Well it ain’t like i don’t know the English language. Nor how to slither and conjure. Words edgewise, that is, and images from out of the blue. It’s basic organization i really stumble on, occasionally.
Sose i says, quite often to my own self; “Why don’t you get yer act together and write?”
Now that i have logged more than fifty revolutions around the sun it’s about time to share the adventure through more than sporadic storytelling. I tell this to myself now, quite often. Earlier, when gleaning seventy eight records from antique shops all over the Skyline Drive while delivering oysters door to door, i told myself that i was building a bank of experiences that one day could be woven into some kind of novel. And in that novel i could scatter all my deep, broad, and free flowing ponderances.
Then i contemplate the stonecutter. In the fable, he sought power and as we know, became, sequentially, the sun, the clouds, the mountain, and finally returned to the summit of all aptitude, (being a stonecutter). So living is what the writer transcribes, observing life from within an imaginary existence. The reader lives through his recollections. The reader lives many lives and travels virtually anywhere he chooses, without space-time limitations. But unless the reader reads on a train or a bus, he don’t go nowhere. The writer is limited by the obligation to toil bounded by one project at a time serving imaginatively as chief, cook, and bottlewasher in a one short of Mom and Pop outfit. So, in a stonecutter kinda sorta way, the ordinary liver of life is closer to the fountain of life, real world experience. But an unexamined existence, some say, ain’t worth livin’ neither. So just as the sun, the clouds, the mountain, the stone and the stone cutter are all connected, so too must the writer, reader, and doer be part of another such whole.
I used to enjoy arranging words down on paper to fascinate myself in all kinds of ways. The origin of such word play is often a phrase i hear or utter myself. For instance, while at the accountant’s office the other day: “There’s nothing specious in all those deductions,” i told him, “though they were arrived at rather spuriously, recalled on the spur of the moment from lost records spurred on by the threat of great penalty.” My ranting consciousness sporadically takes a tear down alliteration lane and outruns my sense of purpose and focus on any and all tasks at hand. Where was i? Oh, yeah, ize gonna explain that earlier in life my dawdles were based on word rifts solely for my own entertainment. From time to time through all my spewing of what’s on my mind, certain people have urged me to write. Swollen with pride i waste the motivational complement and feed the incentive to my ego, imagining myself on talk shows like Chance Gardiner and at Walter Mitty book signings where i mingle with Nabokovian nubiles named Dolores.
But i lie. Both in wait and on purpose, because i do constantly scribble. Lately it’s hunt and peck in awkward attempt to capture rich, colorful experiences. Should i serve the recollection as a soup or distill it into an aphorism?
So you can call me Jack. Jack Leg. Of all trades – master of none. I have observed beauty bright as golden sunlight and subtle as a breeze from a passing negligee gentler than propwash from a gnat’s wing.
That’s the rub, though. Like my pal who once rode an elevator with Sharon Stone – half the fun is in the sharing, the telling of the tale. But buying drinks to reconnoiter on barstools gets expensive time wise, health wise, and it ain’t free. So i guess i’ll continue horsing around with amateurish prose. Maybe that’s good since a paid professional is often derided as a prostitute and no one need pay me for such as that.