it itches...

Life-trekking nearer--toward a perceived fruition, as I find my voice through the what-why that is written, the path is drenched with a symptomally undeniable increase of an infection I've incurred; maybe one thought genetically dormant, maybe one just recently picked up off someone elses discarded snot rag. A contamination most likely, and as I see the world through half-century eyes, to and fro via a future past and back, it looks as if the virus is socially terminal. I have a severe curmudgeonly infestation of hermititis, and though it is possibly in it's earliest stages, the acceleration rate is mind numbing.

This is scary; for much of my fuel for spending hours upon hours in touch with the qwerty side of this life is based on observing the lip to ear portation of human experience; the multi-level intellectual stimulations brought on by taking the time to wade through layers of the homogeneous and the weeding out of the null and void. Alas, I fear my weed-whacker is wearing out. My tolerance levels are deteriorating, succumbing to the relentless bombardments of subscription, conscription, prescription, and conniption. Within this commodity spin, I'm floating face-down in a mud puddle of contradiction; once thought a place to nurture a concept with a consciousness elevating precept, a contributory cleansing: simple, refined... rather tart, but not overbearing. And the best advice given? "Don't allow your ego to get between your product and your customer." Hrrrmph!

As I again spent the night in the shop, it occurred to me that sometimes an hourly Amtrak; a sub-routine clackity-clack, the thumpity-thump of hippish-hop through trunk lids at stop lights, and a wind tunnel wannabe furnace is enough to allow for a portal opening, a writing vestibule to sit in where I can unzip a frontal lobe, pour from a cerebral left or right goblet to be gobbled up, synapsual ramblings from less than a perky hard-ridden herky-jerk. Maybe here, maybe there... no one place, no one space that encompasses all the potential, I search for solitude amongst the white noise of the moment. Within this human disconnect and like unforgiving time and change on a sacrificial alter, a dynamic receptacle I be... antennae pulling in every all toward the point of absorption. And when I am finally drenched, over-quenched, spilling more sop than I can hold, then overflow happens...

like right now.

We now return you to your regular scheduled program...