Thursday, September 29, 2016

“Fish," he said softly, aloud, "I'll stay with you until I am dead.” ― Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea


I've had this thing for a long time. A long, long time. About/kinda/sorta for 14 years.

That"s a long time.

It's been a dumping ground. Like a playground.

It makes me cringe to read a lot of earlier posts/years.

But, it still stays.

This thing.

This blog does not display a particular verbosity or any amount of insight or intelligence to screen capture, forward, share or get naked to.

Yet, I'm here. Fat Free Milk is here. We're both still here. Older. Hopefully a tiny bit wiser, but still a beautiful mess. Like a dorm room. Like laundry. Like colors on your fingers, hands and arms after painting.

The thing about this beautiful mess is that it's something that I've created. It doesn't define me. It's not a reflection of what I can do, what I can write and not a fraction of my Dalai Lama/Unicorn hybrid soul that I can't properly show you because of my care for your little cocktail onion corneas.

I WILL ALWAYS BE HERE, KIDS.

I've been here. I guess I had no choice anyway. I always knew it. If I ever said that i was smart, I was young and stupid to say it when I did. I'm not going to say it now because if I say it now - it'll make me look dumb in the future.

I HAVE BEEN AROUND THE BLOCK, LOVE.

I own THE FUCKING BLOCK.  It's mine. MINE. I did it. Good or bad. I learned, I cried, I failed and I tried/just.now.rhymed.

I am 41 fucking years-young and can gut and filet this mortal coil better than you can.

I am 41 fucking years-old and need your help, love, hugs, encouragement and spirit.

I HAVE BEEN AROUND THE BLOCK, LOVE.

I want to be here.

I want to stay more, k?

K.

Me and this thing.

I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.



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