This is a nearly eternal reminder of the distracted ease with which I dismiss vital parts of my life. It is a gift, this sociopathic ability to ignore emotion, or so I tell myself. Truth is I’m probably more emotional than I dare admit to the fat bastard staring at me in the mirror each day. He’ll chop off my hands and give what few words I have crippled against his tide of ambition and spoon-fed impotence.

Much has changed since last I visited these pages. So much that when I read the words of my own (?) creation I wonder what hapless fuck wrote them. Did I say that? Is that my story? If so, why did I forget it existed? Why the hell did I start a free blog of stories I hoped to one day edit, correctly, and publish?

What demon of ambivalence invaded my writing?

Like you know. Or care. I don’t. So what chance do you have?

There is no renewal in the sense people say it. I’m not renewing my blog because to do so would mean doing all the same shit over and over again. I’m revisiting the ego-centric beast and seeing what good it may offer in passing.

So the most recent story came from a book I’ve worked on for so long it makes me sick to admit. It is a characterization novel with little plot and even less coherence. I started on it when I was about 35 for reasons lost. Since then I’ve written mostly short stories, weird messages to friends, a few poems, one resignation letter (I never got to use. Bastards fired me first.) and more than a few plot summaries.

But this stab at writing will be different I feel. It is not inspired by anyone or anything or any place or… I’m out of anys. I’m tired. That’s all. I’m tired of all the…any song, there’s one!…I’m tired of the ignoring. Tired of the silent self-directed anger in which I writhe like a sunlit cockroach.

So, maybe it’ll be worth tuning in. Maybe not. The confusion of blogging is that too many think it is for them. It’s not. It’s the writer’s wish to test their words against a world, even when that world remains silent. Seeing your own words on-screen or on paper is therapy. Try it.

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Happy Thanksgiving

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If you ever wonder why you ride the carousel
You do it for the stories you could tell. -JB

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