2013.11.13 Free Write
A deep, cleansing breath, and I try to free my composition from all the usual expectations that I usually smother myself with these days. My ambition is stoked by a fuel oil derived from a rich distillate of my egotistical reflections of old accomplishments suffused in a rarified atmosphere of assumption.
Which is awkward, considering that I find myself with virtually nothing to produce that feels truly worthy. Well, that's not entirely true. More that the effort to extrude worthy writing and drawing appears to be very far removed from the old sense of effortlessness and venting. And what do I do when I try to shake off the malaise? I write about how I haven't been writing or drawing. Fuck me.
A good way to determine if you are about to be abducted by aliens is to check the tilt of your foil helmet. Should it be even slightly askew, you're screwed. Not because of the possibility of abduction so much as the fact that you're fucking nuts for having a foil helmet for any of the typical foil-helmetty reasons.
Sometimes I wonder if mermaids would like me. Other times I wonder what they would taste like. Fishy, I suppose.
Simon is often worried about some kind of monster or another, and I wonder if my response is in any way helpful. Because what I invariably do is to look delighted about the possibility of a monster, and then insist that it is because I find them delicious. The nominal idea being, perhaps, that he would find such mental constructs less worrisome when placed in context of his dad eager to consume them. Which is really just an excuse to build up a background for eventually revealing to Simon that I actually spend an awful lot of my dream time AS a monster, occasionally eating other monsters - not just for flavour (which I tend to dream as being quite delicious) but also to fuck with them. Because I'm really not that nice in my dreams.
It's possible that the circumstantial qualification of that last sentence is misleading.
Based on observations, many people find me to be mostly unobjectionable. But there is almost always a caveat in their eyes. Or an obviously-massive blind spot. Whatever - I'll take it.
I wonder if I'll keep this piece. I'd cherish any similar sort of internal snippet I could find from my father. Funny how that works.