“Americans will put up with anything provided it doesn’t block traffic.” ~ Dan Rather
“So what did you do with your time, Mr. Ebert?”. Ummm, can I get back to you on that? The Universe made me do it. I didn’t have any choice. Can I have some coffee now?
This past week has been a unacceptable. One of the things in life that keeps me going is to express myself through this blog. Sure, I could have stopped by McDonald’s early and tapped out an entry over a cup of pretty good coffee. But, do you think anyone would have noticed? McD’s has WiFi. I’d probably have shown up late to work. Silence is what I chose. No WiFi at home? Hurry up and get it back. I grew up with no WiFi. It ain’t no big deal, k? Now – I think the part I missed most about being off line for a week was the news. How do these people get along without me anyway? I mean, is Bernie Sanders still my man? Yup, seems so. And Game of Thrones? Don’t push me. Just don’t. I saw the first three seasons. Too much blood. When did this become news?
The rooster is crowing and the coffee is good. I have a strong urge to be trite. I’m glad I don’t feel like that often. Novelty is the way to go – if the Universe says it’s okay. What is it with the Universe anyway? We used to be in it but now it is some force elsewhere that grants us favors, and I’m like all dude yer favors don’t live up to the dictates of my likings, K, so what the F am I even talking to you for? Dude chill, life goes on without you. Get over yourself.
It seems I may have forgotten how to do this blogging thing. If I were to choose a team of experts to . . . oh, never mind. But Chris Rock would be one of them. I’m used to sitting in front of my iMac each morning, so, without Internet, I tapped in to the multiple books I have in the Kindle app in this contraption. I’ve got some pretty good stuff! My first choice was Rick Strassman’s rather mind-blowing DMT and the Soul of Prophecy: A new Science of Spiritual Revelation in the Hebrew Bible. It’s a great book. It will make you think. From there I went to some essays by David Foster Wallace and Jonathan Franzen. The power of good literary writing fed my soul, for what that’s worth. But I think that’s where I got lost. Franzen and Wallace are among the greats. Don’t get me wrong. But that don’t get me friggin nowhere when it comes to the guy tailgating me on Highway 64, or the woman at McD’s, in front of me in line, complaining that her hash browns were undercooked. No, wait. Nobody complains about the food at McD’s. We go in there knowing what we’re getting. I made that up. There was no woman. And yet, not two weeks ago I was sitting on the floor of a cat cage with a beautiful young woman. She wanted a cat and I was helping get one. But that is not where my head was at. Not at all. My head was like all asking the Universe for a chance to meet her for coffee sometime. No – wait. It was the look in her eyes, the curl of her striking red hair, and the way she smiled when I told her that I am a writer and I write about death and dying. If that’s not a good pickup line I don’t know what is. She smiled. The Universe smiled.
The space heater just kicked in so I have to turn it off because the chill is already gone. The cat is asleep and my coffee cup has gone dry. I’ve been off the Internet for a week now and all I got from that sabbatical is an odd urge to be able to write like David Foster Wallace, to stretch out a sentence beyond all belief, waiting so patiently for the rhythm of the syntax to cut deep into the blankets of belief that obscure daily life, deftly so and sadly good at it, following a lodestar in a literary way, wrestling, or playing tennis with, the very vernacular expression that is so often accused of trashing the English language, wringing out true expression like a damp rag, watching as the fluid from the rag drips down into the stainless steel basin where it all goes down the drain, as if it were a metaphor rather than a simple truth, and that truth smiles as it always does, although sometimes covertly, knowing that a metaphor is a picture of a pattern, a jpg. of the soul, and that truthful smile winks as well, in homage to the tailgaters in life, and the hash brown lovers, people who know how to live and to do it fast, faster than the wind, faster than anything, faster than any friggin metaphor could even hope to go, yet all is not lost when a slow guy can sit on the floor of a cat cage, in the company of a beautiful red-haired woman, and he feels it, feels the love, feels the Universe smile, he knows what is real and he hopes she will return. She got herself a new cat and he helped. This is what’s real. Speed kills, my friends. Slow down and quit whoopin’ on them folks who don’t comply with your speed protocol. Smile, love, cherish the moment.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.