03 July 2011

slo mo

I often whine and mumble and complain that time goes too quickly, just as my clairvoyant mother said it would the older I get. Being in my mid to late thirties, I don't particularly enjoy the idea of time moving too quickly. I'm not certain what's occured the past fifteen years to take me from twenty three to my current dilemna of this thirty eight business. I've never felt that old. And I recognize that thirty eight is not really at all "old". Nevertheless, time moves quick and I am often guilty of not looking around a while and appreciating it, which only makes it move that much more quickly.
So this morning it was rather odd that things seemed to be moving in slow motion for me. Water out of the faucet - rather the slowness with which I ran the water. But I had to. I was running water from the Brita filter and the thing kept popping off the faucet. So I had to run the water very lightly. A step beyond a drip really. Then the coffee brewed much slower than usual. Not sure why. The ceiling fan seems to be moving in slower circles above my head. It's already about 82 degrees and I'm a delicate flower that wilts in the heat. The Betta fish aren't even bopping around with their usual verve. Plus I'm wearing my Union City All Stars band tee, above the name it reads "a little slower". Sunday morning. Coming down.

24 June 2011

the nat'l futbol leeg (NFFL)

So, so sick of the NFL talk. Lockout, canceled season, spoiled imbeciles arguing over their toys. Both sides of the argument hole up in luxury hotels in various cities - a new one every other week it seems. Cameras everywhere. They're working so hard to hammer out a deal. They're just going at it, trying so hard and working so diligently. Assholes. The lot of them. I don't care about the upcoming pro football season. I really don't. Ray Lewis said without the season there would be an increase in crime. That's absolutely true, though in a different way than how he meant it.

Play, don't play. I don't care and I hope multitudes of football fans - which I cannot personally claim to be - come to that conclusion. I realize there are many issues of great importance, matters of consequence. I get that. But strip away all the tiny and endless details and it's a matter of millionaires and billionaires arguing over their money. About nine billion dollars of it. They can't figure out how to split nine billion dollars. It's a bit sickening.

What would be really sad - or funny if you're a nihilist - is to see these children have to work for a living. Even for a week. A day. Work a real job. Read a book. Do a good dead. Do something thankless and meaningful without the cameras. See, I'm pissed now and over-generalizing. That's wrong, I know. But facts are there. Millionaires and billionaires bickering like spoiled brats over the best way to spend nine billion dollars. Sickening.

31 May 2011

words matter...

They really do. Words are not so much quantifiable. They can go on and on and lose meaning and honesty. But words matter. I was just reminded of that so simply. Reading comments of strangers, comments on a short, sincere blog post an old friend wrote about the recent devastation of his hometown. His words meant something. Yes, he's a writer and a good one from what I've imagined, and somehow just know, but this was not fiction. This was remembrance and history and emotion. Not filtered. It meant something to most who read it. Words can do that. Words matter. Choosing them wisely, with great care, great expectation, that's another topic for another day. They can come quick and hard, soft and benign. However they find the page, they can stop a storm. Words matter. They just do.

27 April 2011

song opening

"she folded the napkin lengthwise"

I'd love to begin a song with that first line. I do not know why. But it sounds like a song of hopeless apathy. I'm not uncertain Elliott Smith once thought of those words. And obviously the song would have to have the word "harbor" in it. Harbor - my favorite lyrical word in the English language.

random thoughts, gibberish and the stress of writing

Everything I attempt to write comes out about the same. Actually, it's not just the writing that's pretty much the same. Consistency is good though. You have to love the consistent nature of a poor man's sympathetically morose aura and being. Yes?

I started writing when I was about 14 or 15 years old. Probably did it more frequently in my early 20s. Now, even the thought of writing wears me out, mentally and physically. I sweat, I curse and get the urge to hide under the covers. That's overly dramatic but more embellishment than fiction. The less I write, the less I'll screw up the story. Or script or poem or whatever it might be. Why would even the thought of writing give me such stress? When I'm not at all a writer anyway. I'm gonna think about that absurdity a while. While not writing.

26 April 2011

blogging

Sometimes I just don't get blogs. I like the idea of it, for me personally. But truth is, I just don't have that much to say. Most anything I have to say I'll say to my family. It's in a moment, it's said and we move on. I'm talking about everyday stuff, casual stuff - stuff I might otherwise relay to a blog. Try as I may, I just don't see doing it with any regularity. It's too journal-y, too diary-y. Not me. Now if I had a wealth of interest and knowledge, maybe I'd be more willing to post a regular and ongoing state of my mind. But I haven't those things. I'm not unique. I'm not special. I'm just a guy. A father. A normal dude. I'd like to have more to say but I just don't. Sometimes I think it's better that way. Sometimes I wish for more words but then, often I'll wish for less.

25 January 2011

25 January

January is an odd looking word. I just realized that. The spelling does not look quite right. Lots of words of that way. I'll never understand "conscience" - con science. No way that's a word. But it is. No way Hunter would have been 31 years old today. But he would have been. Five and a half years. Long time, but not really. One of those always / never; sometimes / maybe things. Like the Goddamn shadows and flickering lights and pennies and inconsistencies I cannot comprehend. January 25. Once each year. Carry on my brother.