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The blog entry I wrote yesterday was not wonderful. It might be even worse than I think it is. It's difficult, as I understand it, for anybody to edit their own writing. It seems like most of the mistakes and typos I make during my editing, is caused in many ways by my editing itself.
I seem especially vulnerable to repeating words. "And" most often it seems. I'll be skim-reading along looking for obvious mistakes, and I run into two "ands" in a row. Like, "I did this and and that for a while...". And and that happens fairly often. "Dilbert!"
The way I use the term Dilbert has nothing to do with a comic strip careactor. When I get angry at myself for making really dumb errors I screech at myself, "Dilbert! Asshole!". There may be some subtle connection between the two expressions. What I was told a "Dilbert" was, was ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.
I get so full of myself sometime. I get over-inflated with the sheer joy of being me, and that's why I get careless and and make those redundant errors repetitiously.
If the simplest, most mundane tasks are the most difficult for me to describe in plain, unvarnished language, then revealing what gives me this stupendous rush of ecstasy and joy un-announced is three orders of magnitude beyond miraculous.
Most often, it might appear, these serendipitously encountered moments of ecstagony have payback written all over them from the git go, and and my signed and sealed deal with the devil printed right on them for the whole world to see.
I suspected all along that I must have done something like making a deal with the devil in some unremembered escapade of my youth. I've been lucky even in my despair. The despair I engendered by my youthful from an acute desire to understand life, and here it is, unexpectedly shoved right in my face. How can I describe how this process of confirmation emerging into consciousness at last, drives me weeping and puling straight into the throes of joy.
Sometime I am is claims that, "Nobody knows." Even I know that's not exactly true. If nobody knows and and I am is somebody, then it is an exception to the rule "Nobody knows." That's another story. I write that nobody knows because in my world view we all project our subjective idea of ourselves upon the world around us.
I can write descriptions of events in my life that are well-formed and satisfying to my criticism, but anybody who reads what I make public can only read into my finely honed efforts their own idea of what they would have meant if they had written the exact sa-me words.
That includes me most of the time. It's lonely being allone. Before I can even stop myself I'll make you into a somethingness that gives me comfort temporarily. You don't mind, do you? I'll be gone before you gnow it.
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I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
