Winter is dying, yo, and not just cause of Global warming.

The herald of the end times of sad times arrives on the doorstep and I am all for it. My seasonal affective disorder will not permit me to not get excited about the sun existing for longer and the dark existing for shorter. I can hear the sovereign desultory salutations of the first blossoms in the distance; I can hear that winged feather duster angel and all her glory as the seasons balance themselves out, and life becomes a tad more comprehensible for a time.

Or something.

I have problems with being able to express myself meaningfully and then not immediately backpedal or make light of it. I suppose it’s a sign of insecurity, but there has always been something that feels vital to the process. You know, sorta like how you have a nasty habit, and then you decide not to break it, cause it’s familiar.

But I do find a weird, perverse value in self-referential-deprecation of my own work, although it dilutes my point like roman innkeepers and falernian wine.

Falernian.

As stated this blog is pointless: its hardly a blog. I don’t have a reason to write, other than to do so. So if you’re reading this for any reason other than to look at the ramblings off the tip of a stranger’s tongue perpetually spinning, occasionally going for the pretty, you might be in for some unfun times. I do have things that are actually coherent. But there’s something enjoyable about meaningless nonsense too.

Except for Finnegans Wake, which is distinctly unnonsensical. That portmanteau works.

Maybe I could go all mezzanine like Nicholson Baker and introduce extensive footnotes at the end of my blogpost that end up diminishing the value of my insights, as perpetual lists of contrary evidence array themselves in neat little formations that frustrate and amaze.

Maybe  I could go full joyce and slip into dedalus labyrinths holy shit I just realized his name is dedalus and the labyrinth is his mind and all its weird references to art and life and everything oh my god I just had that realization now now now now and now i’m quoting Molly Bloom too unsubtly for my taste but hopefully at this point you do begin to realize that you need space in your writing. You need periods, man.

But I don’t know why I needs to be public. Maybe it’s  because i’m sick of bottling up my private little neuroses in some back corner, where it’s safe, and easy, and can’t be exposed to the light. Where those fingerprints of contrary evidence can’t touch its sullen exterior.

Someone’s talking about the Tao and doesn’t know it.

Maybe I could dip into some Zen Buddhism Koans for a change, instead of constantly referencing Taoism. Maybe I could talk about Sikh’s (pronounced Sick) or the Muslim folk, or my formally informal conversion to Hinduism (little heart eyes emoji).

But this nonsense is most assuredly nonsense, and I doubt it’s meaningful either. Unlike all of the above.

So, if you like that, we can be friends. Honestly, we can be friends probably cause you’re a pretty sweet person. Or maybe you’re a Nazi, that seems to be a common problem these days. That and the aggressive need to be right.

I need to be wrong more. Or at least I need to make the effort to let myself be wrong more. To be incomplete and unfinished.  A pastel painting where it’s half blank because the person who painted it has OCADD and is too distracted by their rituals to do anything about it.

Or I could try to be Montaigne, not quick, but definitely lovingly pointless in his desire to be insignificant.

I think its honest when artists desire to be forgotten. I think I’ve said that before. That said sad that before, and I think that’s actually rather pretty, in an off putting way.

But why do I feel you need to know this? Perhaps its to show off; I certainly seem questioning tonight. I feel like I’m trying to be David Markson and Kate at the of reality. Always revising some Wittgensteinian (I think a word) tractatus and the world is already the case, but you havent discovered the case yet, so it’s something like Godel’s incompleteness theorem.

And now my attempts are perspicacity are most certainly contrived, and that makes me sad.

But what is the internet other than a bunch of mindless or mindful rambling on topics that don’t really matter, for people who aren’t really there, to justify an opinion you don’t really Hold?
Perhaps that’s mean spirited.

Consistency seems to be a challenge for me. So let’s take bets on how long this goes. I’m not banking on it lasting more than a month, but i’ve been proven —

Stop.

and reverse

Light blinks

Turn

Is this wise. I don’t know. Is it healthy. An even greater, and more fraught question. Is it worth it.

Well, I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t.

The best things in life are worth doing poorly, or so I’m told. I wonder how many abstractions I’m missing in here. Probably a fair bit. this is, after all, a snapshot.

But I think a snapshot is worth more than the essay that it could have been. That’s not true.

And I don’t know what is.