A return to inscrutability. I have little enough to account for. This is not for mystery, but my own indulgence. Simplicity still wins – there is more in a thing. All I will say shall be so, though language may hide its virtue. The following, I think, is meant for me. Read at your own peril. This was added halfway through.
I could cry, in accent, “My good sir!” It seems an appropriate deceleration of intent. Unfortunately, not an intention of mine. I am the victim of such romantic notions. Of course I am not entirely innocent, but hardly to be at fault. Surrogacy in familias is a strange, prophetic vision. Abu el Banat. Yet there is nothing in the thing. Detachment, perhaps, or the feeling of the temporal. I mistook myself and relaxed; there is a reason I keep myself to myself.
That sounds psychopathic. Mania is infectious. I am not yet of them. Languorous days infect the mind also. Tasks keep it strong, hale, and probing. I am diseased in this; a curative change awaits, on the horizon. I shall not rush it. It cures more than one ailment.. wherein the side effects of a thing are positive, and a stronger ally than the intended effects. Keep on keepin’ on. I suppose this might sound sad. It is not.
“Here is a land full of power and glory; beauty that words cannot recall. Oh her power shall rest on the strength” of her freedom, and her glory shall rest on us all.”
Somber is not sadness. I am passingly close to rereading the elegies though. I just did reread Dune. Apart from the philosophical implications to which I warm as I age, there is a profound sense of what is greater. There is so much greater than my person. It is not an undervaluation of the self. I also now, I believe, have finally developed an irrevocable sense of self. Not complete, but irreversible. I suppose that is what is meant by maturity. I am thankful that my character includes the most profound appreciation of whimsy, of the illogical, and of the unknown. The quote is known.
I am a burden to many of my friends, I suspect. One chiefly amoung them. I will admit what I have been avoiding as a traits in myself. Decisiveness. Judgment. Intuition. All part of who I am, and yet things I have avoided for fear of them. They are quite acceptable in children; hard to accept in a man. Valued, to be sure, but it sets one apart. So what the hell, I set myself apart anyway. Perhaps I can get back to feeling like I am living, as opposed to merely slinking through life. Slinking is the appropriate term. It conveys a sense of shame, a sense of the quiet passing, a hidden necessity, and a certain distastefulness. Except for slinkies, which are awesome.
I just had a sip of tea. The first sip, you see. Warming, welcoming, and comforting. I was not aware I was in the mood for comforting – simply thirsty you see. I am amused that I could not maintain naturally a complexity of language. This is different.
I had a decent Syrah last night. It was cool, pepper, a hint of tannin, and the warmth of plum. I shall find myself missing beer less as I get used to not having it. Today has the potential of being the beginning day of quiet music for the remainder of the year. It is quiet today. It is not quiet enough. I seek a silence of three parts, to reference. Therein might lie an affection for The Name of the Wind beyond Auri and language. I sense myself in the position of Kvothe in the inn. I have no underlying sadness for it though. The story is yet unrevealed.
Last week’s ill days have passed. Instead I face an altogether different set of challenges. Yes, they are related to the opening of this post. I have grown quite comfortable in solitude. There are too many people here. This year’s season of House has done me a good turn. I may have said that I was prepared to be snarky after watching House. That was a lie. House, thankfully, matched me by not being so. It has been a most enjoyable season so far.
Typing all this here makes it seem so much more than it all really is. I must emphasize that these are but minor occurrences and thoughts in the expanse of my day and time. I seem to be devoid of great things. If not devoid, then searching. That I might be lost could be said, but it is not the rudderlessness of life, but the hollowness of the mind; it is altogether more serious. I fill the void with all the things I love. Science, philosophy, politics, history, literature, food.. yet there is emptiness there. For it is in consumption, not in creation, and truly those who cannot point to something created are lost.
30 Rock resumes this week! I am ecstatic. Tina Fey is my future wife. Alec Baldwin is my future wife. ..Yes, I went there. Toss him in a dress and call him Alecia. It will be enough.
Storm the moon. It must be done.
Why have I been cast in the role of the wise, sage, and old one for a thirty five year old? It just seems silly. As Kenny says, you drink scotch to relax, and irish to punish yourself. I feel in need of punishment. Between My Way and Humphrey Bogart I am in real danger of returning to form. Lifelines? Talk about socialization via media. Makes me feel sad for those following me. Well, it is well after three. Time to open up shop, I guess.
Well, I can’t actually take credit for that quote about Scotch versus Irish, I found it in a Spenser novel.
It is just about true, though: I have yet to meet an Irish whiskey that brings back fond memories of any kind, but even Laphroig brings back memories of sitting around a campfire.