Is it gibberish? Or brilliant? Or brilliant gibberish?

Greetings, dear readers.

At the risk of alienating folks at this tender early juncture and turning you away from this place, I submit one of my more experimental bits of writing. I don't know if it is worth pursuing for real, but it is certainly fun to take the pieces of my life and mix them up, give them a wild energy they can't sustain in logical progression. I whole heartedly recommend giving it a try.

Illogical progression
I'm walking down an open ended road. What does that mean? What do I mean? Here are my words but where are the things I see. My story careens by me, jostling me out of the way. Making room for its drama – its space.

All of this. What are words, compared to this.

I'm nearing some conclusion. No, continuance. It just goes on, you know.

I like the shape of this thing. I never thought it would be me in here. Narcissist.

The story wants to come out. But it's picky about format. It won't let me be lazy. It sticks its nose in the air at the thought. Calls me a lazy hack. It's probably right.

It isn't raining. But it's wet in the air. The panic is coming, through the ooze that Clyde's head is swirling in as he walks through the parking lot, buzzing like an army of sludgy bees.

He waves his plastic wand in front of a door and he's in the office.

But there's no story in here in this present tense worth the telling.

There is a boy meets girl story worth telling, round an ancient wooden table to stumpy legged, hook handed booze hounds. Because it ends in pain, and that's what you pay to see. Pain and triumph. Yes sir. So back we go, whiting out the years that have passed, making them disappear for the noblest of causes: a better story.

It was raining when they met, Clyde and her, as it often does in that part of the world. It doesn't rain that much where either of them come from. Clyde thought she was elfin looking, in a bad way. She just enjoyed talking to new people. Not so judgmental as old Clyde. The music was too loud, Clyde wasn't capable of raising his voice so much. No training for it. So after a while they turned to the person next to them on their side of the table.

Boy oh boy, what had Clyde gotten himself into. The years of social disappointment that contained most of his previous life rode him around like a conflagrosaur. I just made that up. Feel free to visualize as you will. And here he was thinking that flying far far away from the physical place it had occurred would be enough to change everything – his very being and his path through the stars – and send him hurtling into reality.

Well. It was. Lucky bastard.

Breaking on your shore

Here begins my humble offering to the ocean of electronic words. I hope to use this to get my thoughts and ideas focused as writing for an audience, even a hypothetical one, forces one to put all those impressions and thoughts tumbling through the mind into some sort of understandable context and focused framework. And hopefully something gets out there amongst all you electronic fishes which inspires, comforts or amuses. It’s also an ambition of mine (which I just this instant realized) to write the occasional short story or poem to fill out my little corner of the ocean. Well, I’m horrid at poetry, so I might just share a line or two from real poets that move me.

On that note, I should mention the title of this blog is inspired by the first lines of a PB Shelley poem called Mont Blanc:

“The everlasting universe of things
flows through the mind,
and rolls its rapid waves”

I find it fitting. Can you see why?