Blather
Some verbal spillage in writing
Starting with the infinitely variable run-off out of my brain and through this keyboard, I aim to allow the flow to splash and cascade without cease while interrupting any impulse to stifle or edit or limit the blather. Blather, as in a blathering idiot. Spilling forth, no hesitation, and whatever self-loathing or awkwardness results as it happens, that too is allowed. Never to inhibit the sound. Pages and pages of senseless ideation. Words that among their own sense have no relevance or meaning whatsoever, but they are words nevertheless, spilling and bouncing, falling out of my brain into the soundless wordiness of this text document. A computer is not in any small way unlike an old typewriter. It makes different sounds, and maybe functions more speedily, unless perhaps at the hands of a highly-trained and practiced typist, and provided that the ink ribbon isn’t exhausted, or the hammers sticking together in some uncoordinated mishap and mechanical logjam. Here is only electrons, and software, lightnin-fast, in concert with this peron’s impulses and physical appendages, executing the choreography of letters on buttons, with or without consideration for my perplexed subconscious ramblings. Rumination, what does this mean? It means everything.
Second paragraph, lightning and cheese sandwich. Swimming pools shining in the sun, and also gurgling in the cool windy autumn of the southeast. Humid and cool, wind in trees, hissing, distant traffic of commutoers on their way to various jobs and errands. People simply living out their lives, waiting for the day when something or other might (or might not) occur to interrupt their day-dreaming and habit spirals. How does this day remind me of every other day in my life. What sort of thrill and mini-joy can I expect to erupt on the goose flesh of my upper arms and neck when I decide to walk out the door and down the steps to the close-by espresso club. Otherwise, I will step onto the mat and patiently follow through the proscribed movements and breathing. THen maybe on to the gym to scramble and put blood into those muscles. All while contemplating my inner feelings of sadness, loneliness, loss and lost-ness.
I am accustomed to this routine and never ending speculation. It is all okay by me. THe music keeps coming and I continue to serve my function and role within the production. Singers will sing, fiddlers will fiddle. I am there, realizing the part that is in front of me. I never did look up Ms Lily Teng. She inspired us, she really cared. She was a force of nature. I wonder where she is now. Would she know that she had helped me to get started on my way to this life I am now living? What about Ms Gentry (the principal?) She was tall and lanky, gregarious and somehow parental. I celebrate her, and wonder also.. where is she in this moment? Am I a fish swimming down, further down stream, growing ever more distant from the encounters of my spawning and my youth? Does the water cycle back. Is it elemental. Yes, all of this.
