Whimsick

moments in time where pejorative poo-poos potent the primacy of the pulpit.

Disparaging days dissuade devout deviance drowning dreams of dastard do-gooders.

 For years I've wondered what is next, when next is dependent on the state of being here now. Do what you wish, but be sure to be here for the moments what do.

Structure is required of some populations; I'll refrain from claiming I'm not. Not in any span of time do a writer's flock coincide with an artist's intent.

Natured Constrictions

I hate that I always start filling in forums and questionnaires with: 'I'.Catching myself again, I realize I don't want to be passive in my intention to sell myself or my potential for contribution to an outlet, but MAN do I focus wholly on myself the great-portion of the day. (and suddenly, a silent desire to type on a pigeon-excrement-covered table in MacArthur park - stop searching for spelling of 'MacArthur')This morning I awoke and did what the priest vehemently proposed last night at mass following the novena, to which I stumbled upon late - stepping high over the lap of a veil-faced elderly to enter the pew. No one ever scoots to the middle; they always expect you to step over them. Some people, knelt in prayer, are seemingly so peaceful that disturbing them seems to be a crime. I just want to bottle up their gracious-peace and bathe in it, in the glory of sparkle-covered rained clouds, letting no drips hit the ground.So yeah, I knelt this morning and offered what good and bad would come of the day to God - and tried desperately to make a point not to do this for me but for others. Following my 30 second finger-combing session in the bathroom mirror, to the sound of the absurdly-loud bathroom fan, I put on a dirty shirt, same jeans, same shoes; socks, I was already wearing and tip-toed out onto the front porch. There I found darkness at 6:35 a.m.

Garbage on full display without the canister

ahem.

The last few weeks have been a gem to behold, as I've been driven out of slumber and into a state where now all i really want to do is write. And although much of the penmanship fashioned with keystrokes has been in direct contrast to true creativity, I have been writing. Not purported to reason or justice, just simply things to behold - enough to keep someone insane, sane; at least for the time being.

Tonight was a cornerstone, not only in my perpetual - and I'm almost sure - eternal lonliness, but in my recognition of the things that make a Woody Allen film great. Without reservation Mr. Allen for years has not made movies for the likes of Hollywood junkies, or teenage adrenaline 7-11 slurpy junkies. No. He has made movies he has wanted to make. And you can't fault anyone more than everyone else in Hollywood who doesn't do the same thing. I for years have wanted to watch only what I want to watch, and why should a creator be any different? With the amassed collection of revenue generating filth being poured out onto Hollywood Blvd, at least someone has the audacity to stand on his own two feet to not only write, but direct several films that he's wanted to make.