oh, hai... i feel like talking...

do you feel like listening?
actually, that's stupid, isn't it? i'm not talking and you're really not listening, i'm typing and you're, i hope, reading. that makes more sense, doesn't it?
i guess blogging is sort of taking the place of face to face conversations for some part, although, for an anti-social sort like myself, that is an advantage, and presents a more free discourse, at least on my half of the deal. and for you, my intended audience, well, you can always click yourself away to another place and not have to suffer being discourteous or, worse yet, suffer through my blather and be all polite and the like. rather than gauge your interest by how many times you look at your watch, or tap your foot, or fiddle with whatever it is you fiddle with when you are nervous or bored, i can do so by visiting the place on the web that tracks all my visits and time spent and pages read, as well as how you got here and where you went, when you decided you were sufficiently ruined and sought greener and more comprehensible pastures... all without hurting my feelings or feeling like some cad yourself. i guess we both win, on those counts, huh.
so, where was i going with all this? nowhere, really. i just felt like spewing words and, before i'm in that happy and inebriated place that i shall end up this blustery and chilly evening, once i've conquered this bottle of wine that sits before me, i thought i might sit at in this magic place for a while and exercise my fingers and, either by design or the "million monkeys at a million typewriters" theory, eventually clabber out something of profound interest and worth. but not likely, i'm sure.
since you can't see me or the place in the lair i inhabit this night, i shall describe to you this - it is, throughout Stately Sad Old Goth Manor, dark, save but one candle in the kitchen, one in the bath chamber and the glow of my monitor. there's some Celtic music playing softly in the parlor, where i sit and, other than Tiger The Cat, who is asleep on our bed upstairs, i am alone, which is fine with me, dare i say? i don't mind being alone, most of the time, even if it means being apart from my beloved... i spend my days dealing with people; in person, on the phone, on line and their presence is, at times, overwhelming and these little slices of quiet time are a fair tonic for that condition, snake oil though it is... i marvel, i must say, at those who seek refuge in the company of their fellow man, it is something that i have found to be a secondary choice, if i have one, like i said, i am mostly anti-social and the labor involved in the pretending of having a good time in a crowd is not worth the effort for me. it does afford me the opportunity to indulge in one of my favorite pass-times, which is people watching. it's interesting to watch the interactions between people and try to divine what is really going on. i've gotten pretty good at knowing who is having a good time, who is, like me, suffering and who is honest and who is on the mack and what have you. it's all folly, really. i think most people are social not out of love for their fellow beings, but out of fear of being alone, or, perhaps apart is a better term. maybe being on the outside of it all is terrifying for them, they need to be in the midst of the mix, life of the party and all that, just to hide the fact they can't function on their own, or at least contend with themselves. i get along with myself quite well, i do say and i enjoy my own company immensely. some of the best conversations i've had have been with myself, you know. and don't tell me you don't feel the same way yourself, ya big fibber.

*insert cigarette break and refilling of wine glass here*

i hope you're in for the long haul, friends. the spirit of the grape is taking hold and i'm wont to get wordy when my soul is warmed by same... it is at these times that my muse hates me, for i hold her close and seduce her into making up for all those times she has deserted me, such a treacherous wench is she. treacherous and fickle, that one. at times she pulls the bung from the cask and my words flow like the good ale at a wedding, but then again, she makes me play the washer woman and wring out the words by force, like the wringing of dirty water from the floor washing rag. she is heartless, but, at the same time, a smart task mistress, who knows when to make me work and when to let me run like a hart on the moor. it is in those free and wanton times that i think i write the best, although, please, feel free to argue me on that point. when it's all in place, such as now, my words are as plentiful and true as the fletched shafts from the quiver and bow of the sturmy archer, who, in fabled times, haunted that chase, dark and green, fearing none. shall i take up the gay and green mantle of sir robin? shall my words be as his arrows, shall my thoughts be as his staff? i can only hope. words can be arrows, fast and sharp to pierce the heart, when used without careful aim, can they not? words can be as the sturdy staff, stout and firm, both protective and offensive at the same time, can they not? the art is in knowing when to nock the arrow and let fly or when to take up the staff and stand firm. perhaps this night i shall not play at brave robin, but perhaps play the bard and sing the virtues of my life imagined, not realized, for your amusement. or perhaps i shall play the jolly friar, flagon in hand, song at the lips and regale you? or perhaps, neither. perhaps i shall play the sullen lord, awash in the darkness of my deserted manor, my rambling scarce making up for the hollow of distanced love and the longing of feeling a hand on my shoulder and the no longer whispered words of fancy that used to grace my ear, but now are lost on the winds of years... we shall see.

*insert yet another cigarette break here, if i may...*

i'm back. i took a longer break than expected and made myself something to eat, lest my wanton consumption of wine extract a greater toll than i should dare suffer this eve. so, where was i? ah, i think i was speaking of love. such a thing, isn't it? love. love, love, love, love, love... an odd word, when repeated as such, but an odder thing to contend with, no? are you in love? if you are, then you know of what i speak; if you are not, i don't know if i should pity you, or hold you on high. nothing gives greater joy, nor exacts a greater toll. it is the true white whale. melville's "moby dick" was not about man's struggle with god, it was about love. a relentless pursuit of a visage, a quest to fulfill desire, only to find oneself, in the end, bound to an uncontrollable leviathan and dragged down into the depths, no hope of salvation, no redemption, no resolve nor end. purgatory... love is not a field of daises, nor a cold nosed puppy, nor a soft kitten. it is a fiery waste land, inhabited by demons and devils who would sooner drive their tridents through your heart as give you the time of day, or night, as it were. love is as the hole in the sole of your shoe on a rainy day. love is as a ringing phone in the night, the bully who haunted you in grade school, the misplacing of you car keys, the pencil point that breaks in mid-writing... it is the cramp in your leg that wakes you in the night, and yet, in spite of itself and all it's terrors, it makes you feel alive. although, so does escaping some horrible situation by the skin of your teeth. right now i'm thinking i should leave this subject alone...

i think it is time that i showed a little mercy and end the tirade. i've only about a glass of wine left in the bottle and, although the night is still young, i am not and i think i fancy bundling up and sitting outside, to watch the setting of the waxing crescent moon, to listen to the sound of the dry leaves fly before the winds and enjoy the exceptionally clear view of the stars above, finish my wine, then retire to my bed. this has been a windy and ponderous session of it's own, has it not? if you've suffered through it, i both thank you and feel for you, i'm sorry to have taken so much of your time. thanks for walking beside me for a while, my fellow wanderers... i bid thee fare eve and wish that you fare well.

wander with me...



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