WEEKEND OPEN BAR: Sunbaked Testicle Rot

I’ve been tinkering with the idea of a weekend “open-bar” where community members can just shoot the shit during the lesser updated days. What are you up to? What’s on your mind? Did you see that gif of Kate Upton and the Popsicle and get sprung like me? Listen I know I’m a male pig. The worst part is I know it. This may fail miserably. Who knows. I blathered out some free writing today just to decompress. It’s sort of self-indulgent, but really it’s just me taking the time to actually get a hold of my own psyche in the blustery winds of time-rot.

Writing exercise. Wri-ting-ex-er-cise! I’m stressed lately that my writing skills are beginning to decay. I fret this shit over my continual posting of nonsense over at a blog. Does writing with “but” and “recently” and still” and “and” cause one’s writing to decay? Lord, I hope not. I fashion myself penned in by transitions. Every sentence serves to convey a direct meaning, not to express some sort of poetic utterance. It isn’t that the two can’t be done in conjunction, but that shit really isn’t practical. When writing for a blog it is something of a Blitz Krieg affair. I want to get the information out as quickly as possible with as minimal effort as possible. Fuck, dude, I barely check for grammar. Everyone reading the blog knows this as well, I imagine.

Furthermore, is there really room for artifice in a blog entry? Does the person reading it even give a fuck? I mean sure maybe there is a chuckle here and there, serving to further encourage reading the same vomitorium nonsense you can get anywhere else on this particular blog. But does it really matter in the long run?

Who the hell knows how this carries over to my practical writing, too. Practical writing. Even mentioning these anxieties seems a bit laughable, since I don’t’ produce anything outside of Omega Level anymore. No sir. No ma’am. I’m a one-man word army, storming the beaches of meaning. I lob grenades of text, bursting update shrapnel everywhere. At the end of the day, warfare takes its toll, and I don’t have much of a stomach to dream anymore.

Christ, just typing that is such a drag. Maybe I’ll type more often in this word processor. I could think of it as a bulwark against the repetitious retardation that I’m suffering through the blog. Blog, blog, blog.

Since I’m repetitiously repetitious per usual, it is worth dwelling upon for a moment. I enjoy repetition in my prose. I find it soothing. When I’m riffing on a chorus or twelve, I find the humming of the hues to be tickling to my taint. I also like alliteration.

Have you noticed?

Of course you’ve noticed.

Are my repetitions and alliterations, a gimmick, a hook, or simply a staple of my style? There be a war to be waged by people more intelligent than me (I’m on a bit of a warfare tip today). Quentin Tarantino certainly has detractors who want to decry his flash for gimmick. They want to impale his style on a stake, spitting on it as carrion dance about. Derivative!, they cry. Obnoxious, they bellow whilst flinging the rotten tomatoes. I just think it’s the dude’s swagger. Why the fuck should he change-up his delivery because people can’t groove to his guitar?

I write the way I write. Making up words is fun. Using hilariously outdated slang amuses me. If you can’t feel the jive of your own prose, you’re doing it wrong. That’s what my conviction stems from. I’m beginning to fear that to be the case. I need to relax. I flex the membranes outside of the cones.

Maybe there’s a parallel between all that Marvel junk I’m always lamenting Fraction wiles away hours writing and my own Omega Level treatises. They can both certainly serve a purpose and entertain, while serving as an afterburner to be used to stay afloat. These more confining efforts can carry us from one issue of our more heart-felt junk to the next.

Does the goal then become to find the enjoyment in operating underneath these strictures? That sure makes sense to me. So yeah, Ian. You can’t pen the novel you’ve been sweating as often as you’d like. That’s a cop-out too, by the way. You can’t pen that novel because you’re a wimp who doesn’t dare to try and engage another effort.

Aiight, aiight.

Lay off, self.

Leave me alone, me.

All I really want to do is to begin writing for the enjoyment of writing. Even if it’s these five-minute overtures wrought with frowny frowns and self-flagellation in a Word document. Such a goal doesn’t seem lofty. Nor does it seem unrealistic. As usual what it does is demand that I make the hard choices that everyone needs to with their free time. Do I sit refreshing Twitter and staring vacantly at Sportscenter in the last twenty minutes of consciousness of the day? Or do I demand something more from myself before plunging into the pool of the Omniverse?

I want to say to myself, “Well, blah blah. If I could only write without constraint for a half an hour a day, I’d totally be happy. I’d jerk my jimmy with reckless abandon. Reddening my shaft and engorging my balls.”

What I need to say to myself is, “You can write for a half an hour a day. You just need to unplug from the same white noise machine you’re railing against in your more lucid moments. It is all fun and games to deride our Culture of Deferral and not back up your bluster with at least forty-five minutes of commitment.”

Can’t I just believe in what I claim to believe in for forty-five minutes a day?

I hope so.