Henry’s Women (Part II in a Series of Really Long, Really Sporadic Posts)

Hey, it’s never too late to continue a serial that you began to post 8 months ago on a blog that you had forgotten you even kept until you–literally–chanced upon your WordPress account while searching for a recipe on another blog that is completely unrelated to yours, right?  It doesn’t matter that you actually wrote the whole long series of posts that you never posted, literally, 2 years ago, right?  Sometimes the inspiration to post just seizes you, once in a while–or, more precisely, every few years.  What does it matter, this is my blog, after all, and I write the rules here.  Following is the second part of a bunch of long-winded monologues meandering through all flavors of dross, from heavy-hearted anxiety attacks to Henry VIII of England.  See Part I for some context.  Though, “context” may be a bit generous to use for a descriptor, given my idiopathic style of writing:    Continue reading

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The Circle of Nonconformist Bloggers

Manet, the notorious badass of the Salon des Refusés

Manet, the notorious badass of the Salon des Refusés.

After about 3 months of avoiding my blog, I finally decided, while avoiding my daily responsibilities, to just hold my breath and return to take a look at the neglected landscape.  When I signed in, I found the below pending comment on my dashboard:

I discovered your blog while googling about underachieving, and you have inspired me to go ahead with starting a blog. I didn’t think people actually blogged like regular literature authors and always felt I lacked in edgy hipness, but after reading all of your poetic posts, I feel like I may have fellow anti- conformist bloggers to relate to after all.  -Bessie Malt

I originally began writing a reply to your comment, Bessie, in the comment section where you’re supposed to write replies to comments.  But as is typical for me, my reply became longer and longer and I kept writing and couldn’t cut off the spigot and had no desire to anyway.  So I ultimately drafted a 683-word response and decided to post it as a blog entry in itself.   Continue reading

My Procrastination Jottings: Things I Would Rather Be Doing Than Writing This Newsletter Article (That May or May Not Even Get Published)

  •  Run away.  Road trip.  Out West.  Do the Zen-And-the-Art-of-Motorcycle-Maintenance thing.
  • Go to sleep.  For hours and hours.  Wearing very, very soft pajamas.  I’m talking very soft.  And sleeping forever.  Like, Sleeping Beauty style.
  • Strong cappuccino at a very quiet and dim coffee shop, very strong cappuccino, and very quiet and dim.  And cozy.
  • Wander around in an endless meadow full of wildflowers (indulge my frivolous fancy, here).
  • Wander around a quiet garden or meadow or woodland or hilltop or riverbank on a balmy summer night.  Quiet and balmy, and fragrant, is key here.
Image

Crappy cell phone photo of a full moon on a balmy summer night that I took last July from my front porch.  You really had to be there, to feel…the intoxication of it all (*gasp*).

Continue reading

My Procrastination Jottings: Swimming Inside My Mind

By U.S. Embassy Tel Aviv (_D3S9680FL) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By U.S. Embassy Tel Aviv (_D3S9680FL) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Instead of writing my freelance piece last night I scribbled out the below garbage in my Procrastination Jottings:

I still can’t write this article.  Because my mind is swimming, swimming.  Or rather, I’m swimming inside my mind.  I’ve noticed I use that metaphor a lot, the swimming metaphor, with reference to my mind and what goes on inside it, and how I inevitably drown in it.  I always feel like my mind is a big tank full of all the garbage and remains and gunk that you find washed up on the beach or entrenched into the sea floor, and that I’m stuck in this tank.  And I just want, need, to purge my mind of everything, all the junk and putrid debris and detritus.  If I were to successfully purge my mind, crack open the tank and dump it all out onto the ground outside, probably I would find a lot of slimy rotting fish and the decaying soft bodies of mollusks inside their shells, milky proteins oozing out and marbling over; abandoned, torn tires; rusty nails from who-knows-what; dead and decomposing horseshoe crabs and limp, flaccid eel bodies; pieces of wooden planks and driftwood of an unknown origin, with grotesque white linchen growing all over it; plastic bottle rings; beer bottles and broken whisky bottles covered and filled with sandy grime, and rusty beer bottle caps; tossed, corroded gasoline cans; brittle and bare grayed feathers from unidentified birds, and the heartbreaking carcass of an injured seagull that fell into the sea; a discolored and lifeless crab tangled inside a broken fishing line; a discarded and rusty crab cage covered in brown seaweed; and piles upon piles of cloudy, dense pebbles and stones and broken shells, all over the place, handfuls upon heavy handfuls and no bottom and no place to push them over to, they scrape my hands when I dig my fingers into them and pierce into my feet when I try to walk.  And everything grown over with ripe and pungent algae.

My Procrastination Jottings

Half the stuff on this blog is a result of what I produced when I was actually trying to write something else.  Something more important and writerly.  Like, full sentences and stuff.  This happened again today while I undertook to confront the two pieces that remain half-written in my writer’s block queue (and there are still several more ideas in the queue that I haven’t even began).  That is, I ended up writing nonsensical gobbledygook while I was trying to write the real stuff.        Continue reading