Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Pissing in the winds



(Sebastian)


I've discovered why I'm not publishing posts any more: there's nothing going on in my life. When that happens, I look elsewhere, outwards. My standard opinions of the world become boring over time, so I experiment with extreme opinions, on subjects ranging from silly politics to the seriousness of Caitlyn Jenner to variations of the acronym GOP (Guano of Paradise, Grand ol' Poobah, etc.), though nobody should be allowed to read such things. It is all hideous nonsense. I have substituted thought for the absurdity of opinion, again. Then, I become bored with the opinions as they are, so I augment them almost beyond recognition, like Caitlyn's face. 

I'm not entirely sure what I'm talking about any more, I'm just writing to incite, even myself. So, for now, I'm done with all of that. At least for today, I've grown bored of exaggeration. The world is doing fine in that regard without me. 

Without looking outwards and with nothing going on in my life, there remains only inwards left to glance, where ill-mannered monsters prowl, even in their sleep, lingering amidst the dreams they encounter. I've spent my life entertaining and appeasing them, like imaginary friends in childhood. Invisible to all but one. 


I've been listening almost exclusively to flamenco guitar players for the last few days. Just the rhythms and melodic runs that happen nearly faster than they can be heard, flurries of well articulated notes that find their way back into the strummed and scraped chords, themselves disappearing and reappearing around the rhythm, tirando and picado and much more. 

I roam the house, my mind in scarves and jewels, a gypsy wandering wide, as far as these four walls permit. 






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