Monday, August 8, 2011

Interstellar overdrive goes boink

Paralyzed by inaction.

By any mathematickall reckoning, there has been of late more pictures than words digitized scrawled* on the musty walls of this increasingly loathsome place oh how the cheap laughs fool you insert supervillain chortle here, a formula applied for both your sanity, gentle reader, & mine. Honestly, that's a lie, the first half of that equation at any rate stop it what's with all the references to number crunching I cannot answer, such dimestore topography a wretchedness cousin to having an economic lecture blasted through a Marshall stack whilst lemon juice is daubed on paper cut corneas, lashings continually refreshed like a Space Casino shot glass. & I hate writing nearly as much because I love it & what it represents only to have it fail me as I fail it, acids & bases reacting into a blank artificiality, every time.

*if I could draw, I'd sketch rust & Bear & flowers & amusement & loss & a constellation or two if there wasn't so much industrial glare, though those, too, would be digitized, hey ant, get outta here, too, to, two.

What of that rare hour when it doesn't? You cannot see the imaginary -- perhaps it will someday come, one last ringing of the red star bell, gradient blazing the sky before the nation goes out & to torture the metaphor some more, how come I didn't even get a '60, '62 or '68? Rock and/or roll isn't the only loser's game -- & the stuff that comes (very relatively) close, I cannot show.

Socially awkward is the real awkward.

& what of the issues of the day, no, what of self-examination, what of dissecting faith, such as it is & not that kind simmer down you know who you are, this crutch, grain ever weakening, splitting, leaned upon for how much longer as a casual wave of the hand, a dismissal that unlocks a selfish return inside the shell, sulk deftly parrying each strut & fret of the mask?

First, cohering the scattershot, then, let the snooze begin, for you & for me.


The point? I don't know, thinking out loud, & typing it. Again, I don't know.

Au revoir? What else am I going to do at work when not snarking, fueled alchimick by the Kynge's Brewe, over the bizarrerie of humanity sundry, infuriating & comical? The muses -- & let's be clear, not just of art, but also of human interaction, for that too is an art**; fuck, feels like I'm padding, now I know what others suffer when I ramble, apologies -- don't come with a GPS, & how unromantic capital R would that be anyway.

**double fuck, that sounds suspiciously networking & ambitiously careerist upon first cynical glance whereas I certainly with gusto mean an art 180° from such soul-destroying toxins, an art that's neither making & broadcasting a grand creative statement nor a self-aggrandizing manipulation of Calvinball, but hands kneading the form itself, the shapes, colors, textures, &, perhaps most important, vulnerabilities of this planetary existence, & sharing that with other humans.

Alongside yours truly, the air stands at a crossroads, playing the blues. Chalk it up, perhaps, to it being nearly three, partially hungover, & consciously tired of all but the fewest of things, strangely, the ones I have no control over.

That's progress, I guess.


ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

*if I could draw, I'd...

I never let simple lack of ability get in the way of my ambitions, R.G.

Demeur said...

Sounds as if someone has been reading Thomas Pinchon again. I don't know maybe are you sure no then stop arguing with me okay. Well just shut up then you can't talk to me like that. Orderly bring the sedation.

Mary Ellen/Nunly said...

All I know is that when I started that music, my dog who was sleeping under my desk dug her nails into my foot. Lesson learned, never play Randal's music while in the presence of my dog with sensitive ears. Ouch.

Anonymous said...

What else am I going to do at work when not snarking....

There's something else?

thatgirl said...

Not that it's any comfort to you in your insomnia, but your late night rambling is substantially less terrible than mine.

Randal Graves said...

if, no, you don't understand, I can't draw. At all. That's Da Vinci in comparison.

demeur, can you bring the blue pills next time? They make my hair grow back.

nunly, misogynist!

karl of the österreich, sure! Listening to music, surfing for porn, writing, composing, tiddlywinks, Chutes & Ladders, global thermonuclear war.

thatgirl, I disagree with a continental, white-gloved vehemence, so I propose a contest.

Now, if I could only turn witching hour brainwaves into something constructive for the figurative innards during the day.

Jim H. said...

Dude, try and get some sleep. We worry.

susan said...

I don't know why it is but I always have my best ideas late at night, after I've become exhausted enough that I can't see straight - never mind draw. I promise myself I'll start afresh in the morning light when everything will be clear and ready to go. Then morning comes and I start with the news..

Liberality said...

lemon juice is daubed on paper cut corneas

Now that is just painful Randal. As painful as the news is every single day in America.

Tom Harper said...

"...there has been of late more pictures than words digitized scrawled* on the musty walls of this increasingly loathsome place..."

If each one of those pictures is worth a thousand words, just think how wordy your posts would be.

Demeur said...

Just don't take the pills Mother gives you because they don't do nothing at all. Just ask Alice.

Beach Bum said...

The point? I don't know, thinking out loud, & typing it. Again, I don't know.

Been having my own WTF moments when I don't have the kids and/or my wife screaming about some new crisis.

If monks lived on a tropical beach someplace the lack of porn and beer might be worth the sacrifice

Demeur said...

Ah but Bum think of all the mirages you'd see after a while. Those palm trees sure are looking lovely these days.

ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

Nice coconuts!

Randal Graves said...

jim, when am I supposed to build my time machine, at work? They'll just steal my ideas!

susan, never know when the muse will strike, nor when thoughts outside of 'pizza rolls good, girls pretty' will appear, & if it's at 3am, so be it.

liberality, precisely why I don't watch the news.

tom, see what I mean?

demeur, then I'll feed my head with those pizza rolls.

BB, implied in your wish is a beach populated by comely, bikini-clad lasses & that won't lead to monkish behavior, sir.

if, how many monkey butlers will there be?