in Andria's inbox (which i mean by only the most non-egregious definition)... because she moves me that way. but, i need to flex my grey matter here, too. there are stories to tell. even though the daily trod seems like a "sentence" more than "living", on occasion, momentous, monstrous, hilarious, and downright bizarre situations still bear repeating. like, the impending possibility of really "selling the farm"; visiting the final resting place of Edie Sedgwick on the most recent tryst in California; grown men bitch-slapping one another at the radio station anniversary; even the street guy from the group home, clad in overalls, flannel shirt, and a crown from Burger King adorning the scraggly hair and beard; the Jeep with the bumpersticker that said "This Vehicle Carries Only $20 Worth Of Ammunition"; they're all worthy, in my mind. and they will be. repeated. |
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