Category: General Musings

Whatever else deemed interesting enough to write about.

traffic games

When traffic is steady, but moving, there is a game I occasionally play.

I'll study the distance to the car ahead of me, close my eyes, and count.

One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three, one-thousand. Four, one-thousand.

Five. Six. Seven.

Eight.

I often stop at eight.

But not always.

—

where have all my bad dreams gone
the house without doors
the cracked teeth and empty eyes

where have all my nightmares gone
denser than my waking thoughts
where I wait with anticipation for my
paper-thin demise at the hands
of kind strangers

destination unreachable

All good things come to end; then again, so do all simply decent, mediocre, and absolutely abysmal things.

No, the blog isn't closing, but:

In the last two and a half years, I've shared a bit of my past, scribbled a few poems, experimented with giving voice to my words in audio posts. I've written about my thoughts on life, people, and domination. But recently, my writing, which often follows a set of themes or symbols that have meaning to me, is not saying anything new.

I am dangerously close to becoming a caricature of myself.

That idea is irksome.

Rather than dilute any further my thoughts and ideas,  I am going to forgo writing about them until I have something interesting and new to say.

I'll still be here; I'm just not going to be posting on a regular basis.

ice between the sheets

I have an affinity for the cold.

It started with overnight van rides; my parents would pile all six of us kids into the van and drive all night between wherever we were living at the time (Texas, Virginia, or Maryland) and Massachusetts (where our relatives lived). I'd curl up in one of the upright with a large blanket, pop open the side window just enough to let in the cold streaming air, and fall asleep.

I can remember finding the air conditioning vent in my bedroom. Late at night, after my brothers were asleep, I'd take my sleeping bag and find a place on the floor next to the vent. Curling the sleeping bag over my head and vent, I had my own private cooling unit. 

During the summer, I keep my townhouse a cool 65 degrees (unless I know I am going to be having guests, in which case I may take mercy upon them and ease it up to 70). Over the winter months, I often forgo using the heater entirely and may go so far as to crack the windows in my bedroom. When I slip into bed at night, I'm often shivering, but it takes only minutes for my body to warm the sheets while the blankets to keep the heat against my skin. 

When I was teenager, I would brace myself at the end of a hot shower and ease the hot water off until the water wasn't simply cold, it was frigid. I'd count to five, or ten, depending on how brave I was, and then quickly shut off the water completely. Shaking, I'd reach for a towel to dry off my tingling skin, and hurry to get dressed, doing whatever I could to warm up.

It's not being cold itself appeals me – it's the contrast that it provides, something sharp enough to wake up my nerve endings, the release of endorphins as my body is shocked into awareness. It's not so different from my attachment to gourmet food, cloves, or wine. I am a hedonist at heart, and indulging in tactile contrasts is just one way to enjoy the joys of the flesh.

knock, knock, can I come in?

D'jaevle: I can be there in ten minutes.

Lindsay: Don't.

D'jaevle: Ah, but I'm already dressed.

I parked behind her small car and entered the house through the side door. Quiet, so as not to disturb those living above the first floor, I made my way to her bedroom.

The bedroom door was locked. I gave a few gentle knocks. The silence was broken by the barking of her dog on the other side. I knew she was awake, but she wasn't going to let me in. I gave it a few more minutes and then left.

In my car I sent her a quick text-message: "Stopped by to tuck you in. Good night."

I smiled. If I'm going to make mistakes, at least let them be the right kind of mistakes.

—

For the first time in months, I've had three good nights of sleep, and I feel good.

Competence is a drug to me; I'm never so short-sighted that I feel incompetent, but I often let things slide out of boredom.  After six or seven months or getting by, entertaining myself through various diversions, I've got the wolf by the throat.

I'm ready for the quiet games. 

autumn

This was the view I enjoyed from the back porch this weekend.

 

I'm off to the Shenandoah mountains for a long weekend of reading books in a place where I can taste the approaching Autumn; it has always been my favorite season, and I am ready to embrace it.

Here, some rambling thoughts that might amuse you while I am gone.

[audio:Djaevle_OnWriting.mp3]
D'jaevle, Writing

flight school

Iron Eagle was a horrible 80s movie. Horrible, and yet I must have watched it three of four times while growing up.

There is a scene in the movie where the lead character, a young kid with a chip on his shoulder, is having difficulty hitting targets while out test-flying an F-16. That is, until he puts on his headphones, slips his mix-tape into the cassette recorder, and zones out to Queen and Twisted Sister. After that, the bad guys don't stand a chance.

We've all been there. Jamming out in the car or dancing naked while cleaning the house. We find that place where the music is pure adrenaline. It gets into our blood stream and shakes loose our inhibitions and restraints.

— 

Prayer being a recent theme to my thoughts and writing, this song feels appropriate. It's one of my recent favorites.

[audio:A3_TooSickToPray.mp3]
A3, Too Sick To Pray