Again

Again.

Again.

Again.  A life of redundancy.  

Should I tell you (again) about sitting on the deck with a cocktail and cheroot?  Should I whine again about being lonesome and unloved?  Should I gossip about some girl or another in my imperfect future?  

Oh. . . and that fabulous Mrs. Maisel show. . . . 

The longest day has passed.  Did I mention that?  

Or should I tell you I go to the beautician's today?

I could extol the virtues of writing EVERY day, and then, in a hostile moment, challenge you to do it.  

I could quote something, perhaps, some great piece of literature that speaks to my emotional state.  Or I could play a classic or obscure song.  

Or I could shut the fuck up until. . . . 

Did I tell you how I slept?  

I have sugar ants.  I could start with a description of them and then broaden it to a larger, more cosmic theme, then end with another ant observation like a good writer might.  

The best are the narratives, but they are also the hardest and one needs to have done something to narrate.  Daily, I think about what part of my waking hours might make a good subject for the next day's post.  Did I tell you about visiting my mother?  

I am coming to a greater appreciation of Samuel Beckett's "The Unnamable."  Have you read it?  It is the final book in a trilogy.  It is absurd.  It is narrated by what I take to be a brain in a jar (link).  It is about the search for an indescribable identity, for the creation of the self.  

I won't suggest you read it.  But I get it now, I think.  I really do.  

Something interesting will happen today, surely, something I can write about.  A story, you know. . . the kind that people enjoy.  

"A cowboy, an Arab sheik, and a rapper walk into a bar."

"I can't go on.  I'll go on."