I don’t know what it is about purposelessly oscillating along the lightly snowy trails which hug the chatty Mur river, dancing past cyclists and hand-holding dog owners in the brisk January noontime sun–the sanctifying, scotch-drinking voice of Gary Sinise narrating John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley through the left bud of my half-working headphones–that promotes a welling state of optimal mind digestion.
By this, I mean that I acknowledge that theories of neurotransmitter manipulation brought forth from the radiation of the sun exist and that there also exists various psychological theories of noise.
I just don’t know them.
When I write–be it my daily morning entries, or blog posts, essays, poems–I exhibit this…trend…of diving so deep within my mind, that I lose track of all outside perceptions and sensations. I emerge from such experiences as one might emerge from long car-nap or a viewing of Interstellar.
I chalk it up to be my annoyingly decisive inability to multitask.
I don’t believe that any of us can truly multitask, but most of us at least possess the qualities to fake it.
Not I, unfortunately.
The past two weeks have been saturated with end of semester essays; consequently my mind has been possessed with hoards of alien thought-armies stretching from a formulation of theories over the rise of proletarian theatre throughout 1930s American working class society to the evolution of criminality as showcased in Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
Demonstratively palpable has been my inability to garner thoughts outside of these realms. And also construct sentences that are normal in contemporary syntax. Apologies over the latter.
I’ve missed this.
I’ve missed sitting down at my wide-stretching linoleum desk, nestled up against an expansive three-paneled window overlooking the beautiful gardens of my Austrian back-door neighbors, a cup of steaming mint tea on one side and my watch cast off my wrist, flung to the other side of the table.
I’ve missed wiggling my way into my slippers and unleashing a cacophony of Thelonius Monk jazz from the warehouses of my Spotify account.
I’ve missed perching myself cross-legged upon my black wooden rolling chair, wheeling myself closer to my desk and setting myself up on a fresh Google doc to type an intended blog post that will inevitably evolve itself into something completely unintended on my end and undoubtedly stretch past the word limit.
I’ve missed starting five sentences in a row with the same words.
As John Steinbeck’s unbelievably human themes wove their way in and around my heart through Sinise’s seductive voice–which, by the way, Gary if you’re out there: I know you’re at least 4 times older than I am, but if I you give me the absolute honor of your introduction I will buy you dinner–I mused upon my own levels of humanity.
Steinbeck set off across the country to reinstate himself with the patterns of his soul; something I myself longed to do.
Blog post time, baby.
Let’s find something in that bamboozler of yours that doesn’t fester rank with Marxist vocabulary and musings on the murders by Macbeth, or dishearteningly uninspiring thoughts about how the ambiguously daunting majority of your beautiful enlightened international friends will be departing forever to their respective countries in one week.
I distinctly told myself that I would not base blog posts on overbearingly arrogant topics such as, “I know it’s been a while….” or “Whelps, I’m back!” Or “The post you’ve most actively been yearning for, after weeks of disheartening and dishumanizing silence”.
I foster no illusions of grandeur over my own blog-posting-impact.
Do recall, though, that I am actually not in control over my own posts. I get to choose what tea I drink while I write, but that’s about everything in my power.
Although I sincerely love you buckets, these blog posts are more than just for you, dear impassioned and beautiful reader.
They’re also for me to realize and visually encounter the contents of my mind.
They’re for the little “Creative Genius”–that exists within us all–to nudge me gently and tell me what’s up. Why I feel the way that I feel. Why I project the way that I do. Why my socks don’t match and I forgot to take a shower.
It can boil down to the importance of ceremony, the irreproachability of habit, the satisfaction of visual production, the blah blah blah….
Hemingway summarized it this way: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
That’s the same man who gave me, “Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut”, so Hemingway is king to me.
It feels good and acceptable and necessary to bleed; to remind oneself that passion and intention and breath and life merge together in the soul. What is life without the blood? What is passion without true camaraderie? “And shall we make our griefs and clamour roar, upon his death?
Damn, in seeps Marxism and Macbeth again.
In hopes that this overtly empty blog post, devoid of the usual adventuring accounts, will not detract you from further inquisition into my upcoming blog posts, I release my words to the ‘net.
My beautiful Alaskan soul-pal, Katie, and I are departing to Morocco in exactly six days to meandering amongst the nomads and drink good Moroccan mint tea. Ergo, the adventuring accounts will resume in due time, my friends.
Peace and Blessings,