Fuck it. I can't get to the template page for some reason. It works fine elsewhere, yet, at least for this inaugural post, I'll have to put up with a palette and design that looks like something a twelve year old with a penchant for plastic toy soldiers and a My Little Pony hidden under his bed might choose. Fuck it, meaning that life goes on and I see or do shit that screams theme.
It took me a while to find the God, Death, Love of this thing you're reading. A lot of reflection on the very same, and true to form, no ready answers. How does one pray (oh, nothing as trivial as to what to title and url this puppy) through embarrassment? Five out of seven parts finished, do I look back and confess, or speculate/profess, or go former until I eventually catch up to the latter, then somehow (almost magically) feel more like five out of eight or nine. And finally, answer why so much sugar-coating, like syrup on waffles. Yes, waffles.
No, it's not all cut and re-hydrated paste as one might prefer. I can poke around in the mush with a finger, as if duty calls, and be content with that. Transience is a motherfucker, but let's face it: That's about all we have. We owe it to ourselves to try and figure out why our world view falls so horribly short to the ever-shifting. The capsule is full, so to speak, and everything outside of the gelatin is bitter; yet, such a proclamation makes it no easier to — you know — swallow. Hence the conundrum presented in the masthead.
And before such an admission initiates in readers a catatonic state from the dread of self-effacement, know that I'm fine with it, for I cannot imagine a world that is any less unknowable. There is hope embedded in all of this, for how else would I know that the mark shifts? I continue to search. Discomfort readily sets in like legs falling asleep too long on the crapper/throne.
And I should know. Call it an irritated Vagas nerve. Call it throwing a bone of an extremely different consistency. And I've got it down after a lot of practice.
"No small wonder, eh?" says the bone catcher, "The smokes, booze, joe and the fight-or-flight of gamesmanship. No wonder you're at 5:7. And it's no good just to cut one out. I'm going to book 5:6."
So, yeah, there's a bit of sport in all of this. The chase, the rush to the finish, points given for style.
Something else: I'm a liar. Sometimes it's serious, but not always. And not all of the time; only when expedient. Denial, omission, bluff. Something to protect, avoid or embellish. Face-saving, oblique or fictive. A natural rhythm of contradiction. Yep, a dance. A little two-step.
So much for an introduction.
