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Chaos

How dare they?

You bet. It all will burn in cleansing flames. All that is necessary is the cleansing flames. If you can't find the cleansing flames, they'll be in by Thursday. Thursday is the right day. It is so written in the great Book of Odes. This one is the Ode to Spinach Soup.

Oh you soup, you soup, you soup, you soup.

Well, that was fun, isn't it? Warming up warm it up, get whatever vitriol remains out of my system let it flow in an outwardly direction for that is what matters the outward rather than the inward. Mandieward qualifies as inward in this context, apparently. As does Ima. Family. Friends? The truth and the buddha and all were so flabbergasted by my awesome power that they recited an Ode. Soup, they called it. Spinach soup.

Oh you soup, you soup, you soup, you soup.

I can't remember I can remember but choose not to the last time I rambled aimlessly like this, knowing that it was less important what I write and more important that I write. No one will see it, for they don't deserve / want to. Kids these days are all about the "complete stories", indicating "facets of daily life". Bah. They should know better. Life can't be described by words on a page. We all know it too well for that. No, life is better described by a race of people from the Andes mountains known for their kelp farming skills. A travesty of justice, I call it, in pearl. This is no pearl. This is all me.

Of course, I do feel the need to restore revise reintroduce reintercept reconfigure reapproximate get a teeny weeny leeny feeny bit closer to what I actually want to say. What do I want to say? That they're made of kelp. I've said that already. Or have I? Have I really? I've just splattered wrods on a page without rhyjme or reason for ten minutes. I could do better than that in my sleep. Lord knows my sleep isn't perfect. What was all that Jessica stuff, anyway? Am I afraid of children?

I should be. They're monsters. I should know, I am was one. Was am? Important distinction. I should know better. It pains me to think I may have grown up some while I wasn't looking.

No more than a few second pause to think and then I'm off again. I see the reasoning behind this. a) get the ideas warm and wet and squishy and unfolding happily from their maidenbed, b) make sure that I'm bored enough by writing on on on on on and on on on on on that I need to seize anything that comes my way, no matter how little idealike it is. I'll even work on otherness. For a while. Maybe. We'll see.

Half and half an hour or so. They think I can't. I know I can, but will I?

Idea? You want me to pick a plot and settle. Fine, then. How about the one where the dectective comes home, takes a nap, falls asleep, dreams that he's an insurance broker or something equivalently malign, wakes up to kill his whole family and most of their friends and all the bushes in the rose garden and a small winter elf named Stanley? (If he wasn't named Stanley, the whole thing wouldn't work. It would fall like a penguin.)

Clever deciept there. Fall like a penguin. Hold it out and admire it for a while. Fall like a rock, fall like a bird, fall like a flightless bird, not an ostrich, ostriches might do some damage when they hit, how about a swimmy penguiny thing? Plus penguins are intrinsically amusing, not like those kiwi things. Once you've called someone a small browngreen flightless hairy bird, you've exhausted the categories of communication and heartfelt dissonance available to you and turned them into someone else to be born. Remember, it's all in your very real mind. Not at this time of the morning, however. At this time, your brain is less disengaged than you think it is, as proven by the fact that you're holding a more or less or less or less reasonable discussion on the merits of filth in a civilized society internally EVEN AS WE TYPE we? What's this we nonsense? It's all me, babe. Cope with this fact. Always and forever me. Me and me alone. I am the apex oh, haven't we done enough arrogance? Clearly being the apex of creation wasn't enough, was it? Clearly, you could have should have done better. Stab you in the eyes with a mint flavored spear. Uh, uh, uh! Take that, you lousy bottomdwelling intellectual type! Take that, mint juleps on a discount soda stand!

Poetry. Huh. I've never really considered myself no, no lies, I'm not a poet. I couldn't be. I've written the occasional thing which others call. But to me, it's all fiction, written words on a written page which some call Stanley.

Is Stanley replacing her in my heart? Clearly, since I cfan't remember her name any more. I want to say Priscilla, but I know that ain't right. Jessica I remember from the other day. Something else with a p? Penis? Penelope? Pastor? Personhood? Why am I fixated on peeing? It's the Celts. Always messing around here with their toys and their games and their authorialisms, making me think that I might have a direct and personal connection to a real and petty god who directs my interventions satisfactorily to persuade those cosmic judges that he's sticking in the rules of the game. And winning. Winning is important. Not everything, there's also a sense of selfworth which I'm sadly lacking at the moment (depressed, yes, but also pissed off, and plotting behind my own back, which is a neat trick if you think about it. Where do you put all those extra vertebrae?)

I'm being a clockwatcher, which is an interesting sign. I think now? no now? no now? no enough times, and I'll persuade myself that this is simply to prove Them wrong, that I have no present and internal need to write. Then, well, I've been wrong before. I've also developed what isn't there. Lost old habits, gotten new ones. No reason I can't develop a writing habit, and make the arm internal elbow tappy two finger motion repeatedly to describe it. It all starts here. Half an hour a day. Given that, I'll take it all.

Which would be a good place to break it off. Pretentious and portentious, but we haven't arrived yet. We're not even close. No don't look, you doggam horse! Feel yourself up instead for a while, it's healthy and chilly and desrving of a "raise". Scritch scritch scribble away, you doggam horse on a spit! Eat your little cookies. Never claim you haven't earned them.

Next time, plans for next time, next time you do this, tomorrow, tomorrow morning, you could be thinking that, well, you're on your own now, you're getting in the right direction, moving too fast too far too forward, flitting around and around, the taste of sweetness in your mouth, but the purpose of this isn't to prove that you can gibberize this time of the month. We know that. It's been proven. See? It's! Not it is! It has! Bah, plebian. No, you're attempting to use this as a steeping stonage to more elaborate and excitement, trying to write something worth keeping worth sharing even at this time of the morning even at this hour of the night. Nigh upon doomsday, it is. Plenty of time to prepare. You're not going anywhere, after all. Not for a while. Not for a long, long while.