Here they come, Home to roost.
Yes, we can all avoid the responsibilities we accept for only so long, and now I must pour forth onto this page some of my inner thoughts and self.
I have looked for something truthful to write, to prime the pump, to begin the conflagration and so far nothing comes to me. Some tiny spark. The intellectual expository equivalent of a soft chip of Velveeta cheese with which the greater Nachos Plate of truth might take its humble, burgeoning beginnings. This is what is meant by bleeding onto the page. It may take the place of actual talent and having something to say. Then again, it may not.
The other day the phrase came to me from Psalms 121, "I lift up mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help." Unfortunately, no help cometh, at least that I recognize. I'm also sure that that help I seek is little more than the smallest of effort on my part. Once again it's obvious to me that I'm picking the wrong part for myself in this portion of my life. I seem to make this a routine as I make my way through life.
It's amazing that I can even manage to "lift mine eyes" by myself. Soon, even that will probably fade into a warm memory. I remember when I was younger and I'd lift mine eyes. Oh, those were the days. If only I could... but no.
Pity, pity, pity, thy name is Jack. What truer words were ever spoke? Do you think Steven Bochco goes through this kind of torment, I know for a fact he doesn't. After the string of hits he's had, he knows not to wander far off the path. The longer he relies on the formula, the tighter his footsteps are constrained to the center of the path. Little does he suspect that the frost heave of time moves the landmines closer and closer to the center from the edges. In a reversal of human nature, fewer and fewer people are interested in watching him approach his inevitable doom. In my opinion, his doom has come and gone, but at least he was dancing there for a while, wasn't he?
As for myself, I've yet to plant a footstep where there wasn't a mine awaiting me. It's a singular talent in a way, but not one that many people would wish for. Talk to the average 12 year old on a skateboard with earbuds and ask them, "What do you hope to accomplish by wasting your life in this way?" and they will tell you with a clear eye and confident voice, "At least I'm not writing drivel and calling it liquid gold to fool myself." I mumble my retort, "Pull up your pants you little fucker!" and wander off, head lowered, grumbling about the price of dog food and Polident.
I wasn't born this way, but over time, I've developed a whiplike appendage which is ensheathed within my mind and extended for the purpose of thrashing myself whenever time allows and the need arises. Now I'll put my flagellum away and hold the beating for another time. Stay tuned, I'm barely warmed up.
Originally Published on 5/5/2016 on Rising-Gorge