Dragging myself out of the depths of depravity I venture, once more, into the literary world with full and earnest intent to become a “writer of note.” To accomplish this task I must drag my big posterior end into the world that exists at this dimension and away from that despicable den of depravity, dishonesty, dissipation, decadence, debauchery, and dissoluteness that exists at the other end of my sanctum sanctorum. To wit…my easy chair with the remote control sitting on the table next to it. “Onward Christian Soldier” or some other contrived construct that will allow me to put words on a page that makes sense or amuses. It is a wish that I must force into existence that I find a way to put words down in some sort of fashion that pleases me. For that is the essence of a writer, is it not? Does not the scribe first please his own palate first before invading the rest of the universe?
Long term sloth and conflicting emotions all play landlord to the address where a writer can find himself blocked. I have sat in the despicable den and dreamt hundreds of deliberations with which to amuse. I have even outlined what seemed to be great works of literary art using ideas garnered from the electronic contraptions that exist in my world. Even as I sit today, I type with one of the instruments of indolence within reach. Oh woe the day when a device as simple as a telephone could be as tempting as the fruit of the Tree of Good and Evil. Should I capitulate and reach for the device every time it buzzed, bleeps, or otherwise makes its presence known? Can I please narrow my world to the rectangular object before me holding the encrypted letters and numbers with which enlightenment for eternity might be found? Lord? Are you out there? Can I please have a bite of this apple?
To liken the ever expanding world that is reality in this day and age, to a simple concept seems infantile, and ever more somnolent. Exploring the great beyond that is the universe and all its interconnected components seems a noble quest. The journey in search of elucidation and comprehension must move beyond the wisdom set down in reruns of “The Walton’s.”
That has been my literary refuge of late. The rest of the world is absolutely insane, immoral malicious, malignant, vindictive, spiteful, foul, revolting, and downright sinful. There are many more words that express everything that is wrong with the world, but that will not get any of us anywhere closer to understanding the most complex issue we all face…what am I feeling?
I used the television show to attempt to find muse again after the loss of My Sweet Deifiúr, but have failed in this. I have come to realize that the show simply displays for us, or leads the three senses that it can effect, back to things that are well known, or should be; love, kindness understanding, compassion, passion, evolution, life lessons, and the overwhelming certainty that life is assuredly a journey and not a destination.
My thoughts were that the vision of that young boy sitting at his desk in that old farmhouse, the only light still burning late at night, writing down words that are bursting out of his heart and into his mind before ultimately finding their way to the page would reawaken me. What I did not realize came to me just this morning when I read a posting I had written for a blog of writers who are enjoying the gifts of advanced experience and age. I have been a contributing writer for this blog for a while. I have let more than one posting fall by the wayside and felt apologetic and irresponsible in that laziness. I force myself to get off my duff and take my place in the queue as expected. What I discovered was that I have not lost my proverbial edge; I just haven’t been using it. I sit here today and seem to be finding words and phrases just fine. This is not cause for celebration or jumping up and buying myself a milk shake. It is just something that I am supposed to be doing.
I am at rest while plinking away at the keyboard. I am at peace when I am deriving the next adroit alliteration. I am fulfilled when I think of my Sweet Deifiúr looking over my shoulder and smiling. It is not for her memory that I write today, although I could, both today and for a thousand more nights. I write today for the simplest of reasons…I am a writer. I care not what is thought of me as I publish these words on my blog. Pronouncements of one’s talent or expertise may elicit derogatory ideas or remarks but these beliefs matter little to me. The idea that any talent needs to be expounded on profusely is and never has been my intent. If someone reading this believes me conceited or narcissistic, then by all means move on and go with God.
If you know me and love me, then you will rejoice in my contentment, love me as you have, and hug me when you see me.