A Brief Introduction.

It is getting late into the evening. I am waiting silently in my cold home for my wife to arrive back from New York. My feet are freezing but some how my upper body feels warm. I have had the good fortune to find out that my third short story Writer’s Block was published on this day. Not bad for a lazy writer who would rather drift off into a dark window than put words together on paper. I am one of those writers who writes only because he must. If I ignored the bug it would turn into a full blown sickness. I know not where this need to orchestrate ridiculous short stories comes from, possibly from an earlier life lived as a lie proceeded by the profound pursuit of honesty in my older age. This would be a fair summation of my work. The characters I create and the situations that they find themselves in are all absurd fictions that desperately want to relay a glimpse of truth to the reader. The only literature that I seem interested in creating is a literature that compulsively lies but is dead honest in its message. For some reason I am always trying to pass along some kind of message through my strange tales. Sometimes I feel like such a stranger in the times in which I am living and writing is my way of crying out for help. Everything is in the message.

Once again I poisoned myself today. While driving I ran over a thick plastic bag which has melted all over the muffler and fuel lodge. Each time I drive I am intoxicated by the fumes that ascend up from the melted plastic (I have scraped off as much as possible). I become dizzy and am left with a lingering cough and headache. The only cure for this malady is time and a lot of water to pass the toxins through my body. My strategy to get rid of the remaining melted plastic is to drive around in the evening with a respirator on until I am able to melt the remaining plastic off into infinity. If this does not work I will pray that someone steals my car, taking the burden off of my sticky hands. Why things of this nature seem to happen to me I am unaware. I suppose it is the cosmos or the god/dess of writing filling me with unnerving struggles so that I am forced to connect the parallels between absurdity and real life. And from this possibly the literature shall flow…..


  1. Assuming you have a therapist for real, that is where the problem lies. Po’ folk resort to writing to ward off the insanity, ya see. I am going to be thinking of “either a hermit or failed writer” for a long time. Hope I remember where I read it. Like the music.

  2. Therapy is quite expensive, but there are decent low cost Therapists who are still waiting for their license. The Therapist I saw was only twenty bucks for an hour….

    Thank you for the compliments…

  3. “Sometimes I feel like such a stranger in the times in which I am living and writing is my way of crying out for help.”

    Eckhart Tolle wrote something along the same lines in his new book, A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose. You should check it out. He writes about people on the brink of awareness. People who are aware enough that they feel they don’t know how to live in this world. They feel like strangers to others. It can be viewed as a positive sign that you are progressing along the spiritual path to heightened awareness. Obviously not everyone has the same awareness level, some are just beginning to open up, some are like the buddha himself, fully enlightened, and then there are people like you, you are not totally identified with form, but not enlightend yet. So you are somewhere in between. Eckhart goes into great detail about this in the book. So if your still feeling like a stranger in this world, your not alone.
    The world is waking up. Many more are joining on the path to awareness to keep you company.

  4. I read a New Earth a while back and have been thinking in thought forms ever since. I like form to much to swim in the sea of the ineffable- but I do like the idea of being present in the now. If only my mind would stay there. Thank you for yet another thought provoking comment. Your comments are awakening me to things I have forgotten.

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