Consternated Nothingness'ing

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Don't bother reading this. It's bad. It's drivel. It's my attempt to get back into this writing thing. It worked only so much as it made me write something. I guess that's something. I did warn you.

You have to start somewhere and keep it going for as long as—animals—where is this story? I have so many things that fly through my head lately, and I haven’t recorded any of them on this thing. My Moleskine is getting quite a work out, and I guess that’s more important than posting. Small make the world go around.


I came to morality late in life. I caught a glimpse of it when I was young.

First there was George.

She glued her pants to her luscious legs. That’s what it seemed to me. I have been required to take them off a few times, and I can’t for the life of me understand how she gets them on.

Then there was George.

My head is pounding. I’ve Advil’ed, caffeine’d, and pretended to nap. Nothing works. I sit here wanting to get my thoughts across and yet nothing is coming out. I’m typing consternations or more like firing blanks into CSI gun chambers. It’s been too long. Excuses are what I’m good at these days. I won’t bore you with them. Or maybe I will if I want nothing better than to move along and find something to see. Oh the annoyance of not moving along. Why the pain? I can’t understand it anymore. I want something more. I need something more. There we go, an interesting couple walks outside. I wonder what their story is. She moves in tiny steps with a cane, unsure if her legs will support her. He walks next to her, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. I’m not sure if they’re married or friends. It’s a painful way to walk, never knowing if the next step may find you fallen.

I have no internet and it’s driving me mad. I’m a mad creature. I have nothing creative, no creative output. The best I can do I can do is continue to type and hope something falls out like a dead fish onto newspaper. I don’t have high hopes. I spun up my wheels and screeched to a start. Nothing is happening. Nothing at all. Why do I torture myself? Why do I hope for something interesting when there is only madness and uncertainty in me?

There is love, and then there is love. Virtue as love. Love of virtues. Why do you write this? Do I hope to say something or share it or just fucking write? I think it’s the last with a bit of the first two tied in at times.

Things are moving. Are happening. Throw up some dialogue and see where it takes you. This is taking you nowhere.

“So what are you telling me. What is you want to tell me. Please, tell me. This beating the bushes to get me to say something, this is beginning to grate on my grated nerves. They’re vibrating now and you’re part of the cause. Now, stop causing it and say something. This insanity has to end now. End it, please.”

What would be fun to write? Find the funness and write it. I’m getting sick with is pretend fun, with this awful nothingness. Okay, let me have it. Let it fly out. I’ll eventually find something to talk about. What do I want to talk about? There must be something there, something that is waiting for me to say something. If only I could find it. I’ll keep blabbing away until I hit upon something. I will end up with something. That I guarantee. Whether it’s pages and pages of this shit, or something better, I’ll leave it to you to discover. Things are percolating but nothing is coming out. I’m glad I’m doing this. I’m glad I’m emptying my shit creator and trying to see if it will let me say something. I keep talking about saying something, perhaps I should write about saying something. There we go, I should write an entire essay about saying something. Is there anything that would be more fun? More adventurous, more, well, more excellent!

Think big thoughts and hold on to the end of the rope, you know, where you tie the knot so as not to slip into oblivion. Second chances over righteous indignation. Where have I been and where am I off to? Why can’t I say much in this not saying much type of world. I keep typing and hoping and hoping and typing. There is something here. I know there is. It’s just a matter of finding and placing on it the last of the righteousness of the last of the nice people walking down the street clasping hands and not knowing that this moment, this very moment is the best they’ll ever have. You always have a great moment in a world that is not here and now.

Every moment is a great moment, a single time that will never repeat, never show its face again above the sand. That is the advantage of being there, being in the single moments and the latest of times. Why should there be anything more? Why does the caffeine screech through my body and find nothing. I have no direction for my thoughts. No way for them to get out. I wrote words and ended with a story that said nothing and nothing could be said for it. I’m getting closer, you know. There’s just a matter of time before I’m there and once I get there, the world better put itself on notice.

I’m caffeinated but running in circles. I have nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. Ugh. The pain of repetition. I guess if I say it long enough, eventually I can pretend that I had something to say. There it is again!

Nuggets of timelines. Will this ever be something other than nothing? Why can’t I dive back in? What has happened in my life lately? Doolies has gone away, and I’ve, what have I done? I want to say nothing. Why not talk about love as defined by virtues?

It’s more that I feel I have nothing important to say. Everything important that I could say has either been said or I wouldn’t be able to say anything that would add to it. I’m not a thinker, not much of a storyteller either. I don’t know what my skill is except to sit here and annoy myself by not writing. I have to remember that it’s not about me helping others, it’s about me helping myself. I need this for me. It’s hard to remember this when I float about my fantasy world. What’s the purpose of life? Being a better David. But then I die? Or do I. That’s the point, you don’t necessarily die, your soul may live on. Isn’t that what you want? You want to live forever. Who wants to live forever? I do. And you will. So how would I talk about this? Talk about animals. Animals that live forever, or at least live forever outside of themselves. Is this their brain in a vat type of story? Or is it something more. Okay, stay with that. What is the something more? What is it that? I take deep breaths to remember that I have to breathe. Isn’t that what you should do automatically? I sometimes forget, and when I forget it’s nice to remember, nice to lower my lungs and suck in air.

Get back to the story. So I’m an animal that will live forever in a different state. It’s a learning experience for the animal. It’s sort of Buddhist in that way, that coming back to learn something, to become something, to be better. How would that play out and what is the conclusion? Fuck conclusions, what’s the beginning or middle. I can worry about the conclusion once I start this damn thing finally. I miss the Doolies.

Stay with me here.

The animal reincarnates. Why is it there in the first place? Is it to learn something? That is what the soul is there: to make choices. But why have a group of people with an advantage? Will others join that people? Because you’re thinking at the micro level, and it’s the macro level that is important. How can you help the poor if there is no poor? The sick with no sick? The dying, etc. But this only helps those who can help, it doesn’t help—again, you’re thinking too much of the individual. It’s the group that’s important. The group of people, they are the one learning from this adventure. Why can’t you get this through your thick skull? So the animals are not there to learn but to allow others to learn, people in general to learn? So you have an animal and what is he there for? He’s an instinctual animal. He learns nothing and becomes nothing, chooses nothing, which is at the heart of everything: choice. If you can’t choice, how can you learn or show that you’ve learned. Light-darkness-light (LDL).

Who’s to say that there’s anything there that will survive. The survive, is it individual or is it in a group? Is this something I can talk about, or something that we can never know until it is time to know it. The collective makes much more sense than the individual. But is it really about making sense or is it something more?

Remember to breathe. I sometimes forget. It’s good to remember at these times. There’s something that is there for me to move. Fuck. My head is now mumbling.

All things push into the middle. That is what I learned, when I learned it and why I learned it. There is something that is there for me to see. Synthesis my left nut. There’s nothing here to synthesize. With all of my nothingness, I end up with nothing to say. To pretend that I’m out of practice is ridiculous. There is no practice anywhere. My head still pounds and I wait for it to tell me somewhere that something is done. The soul, the animal, the instinctual human. What do they have in common and how can I talk about them? How can I say something more than a video does, than a song does. That’s what’s wrong with these words, they never say anything more. They are not more moving or more intuitive or more anything, except more difficult. Is that why this cult has never caught on, why it is dying away? I wish it was something more, anything more. Lots of words today, and none of them useable. Why do I care if it’s useable? I thought this was for me? If this is for me, then there need be nothing that I end up with except the something that works best for me. Otherwise this is a false exercise. Remember to breathe.

Okay, so where have I gone today? Nowhere, and nowhere fast. I started with nothing and ended somewhere thereabouts, with nothing. Is David better after this? Has he learned anything, become anything? That seems unlikely. It seems that I am nowhere with nothing to go and nowhere to be.

Let logic go, let it run away and replace it with something. So far, nothing to replace, nothing to say. I have said nothing and I’m almost at 2k words. That’s something at least, a start. It’s like trumpet playing, once you start doing it every day, you’ll eventually end up somewhere that will enable you to say something. The exercise of saying something is that important thing, the habit, the doing it every day. It’s like shaving, your face gets used to it. If you miss a day, the whiskers grow longer, and it becomes more difficult to shave the next day. Once you shave every day, though, it becomes easier. It’s easier to shave stubble than longer whiskers. There you have it. It’s easier to write if you write every day, even if you end up saying nothing, like today. There. I’m over the 2,000 words. I’ve said nothing, and said nothing with lots of words.

My yawns freefall from deep inside of me. I’m hoping there is something more waiting for me, but I doubt it. There’s rarely anything there.

I’m almost out. There is nothing left in me. Nothing worth dredging out. This has been a productive day, even if none of this will ever see the light of day. I needed to throw words out there, maybe edit it a bit, and see if there’s anything left that’s worth posting. I guess better than doing nothing and sitting around to play video games all day.