Single Serving Pod People (at free concerts)

I really dislike being part of an audience. I hate how it paints me with a brush of association, how it drags me out of the event and into the a mode of vitriolic observation. Now I find myself wishing I hadn't taken an interest. Now I have all these other strangers that I will probably never feel compelled to know, and certainly I feel more compelled to not know them.

I don't belong in your audience. I probably don't want to be in whatever other categories your audience might also happen to overlap. I definitely don't like the social expectation that I am supposed to take interest in whatever commonality we might have. Now I am stuck in whatever demographic goulash your event happened to draw today. Now I am no longer a member of a thing I chose, and it's very unsettling.

I don't want to miss your thing, but more than that I don't want to subject myself to making it to your thing; because there are OTHER PEOPLE THERE. Can't you just send me a recording so I can participate on my terms?

What sort of person derives pleasure over and above this feeling of not- belonging? Why do I find that archetype of person so challenging? I imagine the awkwardness of being unable to excuse myself politely and the feeling of being trapped by socializing with them and having to pretend to be interested.

I think I can just stay home for the highlight reel next time. This experiment is not giving me the results I sought. Instead I feel the stress of being in a room full of people that any moment will shriek and point their fingers at me, the last non-pod-person among them.

</CPB>

Borrowing from the future

I have ideas, but do you want them?

I am deeply intrigued by the idea of writing, of being or becoming a writer. Gaiman says it's the easiest thing in the world, just slit your wrists and bleed for it. I want to boil over with hyperbole about my adoration of words, but have found that I can manage only a good simmer most of the time. This is alright if I remember to be more patient  about the words I'm stewing. In this metaphor, it's my kitchen and you all can wait until I have good stew to serve.

I have spent many hours at other stoves like this one, in that cyber-sex is more of a short-order cook arrangement. When someone comes into my word-diner, with those late night munchies... Order up...! It's masturbatory bliss, these cunning linguistics. A seraglio of sentences. It's really not a big deal either way. Somehow I got it lodged in my head that it makes sense to be afraid of things as though my writing were a big deal to anyone else.

Seems a bit absurd to borrow from the future such trouble as this.

</CPB>

Everything that was new is old again

Words with which I would like to reacquaint you:

Prestidigitation. Sleight of hand, legerdemain, close-up magic. The art of misdirection.
Depression. The vilifying voice that wrangles one's awkwardness and self doubt, amplifying them inward, between the ears, until sometimes it's all one can hear.
Koan. A query or challenge to assess the state or grasp of one's Zen.

In the past, my blogs only get new posts when I am looking for support regarding something that I find inconsistent, inconvenient, incorrect...

This could be more of the same. I tend to take easy days for granted.