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2 October 2018

Ice Cream Shops & Chopping Blocks

by Andrew

Abstract scribbles in the sand. It's how it all began. It's amazing that these words we write have any meaning at all, even, these vowels & consonants.

There's truth in Language. Your Francis Bacon, I think it was, who said. Wish I could find it again, I doubt I will, & Divinity, & Medicine,—Physicke—& Math, I think were the rest, the 4 paths. But Language, I'm positive, because I was un-tangling Latin & Greek then, I remember. Which I've still no capability.

But anyway, the most important characters in a language are the vowels. But rhythm, which is my very favorite word. Onomatopoeia. Though, I know, sometimes that bi-sexual 'y.'

Napped like a big baby after I had the eggs. Was dreaming of going to get some ice-cream, a nice, little walk through some neighborhoods with brick streets & big trees, people out walking their mutts at sunset. But I woke too late. The place closes at 22:00.

I'll skip up, over to the bank a bit later. Coffee money. Turkish coffee, I saw. Which I've heard is delicious, a Jerusalem cafe, it doesn't even look so comfortable in there, really, a hole-in-the-wall, a rat in the soup. And it's on campus, so doesn't open till later, I bet.

Funny, these musings we make, & then the universe bends, & opens-up. Like the Earth, she swallows-up entire civilizations whole, she was hungry, there. A big burp. And she likes for dessert tasty vice best, those liquor-filled chocolates as a kid, so delicious, think they got grandma a little tipsy, there, smoking in the living-room, watching scary movies.

On the heels of the last blog post, yesterday's, it got me thinking. It wasn't even till the very end that I even realized, my call-to-action. I need to get out, & scrounge-up some food. The benefit of writing, you see, connecting synapses, searching, digging. And further thoughts from that, afterwards, popped-up & marinated in my head throughout the rest the day, I've been sitting here chewing.

Here, it's like this: The mind is like a blender. This thought is some vanilla ice-cream. This one is a banana. This one some chocolate, a Snickers bar, perhaps, & this one is an egg—for good measure. Writing is the power button, the on-switch. And then, what you get, a nice, tasty shake at the end, the vomit on the page. You just trust.

Which is why I harp on mechanics, ability, whatever. You must master your craft—or well, never master, but come to a certain capability. What's your stylus? your weapon of choice. You practice with it till the friction,—or interference, the static, whatever you want to call it—from whatever mess you have in your mind, through, to your performance, is as close to nil as possible. Niente. And you transcribe,—perform—your stylus as your medium, no obstructions.

There are other routes about this, I'm sure. Like a more scientific, more rational mind builds bit by bit carefully constructed logic, recording, recording. Maybe. And my blender-method is madness to them. Like, they measure the exact ingredients, the perfect scoop of ice-cre—

I don't know. The explosion of people desiring to write on the inter-webs, though. It's because we hate our jobs. It's no coincidence lots of these artists are choosing the pen. But do you have what it takes? I encourage you, even. But I can sniff it out a mile away, nearly a decade I been at it.

And it's so funny too. A lot of my old friends barely talk to me anymore. Which isn't funny. Kind of tragic. Because I go on & on about how stupid these jobs are, in general, how we're cattle, slaves, all this. How we're miserable. They can't handle the stuff, I suppose. Eventhough I'm working these same, shit jobs alongside them, myself. The dissatisfaction, complaining, motivates me. But they pretend they like their jobs, "It's not so bad, really," they say. Or they like their houses & cars they can afford because of the damn jobs, anyway.

Well, fine. Have it your way, then. Your popsicle-stick, toothpick-constructed, over-priced houses in the suburbs. Your steaming, heap-of-shit, electric-tinfoil cars. None of it is even worth it. Not for what we must sacrifice, all this time—our lives! We're not being re-embursed properly, especially with only all this junk out here to buy. It's all shit. And our kids grow. Our family dies. And here we are, in the meantime, we've spent the majority of our lives inside these air-conditioned, concrete caskets, blinded by artifical light. And life passes us right by as we pretend to enjoy this completely un-stimulating work we're paid to do. Because we're scared to lose our card-houses & Matchbox cars. But many are waking-up from the illusion, having a look round, & realizing. We are gods, being shackled-down, & we only get this one go at it, to create life how we want it.


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