My Secret Vocabulary: May 2010

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Pocketfull of Eyeballs

What are the best parts of a life? Think about 'em: the peanut-butter covered moments that are as refreshing as a green flav-o-freeze on a ninety degree day.
Hmmmm. Breathing in deep with blue-skied filled eyes; these Sunday afternoon porch beers; the late-night sloments; the split seconds of want; the next to last seconds of shaken open romance; the passion-filled chance that something will go as it should; and it does because of a pocketfull of eyeballs of days-past that warrants the capacity for greatness.
Thank you for your wise words; for the trial times and the cold nights; for the irony; for the laughter in the wake of awake mornings; for being there; for not; for...
Give me your eyeballs - LIFE.
Give them to me!
And I will graft them from your every-day-like pieces and take them as my own. I'll take them from your Can I Get bums, your Here You Go professors, your Pastors, your Priests, your airport-bar wisdom-nugget purveyors, your strangers in line or at a wait-bench outside of a noontime breakfast nook and I thank you for the half-smile hey-nods, the good morning, good evening, and good night; for the five broken noses, the car wreck, the wedding handshakes, the funeral hugs, and for the failure and success that shall surely follow.
I love them.
I need them.
And I will take them from YOU every day. I'll pack'em in my jeans pockets till their full as I carve them from your faces. I'll take them from you as if they were already mine. I'll cut them from you as if your head were the pumpkin of my Jackolantern - sharp-gripped with a short white knife; hand in the skull, fingers swimming in your flat, white-seed-guts; in strait lines and on sharp edges; cutting slowly and gripping tightly, deep-questionly slicing, prodding, and feeling the tip of the end of the dull blade with the tip of the index finger of my other hand as the knife delicately cuts.
Give me your soul.
Every one of you.
Give me the negative of yours and it will be the candle-lit light of mine.
These are my pocketfull of eyeballs.
Thank you for them...

For now,

I will go and give them to a blind man on a park bench that is rightly in the heart of the City.

Appreciate More Now

Why Blog?

Or perhaps the question is, why write?

Within each of us, there is a creative itch that longs to be scratched and writing is the way that I scratch.

But if you asked me why I want to be a writer; if you really had to freakin know, I'd tell you that no one really wants to be a writer. I'd say that I wanta change the world with a blue pen. I'd say that I'm a philosopher and a hypothetical painter and I want the Sistine Chappel and I want to depict all of life's little intricacies and be read and influence and imprint myself upon many others or, at the very least, just one person at the time. But I don't nessesarily want to be a writer.

At present, I'm a young aspiring liver, still walking just beyond the fork of that safe road that is otherwise travelled - you know, the one that is beset on all sides by security and uncomfortable shoes and collared shirts and/or neckties that are color-coded to the weather, and it's bordered by walls of spreadsheets and monday morning meetings and the company of perpetually-wrinkled forehead, gray-haired men who live in mediocre-tall houses and spend their coffee-stained-teeth lunches whisperedly dreaming of the one-day fruit of their 401k fortunes and talking about those poor young wretches who'll never know the ways that used-to-be.

But more specifically, I'm a two-sided man - coffee-stained-teeth luncher by day, Manmoth by night, and a 12-year old for at least one hour per day. But really, you see, I'm an economist right down to the souls of my shoes, and I'm an endlessly endeavoring understandinger of the seemingly endless external and internal aspects associated with all aspects of human life and in looking for the ways in which they differ and, more importantly, are alike.

In that, I guess you could say that I'm an altruist and that's what interests me and, at the very least, I have my philosophical question - "What is Good?"

But enough of the present this rant and these blogs are about a aspiration for a greater life.

In short, money, more college, travel and writing, good times, fun, publish book(s), make one of 'em into a movie, more college, teach, charity, love, experience, passion, growth, pursue interests and learning. The only real order of which is the money and the college, each of which are pivotal to the attainment of the rest.

But why blog?

I blog because I'm not yet a published writer and it feels good to put oneself out there, butt ass naked and vulnerable to the whole world and, in short, be read.

But then, why write?

To change the world with words appease my curiosity at the same time. One day, once I've written about twenty-seven best sellers at least four hundred and thirty articles and I feel like I've mused on all there is to muse, I don't know what I'll do to scratch this itch that doesn't seem to ever attain satisfaction. At that point, I guess I'll have to learn to spell or paint or play the guitar or maybe then it'll be about time to roll over and die. (For more vocabulary, visit www.mysecretvocabulary.wordpress.com )