Saturday, November 26, 2005

Self-absorption spent in Saturday night suckitude

Listening to: Dr. Dre, The Chronic


Stuck in my craw, unable to shake it loose and let it go. I guess because, on the one hand, I know that I'm all that (so to speak) and on the other hand, all that what I am is just that, only that. Anything else betrays me, denies the energy that drives this pen, these electrons configured into something worth reading.

This is where I expose my ass, hair, warts and all. Stroking my ego so that it splooges right here on your screen.

As usual.

I do this because there's a sneaking suspicion in me that the few readers I have keep coming back because whatever I say, I say well. No one's coming here for the kid quips or the dog anecdotes but for the long-shot chance that I'll actually speak in way that's unique in this little corner of the blogosphere.

And if what I've just said has some toehold in reality, then you kinda' know that how I do who is who I am. I yam what I yam yeah, but that's not all.

My craw holds more than just snapshots of the obvious and its grit and grind. There's no pearls here but a pull, a pull more toxic than last post's issue, a pull downwards that not just invites a peek but permanence.

Sometimes seeking the depths because the life forms that dwell there are more interesting than those living closer to the light. What skims along the surface or resides just beneath take on a sheen of the everyday, a patina burnished by rubbing aginst everything seething and wriggling, everything moving towards a single point of referrence, unity displacing individuality until everything is a singular motion, a field of color moving stage right. In the depths, isolated from light, unity disappears, everything disappears; colors, when exposed, are warnings, not invitations. What's offered in the depths is boundless opportunity offset by the broader probablity of being eaten whole. Bones and all. Any trace of existance obscured in the black mud at the bottom, an equivocation of everything.

Sometimes sinking there because compulsion calls, cajoles, demands, draws me down on a leash and pins my head to the floor with a spiked heel, bids my captive heart to howl like a dog until I meet my needs. There, then, the choice is nullified, the reprieve of light lost and inconsequential, an errant ping dissapated in the shadows. All there is is desire, stripped of pretense and inhibition, naked hunger shaking uncontrollably in the cold, black void screaming for satisfaction. Or release.

And yet, in the depths, I'm no monster. I provide love and other things; I awake in the moment and I'm there for others, my kids. So, in the depths I can hold my oxygen, breathe deep, take an objective look up into the glow above me. See what needs to be done in the midst of chaos and still groove in the deepness.

Then I swim to the surface, shake my head, and take in a breath that feels like my first.


Anne said...

Well, you do write well--if you didn't, how would you get your point across so that anyone even WANTED to come back? I mean, if it were all gibberish and misspellings and bunk-who would read?

I do feel some pull towards your warty ass though :-D

trusty getto said...

Um, dude, I've a newsflash for you: All men are self-absorbed.

That said, whatever you're up to, you certainly do write it well.