Hello darkness my old friend
So sorry to have forgotten you, my good friend the blog. I have missed you, missed typing my little updates into your pages, missed the longer extrapolations pulled out of the netherworlds of my cranial downmarket caucasian neighborhoods, the ones with the rusting Plymouth Dusters on blocks in the oil-stained driveway behind the waist-high cyclone fences, with the goat tied to the passenger-side door and the rottweilers feigning sleep but growling at imaginary cats from under the porch.
Truth be told, I couldn’t write there for a spell. I lost my mojo. I’ve still lost it, but I’m feeling this broke-ass hillbilly vibe this Friday night, and I’m sitting here all by my lonesome typing out a bunch of nonsense to try to get something started again in the scrivener department. But lately I’ve been feeling all jinky, janky, saditty and dicty, all rolled into one not very bad-ass whiteboy sense of autumnal malaise. I don’t know what the problem is, really. I’ve done a bunch of things to try to right the ship, but I still feel like a bad robot in a cut-rate Japanese horror film, where everything is wired just a little bit wrong so the damned thing goes to move and it’s like it’s clanking apart. I’d rather not go into the particulars, but thangs’ve gotten kinda hincty for me here going into the holidays, which one person I know who normally has sterling predictive abilities assured me months a go would be a season of bee’s knees. More like a gosh-darned head full of spiders.
And so, after having crawled back from my own personal refugee camp over the course of the past few months, now it’s starting to sink in that I’ve got a lot of work to do to get back to even keel, and a lot of amends to make and bills to pay and old scores to settle, and who knows what else. It’s just weighing on me pretty heavily, and all I’ve wanted to do is hole up and play hermit. That isn’t the answer, of course, but lately I’ve been in Walter Sobchak’s world of pain, psychically speaking, like I stepped over some unseen line when I was trying to roll a nice strike or even a spare and the universe keeps yelling “You’re over the line! Mark it zero! Mark it zero!”
Shoot, maybe I’ll go for a walk in the park. On second thought, though, um, no. —Jackson Griffith