“This is the kind of paradox, I think, of what it is to be a halfway intelligent American right now, and probably also a Western European, is that there are things we know are right, and good, and would be better for us to do, but constantly it’s like “Yeah, but, you know, it’s so much funnier and nicer to go do something else.” and “Who cares?” and “It’s all bullshit anyway.” ~ David Foster Wallace
I am glad that it is rare, but I feel a dearth of inspiration this morning. Gone are the striated, east to west, clouds. Gone are the packs of coyotes, one near one far, that gave me smiles. That was very early this morning, nearly at the tail end of night. Time plays without fairness at that hour. It plays with enthusiastic ambiguity. Perhaps that is part of why I like waking up so early: ambiguity. It is my last refuge from boredom, yet I don’t find anything offensive about boredom. You have to get some rest, sometime. Speed only goes so far, and if it endures, and becomes blurred into a glowing necessity, comes a time when the glow displays no luster, and if it goes too far you will end up passing yourself going the other direction. That has never happened to me, but I have seen, what appears to be, that happening to others. They get that glazed over look of dignity gone awry, and pat their pocket to check their smart phone, and they blink their eyes a few times, yet before a minute has passed they are back at it. That doesn’t float my boat in a cup of tea. Whatever that means. Yeah, whatever. Oh shit, I mixed a metaphor. I rarely do that but it reassures me that the boredom has not yet passed. I’m just tired, that’s all. Moving forward, inspiration sometimes hides within boredom, like a kitten in a box, awaiting the moment that will give them the biggest thrill, the moment that will give you the biggest start. It ain’t so bad, right?
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.