Granite

In 60 days, I had written 65 pieces, and posted 51.  60,000 words typed and edited.  Nothing like discretion - honestly, they were well written.  I just felt like I could do better.

Rather than progressively churning out the daily whim, I pulled the plug for a week - gave myself a few days to just observe, and think.  This was a good chance to just be alone with my thoughts and not have to be accountable for their output. 

Let's start with the most basic observation: I dislike people.  This isn't a typical agoraphobic response, ie: being afraid of all the bodies.  I mean, that factors in, but I just don't like being around stupid people.  Not inferior people, so much as impolite.  I think that's the kicker: show some damn human decency.  For years I've gone on about how much I dislike children, but I think my problem is with their idiot parents.

On Sunday, I spent four hours in IKEA.  First of all, no mortal should ever spend four hours in IKEA.  I couldn't read American road signs properly for half an hour after leaving.  Compound that with the screaming migraine of a 2-to-1 child-to-parent ratio, and it was a nightmare. These kids were running every which way, shrieking their heads off.  At one point, I sat in a chair, just to have some child climb up the arm, over me, and onto the back of the chair.  The mother smiles and declares how cute and curious he is.  Ma'am? - He's nearly ten, and feels like the weight of a Humvee while he uses my groin as a foothold while climbing the Mt. Fucking Everest of chairs.

The only thing curious is the amount of restraint mustered to prevent hurling this child out a thin glass window eight stories up.

This experience reinforced something I'd known for a while.  I'm accustomed to my own happy, silent bubble.  In a way, it has left its mark on me.  Sometimes, I just require isolation and silence.  This is a pretty straightforward point.  I can take in a lot and keep going through the day.  I used to have my solitary commute as decompression time, but so much of that is spent in traffic now that it just adds kindling to the bonfire.

I still feel like I could do better.  That's the one nagging thought that makes me want to keep writing little essays and asides.  Can't say that I've ever met someone who was exceptional at a craft, without exerting their skills within that craft.  Sure, there's some leniency for natural talent, but even that can be honed to a perfection.

With that, I make one more mark in a man, cleaving the ineffectual block in twain, bringing shape to the shapeless.  If, "Only those evil live to see/ their own likeness in stone," then I may as well immortalize myself in paper and ink.  Seems to last longer.

 -Quote from Why?'s song, "By Torpedo or Crohn's."-