So I just heard a great joke. It starts with,
"C.S. Lewis, Rich Mullins, and Jesus walk into a bar," and ends with organized Western Christianity suffering a massive aneurysm and spontaneously combusting.
I don't quite remember the punchline but I think it was something along the lines of, "to get to the other side."

*badumching*

Isn't it sad that I only just figured out how to put links up on my own blog?
Ah well.
For all those interested, behold the fruits of my boredom at the "InkBlots" link over there.
Right there.
Waaaaaayyyy right.
Over there.
Yeah.

That's the one.

Just got off a conference call with Fred and the WordBird. Apparently the word of the day is "unclever".
That hurts me. I know you know it.
After a few agonizing moments of self-probing (bite ya tongue) I came to the conclusion that, with all of the effort I expend trying to convert thought to wit, I quite often lose the intent. On the other end of my verbal spectrum is my tendency to vaporous complete thoughts into vague haze when I'm feeling particularly unwitty. The result is a jumble of communicative bi-polar opposites that, more often than not, leave the tired, huddled masses scratching and/or shaking their heads in utter befuddlement.
Utter befuddlement--say that out loud.
Exhilarating, isn't it?
Sad it is that my medium becomes my message (mad props, Mr. McClu)
That message, of course, becomes either:
"I am an ass"
or
"I am an ass with a thesaurus"
Could be worse, I guess. I could be a thesaurus with an ass.
And you think I'm anal about word choice now!

I'm sorry.
That was hurtful and unnecessary.
And I've already lost my point.

*EJECT*

Are trial and error part of your timings grace?
There are so many new questions but do I have to live the answers before I can know the answers?
Expectations from the sympathetic have a much greater weight. And I fear that I...
I fear.

I feel crazy.
Crazy like the man who poured the empty glass over my head, again and again, because he felt that I needed a drink.
Crazy like I felt that night when I wished the glass was full.
I feel crazy because I think that act may have been more symbolic than he realized.
I feel crazy because I tilted my mouth and sang my heart skyward.
Crazy because I think the reply came third-hand over fiber-optics.

(crazy because I think olive oil wards off moose...
but that's beside the point)

If I were God I'd want all worship music to sound like Portishead.

And suddenly I find myself somewhere entirely different.
Entirely removed from the metaphoric realms that have afforded me words to draw the scattered few into my line of sight. Brilliant walls and darkened doorways faded out long ago, though I'm not sure when, and I am left to drift.
This neitherhaze that surrounds seems impossibly immune to words. I cannot scream through the undark. I cannot paint vague landscapes in my unheard whimpers. You cannot see how the guilt of my absence lingers as a sickening companion.
Prying my lips and creeping down my throat in a slithering gesture of malcomfort.
And still I wait.
Wait for the roared notes of origin.
Wait for them to deafen me with a purpose to this.
Deafen me with something.

Nod your head to the static-shot beat crackling from my mouth.
Force a smile as if to show you hear familiar songs.
Crank the volume till the garbled verse shreds your last patient nerve.
Change the station.
It's not mine but at least you know the words.

To my friend the Flaming Sword Angel:

I am now officially out of debt.
Tonight there'll be chilled wine and chocolate-chip cookies waiting for you at the foot of my bed.
Ready when you are, big guy.

Welcome, my children.
Hurry and take your seats up here in the Drewtopian Peanut Gallery.
Thanks to my insidious colleague, Ms. Klasson, we are now opening our gates to the genital public so be sure to pay her adequate props when the rioting commences.
In the meantime sit back, open your thesaurus, unwrap your over-ripe produce, and get ready to summon your inner Statler/Waldorf.

If you've never had the opportunity to speak with an 84-year-old woman I strongly urge you to seek one out. Even beyond the sagely outlook on existence that only seems to accompany the aged there is a definite charm that you just don't find anywhere else. It's something in the way they unashamedly display their take on common sense, I think. Or maybe the fact that they all seem to have grandsons named Andrew.
Yes, it's definitely one of those two.

Amazing how much dust can collect on one's thoughts, no?
The last week or two have found me floating in ethereal haze, tirelessly seeking the answer to questions like.
"How useless CAN one person be?"
and
"Excuse me, ma'am, but is that my ass or a hole in the ground?"

Been a little difficult to herd free-range thoughts and brand them in print but now I'm back from outer space.
I just walked in to find you here without that look upon your face.
You should have changed your fucking lock...


...but you'll learn.

*tiny cobweb*

So today was the first day of taking calls after nine weeks of training by my employer. I learned quickly that the best procedure for an informationally overloaded drowning man like myself is to panic just long enough to invoke a adrenaline rush and say the first thing that comes to mind.
Yes, sir, you can use a pen for that form.
No, sir, you don't have to use a typewriter.
Yes, ma'am, fax machines are terribly complicated abominations.
Yes, ma'am, especially complex for the chronologically enhanced.
Have a great day, sir, and enjoy your taxes.

I am such a tool.

With apologies to the jealous and the uncomprehending...

I am a realist frequenting the fantastic.
And though I sometimes question which world is which
the only lines I cross are imaginary.

In recent months I've come to the conclusion that my only real creative muse is overwhelming frustration. Being that I am a man who is trying his damnedest to be a career artist the fact that I am mono-museal is, itself, overwhelmingly frustrating. Now, one would think that such a scenario would be a mechanism for perpetual inspiration.
And yet this is the end of my post.

There hangs a wire, slack and silent, scarce below the sky. Swayed by the tiniest of currents, it offers scant safety in passage. Tower though it does the fall is swift enough to make you feel as though the earth was dropped upon you or the sea was poured out mercilessly on your unsuspecting body. The only question, it would seem, is one of dropping to the left or the right.
The water, churned in profane rage, swallows whole the purest of intentions.
The earth lays spitefully dry and split, scorching any trace of compassion.
We never seem to ask what's on the other side.
We've past the point of believing there is even an answer.
We walk tight-liped across a tightrope of narrow hope.
And the only prayer of balance is the silence we cannot hold.

No insult intended toward the poor, sweet lady at the front of the class but after nine straight weeks of HR training I don't think it's humanly possible to care less about the stream of Greek and muted horn sounds coming from her mouth. I'm sure she's a very good trainer. She may even be the best in the whole of the company. But when you choose 8am to start a day-long lecture on tax protocols for aging pensioners you can't expect anything but total, class-wide zombification. All it takes is three words about disability pension supplements or Medicare reimbursements and my eyes cross involuntarily and my head bobs and weaves like a very drunk Mohammad Ali. I never thought I'd find an earlymorning misery that couldn't be cured by an inhumanly gargantuan dose of caffeine. I am left with but one solution.

Tomorrow I rise and fill my travel mug with Jack Daniels.
And when I say "go" I want you to shoot me in the calf.
Fin.