Hari Kiri

I like to write. Obviously.

I like to read even moreso. There is something, spiritual/transcendent/etc. about the act. Like dreaming. That bridging of the line between realities.

I think writing-ability is one of the most magnificent and impressive talents a person can possess, god-like I might even venture to say. Like being a dream-master, a weaver of someone's thoughts and visions. Or like being a cult-leader. Being able to drive someone to an alternate-reality, to get them consumed with it to the point that their own reality slips to the wayside like some crisco-doused condom. To have them arrive at each word as though it were a shimmering glass of water after a long trip through desert-heat.

And people big and not so big do it. And they do it so lovely.

Which makes it all the more intimidating.

Because goddamn is the act of writing frustrating. And yet people make it look all sweet and innocent when really it's some child molester leering away from inside an ice cream truck.

I walk around a hundred times a day thinking about weird shit, shit that perhaps might be worthy of a poem or a short story or even just some random blurb of something. Sometimes I jot it down. Sometimes it transforms itself into something nice--usually a poem or, sometimes, a dorky blog entry. But more often than not, it gestates in my brain and, being the lazy shit that I am, stays there, rotting away and seeping its rank juices into my skull.

Why is this? Why the hell don't I just suck it up, get off my lazy ass, and WRITE THE GODDAMN THINGS DOWN? Well, for various reasons. One of which is that the transformation from thought to written word that takes place for me usually resembles that of Playdoh placed into some sorta food-making template and squishing out like spaghetti squiggles on the other end. It starts out promising but ends up looking like some sorta putrid kiddie-mess.



And so this possible outcome always looms in front of me when I go to write, haunting me, taunting me, whipping out its boobies and distracting me.

A putrid kiddie-mess. Especially when I force it. If it's not something that spills out of me like some hari kiri-inspired intestinal-slippage, it usually doesn't work too well.

And the problem is, these hari kiri moments are few and far between lately. What does this mean? Do I need a change of venue or something to shake my mortal coil and get me needing to write? I think this may be the case. I at least need a new job, one that doesn't leave me drained by the end of the day and in no creative spirit to write. I need to shake things up, frighten myself, pull the rug out from underneath me, SOMETHING.

Come on, fellas! Somebody offer to run off to Vegas with me, get drunk, and end up married in some Shaft-themed wedding! You know you wanna!

Anyways, this looming fearful thing is kinda why I dig the whole blog-thang. There's not the pressure of writing anything life-altering and substantial. And I can write how I think--in long, winding, nonsensical, distracted, constantly getting off the topic and segueing into equally random and unrelated topics (such as whether the word "segueing" IS in fact a word and, if so, whether I'm spelling it right) kinda ways with excessive usage of metaphors if I so please and sudden bursts about nothing and everything and little things and smelly things and... all... of... that.

It's not as shlocky and cumbersome as a diary where you feel compelled to make your life look good or at least worthy of shlupping down in some otherwise pretty and frilly blank book. And it's not as intimidating as some mealy-muscled piece of scratch paper begging you to write the next poet-laureaute poem on it.

It's like the act of talking to yourself... Or the act of writing just to write and exercise those muscles... It ain't scary, it ain't frustrating, and it makes me feel yummy every once in a while.

And it's my blog so I can do and write and say whatever I want whenever I want. I can even end abruptly and with no wrap-up, just because I can.

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