Thinklings

I love blank pages.












They're so smooth and crisp. Smudge-free, ink-less, and--not to be taken offensively--white, a blank page is almost completely and totally inviting.

Almost.

The only thing I hate about a blank page is exactly the thing I love a bout a blank page: It's so perfect. The first and last thing I want to do when I chance upon an un-tainted piece of industrialized tree is ruin it with smudges and scribbles and ideas which usually won't make it past a few comments and, "likes" on facebook and other various websites I make the mistake of posting my mind ramblings on.

Still, I quite often find that I can't help myself, and the page that was once a beautiful metaphor for so many pretty things becomes an adjective one would use to describe laundry that's seen a little too much of the inside of a furnace(Yes, there are oddish people who accidentally place their clothes in furnaces instead of dryers because they're too preoccupied with being worried about the next family party occuring at five minutes past noon but everyone arrived at four minutes past noon and so they now have to rush to get wood in the fire AND get the laundry done all before the dog starts puking on the floor from being fed too much human food).

Many people often try to convince me that the page is in fact not ruined, but is instead made more beautiful with the ideas of a creative mind. I then promptly inform these disillusioned people that I wish my ramblings were the result of a creative mind, but more often than not, whatever creative idea may have started the writing is quickly overpowered by an inner dialogue-argument between my mind and my brain about something totally unrelated to which I am currently writing. These inward arguments also cover the topic of inward arguments versus creativity every time I lay eyes on a blank page, and so such comments from friends and passers-by are quite often totally unnecessary but quite easily forgiven with the donation of an extra-strength pain-killer for the headache. Unless of course the inner-conflict has not yet been resolved in which case such comments are more than welcome so as to sway the argument in creativity's favor and get rid of the headache without the aid of chemically enhanced drugs.

In short-and as you have no doubt been praying for-conclusion, a waist is a terrible thing to mind, and a blank page is a terrible thing to waste. Even if it means enduring endless hours of torturous mind-banter.

Because in the end of things, words that are written on paper and then typed onto the everlasting internet will outlive me even when I've outlived them. And someday I'll come back to my thoughts and be reminded that thinking is only for those with far too much time on their hands, and writing is for those who wish there was a pest control for the stuff.


Oh, and happy birthday dad :)

Daily Mind Grind

Emotions. All over the page. Feelings splayed everywhere. Like the legs of a lazy chair. Creativity running dry. Need an idea; something to spark the tip of my pen and set my mind to racing. Once racing I'll need some fuel. No NASCAR champion ever became that way on one tank of gas. They also never stopped, because then cars start passing, and ideas stop flowing. The brain loses interest, and falls prey to facebook, youtube, or some other form of deadly time predator.

It's a weird feeling when the brain and mind conflict. I don't know many who suffer this sort of torture, but I endure it almost daily. I find my mind trying to hit the daily grind again and again with ideas through the roof-the roof being my skull-and my brain will repeatedly refuse to provide material with which to support said ideas, and they then begin to argue about how feasible the idea is in the first place. When this happens I begin to write the ideas in spite of everything, and end up having ridiculous ramblings like the one you are currently forcing yourself to read.

I don't mean forcing in a bad way, but you wouldn't be reading if you weren't telling your brain to read now would you? I wish I had that sort of control over my brain. It would make writing SO much easier.

But here I sit: pen still moving furiously and my mind and brain still having a go at eachother-it's giving me something close to a headache-and all I wanted to do was tell Melissa Smith what a wonderful person I think she is.

That's all.

Grammar has always fascinated me-or should I say fascinated I?

The reason people tell you not to say, "me and so and so" is because it would be weird to say, "me went to the bar last night." or something like that, but the latter sentence shouldn't even come into question. I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." I'm saying, "me and so and so went to the bar last night". I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." so why are you asking me if I would say, "me went to the bar last night"? I obviously wouldn't say that because it sounds ridiculous, but it does not come into play in the other sentence! So you're being completely illogical!

That's all.