Captain's Log Stardate 0-5/13/2014

Posted on 5/13/2014 by Daddy Will

People often ask me why I don't write more. The truth is that I write a lot. I just don't post or publish very much. Writing as a form of creative expression requires a degree of physical participation from the observer that is not inherently required in other mediums. The observer is not afforded the ease of casual observance, or the experience of taste, touch, and smell in order to form an opinion on what they've observed. While a painting, sculpture, well prepared meal or lovely fragrance can be more easily done, those who wish to critique the written word are required the action of reading, often a tedious action at that. Many are required to search for reading glasses and still must face the need for time and space, free of distraction. The writer is really asking a lot from his audience, and he or she are thus required to give a lot in return. How can I paint a portrait of words? How can I assemble words in a manner that will reward the reader with the ability to touch, feel, smell and taste the very experience I write about? It's a rather tall order if taken seriously. At best I always hope that I can at least provide the reader with something to think about, something to ponder, hopefully provoking them to revisit and explore a previously held idea, possibly updating their views in a manner that brings them greater peace and joy.

To be honest, I actually write a lot, I just don't post or publish much of my writing.  Primarily because I rarely finish what I start.  Just look around my office at the physical evidence of life-changing endeavors that I embark on; knitting, macramé, micro-macramé, beaded, bedazzled and bejeweled cock rings….   This seems to be the overriding theme of all that I attempt in life. I start out great guns, full of hope and ideas, and then at the bottom of the fourth inning, I just tend to "peter out" as my mother was wont to say.  It's not that I lose interest,  I just lose focus, and I suppose I also lose confidence. I review whatever it is I'm writing and ask myself if there's any sense in writing it other than the egotistical catharsis of hearing and sharing my own opinion?  I mean, does anybody really care about this crap?  I begin to second guess not only the purpose of the piece but my very own purpose. Am I really provoking thought?  Am I writing this in a manner that will provoke the reader to give some thought to their own opinions or how they arrived at them? Or do I sound as though I'm attempting to pontificate and impose my own opinion on others, which I swear to myself is not my intent at all?

I won't blame my poor follow-through on a lack of education, particularly my lack of study in the art and discipline of writing.  Hell, I've not even made an attempt to actually take a writing course. I do recall some basics that I was taught in high school English classes that dabbled in writing. If memory serves me correctly, in order to be valid your writing was required to answer several questions that began with the letter W; who, what, when and where.   To this, I added some self-imposed notion that all writing had to have a beginning, a middle and an end, as one might expect from a blowjob or some other sexual encounter, which pretty much requires a who, what, where, when, and frequently  a why, and for how long.  You set the stage, you do the grunt work,  you're rewarded with a climax for your efforts, followed by the anticlimactic moments of gathering yourself up, wiping yourself off and leaving money on the dresser, or if it's good day, perhaps someone leaves money on your dresser.

But, maybe I'm confused, maybe only a story, be it fiction or nonfiction requires a beginning, a middle, and an end. I don't actually write stories, I just sort of share ideas plucked from the endless stream of cerebral effluent that flows through my mind… I mean, I do have stories from time to time, of course I do. But even when I tell a tale, say about an aunt, one of my dad's sisters, that remained in the country, living a rural life, and answered the door by peeking through the curtain with dentures in hand, establishing whether you was church people or kinfolk prior to actually putting them in her mouth..  I can tell you about the time she had a snake in the root cellar and the fracas that entailed. Yeah, I can also tell the story of the uncle on my mother's side that was incensed that the finger he lost in a threshing accident as a child was to later keep him from being a full-fledged member of some guild or fraternal organization to which he aspired, as he was not 'whole.'  Of course these were different times where children were born at home and Christians had never heard of a mohle.

Of course I can share stories of my own, and sometimes do. Stories of my own experiences that speak of time, place, cohorts and consequences.  They generally have a beginning, middle, and end and can be wrapped neatly in a bow of joy, disappointment, or disaster even.  But I tend to find them rather boring compared to the ongoing thoughts and notions that keep life ongoing.

So, with that said, I'm going to just write more, and publish more..  And if things don't always answer all the questions or have a beginning, middle, and end… then I hope you'll see that as an opportunity and invitation to identify with the topic at hand and ask yourself the questions, provide your own ending.  After all, we're all on the same journey, just traveling by different means.

I both do and don't want to apologize for the fact that I often make rather crude analogies, parallels that could be handled more tastefully and tactfully without a comparison to blowjobs.  But, whatever. Some of you will giggle, some will find my approach exasperatingly gratuitous, and there are of course those that will find me downright disgusting and indecent.  I'm doing what I've been told to do, which is to write what I know, to speak of my own experience and how I perceive it.  By sharing it with you I'm given the opportunity to have it seen from a different perspective, with fresh eyes. No, not unbiased eyes, but eyes unbiased of my own reality.

OK, time for me to get busy.


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