Three women are responsible for this rambling

It is now 4:30a.m. and I am skimming the surface of sleep.  It’s not as if I’ve woken from a bad dream, but into one. This morning’s haze feels like I am walking through spiderwebs and my brain has the raw force of a weak sprinkler.

Last night, I had dinner with three great women and somewhere between the salmon risotto and a sublime dark chocolate dessert, the topic of this blog arrived.

Sometimes I think my literary ramblings float out in cyberspace like a single pelican perched upon the waves of an endless ocean. Other times, they shoot forth like a late night dog’s bark in the back of my brain. Tonight I learned they represent something more.  Three women told me my words require several trips to the O.E. Dictionary, and require such intense concentration – the kind one is unlikely to maintain after a 3:00 a.m. stagger home from a hard night of debauchery and vice – that most of the time, they just flick the computer’s off-switch and settle in to await the impending hangover.

The whole conversation made me feel the way you feel when you know the brakes on your car are tenuous and you’re nearing a steep descent. Just about the time the words hit my body with the same effect one would get when receiving a lengthy rusty needle through his testicle, perspiration joined in.  I sat there, agape, humiliated and questioning what is apparently the literary equivalent of a genetic mutation.

In that moment, I realized this blog is truly for me.  It’s cathartic the way a good vomit is cathartic, or how an orgasmic adrenalin surge empties one of angst and aggression. I write with the will of a weed, marking my territory the way morning dew rests on car windows.  What I write will never be for mass consumption because I don’t want to be consumed. Better for me that these words are tossed out like old beer bottles, left beneath some freeway underpass to disrupt the day of some seemingly insignificant street dweller in order to make him question his existence.  That is my crowd.

I cannot control the length of my literary life, but I can control the width and depth, decorating the silence with language.  Consider this blog a cul-de-sac, cool in the way a pond beckons coolness.  And when you depart, remember that you were affected but don’t really know why.

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By ccxander

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