This isn't supposed to happen this way. I should be fast asleep after a full and accomplished day of skull drudgery; completing my CV, getting caught up on the finer bits of applying to school, sorting and unsorting myself, watching a bit of TV and topping it all of with some obligatory but sorely need marital coital bliss. I should find myself content to rest, not sitting here in my underwear fulfilling some vainglorious attempt to draw meaning from my racing thoughts. I use run-on sentences like they have some grand purpose to tie together trite observations and cute turns of phrase into some clever flowing scheme. Some good should come out of this though, the writing I mean, not to merely document achievements, disappointments or other notions but instead to flex the creative muscle in hopes that something brilliant pops out. Naturally the topic is going to follow the only expertise I do posses; my lifelong study of me, 28 year old newly married, newly emigrated, self effacing, selfish, easy going guy with more than his fair share of good looks and good luck. Shift between the first and third person in this diatribe will be throughly abused to give me the author and most likely the sole reader a disoriented sense of entitlement at objectivism with just the right amount of distance to be brutal in a convincing way.
My wife, Jane calls for me to come to bed while I sit here shivering, waiting for words to come. Sure, the compfy confines of a goose down duvet are tempting but its no match at the moment for my self-imposed insomnia brought on by a greater sense of righteousness and sardonic wit. To say that this attempt at stream of consciousness meta blogging is a good mental, theraputic and creative exercise is akin to believing that I could masturbate myself to the gold medal podium at the Olympics in long distance running.
I have always had a strong sense of pride in my mind despite numerous attempts to abuse or neglect it. One could probably draw that sense to reflect the closest thing that could be recognized as true faith. Despite all my hand wringing in church and devotion to family, friends and ultimately my wife I've always known it would be just me at the end of it all, validating my own existance. It was my mind and pride in it that ntold me I was special at age 9. Sure, standing on stage to recieve a pencil and a certificate proclaiming me to be Palm Beach Public's 3rd grade "Scholar of the Month" helped me know I was something alright and yeah my properly put togethor parents out there in the audiance kept it no secret that they expected nothing less but still I carried my own smug satisfaction that would be there to affirm me no matter what. An active imagination would help me along, allowing me to escape into a fantasy instead of doing homework or studying for tests.
That pride and active fantasy life would follow me down to Guatemala 17 years later and distinguish myself as the hero in a story of my wn making. In Antigua, with the colorful thrid wolrd colonial backdrop framed by three volcanoes the cast was motely crew of expaats, backpackers, drunks I envisioned a retelling of Casablance with me as Rick, the mysterious carefree bon vivant in a town full of travelrers in search of meaning. my then wife to be, Jane the Ingred Bergman to my Bogart with Denmakr and a a future based in harsh reality guest starring as Victor Laslow, the apex to our little love triangle. Instead of letting the picture end with Jane getting on the flight back home to be reuinted with a more fulfilling life back home I broke from the tired old script, flirted pointlessly with empty drug use before swollowing the bitterest pill of all, my pride taking the first steps to create my own original story to include me, my life, my wife and such.
Now if I wasn't so keen on getting high off the smell of my own farts I would probably pause from the senseless prattle of this meandering passage to lay out some skelton of a story to whet the readers apitite for order and meaning. I'm not going to do that though. I see it as my perogitive as the author or dare I say the artist to take this drivel and draw it out to some pointless conclusion or lack there of, whichever I see fit. With that said future entries may or maynot entail observations on life in Copenhagen, married life or more likely some kind of semi-heroic, semi-tragic retelling of my own wretched existance. If this text here was some form of correspondence or draft of my own chronicals for someone beside myself to read I would instruct the reader to "stay tuned, be brave, be patient and enjoy."
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